Uluç sat in his war tent, the thick canvas walls flapping gently in the wind as the flames of nearby torches flickered. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat, blood, and the remnants of battle. His son, Togay, had just arrived, and standing beside him was Duke Osho, a man who had long served as a silent but steadfast ally to Uluç. Duke wore a mask, something he had been known for, hiding the scars he had earned in battle long ago. But tonight, things were different. There was a shift in the air, a sense of impending change.
As they gathered around the wooden table, maps sprawled out before them, Duke slowly removed his mask. For the first time in years, his true face was revealed—a face that had once been disfigured by war, but was now unexpectedly striking, with a handsomeness that hadn't been seen in years. His once hidden, dark eyes now locked with Uluç's, filled with both weariness and urgency.
"I think Kutay believes he has planned everything perfectly," Duke began, his voice measured, yet tinged with caution. "But I can see what's coming. Kaiser Anno will betray him. There's no way the Eastern lords will allow someone like Kutay to take power. They will pull him down. And if Kılıç dies during this conflict, we will be left vulnerable, Uluç Bey. Your survival—no, our survival—depends on you staying alive and guiding us through this storm."
Uluç's expression remained unreadable as Duke continued, his voice more insistent now. "We need you, Uluç. We need your wisdom, your leadership. You're the only one who can see this through."
Duke's words weighed heavy on Uluç, but he remained calm. The years had taught him patience, and he knew better than to act rashly. His eyes flickered to Togay, who had grown more aggressive, more hot-headed over the years. Togay's eagerness to act often left him vulnerable to making mistakes, and Uluç had taken note of this, choosing his allies and strategies carefully. As they spoke, they could hear the distant sounds of horses approaching from the other side of the river. The men turned their heads toward the entrance of the tent, and within moments, the figure of Kutay appeared.
Kutay had been on the other side of the river, fighting a fierce battle. His face was pale, dirtied by the dust of war, and his armor clung to him, stained with the blood of fallen comrades. He strode into the tent with urgency, his eyes wild with exhaustion and desperation.
"Volga Bulgars," he spat, his voice hoarse from shouting commands all day. "They switched sides during the battle, betrayed us. We thought we were following their safe path, but they led us straight into a trap. Subutay and Cebe, those cursed commanders, are the Turkic-Mongol bastards from Doğukan's bloodline. They turned on us! They must have offered the Bulgars something more valuable, because now we are cut off. We need to retreat to Istanbul immediately, Uluç. We need to rally the Tarkan forces. Where is the Golden Horde? Where is the Altın Ordu? We are on the brink of destruction. Can't you see that?"
Uluç remained silent for a moment, studying Kutay's panic-stricken face. Finally, he spoke in his calm, gravelly voice. "Set up camp. We need to discuss this further. There are orders I need to give."
Kutay looked at him in disbelief but followed Uluç's command. He had no other choice. He was hungry, exhausted, and still reeling from the losses suffered in battle. His body ached from the miles he had ridden, and the weight of his failures pressed down on him like a heavy cloak. He collapsed into a seat and immediately reached for a pitcher of water, gulping down two full glasses in rapid succession. Then he moved on to a clay jug of ayran, drinking greedily. Before him lay a plate of börek, dry and cold from hours of neglect, but Kutay didn't care. His hunger was too great, and he devoured the pastry with ravenous fervor.
As Kutay sat, devouring his meal, Uluç had already turned his attention to the documents on the table. With precise, deliberate movements, he dipped his pen in ink and began to write. His quill scratched across the parchment as he crafted new orders for the troops and began drafting a strategy to survive this latest betrayal. Once he was done, Uluç carefully folded the largest of the papers and pressed his seal into the wax. The seal was that of the Başbuğ, the supreme commander of the army.
Togay watched, his brow furrowed with confusion. "Father," he said softly, his voice betraying his uncertainty. "You are no longer the Başbuğu. Kılıç took that title when you fell ill. He has led us since then. How can you still carry that seal?"
Uluç raised his eyes to meet his son's gaze. His voice was calm, but there was a quiet strength behind his words. "Kılıç may hold the title now," Uluç began, "but he does so because I gave it to him. I endorsed him when I could no longer lead. But understand this: as long as I breathe, the power behind that title remains with me. Kılıç may lead the physical battles, but I shape the course of this war. The seal may pass to him in name, but the true authority remains in these hands."
The tent was silent for a moment as Uluç's words settled in. Togay, though proud of his father's strength, could not hide his worry. "But father, how long can you continue this? The battles ahead will not be easy. We are facing destruction."
Uluç stood, his posture strong despite his years, and looked out towards the horizon where the enemy forces lay in wait. "Destruction is only certain if we believe it is inevitable. We will not fall, not while I still draw breath. Gather the commanders. I have new orders for them. We will not retreat. We will not cower. We will stand and fight."
And with that, Uluç sealed the fate of their next move. The men in the tent, though weary from battle, felt a surge of hope. Their leader had spoken, and his words carried the weight of decades of war and wisdom.