The Northern Mountains of Khan-ta'
House Mangit. Beg Hudayar (Lord of Khan-ta')
"How are the preparations going?" Lord Hudayar asked coldly, sitting on his throne.
"We have enough provisions to survive the coming winter," the quartermaster answered. "And my lord, we just received news from the Capital—" he continued in a lower voice, "or at least what's left of it."
The Beg ignored the last comment but asked about it first. "What news?" Then with a sneer, he continued, "We already knew everything when we met at Lord Azim's manor ball. What? The King is dead now? Mankind will fall?" He suddenly burst into loud laughter.
All vassals in the room were terrified. They remembered how the old lord and lady of House Mangit had died under mysterious circumstances. And they hadn't forgotten how their current suzerain had laughed similarly then.
But Beg Hudayar paid no attention to them and continued, "If Lord Azim thinks he can become the holy ruler of what remains of the Kingdom, he is mistaken. The other Begs didn't help the Royal family for ONE reason." He paused and glared at the people in the hall before continuing, "The Royal family gave too much freedom to the Aristocracy, and because of their weakness, they have fallen. Now, not a single lord, despite their origin, will bend their knee before a new ruler. They simply won't accept it."
"But what about the Royal army?" asked Bey Ali, the commander of the guardsmen (one rank lower in the hierarchy). "There are still 100,000 men—power that nobody controls."
"Nobody? Hah!" Beg Hudayar smiled. "Dear Ali, don't tell me you've forgotten about the Generals in the Armies? Do you think after the Monarch's death they'll still fight against other Begs and Beys? Even if they wanted to, how would they? Where would they get supplies and reinforcements?"
"But the Central Valley is still in the hands of loyalists," Bey Ali tried to argue.
"The governors play their own game. How dirty they are," Hudayar cut him off. "The Central Valley is full of greedy men who know nothing of honor."
"And speaking of honor," Beg Hudayar rose from his throne, his heavy fur cloak rustling against the stone floor, "bring me the messenger from the Western Holdings."
The guards opened the heavy oak doors, and a man in mud-stained traveling clothes was brought in. His boots had worn thin from long travel, and his face bore the weathered look of someone who had ridden hard through harsh conditions.
"Speak," commanded Hudayar, studying the man's face carefully.
"My lord," the messenger bowed deeply, "Beg Kareem of the Western Holdings sends his regards and—"
"Skip the pleasantries," Hudayar interrupted. "What does that old fox want?"
The messenger swallowed hard. "He proposes an alliance, my lord. The Western Holdings have the largest grain stores north of the Twin Rivers, and with winter approaching…"
"And with winter approaching, he thinks I'll trade my soldiers for his grain?" Hudayar walked down the steps from his throne, his boots echoing in the suddenly silent hall. "Tell me, how many men does Kareem command now?"
"Three thousand, my lord," the messenger replied quickly.
Bey Ali couldn't suppress a snort. "Three thousand? Last summer he boasted of ten thousand at the Harvest Festival."
"The desertion rates grow daily," the messenger admitted. "Many soldiers are returning to their farms. They say there's no point fighting for lords who can't even agree on who rules what."
Hudayar reached his window, looking out over the snow-capped peaks of Khan-ta'. Below, in the valley, his own men were conducting drills in the courtyard. Unlike Kareem's forces, his army remained intact – twelve thousand loyal warriors, each man fed, paid, and housed through the careful planning of generations of Mangit lords.
"And what of the roads?" Hudayar asked without turning. "How many bandit groups did you encounter?"
The messenger's silence was answer enough.
"Seven bands, my lord," he finally admitted. "The road patrols have all but vanished. Former royal soldiers, some of them, turned to robbery."
Bey Ali stepped forward. "My lord, if the roads aren't secure—"
"Then trade will die," Hudayar finished. "And with it, any hope of surviving winter for those who haven't prepared." He turned back to face the hall. "Like our friend Kareem, who spent his gold on summer festivals instead of grain stores."
The quartermaster cleared his throat. "Speaking of grain, my lord, our latest inventory shows we could sustain not just our current population but potentially…"
"Potentially accept refugees?" Hudayar's voice was dangerously soft. "Is that what you're suggesting?"
The quartermaster paled. "I merely present the numbers, my lord."
Hudayar returned to his throne, but didn't sit. "When the snows come, they will come with vengeance. The mountain passes will close. The valleys will freeze. And those who failed to prepare will come begging at our gates." He looked at each person in the hall. "Some will offer gold. Others will offer soldiers. Some will even offer their daughters in marriage. And we will refuse them all."
"All of them, my lord?" Bey Ali asked carefully.
"The weak must be allowed to fall," Hudayar declared. "That is the law of nature. That is how the strong survive." He finally sat back on his throne. "Tell Kareem that House Mangit remembers how he voted against our mining rights three summers ago. Tell him we remember how he laughed at our warnings about storing grain. Tell him," a cold smile crossed his face, "that winter is coming."
The messenger bowed deeply and was led out. As the doors closed behind him, Hudayar addressed his remaining advisors. "Double the guard on the granaries. Post additional sentries on the mountain passes. When the snows come, there will be desperate men trying desperate things."
"And what of the darkness spreading from the capital?" someone asked softly.
Hudayar's face remained impassive. "The mountains have their own protection. Let Azim play with his shadows in the lowlands. Here in Khan-ta', we have survived worse than dark skies."
But even as he spoke, a cold wind howled outside the windows, and the afternoon sun seemed dimmer than it should have been.
As the wind continued to howl outside the fortress walls, the heavy doors of the great hall suddenly burst open. Snow and cold air rushed in, making the torches flicker wildly. The guards immediately drew their weapons, but Hudayar raised his hand, stopping them.
Through the doorway strode a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a battle-worn armor covered in frost. His dark hair, streaked with ice, fell past his shoulders, and a fresh scar marked his left cheek. Blood – not his own – had frozen on his gauntlets.
"Timur?" Hudayar's voice betrayed rare surprise. "You were supposed to be in the Eastern Holdings."
The young man strode forward, his armor clanking against the stone floor. The assembled nobles and advisors parted before him, some bowing, others simply staring. Few had seen the Beg's heir in the past three years.
"Father," Timur's voice was deeper than when he'd left, hardened by years of command. "The Eastern Holdings no longer exist."
A murmur ran through the hall. Bey Ali stepped forward, his hand unconsciously gripping his sword hilt. "What do you mean, young lord? I received reports from the East just last week."
Timur pulled off his gauntlets, revealing scarred hands. "Those reports were lies. The Eastern Holdings fell two months ago. I've been fighting my way back here ever since, gathering survivors." He turned to his father. "Beg Azim's shadow warriors aren't the only threat. Something worse is coming."
Hudayar studied his son's face carefully. The boy he'd sent east had been eager, perhaps too eager, to prove himself. The man who returned carried the weight of command in his eyes.
"Clear the hall," Hudayar ordered. Everyone but Bey Ali quickly filed out, the heavy doors closing behind them.
"You've grown," Hudayar observed, finally rising from his throne to approach his son.
"War does that," Timur replied grimly. He reached into his armor and pulled out a sealed scroll. "Before I tell you what I saw, you need to read this. It's from Beg Malik. He gave it to me as he died."
Hudayar broke the seal. As he read, his face darkened. "Ali," he called without looking up, "bring me the maps. All of them."
While Bey Ali retrieved the maps from their cases, Timur continued. "The Eastern Holdings didn't fall to enemy armies or shadow warriors. They fell to hunger first, then disease, and finally to despair. The darkness that's spreading? It doesn't just block the sun. It kills the crops. Poisons the water. Drives men mad."
Hudayar spread the maps across the great table. "Show me."
Timur pointed to various locations, his finger tracing a pattern of destruction. "It started here, in the outlying villages. People began acting strangely. Paranoid. Violent. We thought it was just the stress of the kingdom's collapse, but it was systematic. Organized."
"By whom?" Bey Ali asked.
"Not whom," Timur corrected. "What. There's something in the darkness itself. Something that thinks. Plans. It doesn't just want to conquer us – it wants to transform us."
Hudayar studied his son's face. "You've seen it?"
"I've fought it," Timur pulled down his collar, revealing a twisted scar that seemed to writhe in the torchlight. "We lost three hundred men taking back the fortress at Eagle's Rest. Not to soldiers or shadows, but to our own people. The darkness… it gets in their heads. Makes them turn on each other. Families, friends, brothers-in-arms – all slaughtering each other while laughing."
"And Beg Malik?" Hudayar asked, still holding the scroll.
"Died helping me escape with what was left of his household. He knew… he knew something about what's coming. Something he wouldn't say aloud. That's why he wrote it down." Timur gestured to the scroll. "Father, whatever games the other Begs are playing, whatever politics and power struggles they're planning – none of it matters. This darkness isn't just another faction to be negotiated with or fought off."
Hudayar rolled up the scroll carefully. "How many men did you bring back?"
"Two hundred and seventeen. All good fighters, all loyal. They've seen what we're up against. They know what's at stake."
"And the rest of your original force?"
Timur's face hardened. "Dead. Or worse than dead."
Bey Ali studied the maps. "The mountain passes—"
"Won't stop it," Timur interrupted. "The darkness climbs. Seeps through cracks. Flows like water but thinks like a hunter. Our only advantage here is time. The higher elevation, the thinner air – it seems to slow its advance."
Hudayar walked back to his throne but didn't sit. "These men you brought back – can they be trusted?"
"With our lives," Timur affirmed. "They've proven it a hundred times over."
"Good." Hudayar turned to face his son fully. "Because if what Malik wrote in this scroll is true, we're going to need every loyal sword we can find." He paused, studying his heir with new eyes. "You left here a boy seeking glory. You've returned a commander who's seen real war."
"I've returned with a warning," Timur corrected. "And a plan. But you won't like it."
"When have I ever liked your plans?" Hudayar asked, a rare smile touching his lips.
"This one's different." Timur stepped closer, lowering his voice. "We need to contact the Jins."
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath.
"The Jins haven't spoken to humans since the time of your grandfather," Bey Ali said carefully.
"They'll speak to me," Timur replied. "Because I've already met with them. In the high passes, while making our way back. They know what's coming. They've seen it before, centuries ago. And they know how to fight it."
Hudayar's face was unreadable. "You've been busy these three years."
"I've been learning, father. The way you taught me. 'Knowledge is power, but wisdom is knowing how to use it.'" Timur quoted one of his father's favorite sayings.
"And what wisdom have you gained, my son?"
Timur met his father's gaze steadily. "That pride will kill us as surely as any darkness. That the old feuds and titles we cling to are chains that will drag us into the abyss. And that survival…" he glanced at the scroll in his father's hand, "survival requires change."