The tent felt spacious without Norjin.
It was not strange. The bed that had taken up so much room was gone. In its place, her grandmother sat now, dozing lightly. The interior had merely returned to what it once was.
The tent was oddly cold, yet Zaya did not feel lonely. Only after he was gone did she understand.
No—she had understood long before. She had already chosen Norjin.
What about him, then?
When she had first seen him, she had wondered whether someone like that could truly exist. His beauty. The long, slender line of his figure as he stood. A civil official from Karakorum who, almost as soon as he arrived, was put to work repairing the livestock pens—and did it cleanly.
Zaya rested her forehead against her arms, folded over her raised knees. A laugh welled up.
Contrary to his appearance—or perhaps because of it—he made crude jokes.
Their first meeting had been the worst.
At the hunting tournament, Zaya placed Norjin between herself and Ehau. A civil official had no business in danger. With the two of them there, one of them could always pull him clear.
That was the plan.
Instead, Norjin took command of her warriors without a word. He covered for her missteps and carried the hunt through to success. A civil official—usually meant to stay well behind the lines—showed a startling grasp of command.
And her soldiers? Since when did they start ignoring her orders? Well. The hunt was a success.
A civil official? Ridiculous.
Then came the sweep against the rebels east of the Volga. Norjin went with Dogon’s force, succeeded in reconnaissance, and fought as well—matching Zaya blow for blow. Someone who had never held anything heavier than a brush?
She almost laughed.
He handled the reins with effortless grace, as if an overly proud horse were showing off its finest form of its own accord—and he could fight with a sword as well.
And— He had saved her.
Somehow, he had come to stand closer than Ehau. Somehow, his presence had become something taken for granted.
Norjin—what did you want from me?
The tent suddenly erupted in noise.
The flap was thrown open, and Taghlai burst inside.
Zaya looked up, startled. Taghlai strode toward her, seized her arm, and tried to pull her to her feet. She shook him off.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“Zaya. Come with me.”
“Explain first. What happened? Where are we going?” Her voice was sharp.
“I stabbed Batu.”
Zaya’s eyes widened.
“I didn’t mean to. When I realized what was happening—it was already done.”
“Was it an accident?” Taghlai shook his head.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Truly. When I came to, it had already happened. I can’t stay here anymore.”
“That’s not true. If you explain it to him, he’ll understand. Batu is not an unreasonable man.
“It’s too late. It’s already too late.”
Taghlai sank to the ground and clutched his head.
Zaya had never seen him like this.
No—lately, everything she thought she knew about Taghlai had been falling apart.
Was he always this weak?
This inflexible?
Zaya pulled on her cloak.
“Get up, Taghlai. We’ll go explain together. Sitting here solves nothing. Come—stand.”
At her urging, Taghlai rose slowly.
Then the noise outside intensified. The clatter of armor surrounded the tent.
“Lord Taghlai. Come out. The King demands an explanation.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Taghlai gasped and stepped back.
“Wait—we’re coming,” Zaya called out.
She turned to urge him forward—
Her arm was wrenched behind her. A blade pressed against her throat.
“Don’t do anything foolish, Taghlai.”
“Zaya—this is the only way.” Taghlai shoved her toward the entrance and forced her outside.
Night had fallen without them noticing.
Soldiers encircled the tent, blades drawn, armor gleaming. A few held torches. Beyond them, the people of the tribe watched with anxious faces.
Cries of anger and shock rose at the sight of Zaya with a sword at her neck.
“Shut up!” Taghlai shouted.
“A horse. Bring me a horse.”
““Lord Taghlai—please—” a guard began.
“A horse. Or do you want to see what happens to her?”
He yanked Zaya closer. The murmurs dimmed, but did not stop.
“Hurry!”
The crowd parted. A figure in a persimmon-brown deel emerged, leading two horses.
“Norjin.” Taghlai forced the name out between clenched teeth.
“Stand back,” Norjin said. The order was obeyed before anyone thought to ask why. The guards and tribesmen eased back, step by step.
Norjin stepped forward and offered the reins to Taghlai. Their eyes met—only for a heartbeat.
Breathing hard, Taghlai snatched them and threw one set to Zaya.
“Zaya. Follow me.”
She mounted her horse and glanced back at Norjin.
He neither told her to go nor to stay.
Zaya kicked her horse and followed Taghlai.
Moonlight glazed the frozen ground like daylight. The sound of hooves rang loud, then vanished just as quickly.
Taghlai rode ahead.
Where was he going?
Keeping some distance behind him, Zaya thought of Rus.
Surely.
The city he had loved.
Once sour with sweat and smoke, then something she wished to forget. And now—only now—softened into something almost gentle, because he had loved it. Tears rose unbidden.
The hymn she had once heard in the church at Suzdal surfaced in her mind, a song praising a god who was not hers. The melody from that church in Suzdal drifted through her mind.
A hymn—its words unknown to her, its meaning beyond her— yet the tune lingered, gentle and persistent.
Something brushed her hip. She reached down—absently.
Her fingers closed around a short bow.
The hymn still echoed in her mind.
Words she did not know. Only the rise and fall of sound.
Her fingers found the fletching.
She drew an arrow in one swift motion, steadied herself with her thighs, and nocked it.
Taghlai’s back filled her vision.
Zaya released.
Zaya dismounted and knelt beside him.
“Zaya.”
She took his dying hand and pressed it to her cheek.
“Taghlai.”
Only a whisper came out.
“I wanted you to hold me. I wanted to be yours.”
His eyes opened, just a little.
“I waited for you to return. I waited until dawn. But you never came back.”
Tears spilled endlessly from Zaya’s eyes.
“So that’s how it was.”
Taghlai’s lips moved.
For a moment, it looked like a smile..
The guards rode out in pursuit at once, but the people of the tribe stayed where they were. Norjin too.
Hoofbeats sounded. Zaya returned alone.
She dismounted before Norjin.
“Did you say goodbye properly?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
They turned and walked in separate directions—Zaya toward her tent, Norjin toward his.
Those who had waited dispersed, each returning to their own tent.
Inside her tent, Zaya was met by her grandmother.
“Welcome back, Zaya.”
Warm food was placed before her.
“You must be hungry. Eat well, and sleep.”
Zaya felt warmth spread through her chest.
“Thank you, Grandmother.”
Norjin entered his own tent.
Tonight, he would allow it. He would let her mourn. The thought of Zaya spending the night with Taghlai’s memory burned through him— a sharp, jealous ache he did not bother to deny. And beneath it, quieter but deeper, the pain he shared with her.
At last, they stood on the same ground.
Not in triumph.
Not in relief.
But with the quiet certainty that what lay ahead
was finally theirs to face—together.
They had only just reached the starting line.
It was far too early to soothe one another’s wounds.
The entrance flap flew up.
“You liar!”
Ilha burst in, screaming. Norjin stared at her, stunned.
“Why did you say that? Why? Why would you say something like that?” She shouted with everything she had.
“You belong to Zaya. Zaya belongs to you. No matter how much I grow up— no matter how old I get— you were never going to be mine!” She pounded her fists against his chest.
“Liar. Why? Why—!”
Ilha collapsed at his feet.
There was nowhere else for it to go.
She cried on, her sobs breaking apart and then surging back again.
