Chapter 30 #2
He didn’t hesitate. Thane's expression could have curdled milk. "You legitimately trust her; she was most certainly a honey trap sent to force this exact situation!"
Ragnar felt his body tense; he had asked her who she was acting on behalf of, and she had told him clearly.
Myself.
"I trust that she won't play a losing game." Ragnar met his general's eyes. "Azul is many things—vengeful, calculating, ruthless—but she is not a fool. She knows who her enemies are. She knows who her allies are. And she knows that I am her most valuable pawn."
"A pawn," Caius repeated, giving them a look to question his sanity.
"The most valuable on the board. The one she can't afford to sacrifice." Ragnar's lips curved.
Nyraxa's expression had shifted. "Unbelievable. She has you wrapped around her finger," she said finally.
"Yes."
"And you're fine with that?"
Ragnar considered the question.
“Yes.”
Azul had been sent to force this situation. Whoever was behind this mess had planned for Orda Naiman's men to arrive, and planned to use him—Ragnar—as a sacrifice. To be rid of him for good, and to garner the superior warlord's favour.
Caius broke the next bout of silence with a chilling tone. "This is a terrible decision, Great Khan. We will be fighting a war on foreign soil, against an enemy who outnumbers us, for a woman who may or may not survive long enough to appreciate the gesture."
"I'm aware."
"And yet you persist."
"Hmm."
Caius sighed; all great men had their oddities. Ragnar had very few flaws; at least this particular weakness could be controlled once acquired. "Very well. If we're going to be fools, let's at least be organised fools. Nyraxa, what do we have in terms of local intelligence?"
Nyraxa's lips curved. "It seems like their Oracle is being held in some kind of restraint. The Dowager mentioned in her letters that the girl’s powers were suppressed, making the invocation difficult."
"And if those restraints are removed?" Ragnar asked.
"Then we have a problem. Obiageli is not just any Oracle. She's the real thing. If she manages to invoke their god, it will tear us apart, us and Orda’s men."
“What conditions need to be met for her power to return to her?” Ragnar asked.
Nyraxa let out a small laugh. “This is where I find things get interesting. Are you aware of the Borjigin custom with twins?”
Ragnar’s face scrunched, clearly unaware, so Nyraxa continued.
“Twins are seen as evil by the Borjigin, so once born they must be left in the Igbele to die. Well, it seems Obiageli and her twin sister were born with gifts. Two halves of one coin. Only by killing one will the other’s power be complete.”
Ragnar frowned. “Who is the twin? Can we protect her?”
“Well…” Nyraxa drawled. “Your Khatun is technically under your protection already.”
Ragnar absorbed this. "Then we move before they remove the restraints."
Thane stepped forward, his frustration finally boiling over. "You jest. That woman is the other half of the Oracle? We cannot possibly bring her back to the steppes; Shamanism is banned! Great Khan—"
"General." Ragnar's voice sharpened. "You have made your objections clear. Multiple times. I have heard them. I have considered them. And I have made my decision. If you are so certain that I am leading us to ruin, you can challenge me for the title."
The temperature in the tent plummeted.
Challenge.
A fight to the death for leadership of the tribe.
Thane's face cycled through a dozen emotions in the space of a heartbeat. Then, slowly, he looked away.
"No," he said quietly. "I will not challenge my sworn brother."
"Then trust me." Ragnar's voice softened, just slightly. "I know what I'm doing."
Thane didn't argue further.
Nyraxa's lips curved. "Well." She rose, stretching like a cat. "Now that we've established who's in charge, perhaps we should discuss—"
A roar of jubilation erupted outside the tent.
Ragnar's head snapped toward the entrance. Nyraxa's eyes crinkled with satisfaction.
The tent flaps burst open.
General Varok was a force of nature—massive, muscular, his scarred face split in a jovial grin. He was built like a battering ram, and the men who followed him stretched behind him like a tide.
"Great Khan!" his voice boomed, rattling the tent poles. "Miss me?"
Ragnar chuckled. "You're early."
"Early?" Varok laughed, clapping his hands together. "I came this quickly because I heard you needed me. Something about a woman?" He looked around the tent, his eyes landing on Nyraxa. "You. You sent the message. Tell me everything."
"The Great Khan has found himself a Khatun."
Varok's eyebrows shot up. "Another one?"
"This one's different."
"They're always different." Varok crossed to Ragnar, clasping his arm in the warrior's greeting. "Tell me, Khan—is she worth dragging us all across the Ante-continent for?"
Ragnar met his eyes. "Yes."
Varok’s grin widened. "Good! Good!" he turned to face the others. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's go bring home the Khatun."
The Ameachi prince drank his wine as he watched his swine of a father beg.
The old man knelt on the cold stone floor of the throne room, his robes torn, his crown discarded, his dignity in ruins around him like the remnants of a shattered vase. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the blood from the cut above his eye, and his voice cracked with every plea.
"Please—my son—I beg you—I was wrong—I should never have—"
"Should never have what?" The prince's voice was soft, almost curious. He took another sip of wine, savouring it. "Touched her? Should never have fucked my wife? Because of you—" he raised the sword in his free hand. “She killed herself!”
The Igwe was shaking so badly his teeth clattered. He had no way of defending himself.
"She was innocent; she wasn’t born into a disgusting family like ours. She was—" His voice cracked, just slightly. "She was carrying my child."
The Igwe's face went grey.
"You didn't know that, did you?" The prince's laugh was broken.
"Please—"
The prince spat in his father's face.
The Igwe flinched but did not wipe it away. He simply knelt there, trembling, waiting for a mercy he knew would not come.
The prince raised his blade.
"I have thought about this moment every day since the first time," he said quietly.
"Every night, when I couldn't sleep. Every morning, when I woke and remembered she was gone.
I have imagined it a thousand different ways.
" He pressed the tip of the blade to his father's throat. "This is the kindest version."
The blade fell.
He granted mercy to the vilest creature he had ever had the misfortune of being born to.
The prince stood over him for a long moment, breathing hard.
Then he threw his blade, letting it clatter towards his brother’s body; the corpse had been reaching for his dead wife.
The prince drained his wine glass. "Clean this up," he said to the guards who stood frozen at the doors. "And find me somewhere to bathe."
The bath was hot and scented with oils from Kemet. The most expensive aromatics, but it did nothing to wash away the memory of his father's face.
He lay in the water for a long time, staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing. Not even satisfaction. Just the same hollow emptiness that had lived in his chest since the day she died.
When he finally rose, dried himself, and dressed in loose robes the colour of mourning, the sun had begun to set.
Taking another glass of wine, he downed it. He inhaled and exhaled to calm himself, then he walked to his balcony.
A Djinn sat on the ledge, legs dangling over the drop, looking out at the sprawling city below.
His back was bare, marked with wounds both old and new—the scars of a man who had survived things that should have killed him.
His braids hung loose, brushing his shoulders, and in the fading light, his skin seemed to glow under the setting sun.
The prince watched for a moment, his throat feeling rather dry at the sight.
He turned at the sound of footsteps.
Blue eyes met the prince's gaze, utterly at peace despite everything.
"Your father?" Borji asked.
"Dead."
“I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t sorry for the dead man, but he was sorry the prince had to be the one to end his own father. The prince moved to stand beside him, leaning against the balcony railing.
"I'm grateful your sister sent you."
Borji's lips pursed. He hated how gullible he'd been, how much she had planned for him.
Truly, if not for Azul, he would've died because of Chukwuemeka's schemes that night.
But upon Chukwuemeka leaving, the General had let him go, knowing he would recover, knowing he was a Djinn.
Her schemes ran deeper than he could comprehend, her mind faster than he could keep up with.
From the very start, they had never been equals.
He was unworthy. His heart was like a stone sinking through his body into a void. Deeply unworthy.
"I didn't expect a Djinn." The prince's voice was dry, almost amused. "But I suppose I should have."
“What did she tell you?” Borji asked quietly. “In the letter.”
The prince laughed, the recollection amusing him as the day he read it.
“She asked me, do you want to be king?”
He turned to look at Borji, and the Djinn’s eyes seemed to pierce through the man’s very soul. “What did you reply?”
“Of course, I said yes. Whether or not it was a trap, I was already a walking corpse in this place.” He raised a hand to his lips, contemplating. "I should ask for her hand."
Borji raised a brow. “Do you want to die?”
The prince laughed nervously. “Why? Will she kill me?”
"You'd have to get in line," he said. "The Great Khan of the Valthorne has already staked his claim."
"The Great Khan." The prince's eyebrows rose. "The one they call the Punishment of Ukhel?"
"The same."
The prince's expression sobered. "Then we shouldn’t linger here; we have to prepare for your ascension."