Chapter 31
The night was made for monsters, and Nyraxa Varkesh had always counted herself among their number.
She moved through the darkness like mist, her dark clothing rendering her all but invisible against the moonless sky.
Behind her, strung out in a line that would be undetectable to anyone not trained to see it, her girls followed—Zara, Yelena, and little Amara with her braids tied tight and her knife already warm in her hand.
Orda Naiman's camp sprawled before them, ten thousand men dreaming of conquest while death crept through their shadows.
Nyraxa's lips curved.
The mission was simple: steal a scout. Preferably more than one. Figure out when they planned to move, what they knew about the Borjigin defences, and most importantly—to confirm who their informant in the palace really was. The viper who signed her letters with a serpent's mark.
Obiageli, Chidinma, or Azul?
She signalled to her girls—three fingers raised, then two, then one—and they melted into the camp like water into sand.
The scout tents were on the eastern perimeter, close enough to the picket lines to hear the horses, far enough from the command centre to be lightly guarded.
Orda's men were confident—too confident.
They had the numbers and they had the experience, not to mention the traitor in the enemy palace feeding them information like grain to fattened geese.
But they did not have Nyraxa Varkesh.
She found her first target outside the latrine trench, fumbling with his trousers, alone and unsuspecting. He never saw her coming. One moment he was relieving himself against a tree; the next, he was on his knees with a blade at his throat and a hand over his mouth.
"Quiet," Nyraxa breathed in his ear, "and you might live. Scream, and I'll open you from groin to gullet and leave your entrails for the crows."
The scout nodded frantically.
She dragged him into the darkness.
Yelena's target was a sergeant; he was older and more experienced, sleeping alone in a tent at the edge of the perimeter. She slipped through the tent flap, crouched beside his cot, and pressed her knife to the soft flesh beneath his jaw.
He woke with a start, his eyes going wide in the darkness.
"Not a sound," Yelena whispered. "Not if you want to keep breathing."
The sergeant's hands rose slowly, palms out.
Amara took three.
The youngest of Nyraxa's inner circle found a cluster of scouts playing dice outside their tent, their voices loud, their attention fixed on the fall of the bones. She watched them, learning their patterns, their gaits, their injuries, and their weaknesses.
Then she stepped out of the shadows, and before any of them could react, she had a blade to the nearest throat and a smile on her face.
"Evening, gentlemen," she said sweetly. "I need a word with your commanding officer. Anyone want to volunteer as tribute?"
The scouts stared at her, frozen.
One of them stupidly reached for his sword.
Amara's other hand moved, and a knife sprouted from his shoulder. He went down with a strangled cry, and the others decided, very wisely, to stay perfectly still.
"Anyone else?" Amara asked.
No one moved.
"Get up. Let's go."
They met in the darkness beyond the camp; an hour later, their prizes were bound and gagged and terribly frightened.
Nyraxa counted. Four scouts, one sergeant, and the young fool with Amara's knife still in his shoulder. More than enough.
"Separate them," she ordered. "I want each of them questioned alone. Cross-reference everything. If their stories don't match, we'll kill whoever's lying."
Her girls nodded and dispersed, dragging their captives to different locations.
Nyraxa kept the sergeant for herself.
She sat him down against a tree, removed his gag, and crouched before him with a smile that held no warmth.
"Here's how this works," she said. "I ask questions. You answer. If I like your answers, you might live. If I don't..." She drew her knife, letting the moonlight catch the blade. "Well. Let's not think about that."
The sergeant seemed unfazed, looking up at her. "What do you want to know?"
"When does Orda plan to move?"
"Three days. Maybe four. They're waiting for—" He stopped.
Nyraxa's eyes narrowed. "Waiting for what?"
His mouth clamped shut, unwilling to open.
"I can make this very unpleasant," Nyraxa said softly. "Or you can tell me what I want to know, and I'll let you walk away. Your choice."
"Waiting for a signal," the sergeant blurted. "From inside the palace. Someone's going to—" He stopped again, fear warring with loyalty on his face.
"Someone's going to what?"
"Open the gates."
Nyraxa's blood went cold.
Someone inside the palace. Someone with enough access, enough power, and enough treachery to open the gates to an invading army. Handing the Borjigin to them on a silver platter.
The viper.
The one who signed her letters with a serpent's mark.
"When?" Nyraxa demanded. "When is the signal supposed to come?"
"I don't know; only the general knows."
She rose, sheathing her knife.
"Thank you for your cooperation." She cut his bindings and nodded to Yelena, who emerged from the shadows behind the sergeant. "My associate will see you to the border. If you're smart, you'll keep running."
The sergeant nodded frantically and scrambled up to leave. She watched him stumble, and she sighed.
“What is it?” Yelena asked, eyeing her warily.
Nyraxa sighed again. “He’s too handsome to die.”
Yelena made a sound of disgust and threw her dagger. It embedded in the back of his head, and he went down.
An hour later, a raven flew from the darkness toward the Valthorne camp, a message tied to its leg.
Orda moves in 3-4 days. Someone inside plans to open the gates. Will investigate. —N
In the command tent, Ragnar read the message, folding the paper and leaning back in his chair; his eyes met Thane standing behind him.
"We move tomorrow. At dawn. Thane…”
His general glared at him. Ragnar couldn’t help but feel helpless. How long would his sulking last?
“What is it?”
"You're not thinking clearly. You haven't been since the alcove. For Tengri’s sake! You’re forcing us to stand prematurely against Orda Naiman’s forces all for a woman who—"
The temperature in the room dropped.
Thane stopped.
"Finish that sentence," Ragnar dared him.
Thane's jaw tightened. "Great Khan. You're standing too close to fire. You can't see straight around her. You refuse to see straight! She doesn’t even give a shit about you!”
Ragnar looked down at him. Whether or not Azul cared for him was not going to dictate his actions or his loyalties. “Artur Thane. You forget yourself.”
Thane felt his heart shudder; his name hadn’t been called for over a year.
"Why do you doubt me? You have known me the longest. You are the man I trust with my life."
He looked guilty, but Ragnar’s manipulation wouldn’t work so easily. "You think with your heart when she's involved. You know you do." Thane's voice softened, just slightly. "I'm not blind, Ragnar. I've seen the way you look at her."
"Why does it matter? It is just a woman."
"Great Khan, do you truly feel she is just a woman?"
Ragnar was quiet for a moment. They both knew the strength Azul carried.
She couldn’t throw a sword, but her lips, her eyes, and her words were truly enough to bring the downfall of a kingdom.
The question was, would she be for them or against them?
Would her eyes watch the Valthorne fall, or would they be the reason for their rise?
"Thane," Ragnar began. He knew marrying Azul was a gamble, but it was a gamble he was willing to take. Whether he lost or not. “You've served me for ten years. You've bled for me, killed for me." He met his general's eyes. "I need you to follow me now."
"I am following you."
"Then follow her."
Thane's expression flickered—surprise, then something darker. "I don't—"
“Do you know what she asked me? When I told her my heart’s intentions?”
Thane was silent; Ragnar continued. “She asked me if I wanted the Steppes or if I wanted Oblivia.” A laugh escaped his lips.
“Truly, I have never met such a woman who could make my heart feel such agony and such delight.” Ragnar placed a hand against his chest, eyes softening as he looked up at the stars above.
“I thought to myself then. If I asked her for the world, she might truly try to give it to me. Just a woman, and she is willing to give me such a thing. Yet that wasn’t what I wanted.
I simply wanted her to stay.” He looked down once more at his general.
“I don’t want her to leave after she has paid her debt.
So I will ask her for the impossible. I will ask her to give me Oblivia.
” He laughed as he spoke—he knew it was an absurd thing to ask for, but what choice did he have?
She need not return his feelings.
As long as he could sit across from her and watch her play her game of Ukhel Dain—he need not even participate if she wished—that was enough.
“Do you think she won’t give it to you?” Thane’s words stopped Ragnar in his tracks, the general’s eyes strangely cold.
“Great Khan, if you ask her to give you Oblivia, she will give it to you. Is that what you wish?”
Ragnar paused, his smile falling as he considered Thane’s question.
“It would take her years, if it’s even possible, for her to give me something that great, Thane.
I simply want her to stay as long as I am allowed to have her.
” He looked up, and his voice settled, carrying the authority that had seen men through numerous battles.
"If something happens to me, she holds the Valthorne.
She holds our people. She holds you. Your loyalty to me is your loyalty to her.
There is no separation. Should I die, you must protect her.
Should I live, you must serve her still.
Thane, that is all I ask of you, as my friend, my brother. "
“Even if she betrays you, Great Khan?”
A moment of silence passed between them.
“Hmm.”
Thane stared at him.
For a long moment, Ragnar thought he might refuse. Might finally, after all these years, draw a line he wouldn't cross.
Then Thane's shoulders dropped.
"Ten years," he said quietly. "Ten years, and you've never asked me to do something I truly couldn't stomach." He looked away, into the darkness. "Until now."
Thane stood, looking down at him—at his Khan, his brother, the man he would one day follow into hell and out again.
"I'll follow her," he said. "Because you’ve asked it of me." He walked away, disappearing into the darkness between the trees.
Ragnar sat alone, his sword across his knees, his eyes on nothing. He was asking for too much; for all he knew, Azul might not even wish to return to the Steppes; the power she would wield if they were successful would give her agency to go anywhere she wished.
Ragnar did not know where her heart lay, nor did he know which words she told him were true or which smiles she gave him were genuine. He simply wandered in the dark, in hopes of one day understanding or, at least, seeing what she kept so fiercely guarded beneath her ribs.
If she would allow him, it would be his greatest honour.