Chapter 35
Nyraxa found him half-dressed, one arm through his tunic, the other still fumbling with the sleeve, his mask already in place.
She leaned against the tent pole and smiled.
"Good morning, Great Khan."
Ragnar's head snapped toward her. His visible eye narrowed. "How long have you been standing there?"
"You look rested." She pushed off the pole, circling him slowly, her footsteps deliberately loud. “How was your night with the Khatun?”
"I'm not discussing that with you."
"Discussing what?" Her eyes were utterly insincere. "I merely observed that your colour has improved. The fever appears to have broken. One might almost say you're glowing."
Ragnar yanked the tunic the rest of the way on. "Nyraxa."
"Yes, Great Khan?"
"Leave."
"I haven't even told you about the scout reports yet." She settled onto a cushion, crossing her legs. "Orda's left flank is weaker than he thinks. We could exploit it if we move quickly. But please—by all means—continue being flustered. I'm enjoying myself immensely."
He grabbed his belt, fastening it with more force than necessary. "I'm not flustered."
"No?" She tilted her head. "Interesting. Because you just put that on backwards."
He looked down, adjusted his belt, and said nothing.
"The Khatun is rather interesting, isn't she?" Nyraxa mused, examining her nails. "I like her. I also like the way you look when you think about her."
"I don't have a look."
"Ragnar." She used his name deliberately, dropping the title. "I've known you for seven years. You can’t fool the great Nyraxa Varkesh!"
He hesitated to speak. "What do I look like?"
“Now I don’t want to tell you.”
He finished with the belt, agitated. “I should’ve known. What do you want? I should have you flogged for dragging her through Ukhel’s circle without my authorisation."
"You won't. You can’t even pretend to be angry."
“I am terribly furious.”
"You're doing an admirable job of that then." She came up and patted his chest. "Your ears are red, by the way. The mask doesn't hide them."
He reached up to touch his ear and cursed under his breath.
Nyraxa laughed, enjoying his vulnerability way too much.
"I understand now," she said.
"Understand what?"
"Why you've been so insufferable about this woman." She shook her head, marvelling. "I’d want to fuck her too."
“You’re courting death!”
"Calm down, she's yours." Nyraxa rolled her eyes, shifting her weight to one leg. "I’m not crazy enough to go for a viper." Nyraxa stepped back, and as she did, something in her hand caught the light. A folded parchment.
Ragnar's eyes locked onto it. "What is that?"
"This?" She held it up. “Oh, just a recipe.” She brought it to her lips, her eyes narrowed dangerously. "From the Khatun."
Azul's footsteps slowed as she approached her chambers. Her hand found the door handle; it was warm.
Her heart dropped.
As expected.
She closed her eyes, and with a breath, the door swung open.
"Where have you been?"
The voice came from the shadows by the window.
Azul forced her body still, despite the shudder that threatened to spread. Sharp pain shot through her heart. Whatever peace the night had given her vanished. The words lodged in her throat. She gritted her teeth and forced her head to look up at the man waiting for her return.
Somadina stepped forward into the thin sliver of moonlight.
He was awake.
That shouldn't be possible.
She had increased the dose nightly—careful to avoid resistance. Surely she hadn't made a mistake?
"Unable to speak?" He grabbed the vase by his side and flung it. Azul bit down hard on her tongue as it smashed against the wall beside her.
“I was just on a walk—”
“Do you take me for a fool? Akwaugo, what game are you playing?"
Azul held his gaze even as he came dangerously close; his eyes were stormy and unsettled, and she knew her departure this time was a mistake.
"I play no game, Okpalaeze. I only—"
"Liar."
A slap followed a heartbeat later.
Her head snapped to the side, the force of it sending her staggering. Pain exploded across her cheek, and she failed to catch herself before stumbling to the floor.
Her ears rang, her mouth tasting of iron.
Before she could recover, his hand was in her hair, yanking her head back. His face was inches from hers, and though her heart was flailing, she had no choice but to maintain her composure.
"Who did you go to meet? Was it a filthy spy? Did they bring news of your barbarian?”
She held her tongue. There was no use trying to explain herself; he was too paranoid. His other hand closed around her throat, covering it almost entirely, as if telling her he could end her life at any moment.
"I loved you. I've clothed you; I've let you act in my name. I have given you everything! And you—" His grip tightened, choking her. "You have spent every moment since we met again trying to destroy me."
When we met, you tried to fucking kill me!
"I could kill you," he whispered. "Right now." His eyes roamed her face, drinking in her defiance. "And I would finally be free of your charms, vixen."
Something in his face crumpled at his words. His grip on her throat loosened. His hand released her hair. He stumbled back as if burnt, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with horror.
"What am I doing?" He wasn't asking her. He was asking himself. He looked at his hands as if they belonged to a stranger. He turned and wrenched the door open, shouting for guards. Two men appeared, their faces hidden by shadows.
"Lock her in," Somadina commanded, his voice hoarse.
"No one enters. No one leaves. She is not to be touched—" He shot a warning glare at the guards.
"Do you understand? She is not to be touched by anyone but me.
If a single hair on her head is harmed by another hand, I will have your families fed to dogs. "
The guards nodded.
Somadina looked back at Azul, blood trickled down the corner of her lips, and though she seemed to heave, her eyes held no fear. He opened his mouth, but no words came.
He left.
The door slammed behind him.
Azul knelt where he had left her, the room spinning slowly, the walls pressing in.
She looked down at her hands.
They were shaking.
Her left hand was still bandaged, and for a sickening moment, one solitary emotion erupted within her.
Rage.
How dare you. She screamed in her mind as her eyes stung. How dare you be afraid of such a man! You're dead! She snarled at the spirit in her blood. You're dead, and I’m alive, and I will not—I will not—
But her hands kept shaking.
She loathed to see her own weakness.
In truth, the original Azul had no power over her body; after all, she had been dead long enough for whatever remnants of her soul to dissipate. The fear manifesting in Azul was hers and hers alone.
Are you safe? A voice sparked in her mind.
“I’m sorry,” her reply came tumbling out in fragments. “I will adapt; I didn’t mean to be afraid.”
There is no need to apologise. Something like this, you should not need to adapt to, Host.
Azul calmed her heart. Did you grow some more?
Host, this time the woman wasn't as you said. She wasn't a Divine King.
The little snake awaited a reply, but received none. Host?
Azul went silent, but her expression was foul.
Chinedu's knees ached from kneeling on the wet stone, but he did not move. He had been here for hours, each minute that passed heavier than the next. The pillar before him bore no name.
This is wrong, he thought.
His mother had a name. Nnenna.
She had existed; she laughed; she held him when he was frightened and sung to him when he couldn't sleep.
And now she was gone, her name was on no pillar, and no one would remember her. Except him.
His shoulders shook. He tried to stop them, to be strong, to be the man everyone expected him to become. But the tears came anyway, hot and humiliating, and he pressed his forehead to the cold stone and let them fall.
He didn't hear her approach.
He only knew she was there when her shadow fell across him, when the air shifted with her presence. He knew who it was.
The devil.
She knelt beside him. She placed her palm on her chest, the way he’d seen the Valthorne soldiers do when they prayed.
Chinedu's tears continued to fall. He hated that she was seeing this. Hated that she was here, witnessing his weakness. But he couldn't stop. The grief was too big, too heavy, too much for his small body to contain.
And then she spoke.
"Ukhel, Lord of the Seven Gates. Grant him clarity. Grant him a sound mind. Grant him peace."
She broke a kola nut and let it fall.
Then she lowered herself until her forehead touched the wet stone, and she prayed for his mother.
"May you guide her soul into the afterlife. May you give her the joy denied her in this place."
Chinedu's sniffling stopped.
She was praying for Nnenna. Speaking her name. Asking the gods to be kind to her.
Why?
He wiped his face with his sleeve and rose to his feet. She rose with him.
They stood together in the dim shrine, two people who should have been enemies, sharing a moment of understanding.
He walked toward the stairs and stopped; his heart was too heavy to leave without saying anything.
"Thank you, imperial sister, for your prayers."
His voice came out cold. He meant it to. He needed her to know that this changed nothing. That he still remembered what she had done.
"Take care of yourself." Her voice was soft. "The journey is still far. You will reclaim all that is yours."
The wind picked up, tugging at his robes, carrying her words away.
He wanted to ask her, Is that something you would like?
He wanted to know if she feared what he might become, if she lay awake at night worrying about the day he would be old enough to demand answers, to demand justice, to demand her head for his mother's death.
But he didn't ask.
Because he already knew the answer.
He descended the steps.
Chinedu looked at the servant reporting to him; his hand stilled on the painting below him. The memory of that meeting at the shrine had seared itself into his brain, enough that he would not rest until he could see it once more on paper. “The Akwaugo is under house arrest?”
The servant nodded. “Yes, Third Prince. Should we send our condolences?”
Condolences?
Chinedu looked at the half-finished painting; all that was left were her eyes.
He scoffed. “No need.”
The war council erupted the moment the scout's words settled.
"The Valthorne are coming," Altansarnai announced to his gathered commanders, his winter-grey eyes sweeping the tent. "The Great Khan marches with five thousand riders. They'll be here within two days."
Murmurs rippled through the assembled men.
Altansarnai's lip curled. "The Naiman does not wait for his enemies to arrive. We strike tonight. The city is weakened. Starved, desperate and begging for our mercy." He slammed his fist on the map table. "We take it now, before the Valthorne can reinforce them."
The commanders roared their approval.
The attack began at dusk.
Siege engines that had sat silent for weeks groaned to life, hurling boulders against the northern wall.
Arrows blackened the sky, falling among the defenders like rain made of steel.
And beneath it all, the infantry advanced—rank after rank of Altansarnai’s finest, their shields locked, their swords ready.
The first wave hit the walls.
Borjigin defenders, already weakened by hunger and despair, fought with desperate courage like cornered animals.
They poured boiling oil from the parapets, wasting their already diminished stores.
They loosed arrows until their quivers ran dry.
They met the scaling ladders with spears and swords and bare hands.
For hours, the wall held.
But Orda Naiman had not conquered three tribes by failing to press an advantage.
The second wave came harder. The third wave came harder still. And when the fourth wave crashed against the northern gate, something finally gave.
The doors pushed open. The iron groaned. And Orda's soldiers poured through like water through a broken dam.