Chapter 37
The shrine courtyard was silent when Azul was dragged back to it.
The women Chukwuemeka had brought worked quickly without meeting her eyes. They stripped her. Bathed her. Dressed her in fine robes. They painted her face, covering the bruise on her cheek, the split in her lip, and the hollows under her eyes.
When they finished, she sat by the low table in the shrine's main hall, dressed, devastatingly beautiful and utterly still.
When Somadina entered, he stopped in his tracks, eyes widening for a moment—a moment that lasted a beat too long—he cleared his throat and glanced away.
"You did well," he said. "The message has been sent. He'll come."
Azul said nothing.
"One way or another," he said quietly, "I will have Ragnar Valthorne. Altansarnai has agreed. We will work together to defeat him."
He reached into his robes and withdrew a small vial—dark glass, sealed with wax. "If you sedate him and bring him to us alive, I will keep him as a prisoner rather than killing him on the battlefield." He held it out.
Azul looked at the vial but did not take it.
"If you fail," Chukwuemeka said softly, "we all die. You. Me. Nkiru." He paused. "Kamsi."
Something flickered in Azul's eyes.
"Yes," he murmured. "Your sister. She's safe, for now. She'll stay safe as long as you cooperate."
A lie, but Azul need not know that.
He pressed the vial into her hand. Her fingers closed around it automatically.
He rose to leave her room but paused at the threshold.
"The archers are in the trees," he said without looking back. "If he tries to leave or fight, they'll kill him. The only way he survives tonight is if you do exactly what I've told you."
Azul sat alone in the shrine, the vial warm in her palm, the goblet waiting on the table before her. Through the open walls, she could see the trees, the shadows, and the faint glint of moonlight on arrowheads.
She poured the vial into the wine.
Her hands were shaking. She watched her hands tremble and took a deep breath.
You came.
Azul watched him walk through the courtyard, tall and dark against the moonlight, his mask in place, his stride steady and unhurried. He moved like a man who had never known fear, who had never considered the possibility that walking into a trap might be the last thing he ever did.
Her heart sank.
Even through the mask, she could see his eyes, his eyes looking at her with sorrow.
He had read her message and come anyway. He had known it might be a trap and come anyway. He had trusted her—trusted her—and she had led him here, to this moment, to this table, to this wine.
He sat across from her.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
"You came," she said finally.
"You asked me to."
"Why are you alone?" Her voice was small.
"Because you asked for just me, Khatun."
Don’t call me that. She wanted to scream at him, but she bit her tongue.
“Khatun, look at me.”
Her throat closed. She forced herself to look at him. At his eyes. At the trust there, the faith, the utter certainty that she was worth this risk.
Fool, she thought. My beautiful, trusting fool.
"My Lord. If this is a trap—if I've brought you here to die—what would you do?"
He considered the question casually.
"I would hope," he said finally, "that you had a reason."
Her voice wavered. "Would you forgive me?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled, as if he were smiling. “Khatun, how could I not?”
Her heart cracked. She looked down at the goblet. At her hands, still resting on the table. At the faint tremor she couldn't quite hide.
His gaze followed hers. Settled on the wine.
"Khatun." His voice was quiet. "Is this a trap?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't. The words lodged in her throat like needles.
He waited.
Around them, the night was still. The archers waited in the trees, arrows nocked, ready to shoot at the first sign of trouble.
"If this is a trap," he said softly, "then I walked into it with my eyes open. I trusted you. I still trust you. Whatever happens next—" He squeezed her hand. "That doesn't change."
Azul's eyes burned.
She pushed the goblet toward him, hand on the rim.
"Drink," she whispered.
He looked at the wine. “Is this poison?”
She nodded, and then she forced herself to look at him. To take in everything, no matter how painful.
He glanced at her hand.
“Why are you shaking?”
She looked down; yes, her hand was trembling, ever so slightly.
“Are you afraid?” He asked.
She dared not look at him.
They were quiet for a moment, and then he sighed and raised her hand.
“Look away; I lack courage, Khatun,” he said quietly.
She did as told.
“I am not like you. I cannot bear for you to see me as what I am, a man disgraced so thoroughly; this scar was given as a reminder.”
Pain was stitched through every word and every breath, and the more he spoke, the less he could control his tone. An insecurity that ran so deep he could not bring himself to face her. She noticed his fists at his side, blanched so terribly it must’ve hurt.
She took a breath. "I too, lack courage," she whispered. "My Lord, would you pray for me?"
She needed the strength to gamble. To play this game to the end.
He need not think she was someone exceptional; she, too, was afraid.
Ragnar was quiet for a long moment.
"To Azul of the Borjigin," he said in a low voice, "Khatun of the Valthorne Tribe. Most cherished under Tengri. I pray to you. For your safety. For your return. For courage, for your grace."
Her heart skipped a beat.
He took her right hand—her trembling, traitorous right hand—and lifted it to his lips. He kissed the inside of her wrist.
“Be with me, guide me, protect me. By your will, I will conquer,” another kiss, “I will subdue,” one more, “I will unite.” Azul found herself looking at his hands, his scarred, imperfect, calloused hands, ones strong enough to keep her weakness hidden.
And she, who had not known tears, felt her cheeks dampen with a sharp sting to her eyes.
What was in the cup?
A sedative?
Or poison?
“You do not understand,” she stammered. “I am vile, arrogant, deceitful! I am—”
The vial given to her by Somadina was a sedative.
"I know.”
The wine she had prepared for him was poison.
But whatever was in the cup, Ragnar did not care.
If she could only be arrogant, she should be arrogant and hold the mantle. If she was vile, she could be vile on behalf of their people. As long as she was willing, he would not need great benevolence; he only needed gall.
“Do not apologise for who you have become. If you falter, my pride will carry you above your faults. If you stumble, my throne will catch you.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” She cried. “Everything you’ve worked hard for might come crashing down should you entangle yourself with me.
I am not fit to be anyone’s queen. My Lord, I might ruin you.
" She planned to manipulate him, use him, and dispose of him when she was satisfied. She didn’t know if she could move past her nature to stay by his side.
If Ragnar did not have the stomach for a devil like her, it was better he strike her down now and kill her.
This was a ploy for Somadina’s trust.
One she had lost by spending one night outside the palace walls.
She needed him to trust her again, just for a bit longer, until it was all finished.
The sedative was a test. How far was she willing to go?
Ragnar needed to die.
But Ragnar was no stranger to blood. He had slaughtered minor Khans to secure his rule, crushed those who defied his authority, and forced unruly vassals into submission. If his wife planned to do the same, who was he to judge? There was nothing to regret, nothing to atone for.
“It does not matter what you have done or what you plan to do,” he finally said. “I did not take a wife to avoid my burdens. I am the one fighting. I am the one protecting. If your heart is heavy, give it to me. From now on, I will carry it.”
His grip tightened slightly, a silent vow woven into the gesture.
“Whoever finds a wife finds a good thing, and the blessings of Zephyr are invaluable. And you—” His voice broke as though in laughter.
“You will be Khatun of the Valthorne Tribe. Of all the women under the sky, I vow to you, you are the most cherished.”
Her chest tightened.
Why?
The question surfaced, but she did not voice it.
Did he truly think there would be a tomorrow?
"So scheme. Survive. Come back." He pulled away. "I'll await your command, Khatun."
He reached for the goblet.
"To serve a god like you," he whispered, "is truly difficult. But I suppose such a sacrifice is deserved."
The wine went down, and within seconds, he crumpled forward, his head coming to rest on the table.
Azul stared at the body.
Silence followed.
Her body felt cold.
Her eyes were empty.
Without ceremony, she stood.
“Call for Altansarnai and tell him Ragnar Valthorne is dead, by the hands of the Borjigin.”