Chapter 38
The feast that followed the next evening was monstrous.
Torches blazed along every wall of the great hall; tables were piled high with meats and fresh fruit—luxuries the Borjigin had not seen in weeks.
Soldiers lined the perimeter, their hands never far from their weapons.
And at the centre of it all, on a raised platform that had once belonged to the Igwe, Somadina sat with Azul at his side.
Her robes were new—crimson and gold, heavy with embroidery—though cut low, no one could see the bruises her maids had painted over. Her hair had been threaded with pearls that caught the torchlight. She looked every inch the queen Somadina wanted her to be.
The doors swung open.
Altansarnai rode his horse directly into the hall.
An insult, really. Bringing a mount into a space meant for walking, forcing everyone to look up at him.
The horse's hooves struck sparks from the stone floor as he advanced, his breath steaming in the warm air.
Behind him, his two most trusted commanders followed on horseback, only stopping a few feet in to dismount.
Somadina rose, a forced smile hiding his deepening displeasure.
"General Altansarnai. You honour us with your presence."
Altansarnai reined in his horse before the platform, looking down at the Borjigin prince.
"I was told there would be entertainment."
Somadina's smile didn't waver. He clapped his hands and servants rushed forward with food and wine. Beautiful women rushed out from side doors, their silks rustling, their smiles fixed.
Altansarnai dismounted. His guards took position by the doors. He settled onto the cushions prepared for him, accepting a cup of wine without looking at the woman who offered it.
"I am only here because you have made such a bold claim," he said flatly. "You, of all people, have managed to kill Ragnar Valthorne."
Somadina’s eyes lit up with triumph as he snapped his fingers.
The doors at the side of the hall opened, and four guards carried in a long wooden box. They set it before Altansarnai with the reverence due a coffin.
Altansarnai looked at it. "A head would have sufficed."
"This is not merely a head." Somadina rose, descending from the platform to stand beside the box. He placed his hand on its lid, tapping it. "This is the entire body. Whole. Untouched. Delivered into your hands, to do with as you wish."
Something flickered in Altansarnai's eyes.
"Open it."
"In the morning." Somadina's smile widened. "Tonight, we celebrate. Eat, drink, and enjoy the hospitality of the Borjigin. The corpse will be waiting for you at dawn."
Altansarnai frowned, but after some seconds his expression relaxed somewhat. His gaze drifted past Somadina, past the guards, past the flickering torches to Azul.
She sat motionless on the platform, her golden eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance. In the torchlight, her beauty was almost painful—it was no wonder the Great Khan had fallen so easily.
"The Akwaugo," Altansarnai said slowly. "I've heard of her. Her reputation reaches even Kemet."
Somadina's smile tightened. "My betrothed."
"Your betrothed." Altansarnai's lips curved. "Then she must be skilled in hospitality. I would have her serve me."
The music skipped a beat, but servants looked away, pretending to be deaf. No one dared show they heard such a grave insult directed at Somadina.
Somadina's hands clenched at his sides.
He turned to her, and his voice was reasonable.
"Azul. The general requests your company. Will you... serve him?"
She beheld the mask he wore—the coward beneath it. She merely nodded and stood. He grabbed her hand, pulling her in.
"No," Somadina murmured, low enough that only she could hear. "Reassure me."
She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear.
"The sooner I go," she whispered, "the sooner I return."
She walked down from the platform.
The hall watched her as she reached Altansarnai's side and knelt, taking the wine jug from the servant who had been attending him.
"General." An enchanting smile graced her lips. "May I pour?"
Altansarnai's hand closed around her wrist.
She didn’t so much as flinch, letting him inspect her like merchandise.
"Pretty thing," he hissed. "You're so cold. I wonder what it would take to make you warm."
She merely inclined her head, and he released her, allowing her to pour his wine—
A hand knocked the jug; cold liquid cascaded over her.
Azul froze, those watching gasping. She was suddenly drenched from head to toe, her fabrics clinging to her skin.
“Ah,” he pulled her, dragging his tongue up her neck. “Cold indeed.”
The hours crawled past; Azul remained kneeling, her dress drying, making her shiver as her body temperature dropped.
Altansarnai drank. He ate. He laughed at jokes that weren't funny and made comments that made the women around him flinch. His hand found its way to her again and again—her waist, her hips, her thighs—each touch lingering a moment too long, each squeeze a little too hard.
She bore it.
What else could she do?
Somadina watched from the platform; he too laughed and jested. But she saw the tension in his jaw, the white-knuckled grip on his wine cup. He didn't like this. But the weak could only concede to the strong.
Because the alliance mattered more than she did.
She didn’t blame him; perhaps in his shoes, she would’ve made the same decision.
As the night deepened and the wine flowed, Somadina rose and crossed to where Altansarnai lounged among his cushions.
"General." His voice was smooth. "Enjoy the night. Rest well. The corpse will be delivered to your tent by morning."
Altansarnai nodded, already half-drunk, his hand still resting on Azul's knee.
Somadina looked at her. Something passed between them—an apology, perhaps. Then he turned and walked away.
Azul moved to follow.
"Not you."
Somadina's voice stopped her at the edge of the cushions. She turned, confusion flickering across her features.
"My lord?"
Somadina looked at her.
She held his gaze. She never looked away first. Even now.
He told himself this was strategy. That the alliance required gestures of good faith, that Altansarnai needed to believe the Borjigin were generous hosts, and that one night was a small price against the survival of a city. He had rehearsed the logic until it felt clean.
He only felt a deep, unbearable disgust.
He knew what he was in this moment.
He turned away because he couldn't hold it.
For once, her eyes were too much for him to bear.
"Stay with the general. Entertain him." His voice was flat, the voice of a man delivering orders he hated. "If he finds you... favourable... it will improve our negotiations tomorrow."
"My lord." Her stoicism cracked with shock. "You can't mean—"
“Do this for me. For the city."
She stared at him.
"No." The word came out before she could stop it.
A bad habit.
Somadina's face hardened.
“What did you say?”
“No.” She had no interest in entertaining his tomfoolery past what was necessary. Why did she need to sleep in another man’s bed?
She had miscalculated. Not Somadina—she knew Somadina.
She had always known what he was capable of.
What she had failed to account for was how little he had left.
A man with an army, a throne, and options would never have done this.
A man with nothing but a crumbling city and an enemy general who needed appeasing—that man would spend anything he had left to spend. Even her.
She had assumed his obsession would protect her from this particular cost. She had been wrong.
His obsession was precisely why he could do it—because she wasn't a person to be protected; she was a resource to be allocated, and the part of him that wanted her rage and her attention and her contempt had been overruled by the part of him that needed to survive the morning.
"Guards!"
They appeared at her sides before she could move. Hands gripped her arms. A cloth pressed over her mouth and nose.
She fought violently, kicking and writhing in hopes they would let her go. But the drug pulled her under.
The bonfire was lit exactly an hour before dawn.
It blazed in the palace's inner courtyard, far from the celebration, far from the wine and laughter and Somadina's grasping hands.
Chidinma watched the bundles of Mal-kai burn.
She turned to see her father standing in the shadows, his face half-lit by the fire's glow.
He looked old. Tired. But his eyes were sharp, and they fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
"The fire is lit," he said. “There’s no going back.”
"Yes."
"You've done well."
Chidinma said nothing. She had not done this for him.
Chukwuemeka stepped closer, his voice dropping. "When this is over—when the city falls and the Valthorne are dealt with—you'll have your place and take the power we’ve always deserved."
In the firelight, her face was unreadable.
She found it hilarious, how he thought they were scheming against Somadina together.
Azul's eyes opened to darkness.
For a moment, she didn't know where she was. That was until she remembered the sedative she was forced to inhale. She glanced around; she was in a bed, a large, soft, comfortable bed.
She tried to move but found that she couldn't. The drug still held her. She could feel everything—the warmth of the furs, the ache in her limbs, the slow crawl of time—but she couldn’t move even a finger.
A door opened somewhere in the room and heavy footsteps approached her.
Altansarnai appeared at the edge of her vision, flushed with wine. He looked down at her—at the way she lay helpless on his bed—and a grin settled on his face.
His hand found her hair, stroking it.
"Don't worry," he murmured. "I'll be gentle. For now."
His hand traced down her cheek. Her throat. The edge of her robe.
Move. She commanded herself.
Move. Move. Move!
His fingers found the tie at her shoulder and pulled. The fabric slipped, baring her skin to the candlelight.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "No wonder the Khan became such a blubbering fool."
His hand moved lower.
Her fingers twitched.