Whisper of the Steppe Storm

Timur was not born in the center of civilization, but where the wind roamed free like a wolf, and the steppe under the sun swirled with dusty whirlwinds. There were no laws here - only rules set by those strong enough to impose them.

Concrete could not withstand the steppe - it cracked, sank, and sand slowly devoured the streets with predatory patience. Dust did not merely hang in the air - it clogged pores, burned the lungs, scraped against teeth, leaving a taste of rust. The air was thick, viscous, as if resisting every breath.

The old men in town perched on overturned crates like ancient khans on thrones, arguing as if deciding the fate of the steppe rather than dusty memories.

- Bogd Khan was the last to keep the steppe in check! - one grumbled, pulling his fur sleeves tighter despite the heat outside. - If not for those damned Chinese, we would have…

- Bogd Khan? Pff! - the second spat into the dust. - Mongolia would have died without Sukhbaatar. He freed us, not your holy man!

- Freed us? - the third only shook his head, staring into the void. - If not for Choibalsan, we would have been gone long ago. He cleansed the weak

- He slaughtered our people! - the first snapped.

- Pure blood means nothing without strength!

Timur's grandfather listened in silence, but the tension in his jaw made it clear - his patience was not limitless.

- You are all fools, -he finally said, his voice cutting like a knife on old leather. - Bogd Khan, Sukhbaatar, Choibalsan… all of them are mere shadows of the past. One man raised the Mongols above the whole world. One

He lifted his head, and in his gaze lay the steppe itself - harsh, boundless, demanding blood.

- Genghis Khan. All the rest are just servants of his legacy

Timur grew up with this belief, with his grandfather's endless speeches that refused to let the steppe fade. The old man was hunched, his face carved with deep wrinkles, but the fire still flickered in his eyes - the same fire that had lit the path of his ancestors.

He repeated it again and again: their blood came from the very Borjigin.

Sometimes with pride, sometimes with defiance, and at times - with unnatural desperation, as if convincing not his grandson, but himself.

- We are not just descendants. We are the ulus of Genghis

These were not mere words. This was a ritual - eternal, like the fire in the hearth. Every evening, under the heavy, viscous smoke of his pipe, he sat by the window, stared into the night, and began to speak.

He told how the great khan united the tribes, how he ordered the city of Karakorum to be built, how he sent envoys across Asia, forging an empire unlike any other.

- In the beginning, there was only the steppe and the wind, - he said. - Scattered clans warring over water, pastures, blood. And then he came. The one called Temujin

The old man would close his eyes, inhaling the smoke, and his voice would grow rougher, as if echoing from the depths of time.

- They left him to die, but he returned. He reclaimed his clan, gathered his people. He did not merely give them freedom - he made them believe their will was stronger than steel. He did not rule the steppe. He became its breath. He listened to it as a warrior listens to the breath of his enemy before striking. He did not just strike - he thought. And then he struck so that the earth trembled

The old man gazed into the night as if he could see the shadows of long-gone riders.

- He took the name Genghis Khan. The steppe itself acknowledged him, and then he became its master. He swept across it like a storm, leaving behind nothing but ashes and conquered lands. Chinese cities with their stone walls fell like children's toys. The Persians thought the mountains would save them, but the fire reached them even there. His banner bore nothing but will. And that will was enough for his name to thunder from one end of the world to the other, louder than the name of any god

He exhaled, letting the smoke drift through the air.

- His blood is in us. Do not look with your eyes, Timur - look with your blood. The steppe always waits for its own

Every time, his grandfather repeated that their blood carried a great destiny.

The old man insisted that a nomad bends but does not break, but Timur had seen steel bend - not under the winds of the steppe, but under brass knuckles in dark alleyways.

His grandfather believed that the blood of Genghis carried fate, but Timur knew that blood did not lead forward - it only smelled of rust when you spat it onto the asphalt. He saw no greatness, no empire the old man spoke of.

He saw something else: courtyards littered with cigarette butts and broken glass, where teenagers formed packs like stray dogs, dragging scrap metal from dead factories in exchange for a sip of oblivion. In the mines, people gnawed at the earth, tearing gold from its depths only for it to flow into someone else's pockets. Those who had lived their whole lives on handouts from the rich died namelessly, like tethered horses grazing until they collapsed, leaving nothing behind.

He looked at this world and understood that justice did not exist here. The weak were broken, trampled, ground into dust beneath boot soles. It had always been this way. It would always be this way.

In his first fight, they stomped him into the ground. In his second, they made him swallow blood. In his third, he got up, refusing to fall again.

By sixteen, he fought for money. By eighteen, he knew how to get it without fighting. By twenty-two, he was the one setting the rules. He was not the son of a rich man, not part of the elite, but he had what others lacked - cold, calculated precision.

He listened, observed, studied people the way one studies an animal's weaknesses before the hunt. His grandfather said strength was the ability to command, but Timur knew that in his world, strength was the ability to strike first.

He learned to hit hard and fast. He mastered everything that worked in street fights and deadly brawls: elbow and knee strikes, locks, sweeps, grips that snapped bones. He took techniques from boxing, wrestling, Krav Maga, even remnants of ancient styles passed down among those who lived by war. Every fight was a set of rules. Timur learned them all - so he could break them, again and again.

But even the one who has risen can stumble one day.

Timur was used to calculating moves. Seeing weaknesses, sensing danger. But sometimes, even the most experienced predator takes a wrong step. One second, one misplaced glance - and you are no longer the hunter.

The air thickened with unease, viscous like the stagnant scent of rotting wood and spilled oil. The street, once familiar, suddenly seemed to change its contours. Shadows grew longer, windows darker.

The wind, which usually carried the city's noise, now only rustled the trash underfoot. Something was wrong. He knew it in his gut. And yet, he stepped forward. The city always clung to the night streets with the stickiness of dampness, burnt oil, and the faint metallic taste of foreboding.

He took another step - and the darkness stirred.

Not sharply, not suddenly. Just the usual nighttime hum settled, shrank, as if the streets had drawn their heads into their shoulders, hiding from something unseen. Somewhere behind, a door creaked, someone slammed a shutter, but ahead, the alley stood frozen, like an exhaled breath. No footsteps, no voices, even the wind had gone still.

He caught that moment of silence again, but by then, he could no longer stop the inevitable.

- Maybe it's just the wind rustling through the trash? Maybe exhaustion is playing tricks on me?

The darkness tensed, held its breath. And in that taut silence - a thin crunch of glass beneath a boot. The crack tore through the quiet, ran along the walls, but then immediately died, drowned in waiting.

Timur froze, straining his hearing.

- Hey, Timur!

The voice was familiar, but it came at the wrong time and in the wrong place.

Timur jerked his head toward the sound - and realized at once that he was caught.

The first blow crashed into his ribs, folding him in half. His breath shot out like a cork. He tried to jerk back - and immediately ran into a hand, hard as a clamp. The second blow - precise, straight to the kidneys. Crushing. Burning him from the inside.

A silhouette flickered in the darkness. Timur threw a punch forward - struck a cheekbone, but the hit only skidded off, like a stone skipping on water. They knew how to attack. They had waited.

The hunter had become the prey.

They read him like an open book - with the same cold, ruthless precision with which he had once picked apart the weaknesses of others.

- Too long, hit harder, - someone grumbled.

They yanked him forward, struck his legs, and the asphalt slammed into his knees, sending pain shooting through them. Hands grabbed his collar and twisted his arm, leaving no room for resistance.

- Hold his arms! - barked another.

Timur thrashed, kicked. Someone yelped in pain, but immediately - an angry curse, a flash of fury, and a blow to his temple. The world tilted. The strike rolled back with a delayed echo, like a distant thunderclap. Darkness flared in his eyes - the night crashed into him.

His ears popped - it was like plunging underwater, with pressure squeezing his head. His throat spasmed.

His legs buckled. The world slipped through his fingers.

Hands latched onto him and dragged him forward. He jerked - unconsciously, more from instinct than will. His body wouldn't obey. His legs folded on their own, like a broken puppet's.

Boots skidded, leaving smeared tracks in the dust. The metallic taste of blood spread across his tongue. The smell of machine oil settled thickly in his throat.

The darkness rolled over him, but not completely. Somewhere, far away, there were still voices, footsteps, the sound of a car door opening.

He tried to breathe in - and only then realized he couldn't move.

A door creaked. A heavy shove to his back - and suddenly, he was inside.

His throat burned, like after swallowing kerosene - whether from pain or from the thick smell of oil.

- Where am I?

Thoughts scattered, slipped away, like wet stones underfoot.

It felt like a scorching rod was twisting inside his skull, burning away every thought. His ears rang - not a buzz, but a thin, piercing whine, like a dying alarm signal. Any movement sent nausea crashing over him, turning him inside out.

Dirty seats. Or walls? The floor? Everything blurred into one murky stain. The air was stale, warm, tainted with the taste of someone else's breath.

A dull vibration throbbed in his temples - not noise, but the kind of heavy reverberation that rattles through a truck bed bouncing over potholes.

Windows covered in film looked blind, like abandoned storefronts.

Dark spots danced before his eyes, the streetlight outside doubling - its blurred arc drifted away, then lurched closer, like a reflection in water.

The cabin smelled of tobacco, the bitterness of stale alcohol, and something sour, cloying, muddling his head.

Harsh, irritated voices cut through the silence, each laced with hatred.

- You think he knew?

- What difference does it make now?

Timur recognized the voice.

His heart jolted - not from fear, but from that sickening, sticky realization.

Laughter. The kind that once meant, Everything's under control.

Only now, it carried a different tone - like Timur was no longer part of the game, but a broken piece about to be swept off the board. He exhaled and shook his head.

So that's how it was. Not a mistake. A miscalculation.

- You should have known, - the voice sounded calm, almost tired.

Timur smirked. Blood filled his mouth, but he didn't spit it out.

- Yeah... - he answered quietly. - Now I do

He just hadn't noticed that the doors had closed long before this night.

Betrayal is rarely loud. It comes quietly - in half-empty bars, in brief glances, in debts never spoken aloud.

Hands grabbed him, yanked him out.

Thud.

His body slammed into the ground, stones digging into his side. He didn't fall - they tossed him like a bag of trash.

Someone pressed a boot against his wrist, pinning it down. He wanted to resist, but his strength had drained away with the last blows.

- Get him up

A rough yank by the collar, sharp, painful. His legs wouldn't hold. He tried to stand, but only swayed and collapsed again.

- He's already done

- Done?

Someone leaned in, prodded his ribs with a boot. No reaction.

- Is he still breathing?

- Does it matter?

- Finish it

- Come on, it's getting dark

A cocking sound. Then the click of metal - short, businesslike, like the tick of a clock counting down the last seconds.

Timur blinked. Slowly. The world swayed like a pendulum, but didn't stop.

The darkness did not release him, but neither did it consume him completely. Shadows drifted before his eyes, like reflections in trembling water - foreign, indistinct, blurring at the slightest movement. Someone was speaking, but the words dissolved into a murmur, slipping away like sound through water.

He inhaled. Something tore in his throat - hot, salty blood flooded his tongue, mixing with dust, choking his breath. He coughed, and the taste of rusted iron grew even stronger.

Thoughts flared and immediately faded.

His skin no longer responded to pain. Only cold. Sand clung to his split lips, blood slowly trickled down his collar, soaking the fabric with useless warmth.

Somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, footsteps echoed. Or the memory of them.

The world trembled. Collapsed into emptiness.

But consciousness did not leave. It wavered on the brink - blurred, unsteady.

Timur blinked. Once. Then again.

And suddenly, everything became painfully clear, as if someone had torn the veil from his eyes.

The stars blurred before him - not the night sky, but ancient, golden, buried in the steppe like the treasures of forgotten kings. They called to him, whispering the silent names of those who had gone before.

- So this is how you die?

He thought he would feel fear. But there was only bitterness.

- So this is how it happens…

His grandfather's face surfaced before his eyes. That same gaze - stern, unyielding, like in childhood when Timur had made a mistake. His lips did not move, but his voice echoed inside, heavy as a stone on the heart.

Only now, there was no reproach in it.

- What do you see? - he asked, like the wind in the night steppe.

Timur tried to answer.

- Nothing

His grandfather remained silent. But in his eyes, darkness stirred - not from fire, but from memory. Deep, ancient, swallowing all mistakes, all downfalls. And Timur knew: he remembered.

Remembered how, as a child, wrapped in an old felt cloak, he listened to the stories of great khans. How he first held a knife in his hands, and his grandfather stood nearby, arms crossed, watching to see if he had the resolve to cut without hesitation.

That voice rumbled in his memory like distant thunder that lingers even after the storm has passed. He did not just remember it - he heard it inside himself.

- Do not look with your eyes. Look with your blood. The steppe always waits for its own. Its own Storm.

Timur opened his mouth, but he did not have time to speak.

The wind swept over the hills, howled among the stones, and the darkness closed over him.

The sand chilled his skin. Blood trickled down his temple, burning like the morning sun.

He lay there, staring at the sky. Above the hill loomed a burial mound, ancient as the steppe itself. The wind stirred the dust, and in his temples, echoes of voices still murmured - not those of the men who had beaten him, but of those who had called to him through eternity.

The darkness parted.

And he saw them.

Shadows surged like a whirlwind, and the steppe came alive beneath the hooves of a thousand horses. The steeds neighed, the clang of sabers cut through the air, and warriors' cries thundered like rolling storms across the plains. He felt the earth tremble beneath their charge, but it was not the ground of his time.

They were not ghosts - they were the steppe itself, given flesh. The horses pounded the earth, dust rose in swirling clouds, banners fluttered as if the wind blew not from the plains, but from history itself.

- Khan! - the voices roared. - The steppe waits for you!

The earth trembled. The manes of the horses streamed in the storm, sabers flashed, reflecting not the moon's light, but the glow of distant fires. They circled, thousands of warriors who had stepped beyond time but had never truly left.

Something ice-cold gripped his shoulder. No - not his shoulder, not his body. The cold pierced into him, driving through bone, through blood. Through his soul.

- Khan… your horse awaits you

Names he did not remember.

But he knew them all.

His eyelids twitched. The sand beneath his fingers felt different. The air - unfamiliar. He took a ragged breath, but the air was thick, like steppe fog before a storm. His chest tightened, as if the world refused to let him back in.

The steppe never lost its own.

This was the end. Or it seemed like it.

But time did not move here. It did not flow. It had frozen, like ice in the veins of a man staring into the eyes of death.

Emptiness.

A jolt. A burst of air into his lungs. He gasped, like a man dragged from water a second before drowning.

He opened his eyes.

The steppe had not disappeared.

It was simply another era now.

Tukal-Bey woke abruptly to the voices of warriors outside the yurt. The dream of another life returned like the nomadic wind that always finds its way back, leaving the bitterness of the past in his mind. He had not merely seen himself in another world - he had lived it over and over again. And with each time, he became more convinced that it was not a fevered illusion, not a mere vision.

He had not simply survived. He had been torn from one world and thrown into another, as if the steppe itself had decided it was not yet his time to leave. Now, this was his home. Not the one his mind remembered, but the one his body knew.

The air inside the yurt was thick, heavy, as if wrung from the bodies of those who lived within it. It carried the mingling scents of leather polished with fat, the muted tang of metal, the sharp essence of dried herbs. Every breath was dense, rich, leaving a taste of salt and smoke on his tongue. There was something primal in this air, something ancient - like the steppe itself.

Tukal ran a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of old scars. His skin still held the warmth of sleep, but within him, there was no anxiety, no doubt. Only a cold, clear certainty.

Yesterday, he had killed his brothers. Yesterday, he had proven to the Horde that he was worthy of the title of Khan.

The gods do not gamble. If he was here, then it was meant to be. But it was not only they who decided. The ancient Steppe, which knew the past and foresaw the future, had made its choice as well.

And outside, that Steppe was awakening. The rhythmic scrape of a whetstone against steel, the neighing of horses, the hushed voices of the guards - familiar sounds of the morning world of warriors. But now, this was his world. His Horde. Not yet fully formed, not yet self-aware, but already alive in his thoughts.

He might have died in another world, but he had awakened in the body of the khan's eldest son. His body had grown stronger, his hands steadier, his memory deeper - filled with knowledge that was not his own, yet had become inseparable from him.

Power is not only blood - it is flesh.

It begins where the defeated bow before the victor. And today, he could feel it completely.

His palm lazily slid over warm skin, feeling its softness and the quiet rhythm of breath.

In the dim light of the yurt, three women lay beside him. Their breathing was slow, deep - their bodies still remembered him. After defeating his brothers, he had finally allowed himself to take them all at once.

Before, he had only met with them rarely - not because he did not desire them, but because his mind had been in chaos. He had fought for power, his thoughts still trapped between two worlds. Timur had absorbed the memories and instincts of Tukal, had filtered them through himself, had redefined them.

But yesterday, stepping out of battle as the victor, he had cast off the last of his doubts.

He had taken power, blood, and women - everything that belonged to the strongest.

His body ached, a wound pulsed in his side, his shoulder throbbed, and his muscles screamed for rest. At night, he had felt the pain, but it had drowned in adrenaline, in the rush of battle, in the heat of the women's bodies. Now, the blood had cooled, and with every breath, his body reminded him of the price of victory - sharp, piercing, as if ripping through old stitches.

He ran his fingers along the curve of a woman's thigh, feeling its silky smoothness and warmth.

Injuries had not stopped him. He was Tukal-Bey, born of the steppe, forged in battle - he knew no limits.

His brothers' blood had not yet dried on the sand of the arena, yet he had already asserted his rule - first in combat, then in the yurt.

He had won.

And that victory now lived in every moment, in every breath, in every gaze cast upon him with a mix of fear and reverence.

That victory lay before him now.

Three women. Alliances sealed by power. Threads woven into his fate.

Aybike, Altyn-Tu, and Tumar.

They were his wives. They were different. But last night - they belonged to him equally.

The yurt still carried the scent of leather, sweat, flesh, smoke, and the heavy imprint of the night. There was no place here for shame or doubt. All that remained was power, hardened like dried blood on the skin.

But before stepping outside, he looked back at those who were now part of his dominion.

Aybike lay closest, her body pressed against the furs. Yet even in sleep, her fingers clutched the edge of the blanket - not idly, but as a last line of defense that could not be lost.

She had submitted, but her will still smoldered, like embers buried in cold ashes. She was the first, the chief wife, the daughter of Aybars-Kutagi, an elder whose words still held weight.

Slender, graceful, but with that inner strength that could not be broken with a single touch. Yesterday, her body had fully yielded to him for the first time, yet the fire in her eyes had not died. A spark of pride, a glimmer of defiance. She accepted him not only as her husband but as fate - one that could not be escaped.

This union was more than a marriage - it was a seal, branded into his power by tradition itself.

Altyn-Tu lay a little farther away, her breathing deep and steady. The daughter of Baga-Buka, a warlord whose riders were the most disciplined in the Horde. Her skin was darker, her body stronger.

She moved differently. Like warriors in full gallop - smooth, forceful, decisive. She had not waited to be taken - she had lunged forward, clawed, demanded, and only when he had locked his hands around her wrists did she arch and surrender, turning battle into a different kind of dance.

This marriage was not just a bond - it was a pair of blades suspended over his head.

Tumar. In the dim light, her hair spilled over the furs, lips slightly parted, her breathing lazy - like a cat that knows its worth. Even in sleep, there was a hidden alertness about her, the instinct of one who watches from beneath lowered lids.

The daughter of Kazgym-Kutlug, ruler of the Targitai lineage. She had grown used to thinking herself cunning, skilled at weaving delicate strands of intrigue, but last night, there had been no room for games. When her nails dug into his back, when her voice cracked into a cry, she forgot that this marriage was a bargain.

A bargain where the merchant had failed to notice when he himself became the goods. But it did not matter. Now he held the scales. Now he decided who and what was worth anything.

They still slept. But power did not sleep.

Their bodies were soft, their breathing even, but even in slumber, each of them was something more than just a woman. One - a key to allies. Another - a pledge of loyalty from warriors. The third - a hidden blade wrapped in velvet. He had not simply taken wives. He had taken fate.

When they awoke, none of them would dare to speak first. They would wait. Silently. As was proper for those who belonged to the victor.

Tukal-Bey sat up slowly.

Yesterday, he had claimed the title of Khan.

And today, the battle for it began.

Beyond the yurt, the Horde was already stirring. The steppe breathed with the chill of dawn, spreading beneath the horses' hooves like a living carpet of sun-scorched grass.

The warriors squinted, shielding their eyes from the sharp morning light, while young herdsmen and riders peered toward the distant horizon, where sky and earth merged - promising both the beginning of the day and an unknown danger. The night's bony mist slowly dissolved over the encampment, leaving behind the scent of ash, milk, and the sweat of horses.

Blades were not being sharpened idly - before battle, there was no room for dull steel. Warriors ran their fingers along the edges, testing them in silence, as if feeling the future in the cold of the metal.

The grooms saddled the horses faster than usual, exchanging glances - the steeds sensed their masters' tension, stamping nervously at the ground. Even the herders, who normally drove their flocks with careless ease, were watching the horizon today, as if expecting something.

The nomadic women milked the mares, pouring the fresh kumis into leather flasks. Someone was already cooking the morning broth from dried meat and millet, its thick, hearty aroma spreading through the camp, mingling with the scent of wool and steppe grass.

But this morning, the Horde was not merely waking.

Those who usually gathered at the hearths lazily now moved with purpose, preparing for the first emergence of the new khan. Those who had bowed to Tukal yesterday were now checking their weapons, tightening the straps of their chainmail, pulling on their leather armor. Riders strung fresh bowstrings, arguing among themselves about the past night and what his first words would be.

- They say he will come out holding the Bunchuk, like an ancient biy, like one whom the steppe itself raises above warriors, - one young rider remarked, squaring his shoulders under the weight of his chainmail.

- And if he doesn't? - another smirked, running his fingers along the taut sinew of his bow.

- Then he is no khan, - a gray-haired warrior answered shortly, sharpening his blade. The metal slid across the stone, leaving behind a jagged, rhythmic trail. One pass - like a breath before battle. The second - like a sentence. The third… He was sharpening more than just steel. He was sharpening time, measuring the last moments before blood would spill on the sand.

By the elders' tents, the tension was palpable, like the taut string of a bow before the shot. No voices were raised, but every word spoken here carried more weight than a hundred oaths.

Arslan-Temir, elder of the Kiyat lineage, stood with his feet planted wide, like a warrior before combat. His gaze swept over the faces of the others, but he himself remained unreadable. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low but dense, like a predator's footsteps in the tall grass - cautious, yet ready to strike.

- Let him step out. But one appearance does not make a ruler. A khan is not made in the morning, but in the blood spilled for power

He crossed his arms over his chest, as if testing how firmly the new banner of the Horde held against the wind.

Jangar-Bulat, keeper of ancient traditions, remained silent, gazing into the sky as if searching for answers there. His fingers idly traced the wooden talisman on his belt, and his lips moved slightly - whether in prayer or in thought was unclear.

- Did you hear the dogs howling last night? - he suddenly asked, without tearing his gaze from the clouds. - It is a bad omen. The wind is changing. And the spirits do not like change

- The wind does not change because of spirits, but because of men, - came a low, steady voice.

Sarych-Bai, elder of the Sarych lineage, did not simply stand - he was motionless, as if carved from bone. The staff in his hand did not look like a symbol of authority, but rather the last bastion of something fading into the past.

- Time does not ask us when to change horses on a journey, - he said, never taking his eyes off the horizon. - Sometimes, the new one runs faster. And sometimes, without the old one's tracks, the road is lost…

He did not elaborate, but in his voice was something more than mere reflection on change. It was neither protest nor agreement - just the cold awareness that in the steppe, the rise of a new khan always meant not just a new order, but the shadows of those left behind.

Temirkhan-Kulan, the shaman, sat in the shadow of the tent, slowly tracing his finger over a smooth stone, leaving behind damp, quickly vanishing marks. He drew circles - one after another, like an old eagle painting the sky with its wings. He did not speak, but he watched.

For a moment, he froze, as if the wind had carried words to him - words not meant for foreign ears. Temirkhan-Kulan did not look in their direction, but he knew who was speaking, knew the questions hanging in the air, the fates that had intertwined on this night.

Elder Aybars-Kutaga, Batyr Baga-Buki, and Kazgym-Kutlug, head of the Targitai lineage, stood slightly apart from the others.

Aybars-Kutaga, Aybike's father, idly fingered a leather strap with knots - an ancient talisman, thick with the dust of time. His fingers moved slowly, as if each knot held a decision that had already been made, yet had not yet revealed all its consequences.

His face showed neither concern nor satisfaction - only calm expectation. He was one of the few who did not engage in arguments, but his silence carried more weight than others' loudest speeches.

Beside him stood Baga-Buki, the batyr, whose daughter had shared the khan's bed that night not just as a wife, but as a share of his triumph. His lips curled into a smirk, yet his fingers absently ran along the braided hilt cord of his saber - an unconscious gesture of a warrior accustomed to keeping his weapon close.

- If he is good in battle, then he will manage in rulership as well, - he muttered, as if speaking into the air, though his gaze lingered on the yurt for a moment.

That night, their daughters had belonged to the khan not only by right of marriage - now their bodies, their cries, and their blood were woven into his power. The alliance had become more than tradition; it was a seal, stamped behind the felt walls of the yurt.

Kazgym-Kutlug, the head of the Targitai lineage, stood slightly apart. His fingers glided over the silver plates of his belt - not just a habit, but the gesture of a man who measured every coin, every alliance. He listened to the warlord, but his thoughts ran deeper.

His daughter, Tumar, was now part of Tukal's power. Which meant she was part of his own influence as well. He narrowed his eyes, as if weighing whether this was a fortunate bargain or one that had come at too high a cost.

- Time will tell, - he said, not looking at Baga-Buki, yet seeming to answer his thoughts. - Today, it is not he who will decide, but the Horde

Aybars-Kutaga ran his palm along his stubbled cheek, as if brushing away invisible dust. His fingers lingered on his chin - a light tapping against his skin betraying patient anticipation. He slowly lifted his eyes to Kazgym and Baga-Buki, then spoke with a faint smirk.

- You both argue over what is already decided, - Aybars-Kutaga said at last, raising his gaze. - Tukal will step out. The only question is what the Horde will see when he does

Baga-Buki snorted but did not argue.

Kazgym-Kutlug turned his gaze to the khan's yurt. In that look, there was everything - cold calculation, a barely perceptible trace of unease, and the understanding that it was not only Tukal's fate being decided now, but his own.

And that now their daughters were no longer merely the wives of the new khan.

They were hostages of his power.

Kazgym-Kutlug exhaled slowly, almost soundlessly, and shifted his gaze to Aybars-Kutaga and Baga-Buki. They remained silent, but their silence was not empty. It carried weight - like a taut bowstring, ready to release an arrow.

A dull sound rang out nearby - metal sliding over leather as one of the warriors checked the straps of his armor. Another rider, adjusting his saddle, muttered a few short words to a groom. The voices were low, but there was no idle chatter in them.

Near the great tent, the warriors stood like stakes driven into the earth. They did not move, yet something invisible hung in the air - not fear, but an expectation akin to the stillness before a storm. No one rushed the khan. Everyone knew: his first step beyond the yurt would decide more than a dozen battles.

Closest to the yurt stood his warriors - the ones who had known before sunrise whom they would serve. Not the former guard of Kara-Buran, whose loyalty still hung in question, but those who had marched and fought beside Tukal, who had sworn fealty not yesterday, but long before he took the khan's saddle.

They were not two hundred, nor even a thousand - under his banners, two thousand riders had already gathered. Not the Horde's elite, but those who had already chosen their fate.

Riders who had followed him on distant raids, men who knew the meaning of loyalty when there was no throne at their backs, only the wind of conquest ahead. Among them were the warriors of Targul - eight hundred horsemen who called him their leader, though they had never doubted who their true khan was.

They were not merely guarding the tent - they stood for their ruler.

Each of them understood that if blood was to be spilled, it would happen today. They did not glance at one another, yet each caught the slightest movements of his neighbors in his peripheral vision - who tightened their grip on a saber, who shifted a lance in hand. They stood still, but beneath that stillness lived a predator's instinct - to wait and strike first if the steppe chose to change its master.

The night had not been quiet. There had been no attack, but the darkness carried something else - a ritual that bound power just as surely as the blood spilled in the arena.

The warriors remained motionless, yet the most perceptive among them could still smell the heavy, dense air of the khan's yurt - thick, rich, alive. Someone clenched their reins tighter, the leather stretching with a faint creak. Another ran a finger along his saber's hilt for the third time, as if ensuring that everything was in place, that the steel had not lost its loyalty.

They did not speak of the night, yet it still lived within them. Some felt it in the tension of their jaws, others in their clenched fists. The wind did not carry away its traces - it only wove them deeper into skin, breath, and blood.

While half the Horde slept, the other half listened.

From the khan's yurt, sounds had drifted that even the night itself seemed to hold its breath for - ragged cries, the dull smack of palms against flesh, heavy breathing that could not be mistaken for anything else. There was no doubt - the khan's three women had not merely fulfilled their duty. They had accepted his power, taking it into themselves in both body and fate.

The warriors standing guard did not exchange glances, did not smirk - this was not a spectacle for amusement. This was a ritual, a seal set upon their ruler's bloodline.

Now, no one could say that he had not taken what was his.

Targul-Arystan ran his tongue over his teeth, casting an unnoticed glance along the ranks. The guards stood firm, but he caught subtle details - too many glances toward the yurt, fingers gripping hilts too tightly. They were ready, but the Horde's silence today felt tense. Like the calm before a storm.

- Look, Sargul, your riders are sharpening their swords again. Do they fear the first gust of wind will blunt them? - he remarked quietly.

Sargul-Tengiz, Uru-Bek, commander of two hundred horsemen, sat on the ground, dusting his knife blade with sand. He did not answer at once, merely flipped the blade in his palm, as if weighing not the metal, but the blood soon to be spilled upon it.

- A sharp knife does not need a second strike if it hits true, - he finally said, turning the blade again. - But honor... it dulls before the first

Targul smirked, but something flickered in his gaze. They both knew honor was fickle. Today, you swear an oath. Tomorrow, you are cut down. The day after, your warriors swear to a new khan, wiping their swords clean on your dead body.

- You speak like a shaman who's lost his drum, - Targul chuckled, crossing his arms. - Yesterday, you stood beside him. Today, you stand a little apart. Tomorrow, will you step back entirely?

Sargul ran his palm along the blade, brushing off the dust.

- Yesterday, I stood beside the victor. Today, I watch to see if he remains one tomorrow

Targul frowned but did not respond immediately. Sargul held his gaze.

- Loyalty is not tested in oaths, but in blood, - he said quietly. - And that test is yet to come

A little farther away, leaning on a spear, stood Baichora-Buri, the Blood Executioner of the Horde. His 250 horsemen did not speak, did not argue - only the sharp whisper of whetstones against steel filled the air, dry and shrill, like a distant death rattle.

They were not merely guards - they were the shadow of his wrath. And each man knew that Baichora kept only warriors who could kill. Their faces were unreadable, but the air around them was tense, thick with the scent of blood before battle.

- Baichora, your men lick their lips more than raiders before dividing the spoils, - Sargul noted, shaking the dust from his knife. - Are they waiting for a feast, or do you already know who'll be thrown into the pot first?

- I don't eat carrion, - Baichora replied lazily. - Only fresh meat. And only what I kill myself

Sargul flipped the blade in his hand and smirked.

- You speak as if you already know who will be first

- I know that the steppe does not tolerate the weak, - Baichora said evenly. - And who is fated to fall… will not be decided by the khan alone

He tilted his head slightly, gazing at the distant tents where not all had yet decided whether to accept their new ruler.

- Yesterday, blood was spilled by those who sought to claim the khan's saddle. Today, it will be the blood of those who refuse to kneel. Or perhaps… those who pretend to kneel, - he murmured.

On the edge of the shadows, Sagai-Oglan, the Crooked Wolf, shifted lazily from foot to foot. He squinted, as if the sun stung his eyes, but he was not looking at the sky - his gaze was fixed on Baichora and Sargul. There was no fear in his eyes - only curiosity. The kind a beast has when sizing up another pack, deciding whether to join or tear out a throat.

- Like dogs before a fight, - he muttered, cracking his neck as if preparing for a brawl.

- You mean us, or yourself? - Baichora didn't even turn his head.

Sagai-Oglan smirked slightly - slowly, as if tasting his own words. There was no humor in that smile, only something else: a hint of challenge, or perhaps anticipation. He tilted his head slightly, like a wolf debating whether to step forward or wait.

- I am no crow, waiting for the steppe to deliver me the dead. I am no jackal, whining at another's fire. I am a wolf. And I know when the master of the meat begins to smell like blood himself

Sargul cast him a brief glance.

- You've always been too blunt, Sagai

- And you've always been too cautious. But who lives longer - the one who runs first, or the one who never takes an extra step?

- The one who calculates his steps

They fell silent, but the silence was not empty.

Sargul lazily ran his finger along the blade, as if testing its sharpness. Baichora tilted his head slightly, as if listening to foreign thoughts. And Sagai… Sagai simply watched. For a long time. Too long. Then he let out a hoarse laugh.

This time, no one joined him.

The silence fell between them, like the shadow of a raised blade. Their old game had no rules. Only stakes. And today, someone would inevitably lose. The silence did not last long.

The warriors moved again, like the steppe wind shifting direction. Someone pulled on the reins, someone tightened their grip on their saber, and someone only now realized that the night had ended, and something new had begun.

And beyond the thin walls of the yurt, another ritual had begun.

Tukal slowly exhaled, feeling the weight of the morning. The night had seeped into his body - not only through the heat of the women but through the knowledge that this had been the final trial before power. He shifted his gaze to the Bunchuk.

That symbol of the khans stood in his yurt now, among the armor and weapons. But yesterday, it had not been there.

A memory flashed sharply - the cold of the morning air, the first rays of the sun, the slow rhythm of his heart before battle.

Yesterday morning, the steppe had accepted the blood of his brothers.

The early sun had not yet reached its zenith, but already it scorched the sand, drying the moisture. Blood on the arena darkened, hardening under the morning heat.

Tukal, standing over the fallen bodies, knew that his victory was not a matter of strength, nor luck. It was the law of the steppe, as ancient as the earth itself.

Five against one.

They had thought such numbers would crush him. But the steppe chooses the strongest.

In the Horde, duels were always fought one-on-one. But this had not been a duel. It had been a judgment.

Five blades. Five enemies. Five fates. But the spirits had chosen only one.

And he remained standing.

When the last sword cut through the air, when the final breath escaped dying lips, the steppe itself seemed to hold still. Horses stopped tossing their heads, as if they, too, waited to see who would exhale first after the carnage.

A single moment - and then the first strike of a sword against a shield rang out, like a raindrop before a storm. The second. The third. And then thunder rolled over the arena - the roar of voices, the clash of steel, the pounding of hooves kicking up dust.

Someone shouted:

- Tukal!

And the name was carried across the Horde like a battle cry.

Young riders galloped along the edge of the arena, raising their spears high.

Women standing by their tents sang songs laced with sorrow. Some threw embroidered scarves - a symbol of submission - while others pressed their lips together in silence, gazing at Tukal.

- Too bloody a khan, - someone whispered.

- Strong as the ancestors! - another voice overpowered it.

The elders exchanged glances. A murmur passed among them, but none spoke aloud.

- This day will be remembered in the steppe! - a warrior shouted.

- Tukal will lead us to conquest! - the young riders echoed.

The crowd roared again.

And yet, one man still had not spoken.

Kara-Buran, the old khan, sat on the raised platform by the arena.

He had watched it all unfold. Had seen the blood soaking into the sand. Had heard the breath of the Horde blending with the wind. Had witnessed his son standing alone - while his brothers would never rise again.

This moment marked the end of one era and the beginning of another.

The crowd fell silent.

Those who had just been shouting Tukal's name suddenly stopped, as if their throats had tightened.

Even the wind, which had been sweeping over the arena, stilled for an instant, as if it, too, was waiting.

Khan Kara-Buran did not leap to his feet, did not rush forward - he rose slowly, but with weight, like an old beast that had lain in the sun too long but still remembered how to tear flesh.

His fingers curled; his knuckles cracked slightly as he gripped the hilt of the dagger at his belt - but he did not draw it.

He stood, as if allowing the earth to recognize his new weight, and then he stepped forward.

He moved unhurriedly but inexorably, like a river eroding a shore.

There was a heaviness in his stride, like the blows of a hammer not forged by men, but by the steppe itself. That rhythm did not just command those around him - it made them witnesses to the inevitable.

Tukal did not move.

He stood as a stone in the steppe stands before a storm - neither bowing his head nor stepping forward, but also not stepping back.

Kara-Buran descended, and that step shattered the silence. The warriors parted, giving way, but not with their backs - they stepped aside, continuing to watch. People held their breath, their gazes lowered. Even the horses stood still, sensing that something greater than just a transfer of power was being decided.

The batyrs bowed their heads, the elders turned away, and those who, just a moment ago, had been shouting the new khan's name suddenly fell silent, as if the air had grown too thick for words.

He passed through the ranks of the Horde, looking at no one. Only at the one who remained standing.

The sand of the arena was soaked in blood. In pools of crimson filth, boots stuck, arrows jutted out like remnants of a failed future. Abandoned swords gleamed in the dust like forgotten oaths. The wind swayed the broken shafts of spears, as if the steppe itself were trying to read the signs left by the fallen.

And now, everyone was looking only at him.

He stepped forward, and the steppe seemed to hold its breath. His fingers slid to his buckle, and with one confident motion, he unfastened his belt. The ancient, darkened leather slipped from his hips, and the belt fell, striking the ground with a dull, heavy sound.

The sand trembled, as if absorbing its weight. That sound was not just the fall of an object. It was the seal of fate.

- Pick it up. If you know how to bear it

Tukal took a step forward and leaned down.

A pause.

- No. - Kara-Buran's voice was quiet, but that only made it heavier. - Not with your hand

Tukal understood what had to be done.

A thing can be lifted with hands. But power - it is not the weight of metal that makes it heavy. It is the weight of those who bow beneath it.

He froze, eyeing the belt lying on the ground, like a predator assessing its prey. Slowly, he lifted the toe of his boot, hooked the edge of the darkened leather, and jerked it upward.

The silver buckles flashed in the sunlight, like a wolf's eyes before a strike. The belt soared, tearing free from the dust, the ancient leather snapping through the air with a dry crack. For a moment, it seemed as if it sought his hand of its own will, like a blade that recognizes its master.

Tukal caught it effortlessly, without hesitation, and fastened it around his waist, securing not only the buckle but the right that no one could challenge now.

At first - silence, like before a storm.

Then a strike - heavy, thunderous, as if lightning had torn through the sky. Then another. And another. Steel rang, hearts thundered in unison with the blows. The roar of the Horde surged like flame, carrying a single name:

- Tukal!

His name rolled over the crowd, rising above the dust, above the very sky.

A few men stood apart, not chanting Tukal's name. They said nothing, but their eyes… their eyes remembered.

Before the roar of the Horde had fully faded, a rider emerged from the khan's tents. His horse moved steadily, unhurriedly, but no one in the crowd dared step in his path.

In his hands was the staff of the Bunchuk - not just a banner, but a symbol of power, passed from khan to khan.

He approached, halted at the edge of the arena, and dismounted without a word.

This was no ordinary warrior.

This was Kara-Buran's standard-bearer - the one who had carried the Bunchuk at the head of the army for years, who had held it high in battle so the Horde knew whom to follow. Now, his hand no longer had the right to touch the staff.

The standard-bearer stopped before Kara-Buran without speaking. His hand, gripping the staff, did not tremble, but in his gaze lingered the last shadow of loyalty.

Kara-Buran slowly reached out, but did not immediately grasp the staff. His fingers brushed over the darkened wood, as if reading the memories it held. And then, without hesitation, he took it.

Only now did he step toward Tukal.

The black staff, marked by time, was smooth where thousands of hands had gripped it and rough where it had been weathered by the winds of the steppe. The horsehair tassel at its peak trembled, as if it still remembered how banners had once fluttered when the Horde rode to war.

He held it not as an object - but as a destiny.

- The belt gives you the right. But this gives you power. Take it. Now, this is your standard

Tukal did not rush. He raised his eyes - his father's gaze held no doubt, only the relentless march of the steppe.

Tukal did not immediately reach out his hand.

He looked at the Bunchuk, but he saw in it not just a staff, but woven fates - the footsteps of thousands of warriors who had carried it before him. He saw how this symbol of power had swayed in the dust of great conquests, heard how its name had been shouted by those who followed the previous khan - and by those who had perished after turning away from him.

He knew that if his fingers trembled, the Horde would remember.

He extended his hand, and the staff was cold as morning frost, heavy as the footsteps of his ancestors.

When his palm closed around it, he felt as if he were not holding wood, but the very blood of the steppe, its battles, its conquests. The Bunchuk trembled, the horsehair whip lashing the air, as if it, too, knew - it now belonged to Tukal.

The air froze. Even the fires seemed to stop flickering. No one moved, no one breathed. Only the breath of hundreds of men mingled with the wind. Everyone watched - would his fingers falter, would his grip waver? But he held the staff as if it had always been his. And then the tension snapped, like a bowstring releasing an arrow.

Someone from deep within the Horde cried out:

- Tukal! Khan! - the voice, hoarse like a battle cry, shattered the silence.

In the same instant, the cry was taken up by hundreds, and the roar of the Horde surged over the steppe, like a storm breaking free from its chains.

The shaman stepped forward. His shadow swayed in the glow of the fire, stretching long, as if the very air bowed before the new khan. Without the blessing of the spirits, even the strongest man was merely a man.

- The spirits of the ancestors have accepted the new khan!

The shaman stepped closer. His eyes, darkened in the flickering flames, did not look at Tukal's face, but deep into him - as if he saw not just a man, but the path he was destined to walk. He bent slowly, lifted a bowl of blood, and in that instant, the fire cracked, sending a crimson tongue of flame into the sky.

His fingers sank into the thick, warm liquid, and he drew a bloody line on Tukal's forehead. At that very moment, the air seemed to thicken, becoming heavy, as if the steppe itself had held its breath. The warriors, even those who did not believe in spirits, felt that this was not just a ritual. This was recognition. Not by people. Not by the elders. But by the steppe itself.

- Now you are not just a khan. Now the Steppe will not walk ahead of you - it will walk behind you. Now your voice is the voice of the wind that lifts the dust beneath the hooves. Now you are Will and Storm

Kara-Buran nodded. Now he could speak.

- Five sons were scorched by the sun, but only one remained standing. Five voices cried out for power, but the steppe heard only one. They are carrion, and you are the storm. And now the Horde is yours

He said it without solemnity. Like a law that could not be disputed.

The elders held on for a moment longer, as if clinging to the past. But then one - gray-haired, with wrinkles crossing his face like the traces of past storms - slowly bowed his head. Another followed. And then all of them. One by one, like waves obeying the wind, they accepted Tukal.

Now no one argued.

But he could not yet rule. The passing of the belt and the banner signified recognition of his strength, but not the final acceptance of his power.

Only when the sun set beyond the steppe and the evening ritual of summoning the spirits began, when the shamans made their sacrifices and the Great Ancestor spoke through the smoke of the fires - only then would he truly become khan. For now, he was merely a warrior who had won a victory, but not yet the one before whom the steppe itself would bow.

By nightfall, the Horde had gathered at the sacred fire. During the day, the steppe had roared with cries, swords had clashed, the wind had carried the dust of battle. Now everything was different.

The warriors were silent, not crossing their arms, not shifting their stance - as if the very earth demanded stillness from them. The women stood behind, wrapped in heavy fabrics, but the night was already creeping in with its cold. Some pulled their cloaks tighter, drew their hoods over their heads. Even the warriors occasionally moved their shoulders imperceptibly, as if the steppe wind had found its way beneath their chainmail.

Clouds of breath escaped from their mouths. In the firelight, they resembled souls leaving bodies. Some pressed them to their lips - not as a prayer, not out of fear, but as a sign of luck or farewell. Even the horses in the herds had ceased tossing their heads, as if they, too, felt that this night did not tolerate unnecessary sounds.

In the center, before the great fire, stood Tukal. Before him, on the ground, lay the symbols of power: the Bunchuk with its darkened shaft, a belt with silver buckles, the iron helmet of his lineage. They lay in the dust, as if they had yet to choose to whom they belonged.

Kara-Buran stood beside him, unmoving, not looking around. He was no longer khan. Tonight, he was merely the one who was giving away what he had once taken.

The shamans surrounded the fire. Their shadows wavered on the sand, stretching into long, indistinct figures. Dark stains marked their skin - symbols drawn in blood, fat, and ash. Some held dried branches, others - bones ground into powder.

The eldest shaman raised his hands. The wind stirred his gray braids, and his face, etched with wrinkles, flared in the fire's glow.

- Tonight the steppe watches, - his voice was hoarse, old, like the earth itself. - Tonight the spirits rise

He slowly ran his hand along the shaft of the Banner, touching it with his fingers as if feeling the fabric of time. His lips moved, but his words were not meant for the living.

A second shaman lifted a bowl of blood.

- Without blood, there is no path. Without spirit, there is no power

He dipped his hand into the bowl, soaked a tuft of sheep's wool in the thick, warm liquid. Then he brought it to the fire, and as the flame touched the blood, smoke curled upward, mixing with the night air.

The shaman watched the wool burn, then murmured:

- The spirits will accept if the scent reaches them

The fire cracked, sending a shower of sparks into the sky, and the wind, as if responding, bent the flames toward Tukal.

The tambourine struck once. A second time. A third. The sound was heavy, slow, like the heartbeat of the steppe itself.

Temirkhan-Kulan, the shaman standing in the fire's shadow, did not move.

- The night speaks, - he suddenly whispered.

Someone nearby shuddered.

- The wind circles. The spirits do not sleep. They await a sign

Tukal turned to him, but the shaman was already staring into the fire, seeing no one.

- The wind moves in a circle, - he repeated, but his voice was quieter now, as if he spoke not to people but to those unseen.

A fourth shaman stepped forward, holding a bowl of blood. It had not been spilled in battle but in ritual - this was the blood of a sacrificial ram, mixed with the ash of the sacred fire.

The shaman raised a knife, ran the blade along Tukal's forearm - not deep, but just enough for his blood to mix with the blood of the sacrifice. Drops trickled into the bowl, merging, intertwining into one.

Then he dipped his fingers, sprinkled the shaft of the Bunchuk, and ran his palm along it, smearing the blood into the wood, pressing the power of the offering into it.

The blood did not merely trickle - it was absorbed into the shaft, like the steppe drinking rain, sealing the khan's bond with the spirits and his right to bear the banner of power.

When the shaman raised his hand, giving Tukal the sign, the fire blazed brighter, and the wind tore at the edges of their robes, as if the spirits had accepted the offering.

- Spirits of the ancestors, behold! - he said quietly.

Tukal knew what was to come. He extended his hand, and as his fingers closed around the bowl, the metal burned with cold, as if drawing in the warmth of the living. He hesitated only for a moment, feeling the weight of the ritual, then dipped two fingers into the thick, dark blood.

Slowly, with the precision of a warrior accustomed to feeling a blade on his skin, he drew a line across his forehead.

The blood lay in a hot streak, mingling with sweat. In that moment, the air seemed to thicken, grow denser, more tense. The silence around them took on a palpable weight - as if the steppe itself had held its breath.

And then the fire flared brighter, as if peering into Tukal's face. The wind broke loose, surging in a gust that sent sand swirling into the air and set the edges of cloaks fluttering. Someone in the crowd gasped, feeling for the first time that something greater than just a ritual was unfolding.

But this was only the first sign.

The shamans raised their hands, and then the steppe truly responded. The wind struck with new force, tongues of flame leapt higher, shaping silhouettes in the darkness - shadows resembling ancient ancestors watching the ritual.

Now their voices sounded in the roar of the fire, mingling with the crackling flames, and in the flickering light, shadows took form - faceless, ancient, as if the very spirits of the steppe had bowed to scrutinize Tukal.

- The spirits have accepted the blood! - declared the eldest shaman. - The steppe sees! The Horde hears! The khan rises!

The crowd, as one, fell to their knees. But not immediately.

The seconds stretched like a drawn bowstring. The elders, the Batyrs, the leaders of the clans did not rush to bow - their eyes darted about, searching the fire for signs of fate. The wind blew harder, tugging at the edges of their robes, as if urging them toward a decision.

And the first to bow his head was Elder Aibars-Kutaga, followed by Batyr Baga-Buki. One by one, like stones falling into a river, they acknowledged the new khan.

Somewhere in the back, a voice whispered:

- The spirits have accepted… - but it quickly faded, swallowed by the crackling fire.

Elder Subash-Kutlug of the Tengriut clan was the one who did not rush to bow before the new khan. He was the keeper of ancient laws, a man who believed that khans came and went, but the traditions of the steppe were eternal.

His lips pressed tightly together, his gaze never leaving Tukal. Only when the last warrior lowered his head did he slowly, as if with great effort, do the same. But in his movement, there was no submission - only cold necessity.

When the last elder finally inclined his head, silence fell over the Horde.

The crowd did not move, did not breathe, as if the steppe itself was waiting for a sign.

Tukal stepped forward, and the world seemed to contract into a single moment, a single motion. Everything that had come before - the battles, the blood, the cries - now felt distant, almost insignificant. He reached for the Bunchuk.

And then he felt them.

Not the crowd, not the elders - but those who stood behind him, unseen yet real. All who had ruled the Horde before him. All who had fought, died, and left this world, passing power to another. They did not speak, but their gazes weighed upon him heavier than chainmail, stronger than the wind on the blackest nights.

Was he the one choosing the Bunchuk? Or was he, in this moment, being judged, measured, tested for the right to touch the shaft?

For a moment, his fingers hesitated. Not from fear - but from understanding.

But his fingers closed around the shaft with the same inevitability as a river following its course.

A single heartbeat - and from the depths of the Horde, a voice rang out:

- Tukal! Khan!

The voice cut through the tension like an arrow. And then, like a storm, the roar erupted. The Horde thundered like a tempest, a surge of voices crashing into the night sky.

The fire leapt high, as if the very air acknowledged the new order. The wind howled, sweeping dust from the earth, and for a moment, it seemed even the shadows of the ancestors bowed to this choice.

Now he was not just a khan.

He had become the spirit of the steppe. The shadow of the ancestors, the voice that would lead the Horde through war, blood, and conquest.

But in the Horde, power is not a gift but a blade that cuts the one who grows weak. He had taken what was his, but the steppe does not tolerate stagnant victories - it demands that its master be tested again and again.

Yesterday, he was recognized by the spirits and the people, but today he would once more be tested by iron, blood, and the merciless wind.

Tukal-Bey rose, shaking off the remnants of fur from his shoulders as one sheds an old skin. The past night lived in the ashes of the fires, in the echo of voices, in the blood that was now nothing more than dark stains on the steppe earth.

He cast one more glance at his wives - women nothing like those from his past world.

Modern women often believed that power lay in words, in appearances, in how they were perceived by others. Here, however, power flowed in the blood, was felt in every movement, in every gaze. These women did not try to seem strong - they simply were.

Aybike - born in the steppe, raised in the traditions of a lineage where honor was valued above life. She did not play at independence - she breathed it. In the world of the future, such women would be called cold, unapproachable. But in the Horde, this was not a mask but a natural state.

Altyn-Tu - the daughter of a batyr, in whose veins ran the blood of riders. Her beauty was not delicate, but she possessed something that could not be bought - natural grace, strength, a body accustomed to the saddle and battle. Modern girls knew how to make themselves desirable, but she was desirable by nature, without pretense.

Tumar - a girl whose beauty did not shout but commanded attention. In the future, she would be called dangerous because she never revealed her true intentions. Her smile always held more than it seemed, and in her voice lay a hint of power.

These three were not just his wives. They did not pretend to be unattainable, but neither did they submit blindly. They could not be bought, conquered with words, or deceived by illusions. They accepted strength because they themselves were part of this world, where rule belonged not to those who spoke but to those who were heard.

Tukal held his gaze on them briefly, as if imprinting them in his memory, then turned toward the exit.

Beyond the thin walls of the yurt, dawn was already rising. It brought with it not just a new day but the first step on a path from which there was no turning back. Power was neither a reward nor a gift. It was a yoke that pressed upon the shoulders - and could only be removed along with one's head.

But fate had given him an advantage.

He possessed something no one else in this world had - knowledge of the future.

But that did not make him a ruler.

He did not know how to change this world. He did not know how to make cities function without constant oversight. How to govern subjects as precisely as formations of warriors. How to turn fragmented lands into a mechanism that moved on its own. How to read chronicles, understand the intrigues of noble houses, forge alliances that outlived the rulers themselves.

But he remembered the steppe. He knew how power was held here. How khans ruled not only with the sword but with words. How tribute was collected, how authority shifted from one clan to another, which laws kept the Horde from falling apart.

Yet even with this knowledge - even with the memory of one who had grown up among nomadic chieftains - he did not know how to apply the technologies and methods of the future to reshape this world.

But he knew something else.

His grandfather spoke of the Great Khans, of their conquests, and how they turned strength into order. How power was upheld not only by the sword but by what followed in its wake. He spoke of ruling not by years but by generations. Of creating not just an empire but a system that outlived its creators.

His grandfather loved to repeat the same words:

- The sword is swift, but trade is eternal. You can take gold by force, but if you want it to flow to you on its own, think not of the spoils, but of the path they travel

Tukal listened. He remembered how the greatest khans wielded gold as skillfully as armies. He knew that salt was more valuable than silver where it was scarce, that wine could be traded for furs, and that fine steel was worth more than ten horses.

He knew that khans did not merely take - they directed wealth, turning tribute into power. They did not hoard gold in chests but set it in motion: acquiring the finest blacksmiths, hiring the most seasoned warriors, filling their stables with thousands of foreign horses.

But all of this worked only when no one dared to say "no" to the khan.

To control wealth, one needed strength. But for power to outlast the blade in one's hand - strength alone was not enough.

He had seen how it worked in the Horde. Power rested with those who could seize it, but it rarely outlived those who wielded it. Today you were khan - tomorrow you were a corpse, and your enemies feasted at your table.

But power that relied on a single man was not power - it was luck. And the wind of history did not remember the lucky. It only left behind those who built something greater than themselves.

The sword grants a throne, but it does not make it yours. One day is a victory. One year is a struggle. One lifetime is too short if, after you, nothing remains but ashes and bones.

Power that lives through one man is already dead the day he falls from his horse.

A conqueror may subjugate the steppe, but if his rule rests only on the edge of a sword, it will fall the moment the blade grows dull.

Empires are not born from slaughter. They are forged through laws, order, and the gold that flows along trade routes. They are upheld not only by riders but by cities - not ruined, but made to serve.

Genghis Khan built an empire, but not with blood and swords alone. He gave the Yassa - a code of laws that bound not only people but the steppe itself. Without it, the Mongols would have remained nothing more than a band of riders, not a people before whom the world bowed.

He did not merely conquer - he built. Under his rule, ancient tribes became a single whole, and the path of war became more than just plunder; it became an order embedded into the conquered lands.

But laws had to outlive the khan himself. Without them, a state stood like a yurt without poles - seemingly intact, but empty within.

Gold left unused turned warriors into mere raiders. Trade routes emptied when merchants no longer felt safe. Each new khan, instead of ruling, had to start from nothing - gathering the Horde, spilling blood, reforging order that crumbled with the last strike of his predecessor's sword.

He could not repeat their mistakes.

The Mongols had conquered half the world, but their state did not collapse overnight. They wove themselves into cities, into roads, into laws. Ögedei, the son of Genghis Khan, did not only wage war - he built. He developed the postal system, established trade routes, appointed advisors from the conquered peoples.

Under him, Mongol rule became a system, not just military plunder. His reign proved that an empire could be upheld not only by sabers but by administrators - not only by fear but by order.

But the khans who followed him forgot that power was more than strength. They tore the empire apart with wars against each other, not their enemies. The once-unified uluses scattered like pieces of armor falling apart. Conquests continued, but the Horde was losing not cities, but the connections between them.

Those who knew how to rule still managed to hold their lands. The great Golden Horde did not fall immediately - its throne endured for generations. The Mongols became not just conquerors but masters of these lands.

They supported local elites, appointed officials, collected taxes. They did not only take - they governed. The great Mughals ruled India for centuries. Even when the Horde's grip on Rus' weakened, its legacy lived on in laws, in tax collection, in the very structure of states.

But when the strong hand weakened, everything crumbled.

Tukal knew that power built only on fear was like a horse that obeyed as long as it felt steel in its teeth. But the moment the rider's grip slackened, it would throw him to the ground.

He could not repeat that mistake.

He needed a power that would not vanish with his death.

Not just conquest - order.

Where other khans were content with raids and plunder, he saw a mechanism. He did not merely want to squeeze the steppe in his fist - he wanted that fist to remain clenched even after him. He had no intention of being just another khan whose name would be washed away by time.

And in this, there was no doubt.

Because he was not just Tukal.

The memory of another world flowed through his veins, seeping into his blood like water into the dry steppe. Timur had died, but he had not disappeared. They did not battle for dominance within his mind - they had merged.

Timur knew that even the strongest khan was not eternal. That a Horde living only by war would die when there was nothing left to plunder. Tukal knew what power was. He felt it like a drawn bowstring, like the steel of a sword in his grip.

Now that knowledge had become one.

What had been instinct for Tukal was calculation for Timur. What Timur saw as history, Tukal saw as the present. They complemented each other until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Now, they were one.

And this was not merely a dream of a great state - it was the first step toward understanding how to hold power. He did not yet have all the answers, but he already saw further than the others.

To those around him, he remained the same ruthless and predatory khan, but within him, a new logic was taking shape: not just to conquer, but to secure what had been conquered. Not just to rule, but to build an order that would outlive him.

He did not merely crave greatness.

He knew how to achieve it.

He remembered his grandfather again - the only one who believed not only in the power of the sword but in the power of blood.

- The blood of Genghis flows in our veins, - the old man would say, tossing dry grass into the fire. - But he himself was not blood - he was a storm. It cannot be inherited - it must be raised anew

His grandfather could speak for hours - not of legends, not of heroic feats, but of the decisions that made Genghis Khan the ruler of the world. Of the Yassa, which bound the empire tighter than chains. Of the decimal system of the "Tumens," which turned the Horde into a mechanism where everyone knew their place. Of the postal stations, the "Yam," which connected the conquered lands more securely than any wall.

But it was not only Genghis Khan who built empires.

Timur listened as his grandfather, half-closing his eyes, spoke of the rulers who came after.

- Batu could have simply burned Rus, - he said. - But why cut down a tree when you can make it bear fruit? The Rus' princes gathered tribute themselves, assembled troops themselves, fed the Horde themselves. They fought for the khan's favor, quarreled, bowed, brought gifts. The Horde did not even rule them - they ruled themselves in its interests

- And Ögedei? He knew that a steppe warrior could not sit on a throne in a stone city. So he gave power over paper to those who knew how to use it. The Chinese, the Persians, the Uighurs - they wrote the laws that brought gold to the Horde. He did not allow his state to live by war alone. He turned it into a mechanism that fed itself

- And Möngke? - Timur only frowned then, not understanding why any of this mattered.

- Möngke knew that a single sword could not hold the throne. So he wove the threads of power instead of tearing them. His wars did not only conquer - they married noble daughters. He raised some princes and cast down others. The world is ruled not by blades but by those who know how to wield them

- Conquering is easy, - his grandfather said. - Holding is harder

But laws alone were not enough. Power could not rely only on those who wrote decrees - it depended on those who shed blood for it.

- Timur-Leng did not simply win - he broke his enemies until they fought for him. If a city resisted, he built towers of skulls from its people. If it surrendered, its warriors joined his army. Because they knew: there was no other road left for them

- Bayezid was the first to create an army that served not a clan but him alone. His soldiers lived by his will. Their families depended on his pay. They could not betray him - because without him, they were nothing

His grandfather sighed, tossing dry branches into the fire.

- Conquests mean nothing if tomorrow you have no strength left to defend them. You need more. You need to rule

And he continued. About the Mamluks - warriors without lineage, who served only the sultan. About the Ottomans, who took the children of their enemies and turned them into soldiers who knew no other life. About the Chinese, who built a state where the throne depended on officials, and the officials on the throne - so that if one fell, the system endured.

- They were all different, but they all had one thing in common: an order that outlived them

When his grandfather spoke, Timur usually remained silent. Sometimes, he wanted to interrupt, to say that the world had changed, that power was held differently now. But each time, he stopped himself.

He frowned when he heard about Batu - could he really have made his enemies gather tribute for him?

He winced when Möngke was mentioned - how could one trust those who were enemies just yesterday?

But when his grandfather spoke of Timur-Leng, of cities that surrendered before the battle even began, of armies that fought for the one who had broken them - he caught himself listening differently. Not as a skeptic, but as a student. And yet, he still had one question.

 - What does it matter how they fought centuries ago?

But now, he stood where they once stood.

The first day. The first step, after which there would be no turning back.

Power was not just an honor, not just an opportunity - it was a burden that no one could carry forever.

He saw that the sword could conquer the steppe, but it could not hold it. That power was not only fear but also an order that would become invisible chains binding all who lived under his rule. That gold did not only buy - it bound. That rules could subjugate no worse than the whip.

He was not yet the one before whom men bowed without hesitation. He was not yet a name that was spoken not as a command, but as law itself.

But the day had already begun.

And from this step, there was only one road - forward.

He did not seek to hold the throne.

He sought to make it so that his name was not spoken - but obeyed.

So that in every law, in every movement of the steppe, his will lived.

So that when the wind roamed over the Horde, it did not carry his name.

It exhaled it - as inevitability.

***

I apologize for the delay. The situation in Odesa is difficult right now - problems with electricity, water, and many other things, especially in my area, where the damage is severe. Because of this, I won't be able to work on the chapters at the same pace as before. I hope for your understanding.

If you want to refresh your memory about the events surrounding Tukal, reread Chapter 12. Sometimes I go back to the earlier chapters myself - not just to avoid repetition, but to see how everything weaves together into a single story.

And at the same time, I notice how my own style has changed. The path I've taken - from the first lines to the current chapters. This chapter turned out huge - 10,000+ words.

Thank you to everyone who reads. If you have thoughts, impressions - leave comments. They help me a lot. When I work on a chapter, I reread it dozens of times, edit, improve - and eventually, I stop perceiving the text objectively.

I constantly think: It can't be perfect, I must have missed something. Even when everything is polished, the feeling that there's an error somewhere doesn't go away. Sometimes I don't have the strength to reread it again, sometimes my head buzzes from the strain. So if you notice anything that could be improved - don't hesitate to write.

As you've probably realized, Tukal-Bey is the second main character. He follows in the footsteps of Genghis Khan and other great nomadic warlords. But he doesn't have a mystical book containing all the knowledge needed to transform the Middle Ages like Alexander does.

But he has something else.

His inner code, his spirit, his unyielding nature, his wildness, his ability to adapt - all of this, combined with his grandfather's stories and his understanding of the path of Genghis Khan and other great khans, will lead him to forge his own road.

The road that will elevate him above all others has already opened before him, but don't expect it to be straight or predictable.

Tukal will have to walk it not as one who follows the greats, but as one who carves the path himself. He knew how empires were built, how rulers wielded power and won wars - but knowledge is only a shadow of real, practical experience.

His Horde was not just one among many. It was among the strongest Kipchak Hordes - formidable, hardened by campaigns, accustomed not to waiting for fortune but to seizing it by force. In the steppe, leaders came and went, but men like him were never forgotten.

It was now the year 1054. A time when the Kipchaks were pushing back the Pechenegs, when the lands of Rus' had yet to realize that one day they would bow before the Hordes, when the Steppe was boiling in a hidden struggle. And among all the clans and tribes, among all the warriors and elders, his Horde had already become the force that shaped destinies.

But even the strongest fell if their power rested only on steel. And Tukal knew - if he wanted to rule not for a year, but for a generation, his name had to become not just a storm, but law itself.