Sword, Banner, Horse

While Alexander was rallying loyal senior boyars to his side and ensuring readiness for the coronation, Tukal, on his first day, had to either subjugate or destroy all those who refused to recognize his power.

The law of the steppe knew no mercy: submit or die.

In the lands of Rus', a prince became a ruler because he was born into the right family. In Byzantium and the Holy Roman Empire, power was granted by a crown - a gleaming diadem consecrated by the church.

But in the steppe, there was no right of blood - only the right of strength.

The one who could hold the Horde together became its master.

Yet strength was never just in one man. To rule, a khan had to be recognized not only by the people but also by the noble clans - those whose blood traced back to ancient ancestors, whose names echoed in councils, whose horses were the first to charge into battle.

If a future khan was weak, he was removed. If a warrior was strong, he could seize power even if he did not belong to the ruler's house. But personal strength alone was not enough - the Horde could not simply be broken; it could only be made to follow.

For that, one needed not only a saber but also the support of those who held the fate of the steppe in their hands - the nobility, the batyrs, the elders, and the commanders of the detachments. They could bow before the new khan, or they could drive a blade into his back.

A khan became a khan not because he was recognized, but because no one dared to challenge him.

Today, the steppe had not yet decided whose voice would echo in its winds - his or those who believed that power should remain with the old clans.

Tukal-Bey was already standing, feeling the cold morning air seep through the gaps in the felt walls. Today, he was not just stepping out to his warriors - today, the steppe would truly recognize him.

He dressed himself. A khan who could not don his own armor was unworthy of either a sword or power.

First - a thin linen shirt, simple but sturdy, to keep the heavy armor from chafing his skin. Over it, he wore not a lamellar cuirass, but a chainmail coat crafted in steppe fashion - flexible, lightweight, reaching his knees, with loose sleeves so as not to hinder movement in battle. Over that - a battle tunic of thick leather, stitched with metal plates hidden inside - a protection that did not restrict movement in the saddle and could withstand saber blows.

A woolen kaftan, restrained in ornamentation but deliberately expensive, covered his shoulders and chest. Over it lay a fur cloak of wolf pelt - not just a shield against the wind, but a symbol understood by all. In the steppe, they said: if a khan wears wolf fur, the spirit of the beast guides him on the path to power.

His khan's belt completed the image - a wide band of tanned leather adorned with silver plates engraved with ancient symbols of his horde. This belt did more than just fasten his clothing - it bore the weight of weapons and the very destiny of the Horde. Its leather, darkened by time, carried the marks of long journeys, while the silver reflected not only the light but also the history of those who had worn it before.

On the belt hung a curved saber - not a "kılıç," but a blade like those wielded by the nomads of the Western steppe. Narrow, with a slight curve, perfectly balanced for a slashing strike from the saddle. The hilt was wrapped in rawhide, and the guard was simple, unadorned, but burned with symbols known only to his people. This was a sword not for display but for war.

Beside it rested a short dagger - plain, without excessive decoration, but heavy with a sense of power. The hilt was made of smoothly polished bone, warm to the touch. There was no doubt - it knew whom to protect, for it had been consecrated by a shaman before battle.

On the straps of the belt glistened amulets made of eagle claws and wolf teeth. To outsiders, they were mere ornaments; to those who understood steppe customs, they were a sign that this khan had risen above those who had taught him since childhood.

He sat down, pulling on leather boots with upturned toes - soft for comfort in the saddle, but sturdy enough to withstand a long journey. No buckles, no unnecessary metal - only strong ties that could be undone in a single motion if he had to cross a river by swimming or race faster than the wind.

Smoothing the edges of his boots, he ran his hand over his khan's belt, feeling the cool metal of the silver plates beneath his fingers. This belt had been worn by khans before him. Now, it completed the circle.

Above, at the other end of the yurt, lay the final symbol of his power.

Tukal stepped forward, reached out his hand - and the standard staff settled into his palm, heavy, predatory, infused not only with metal and wood but with blood.

He knew that every horde had its own symbol of power. Some flew banners over their camps, others topped their poles with silver spearheads, and some used the hides of beasts taken in battle instead of standards.

From his grandfather's stories, Timur remembered that in the eleventh century, there was no single sign for the steppe - each horde kept its own. But his warriors had always followed horse tails woven into bronze rings. They called it the Bunchuk.

For now, it was only theirs. But "for now" did not mean forever.

If he subdued the entire steppe, the Bunchuk would rise not just over his warriors, but over all the nomads. Then this standard would become not just the symbol of one Horde, but the banner before which all tribes would bow.

Much earlier than history had demanded.

For a moment, he hesitated. He looked at his hands - sinewy, marked with thin scars, accustomed to holding weapons. These hands now held not just a sword, but the fate of the entire Horde.

Tukal did not rush. He stood, feeling the weight of his weapons and armor pressing down on his shoulders, as if the steppe itself were testing his strength. The belt pulled downward - not just with the weight of metal, but with the burden of expectation.

He drew in a breath - cold, steeped in the dampness of the earth, the sweat of horses, and inevitability. The chill of steel mixed with the heat of blood, but his heart beat steadily. Everything had already been decided. He knew: the moment he stepped outside, they would bow their heads. Because there could be no other way.

- The steppe waits. They wait. They already know who their khan is. There is only one step left

Tukal-Bey threw back the felt curtain, and a sharp gust of cold wind burst into the yurt. It struck his face like the first challenge of the new day. The frost immediately crept under his clothes, sinking its sharp needles into his neck and wrists.

He stepped forward, holding the Bunchuk in his hand - and the steppe froze, as if it had caught its breath in anticipation. A stillness hung in the air.

Conversations ceased. One warrior, chewing a piece of horse meat, slowly stopped mid-bite. Another - lean, with a scar on his cheek - tilted his head slightly, as if listening to the wind, though his eyes held a hint of mockery. A young batyr ran his fingers over his belt, twisting it in his hands as if testing his own patience. They did not bow their heads, but each watched in his own way: some with respect, some with doubt, some with a secret hope that today would change their fate.

The nomads did not blindly revere power - they waited.

The silence did not carry submission - it carried a challenge. The Horde had seen him seize power, but now the steppe demanded more: could he hold it?

Targul-Arystan stepped forward first. Slowly, but confidently - like a wolf sniffing the scent of blood on the wind. His dark, watchful eyes slid over Tukal with a lazy smirk. Not malicious, not contemptuous - testing. He was not looking at the khan, but at the man he had known for too long to bow his head out of habit.

Stopping just short of him, he leaned slightly forward, as if listening to something invisible.

- I thought that at least this night you would allow yourself some rest, but it seems a khan has no time to waste on sleep. Not just one, but all three at once? - There was no open laughter in his voice, but the corners of his lips twitched in a barely noticeable grin. He had no doubts about Tukal's strength, yet there was still a note of surprise in his words. - A great khan, and strong as a stallion!

Some raised their brows, a few chuckled, while one of the young batyrs slowly ran a finger over the hilt of his dagger, as if contemplating the limits of human endurance. But it wasn't just about the feat itself.

Many of those present had heard the night.

After the evening ritual of becoming khan, Tukal-Bey had gone straight to his yurt, where his chief wife was already waiting for him. By their tradition, the khan had to spend the night with her, sealing his power not only with blood but also with the continuation of his lineage. Given his injuries, no one doubted that this would be the end of it. But the moment he stepped inside, Tukal ordered the other two wives to be brought as well - those who heard the command exchanged glances.

Tension reigned around the campfires. No one dared to comment on the muffled thuds against the felt walls, the ragged breathing, the stifled cries coming from the yurt. The fabric of the tent trembled as if alive, the taut ropes creaked, and inside, at times muted, at times sharp, came the sound of a sudden intake of breath, a strangled moan, heavy breathing merging with the night wind.

The Horde heard. The Horde remembered.

Some snorted, shrugged, exchanged looks - strong man, young khan, it happens. But when it went on hour after hour, when the night did not subside but only grew stronger, smirks turned into realization. First amusement, then astonishment, and by dawn - a silent question no one dared to voice.

- How?

How could a man who had been wounded in the morning, who had stood firm throughout the day, not just complete the ritual and rest, but spend the night as if he had just returned from a victorious feast?

Tukal had always been unlike the others.

His body seemed forged by the steppe itself - strong, sinewy, enduring beyond limits. He was not massive like some warriors, but within him lay that steppe-born strength that could not be measured by the width of his shoulders.

His bones were heavy, his muscles firm - not overly built, but honed for battle. An unyielding natural endurance allowed him to withstand blows that would have felled others. But even he was not invincible.

Blood still pulsed in his fresh wounds. But his body, accustomed to pain since childhood, did not perceive it as weakness but as a part of life. He was not immortal, not made of iron - but while others wrestled with their own frailty, he kept moving forward.

He had not only survived the battle but had taken three women that same night, not allowing himself a single moment of rest. It was not boasting, not stubbornness - it was his nature. When his blood boiled, he lived. When his body burned, he moved.

And now he stood before them - firm, confident, with the same unshakable presence with which he had marched into battle the day before.

The young batyr Aktai-Kutlug, who just yesterday had confidently bet on his death, now avoided the khan's gaze. He stepped back into the depths of the crowd, as if hoping the steppe wind would erase his mistake. He was no fool - challenging him now meant throwing his life away. But there was no submission in his eyes, only a heavy realization of the inevitable.

Someone in the crowd exhaled slowly. The elder bek Baisary-Kagan, who had survived more wars than the young warriors could remember, studied Tukal intently, as if weighing him not as a man, but as a sign of the times. He had seen khans fall - those who clung to power but could not hold it. He had seen the strong become weak when the steppe turned away from them.

But this one would not fall.

Not because he was lucky to seize power, but because he had taken it in such a way that it could no longer be taken from him. Yet even understanding this, Baisary-Kagan's gaze remained different. There was no doubt in it - only the awareness of how quickly everything had changed.

Bek Karysh-Buril stood motionless, as if the steppe had suddenly become foreign to him. Just yesterday, his lord had fought here - Sary-batyr, the man he had followed without question. Now he was gone.

His fingers clenched around the hilt of his saber, his knuckles turning white - not from readiness for battle, but from the war still raging within him. His mind understood that power had passed to the strongest, that resistance was pointless. But his gut refused to accept it.

And when Tukal's voice broke the silence, Karysh's fingers tightened even more.

Tukal raised his gaze - calm, firm, unwavering. There was no doubt in his eyes, not even a shadow of a question - only the cold certainty of a man for whom this outcome had been the only possibility.

His lips twitched into a smirk - not mocking, not insolent, but lazily predatory, as if he were merely reminding them of the obvious.

- What, jealous?

Targul smirked wider, shrugging like a man who had seen much but had still found something to be surprised by.

- Jealousy? No. - He shook his head. - But one thing's for sure: now no one in the Horde will doubt that you didn't just take power - you seized it as a true khan should

He squinted, appraising, as if seeing Tukal in a new light.

- But here's what's strange... I thought a beast, once sated with blood, would finally rest. And you, it seems, have only been roused

The warriors did not laugh, did not speak - but the air thickened, like before a storm. The joke had broken the first tension of the morning, but only for a moment.

Into this silence came a new sound - heavy footsteps on the trampled earth.

From behind the batyrs stepped Baga-Buka - broad-shouldered, thick-bearded, his boots crunching against the morning crust of frozen ground. He held the reins in his hands, and even before the horse emerged from behind the warriors, it was clear: this was no ordinary steed.

It moved smoothly, economically, without unnecessary jerks - the way beasts walk when they have nothing to prove. A bay stallion with a powerful frame, strong legs, and a narrow head, his eyes intelligent, almost human. In his veins ran the blood of the Horde's finest warhorses - the ones that survived the steppe blizzards, covered two distances instead of one, and did not fall until their rider's heart ceased to beat.

Such horses were not taken in raids and not bought for gold. They were marked as foals, raised in the best herds, protected, trained - prepared for warriors whose lives were worth more than hundreds of others. His ancestors had galloped under the banners of great commanders, his brothers were born for battle, and he was destined to become the pillar of a new khan.

Baga-Buka halted, his heavy gaze sliding over the khan's face. Without haste, he raised his hand, holding the reins, as if the invisible weight of this gesture could change the course of events.

- Your horse, khan. He waits, as do we

His voice was steady, but there was weight in his words. He was not merely fulfilling a duty - he, the father of Altyn-Tu, Tukal's second wife, was publicly recognizing the new ruler. Or testing him.

Baga-Buka slapped the stallion's neck, and the horse tossed its head, pulling at the reins.

- A smart horse. He can sense a khan's hand. If the rider is weak, he'll throw him off like a speck of dust from his mane. - He ran his palm over the leather of the reins, testing how they lay in his grip, then looked at Tukal with a long, measured gaze. - But you have nothing to fear, do you?

There was no challenge in his voice, no open mockery, yet something more lay beneath the words - an invisible trial that required no response.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone chuckled, but Tukal did not look away. He knew these were not mere words. A test did not always come in the form of a sword. Sometimes, it came as a question.

Baga-Buka was not just a commander of the southern detachments. His fifteen-hundred-strong force was renowned for its iron discipline, and he respected only strength. He was one of the Horde's strongest and most ruthless batyrs. He had not simply given his daughter to Tukal - he had placed his faith in him. Now he awaited an answer.

Killing one's rivals was one thing. Holding the steppe was another.

- The only ones who should be afraid are those who try to stand in my way, - Tukal answered calmly, taking the reins.

Baga-Buka did not move. In the same instant, his hand clamped onto Tukal's wrist like iron.

For a moment, the air hung heavy with tension.

There was no threat in their gazes. Only a silent test.

- Then show me you can hold the saddle, - Baga-Buka said, releasing his grip.

He held Tukal's gaze for a moment longer, then gave a short nod. Not low, not as a servant - but as a warrior acknowledging the strength of another.

After the batyr's words, Tukal did not answer immediately.

He only looked at Baga-Buka, calmly, without hurry, like a man who had already said everything he needed to say and was now simply waiting for others to realize it.

- You know I can hold the saddle

For a moment, silence reigned.

Baga-Buka snorted, inclining his head ever so slightly - not in submission, but in recognition of the truth. Then he simply stepped aside, no longer needing words.

The wind stirred the horse's mane, making the silver threads on the Bunchuk's staff flare in the morning light.

Tukal tightened his grip on the reins but did not rush to mount. The Bunchuk was still in his hands - heavy, adorned with the manes of warhorses that had known only wind and battle.

He clenched the staff tighter, feeling the cool metal rings beneath his fingers. He had already proven that power was in his grasp - when he stepped out of the yurt, when he passed through the evaluating gazes of the Horde, when he took the horse's reins. But one final step remained unchanged, the last act of asserting authority - the passing of the Bunchuk to the standard-bearer.

This gesture required no words, yet it meant more than any oath.

The khan holds the banner when he takes power. But when he affirms it - he passes it on.

From this moment, the symbol of might no longer belonged to one man - it became the banner of the entire Horde. It would be raised over the battlefield, over councils, over those who doubted. As long as the Bunchuk stood high - the khan lived, the Horde was united.

The steppe seemed to freeze. Neither wind nor horses disturbed the silence. Some warriors clenched their fingers around the hilts of their swords, others around their reins, as if in this moment, fate could be turned in any direction.

Everyone knew what was coming. A name would now be spoken. By tradition, the khan had to pass the Bunchuk - the symbol of power - to the one who would become his standard-bearer.

With this choice, the steppe would take its first step into a new world - one where blood meant less than strength, where the past could no longer dictate the future.

No one dared to speak, no one moved. The choice of a standard-bearer was not just an honor - it was the khan's mark of trust, capable of elevating a man or leaving him in the shadows. Some glances darted between the batyrs, while others stood still, as if even the steppe wind had frozen in anticipation.

Tukal knew who he would choose. He saw in the crowd those whom others expected - young batyrs with great names, descendants of noble clans whose fathers had fought under Kara-Buran. Their grandfathers had sat in councils with great khans, their brothers had led raids, their blood was woven into the fate of the steppe.

But his Horde would be different.

Not one where power was passed by blood, where a khan's son became khan merely because he bore the name, where strength was measured not by personal merit but by a lineage stretching back to ancient chiefs. He would raise it above that, forge a Horde where a man was valued not for who his ancestors were, but for what he could give to the Horde.

His heir would not inherit power simply by birthright. He would receive only the right to prove himself worthy of keeping it. Just like all those who stood beside him. There would be no privileges granted at birth, no positions held by blood alone, but there would be something stronger than blood - a Trial.

His Horde would be new. A world where men did not wait for inheritance but seized their fate with their own hands. Where those who rose were not the ones allowed to, but the ones who tore their place free.

He slowly let his gaze pass over the faces - and in that moment, the steppe seemed to hold its breath. The air became thick, like on the hottest days when the sky presses down, silencing even the wind. No one moved - they waited. And in that stillness, there was more weight than in any words. Some longed to hear a familiar name, others were certain it would be theirs.

And then Tukal spoke:

- Jalal-Oglan

The name rang out evenly, calmly - not like a conqueror's cry, but like a challenge cast into the steppe.

A few warriors exchanged glances. Some looked at Jalal, others at Tukal, as if expecting him to say more, but the khan remained silent. Some ran their fingers slowly over their sword hilts, as if testing their weight for this new day.

Others dug their heels into the ground more firmly, like warriors who had decided to stand no matter what. Some merely watched - unblinking, neither approving nor resisting - but such gazes always carried more weight than words.

The name struck Jalal like a gust of steppe wind - sharp, sudden, knocking the breath from his lungs. But it did not shake him. He only planted his feet more firmly into the earth, as if rooting himself to withstand the force that was about to crash down upon him.

He did not waver. He made no sudden movement, no attempt to straighten up - but something inside him shifted, something that would no longer allow him to remain who he had been just a moment ago.

War, steppe storms, blood, the dust of the roads - he had known all of it before. But now he faced something else, something unknown. He did not move, his expression did not change, but inside, everything had turned over.

Tukal was looking straight at him.

He was no heir to a noble lineage. He had no generations of warriors standing behind him. He was a man who had risen on his own - not by blood, not by name, but by carving his path step by step through battle, death, and the storms of the steppe.

This was a moment after which one could no longer remain the same.

Jalal held his breath for an instant - not from fear, but because at that moment, a new road opened before him like the edge of a cliff before a rider. Tukal's gaze told him that stepping back was not an option.

Only forward now.

Now he had to prove himself worthy of this choice.

Some batyrs exchanged glances. Some with approval, others with heavy silence. Someone clenched their teeth, someone else gave a barely perceptible shake of the head - accepting, but not agreeing.

No one challenged the decision. But that did not mean all were satisfied.

Jalal stepped forward. Not quickly - steadily. Each step sounded louder than it should have, each gaze piercing him heavier than metal. But he did not slow.

He could feel the eyes upon him, cutting sharper than enemy spears.

The blood-stained executioner of the Horde, Baichora-Buri, gave a barely noticeable nod, acknowledging the choice, but said nothing. He simply shifted slightly aside, clearing the path, though his heavy stare spoke:

- Let's see what you're worth

The elder bek, Kurban-Asar, stood with a stone face, but his fingers tightened subtly around the hilt of his saber. He did not look directly at Jalal, as if speaking more to himself than to anyone else, yet making sure those nearby could hear.

- In the old days, the standard-bearer was not the one who stepped forward first, but the one who fell last on the battlefield, - his voice was quiet but weighty, steeped in years. - The old khans chose those who stood to the end, those who knew the true weight of the Bunchuk in battle

He let his gaze pass over Jalal - not in challenge, but with the cold, straightforward judgment of the steppe.

- And now, it seems, all it takes is to hear your name?

He did not direct these words at the khan. He was not issuing a challenge. But in them lay something even the wisest warrior could not conceal - doubt.

Tension thickened in the air.

Jalal's expression did not change, but for a moment, his jaw tensed. To answer would be to show that it had struck a nerve. But silence carried more weight.

The Crooked Wolf, Sagay-Oglan, standing nearby, smirked, lazily flipping a dagger between his hands.

- Well, then, let the wind test him, - he drawled, watching Jalal as if he truly expected the Bunchuk to slip from his grasp.

Someone in the crowd snorted briefly, another shook their head. No one argued.

Sargul, standing to the side, merely exhaled sharply, his gaze flickering between Tukal and Jalal.

Baichora-Buri remained silent, but as Jalal passed him, he struck him briefly in the shoulder - not aggressively, but like testing the strength of armor.

- Go already, - he said, turning away.

Jalal finally stepped out of the crowd, and each of his footsteps echoed in the silence, as if the steppe itself was listening to who would become the standard-bearer. The crowd remained quiet, but it was not an indifferent silence - it was drawn tight like a bowstring. Some held their breath, others lowered their gaze, while some stared straight ahead, unblinking, as if trying to decipher what would come next.

There was no fear or hesitation in his eyes - only a firm realization: from this moment on, he was rising higher. But this was not just an honor; it was a challenge to fate. He was no longer just a centurion.

Now he was the khan's hand - the one who would be the first to raise the Bunchuk over the army and carry Tukal's authority to where it needed to be seen.

He stopped before the khan. The silence thickened like the air before a storm.

Tukal did not rush. He looked at Jalal, not weighing his strength, but what would come next. Passing the Bunchuk was not just about choosing a standard-bearer. It was a step that could not be undone.

His gaze shifted to the banner, gripping the staff as if, in this moment, he was holding not just a symbol of power, but the Horde itself. The chill of metal, the weight of authority, the manes of warhorses, whose spirits, the shamans said, never abandoned the banner.

Tukal lifted the Bunchuk slightly higher.

The silence that fell over the Horde was not empty.

Baga-Buka shifted his shoulders slightly, as if testing if his muscles had gone stiff, but his gaze remained locked on Tukal. He did not look at the Bunchuk, nor at Jalal - only at the one who held the banner. He did not care for rituals, but he cared for power. The question was simple: would this man hold what he had taken?

- His hand didn't waver, - he muttered quietly, almost to himself.

Beside him, arms crossed over his chest, stood Turgul-Batyr, the commander of the Horde's western wing. Tall, broad-shouldered, with streaks of gray in his thick dark hair, he resembled an ancient cliff, unmoving before the wind. He smirked, but there was no amusement in it.

- Not yet, - he replied just as quietly, not looking away.

His knuckles cracked as he clenched his fist. He had seen many khans. He had seen empires fall. And he knew that power was not just a banner - it was the people willing to die for it.

A little ahead, as if separating himself from them, stood Jangar-Bulat, elder of the Uysun clan. Tall and gaunt, his face etched with deep wrinkles, he seemed carved from time rather than flesh. His gray beard flowed down to his chest, and in his eyes lay the abyss of years spent speaking with spirits. His lips moved, but his words were barely audible.

Someone nearby instinctively tensed - there was something in his whisper, the kind of ancient words spoken over fires when omens were awaited.

- The spirits of the steppe do not speak with voices, - he murmured at last, as if to himself. - They speak through the wind

As if in response, the banner swayed.

Tuktar-Baga, ruler of the Chalaïr clan, standing slightly to the side, snorted. Of average height, with sinewy arms and a warrior's thick neck, he looked younger than his years - the fire of life had not yet dimmed in him, and his voice carried the sharpness of a man used to settling matters with his fists.

But a little farther back, in the shadow of the crowd, stood the widows of Tukal's slain brothers.

They said nothing, but their presence was as palpable as the cold of the steppe dawn. One bowed her head, as if already resigned to the new order. The other, on the contrary, stared straight ahead, her lips moving barely perceptibly. A prayer or a curse? No one knew.

Beside them stood their fathers and brothers - rulers of clans who, just yesterday, might have hoped for the khan's title themselves.

Batyr Uran-Tash, old but tough like the dried roots of the steppe, kept his hands clasped behind his back. He did not look at the banner - only at Tukal, with the heavy gaze of a man who had lost, but had not yet decided if he was ready to accept defeat.

Next to him, rocking slightly on his heels as if weighing every word, stood Kul-Magun, a ruler from the northern lands. His face remained unreadable, but his fingers kept brushing the hilt of his sword - not in threat, but reflexively, like a man who clung to steel when the future was uncertain.

Tuktar-Baga glanced at them, then back at Tukal.

- A good trick, old man, - he said lazily, shifting his gaze from the Bunchuk to Jangar-Bulat. - But spirits don't lead raids. Living men do

Jangar-Bulat did not respond, but his gaze grew heavier. Baga-Buka gave a short chuckle.

- What's wrong, Tuktar? Spirits aren't enough for you either? - he asked, glancing at him sideways, assessing.

Tuktar-Baga snorted, like a wolf refusing to be tamed.

- I said men lead raids. As for who will lead them... I'm still listening

Now there was no turning back.

Jalal gave a short bow - not deep, not submissive, but the way warriors bowed to their leader.

Tukal extended the Bunchuk with confidence. Not just a symbol of power, but the essence of rule itself, its core, its mark.

Jalal reached out his hand, and the moment his fingers touched the staff, the air thickened, as if the weight of authority was passed not through words, but through steel and wood itself.

Now it was no longer just a banner. Now it belonged to the Horde.

- From this moment, you are my standard-bearer

Tukal's voice was steady, but there was more in it than just words.

- You will carry my power as you carry your life

Jalal knew the staff would be heavy, but in that moment, he felt not the weight of wood and metal - but the burden of every gaze fixed upon him. Hope. Doubt. A test. He did not feel it with his hands but with his skin.

Jalal tightened his grip on the staff. His voice was quiet but clear, without a shadow of hesitation:

- As long as I live, the banner will not fall. As long as I breathe, no foreign hand will touch it. As long as my blood flows, the khan's power will be seen by all who look upon the Bunchuk

His words did not sound like an empty vow but a solemn oath sworn before the steppe, before the Horde, before everyone who stood there.

Now, this was not just a title.

Now, it was his fate.

And though he held only a staff in his hand, he knew he grasped more than that. From this moment, he bore something greater - the khan's trust, the warriors' honor, the very authority that was now woven into the strands of horsehair and the cold bronze rings.

His trials would not begin on the battlefield but in everyday life. He had to be strong enough to bear the weight of the staff for hours. Fast enough to keep an enemy from tearing it from his grasp. Enduring enough to carry the banner through day and night if needed.

But most of all - he could not waver. If the moment came when all others fell, he had to remain standing. If the khan was wounded, he had to raise the banner higher, giving the warriors hope. If the battle was lost, he had to be the last to leave the field, ensuring that no enemy hand would defile the sacred symbol of power.

It had always been so.

And now, as Jalal accepted the Bunchuk, he felt its weight - not only in his hand but in the responsibility that had settled upon his shoulders. Now he could not fall. He could not waver. He could not fail.

Now he was the one who held the banner.

Now he was the one who raised it when others fell.

These moments stretched longer than they should have.

The crowd remained still, but it was not silent agreement. Someone spat sharply into the dust. Another ran a hand over their scabbard, as if unconsciously checking that their weapon was still in place. A few warriors stole glances at the banner but quickly looked away, as if fearing that fate had already been sealed - and that any unnecessary movement might change it.

Jalal gave a brief bow - not low, not servile, but the way a warrior bows to his leader.

Then, without hesitation, he raised the Bunchuk.

The staff settled into his grip with certainty, without a tremor. The weight did not drag him down - on the contrary, in that moment, the banner itself seemed to rise higher, as if absorbing the strength of the moment.

The batyrs shifted almost imperceptibly. The wind stirred the banner, and for a fleeting instant, it seemed as though the steppe itself had accepted its new standard-bearer.

Now he belonged to the Horde.

And the Horde belonged to those who could hold its banner.

Jalal held it high, unyielding, and in that moment, he stood beside Tukal - not as a centurion but as part of his power.

- Give the Command, khan

Tukal nodded, raising his chin slightly as he prepared to mount his horse. It was done. The ritual was complete, the authority affirmed. But in the last instant, something shifted. A nearly primal instinct, a hunter's sense honed over years, whispered to him - this was not over.

He slowly swept his gaze over the warriors.

The crowd was stirring - some were already relaxing, others exchanging glances, weighing what had just happened. Some watched with approval, while others stood in cold silence, accepting the inevitable.

But one gaze cut like a blade, remaining motionless, as if carved from stone.

This man did not look away, did not bow his head, did not accept what had happened. There was no anger in his eyes, no flash of recklessness, no challenge, no fear - only a flawlessly measured decision.

Tukal recognized him. Bahadur-Terkesh - the man who, just yesterday, had been trusted to protect the khan with his own life. The head of Khan Kara-Buran's Personal Guard. The closest warrior to the ruler, the shield and sword, trampled into battle, soaked in blood, bound by an oath of loyalty.

Now, he was the former head of the guard.

Before him stood not a protector of the khan, but a man left without a master - yet not without pride.

In the steppe, one could kill, take power, force submission. But one could not force acceptance. The others had acknowledged Tukal - silently, though with heaviness in their hearts.

Bahadur, it seemed, had not.

***

Thank you to everyone who reads.

Initially, I planned to write a single chapter, but I was advised not to overload the text with overly long chapters, as was the case with Chapter 25, and instead to break them into two or three parts if the plot allowed.

That's exactly what I did this time - instead of one 11,000-word chapter, I divided it into two 5,000-word chapters, maintaining a balance between the dynamics of events and the depth of the narrative.

These three chapters - 25, 26, and 27 - serve as an introduction to Tukal's story and his steppe, a world that will soon collide with Kievan Rus'. Now Alexander has not just a neighbor but a dangerous, powerful adversary whom he will have to reckon with sooner or later. I hope I have managed to show you the steppe world of the 11th century, its laws, its order, its harsh yet just nature. The steppe follows its own rules, far removed from those of Rus', but the greater their differences, the more powerful their clash will be.