Blood and Power

The silence, which had just begun to dissipate, thickened once more, hanging heavy between the warriors. The wind stirred the horsehair tails of the Bunchuk, but even it could not cut through the tension.

Tukal turned slowly, without haste, without wasted motion, yet in that movement, there was more authority than in any shout or gesture. This was not just a turn - it was an answer, one that already held supremacy.

Bahadur did not avert his gaze. His stare was direct, firm, devoid of fear - only silent defiance.

Tukal lifted his chin slightly, looking at him with lazy, almost indifferent interest, and asked quietly:

- What, do you have something to say?

His voice was even, but steel was already in it.

In the steppe, strength was respected - but even more so were those unafraid to speak their hearts. The others had accepted his power, whether with doubt or silent protest. But between them and Tukal, an invisible boundary still remained. In the steppe, power was not just taken - it had to be held.

Bahadur-Terkesh continued to stare. In his eyes was only the cold clarity of a man for whom this day was his last.

His world had collapsed yesterday morning, when Kara-Buran laid down his title before the Horde. Honor, duty, oath - everything he had served had been crushed by another's will. His ruler, Kara-Buran, was still alive but had become a shadow of the past, while the one Bahadur was supposed to swear allegiance to next - Kara-Tash, the rightful heir - had fallen by Tukal's hand.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Tukal had killed all his brothers. Openly, before the entire Horde, without deception or cowardice. He had done what the strongest did - claimed his right, proved his strength, bent fate to his will. But for Bahadur, this was not a display of power - it was a sentence.

He could have yielded. Could have looked up and seen his former comrades silently stepping aside, the guard accepting their new master. He could have stepped forward and sworn allegiance.

Become a shadow in the new Horde. But then everything he had served would be trampled into the dust beneath the hooves of the khan's horse. Then his life would not be worth even the ashes carried by the wind. But submission was the path of the living. And he was already dead.

Kara-Tash's death had not just deprived him of a master. It had erased the very meaning of his existence. He was not just a warrior - he was a shield. The one who was meant to stand between the blow and his oath.

He had not stopped Tukal's blade. He had not protected the khan, had not saved the heir. His hand had remained on the hilt of his sword when it was all over.

If he had failed to protect - then he had no right to live.

And if he no longer had a choice, then at least he could decide how he would leave. Not as the defeated. As a warrior.

Tukal, meanwhile, waited. He was not angry - why waste anger on the weak, who could only stand and remain silent? He simply waited to see what Bahadur would do.

Bahadur stood unmoving. His posture remained straight, his shoulders tense, but not from fear - rather, from the awareness that this moment would decide his fate.

- I am loyal to Khan Kara-Buran and his house

His voice was low, unwavering.

- You killed your brothers, but I do not see a khan here. Only a murderer

The air grew thick, heavy, as if steeped in blood.

Someone tensed. Someone drew in a sharp breath, as if the scent of death was already in the air. The warriors did not look at each other, but each of them felt it - this was a turning point. Everyone knew that standing against the khan now was the same as sentencing oneself to death.

No one spoke, no one moved. But the silence was no longer just silence. Another moment, and it would tear apart like a sail in a storm.

Hearing Bahadur's words, Tukal smiled - not sharply, not mockingly, but slowly, lazily, with that dangerous ease of a man who had already decided what to do with you.

- You say you don't see a khan? - His voice was light, almost amused. - But the steppe says otherwise

He moved his hand slowly, gesturing toward the silent warriors, toward those who had already acknowledged his strength.

- Or are you blind?

Bahadur did not answer immediately, but not because he didn't know what to say - because he had already made his decision. His gaze remained steady, unyielding, as if carved from stone. He knew how this would end. There was no turning back now, but he had made his choice long before this moment.

- I am not blind, - he finally said.

He took a step forward and lifted his gaze slightly.

- I just see something different than you

Tukal tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely curious.

- And what is it that you see?

Bahadur exhaled slowly, like a man standing on the edge of a cliff. His fingers clenched into a fist so tightly that his knuckles turned white, as if holding onto something he could not let go of.

- I see fear. - His gaze swept over the faces of the silent warriors. - They do not look at you, Tukal. They look down. As if waiting for the storm to pass

Tukal's lips twitched into a slow, lazy smirk - the kind that made the blood of wise men run cold and fools reach for their knives.

- And you think fear is nothing? Fear makes men obedient. Fear breaks the strong. Fear is the first step to power

Anger flared in Bahadur's eyes like fire, but his fingers only tightened around the hilt of his sword. His lips trembled, but he did not speak. He had not yet given his fury freedom.

- You can terrify them, but fear does not make you a khan. Only strength forces the steppe to bow

The crowd remained motionless, but the silence carried more tension than a hundred war cries. Some lowered their gaze, others tightened their grip on their swords - the steppe already knew how this would end.

Bahadur-Terkesh stood firm, unmoving, like a stone in the steppe that had endured hundreds of storms. His back remained straight, his gaze unwavering, as if his khan still stood before him - not the man who had taken his place.

Behind him stood five hundred of the best warriors - the Personal Guard of Kara-Buran. They had not sworn loyalty to a man, nor to a name, nor to the past - but to power itself.

They were Kara-Buran's shield, his sword, his final circle of defense. But their loyalty belonged not to him personally, not to his lineage, but to the title of khan itself. And when Kara-Buran had laid down his belt, their oath had disappeared with his power.

Now, they had to decide whom to serve.

Some had already made their choice. They looked at Tukal without fear, without hesitation, with that cold steppe stare that respected only deeds, not words. He had taken the throne. He had done so openly and fairly - his strength spoke for itself.

But not all.

Those who had followed Bahadur yesterday had not yet moved. They stood tense, frozen, like predators who had not yet decided whether to flee or to attack.

Bahadur spoke. His voice carried over the ranks, but no one answered. No one stepped forward.

Someone tightened their grip on their sword but did not draw it. Someone glanced at a comrade, hoping to see resolve, but found only silent waiting. Someone inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly - like a man realizing that the battle was already over, even if his heart still resisted.

And then, almost imperceptibly, their formation wavered.

One of the guards - the one who had stood shoulder to shoulder with Bahadur just moments ago - took half a step back. And that was enough to break the chain. Another hesitated, looking down as if searching for an answer in the dust. A third let go of his sword. A fourth shifted slightly - not backward, not forward, but no longer standing beside Bahadur.

In that moment, everything was decided.

They did not want to die for the dead.

Tukal tilted his head slightly, as if in thought. But in his gaze, a cold gleam had already appeared - not just certainty, but inevitability, the kind that always heralded steel and blood. He moved forward - not quickly, not tensely, but with the predatory grace of a steppe wolf circling before the final strike.

- If you have strength - prove it. If not - bow your head and die standing

Bahadur did not answer. Only his fingers slowly closed around his sword hilt - not in doubt, but in silent decision.

- Let the steppe decide, - spoke Elder Aybars-Kutaga, his voice ringing like the final strike of a gong. The warriors already knew - this conversation would end only one way: with someone's blood on the sand.

The steppe closed in, silent and predatory, leaving only two men in the center. Some already knew how this would end. Some still hoped for a miracle. But no one interfered. Because the law was stronger than hope. No one shouted, no one cursed or cheered - silence hung over them, thick and unmoving, as if even the wind refused to disturb this moment.

Nomads did not tolerate long arguments, and in disputes like this, there was only ever one truth - the one who remained standing. The warriors stepped back, clearing a space between the two men. Their movements were swift, efficient - this was not the first time they had witnessed such a thing.

Someone threw a white cloak onto the ground - old, worn, but now it marked the boundary of the arena.

Bahadur unfastened his fur cloak and cast it aside. His movements were unhurried, measured - the movements of a man who did not fear death. Beneath the thick battle kaftan, the outlines of a sinewy body, scarred from old wounds, were visible. He straightened his shoulders, as if shedding not only his cloak but the weight of the past.

Tukal did not rush. His gaze passed over Bahadur - not just looking, but measuring, weighing, like a blacksmith judging whether a piece of metal was worth forging into a blade or throwing into the dust.

He could kill him. With one movement, with one command - and it would be done. Bahadur would fall, and no one would dare object.

But Tukal knew what he wanted.

Bahadur wanted death. But not as a defeated man - as a warrior.

He wanted his blood to be the last spark of a dying era, for his fall to be a challenge, for the steppe to speak not only of the new khan, but of the one who did not bow. A madman, perhaps. A failure. But loyal to the end.

Tukal saw it. And so he had no intention of granting him such an end.

If he killed him now, he would be doing him a favor. He would turn his death into legend. He would make this day remembered not as the triumph of power, but as the defiance of a stubborn man who fell for the old order.

- Death is too easy a way out. Death is an honor, and he has not earned even that. No, he will live. Let him see how the world he served continues without him. Let the steppe forget his name before his flesh even rots

Tukal had already decided: Bahadur would live. Live under his rule. Live knowing his oath had meant nothing. Live seeing his warriors turn away, his name become meaningless.

In the steppe, death could be honor. But forgotten names died harder than bodies.

And so, he did not deserve even a blade.

Slowly, without haste, Tukal drew his saber from its scabbard, and light slid along its edge - not as a reflection, but as a warning.

- I ask you one last time, Bahadur, - his voice was low, steady, carrying that lazy mockery of a man who had already decided another's fate. - Will you submit?

Bahadur did not step back. His breathing remained steady, his gaze cold, as if he had already seen the end of this fight.

- Better to die than to serve an executioner whose hands are drenched in the blood of his own kin. - His voice was even, but something in it echoed like ice cracking beneath a hoof. - Better to fall than to bow before a wolf who devours his own pack

The crowd did not stir, but the air grew thick, heavy, like the moments before a storm. The warriors said nothing, but their gazes sharpened, as if the very world had frozen before the inevitable.

And then, the war horn tore through the silence like the first strike of a sword, heralding the beginning.

Tukal stood relaxed, his sword barely touching the ground, his shoulders loose, as if he were not facing one of the Horde's finest warriors. He did not look tense - only watchful, like a wolf lazily observing a deer, knowing the hunt was already over. He rolled his shoulders lazily, adjusting his grip on the saber as if warming up before training.

Bahadur-Terkesh did not fall for the trick.

He knew he was facing a killer - younger, faster, harder. He saw how Tukal moved, how calmly he held his sword, how lazily he rolled it between his fingers, as if he didn't even find it necessary to exert himself.

But it did not matter.

He was a warrior.

He had fought through dozens of battles, his blade had served two khans, his name was respected, and his voice alone could stop a brawl before weapons were drawn. He was not just a bodyguard, not merely a soldier. He was the one who had carried the old world on his shoulders.

And now that world was collapsing.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

He knew it was not just a man dying today. An era was dying. Honor was dying. Everything he had believed in was dying.

Khan Kara-Buran had not fought against the decision of the noble clans, the elders, and the batyrs. His heir, Kara-Tash, had been slain. Their blood had soaked into the dust, but it had not sparked a rebellion, had not called the steppe to war. No one had come to avenge them. No one had stepped forward when he had spoken.

He was alone.

His people, his brothers, those he had fought beside, had stepped back. Not because they were traitors - but because they understood that it was over.

Bahadur himself was no fool.

He knew he would not win this fight. He had seen how Tukal moved. This was not just a man relying on strength. He moved differently - too fast, too precise, as if he already knew where his enemy would be in the next moment.

Like a beast born not in a human body, but in the body of a steppe predator.

Bahadur had heard of such warriors - shamans called them the "Ones Who Stepped Beyond" They did not simply fight; they sensed battle differently. Their bodies moved not by thought, but by instinct, like a falcon diving from the sky, never calculating its trajectory - it simply knew.

Bahadur had seen how the Horde's greatest warriors fought. He had witnessed the fastest, the sharpest, the most skilled. But Tukal-Bey...

He was something else entirely.

There was no wasted effort in his movements. No unnecessary jerks, no pointless preparation before a strike - it was as if his body already knew what to do before his mind commanded it. This was not mastery, not technique, but something greater.

As if the steppe itself had possessed him.

As if all its spirits, all its predators - wolves, eagles, snow leopards - had merged into one man, granting him their strength, their speed, their vision.

This was not an ordinary warrior.

This was someone who did not simply kill. This was someone who could not be killed.

And yet, Bahadur raised his sword.

Because he was a man. And a man, even knowing he faces a beast, still goes into battle with it.

He could not retreat.

- You are no khan, - he said firmly, gripping his blade.

Tukal smirked but did not answer immediately. He only tilted his head slightly, as if in thought, then, without a word, unclenched his fingers.

The saber fell into the dust with a dull clang.

The crowd froze, like the steppe before the moonrise - when night had not yet arrived, but the light was already fading. Everything around tightened into this moment - the sounds, the breath, even the wind seemed to hold still, watching.

Young riders tensed; some gripped the hilts of their swords, others instinctively moved forward, but no one dared to cross the boundary the khan had drawn. The elder batyrs remained silent, but in their gazes flickered something beyond mere attention - something between understanding and wariness.

The khan had not simply discarded his weapon - he had done so before the greatest warrior of Kara-Buran. Not by mistake, not out of recklessness. He had placed himself in this position deliberately.

This was a challenge so audacious that the air thickened like blood on a blade. The warriors did not look at one another, but every man felt it: this moment would be sung of in the steppe's ballads - either as the greatest humiliation or as the ultimate proof of power.

No one dared even to exhale. Now, steel would not decide the outcome - only men.

Bahadur, too, stood motionless. It was madness. He knew Tukal was strong, but no one in their right mind would throw away their weapon before the sword of an elite batyr. This was not just a challenge - it was a statement.

But Tukal had no doubts.

He did not need a saber to kill. He had fought before - in another life. Not on the vast battlefields of the steppe, but in the narrow alleyways of his town, where death did not come with a war cry but crept from the shadows. Where there was no honor - only survival.

He had fought against street thugs, against brigands who knew no mercy. Against professional fighters trained to end a battle in a single blow. Against killers who left no second chances. And each of these fights had left its mark - not in scars, but in knowledge. He was a master of no single style, but he had absorbed them all.

He had learned. He had adapted. He had absorbed everything.

The steppe had its own laws, but they did not change the one universal truth - victory belonged not to the one who followed the rules, but to the one who broke them.

And now, in this new body - this finely honed machine - he moved three times faster than in his past life. He was stronger, quicker, sharper.

He knew no fear.

And against a steppe warrior, even an elite one, that was more than enough.

Tukal tilted his head slightly, allowing the wind to brush a stray lock of hair from his face. His voice came evenly - not as a challenge, not with anger - just a calm, indifferent acknowledgment of victory:

- You are not worthy of steel

Bahadur's rage flared instantly - or perhaps it was not rage, but a desperate attempt to hold on to himself. In the next moment, he was already moving, not thinking, not hesitating. The saber flashed - a sharp thrust, fast and precise. His blade flew toward Tukal's throat.

Bahadur's sword sliced through empty air.

The moment the blade should have met flesh, Tukal was no longer there. No sudden dash, no sharp motion - just disappearance, as if he had stepped beyond time itself.

Bahadur adjusted instantly. His second strike came from another angle - not just a thrust, but a powerful slashing blow, carrying all his fury. He was not striking to win - he was striking simply to land a hit.

But once again - nothing.

Tukal did not retreat. He did not fall into defense, did not try to evade like a fighter avoiding defeat. He moved forward.

The moment Bahadur attempted a side strike, putting all his weight into it, Tukal took a step - a sharp, precise, confident step. Not backward, not sideways, but directly into the strike zone.

And Bahadur understood - his weapon had become useless.

Tukal's hand flashed upward - a short, snapping strike to the wrist. A sharp pain shot through the joint - Bahadur's fingers released the sword on their own. The saber, glinting in the air, fell into the dust with a clang.

Bahadur instinctively lunged to retrieve it, but in that instant, Tukal was already there.

An elbow - short, fast, brutal as a hammer blow.

To the temple.

And the world exploded.

Not in pain - but in emptiness. Everything lost its form, became a blurred mess of shadows. A deep ringing filled his skull, as if metal had shattered inside him. His vision flickered, and his lungs thickened as though the steppe air had turned to sludge.

Bahadur took a step back - no, not a step, he simply lost his footing. His entire body hung on the edge - not here, not there, but somewhere in the void between consciousness and darkness.

Tukal saw it.

He could have finished it. One move. A palm to the throat, a knee to the ribs - and that would be the end. But he waited.

He gave Bahadur a moment. Gave him the chance to grasp what was happening again.

Then he took that chance away.

Another strike - to the thigh.

Snapping, precise - not just painful, but destroying his foundation. He did not feel a wound, only a cold stab, but in the next second, his leg betrayed him.

He still tried to hold himself up. But his legs no longer obeyed.

Like a wolf that miscalculated its jump and now plunged into the void.

The steppe spun around him.

But Tukal did not let him fall - one quick step forward, a sudden grip on the shoulder.

And a throw.

Bahadur was sent flying backward, air crushed his chest, the world flipped - and then the impact. Dust burst up around him, scattering beneath his body. He tried to inhale, but his lungs would not obey - his chest felt as though it had been crushed under a stone slab.

But it was not over.

The moment Bahadur hit the ground, Tukal moved. In one swift motion, he straddled his opponent, driving a knee into his chest, pinning him down before he could even attempt to rise.

But that was not enough.

Before Bahadur could take a breath, Tukal's fingers closed around his throat - sharp, precise, like a falcon's talons sinking into its captured prey.

Bahadur struggled, his hands lunging for the grip, but Tukal held firm. His fingers, like a hunter's snare, tightened, denying him breath, denying him sound. Bahadur's world shrank - only the iron grip on his throat and the thunderous pounding of his own pulse in his temples remained.

He struck at Tukal - fists hammering into ribs, shoulders, even his face, but with each passing moment, his blows weakened. They were no longer a warrior's strikes - only the helpless movements of a dying man.

Like a bird beating its wings against the ground, knowing it would never fly again.

The crowd did not breathe. Someone swallowed hard, another's fingers twitched nervously over a saber hilt. The young riders stood frozen, their breathing ragged. The elder batyrs did not look away - not with disdain, not with admiration, but with that cold scrutiny with which one observes the new leader of a wolf pack.

Bahadur struggled to free himself, but Tukal's grip was merciless.

Tukal leaned in closer, squeezing his throat with a slow, terrifying patience, as if merely waiting for the last breath to leave his defeated opponent's lungs.

- What do you say now, old man? - His voice was calm, without rage or mockery. Only absolute dominance.

Bahadur clenched his teeth, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, but his gaze remained the same as before the fight - direct, fearless.

- The steppe will not accept you, - he rasped.

Tukal looked at him. A flicker of something like curiosity crossed his eyes. Slowly, he leaned in, so close that Bahadur could feel his breath on his face.

- Then let it accept you, - he whispered.

His fingers tightened further on Bahadur's throat - but in the last moment, they loosened.

Bahadur gasped, coughing, sucking in air greedily.

The crowd was motionless. Some had expected death. Some had hoped for it. But Tukal had left him alive.

He rose, never taking his eyes off the man sprawled in the dust. A few moments of silence - as if he were still deciding whether to finish what he had started. Then, unhurried, with lazy certainty, he lowered his boot and pressed Bahadur's head into the dirt.

The dry earth crunched. Bahadur did not resist. Only the dust clung to his face, mixing with the crusted blood. This weight did not merely press him into the steppe's soil - it forced him into his new place in this world. The place of the defeated.

- Live, - Tukal's voice was quiet, but every man heard it. - And remember this day. Now you know what fear is.

The air was heavy, thick with something unseen yet tangible, as if the steppe itself had held its breath, watching what had just transpired. The warriors of the Guard stared at Bahadur's body sprawled in the dust, but none of them stepped forward.

Someone gripped the hilt of their sword. Another's gaze darted to his comrades, searching for an answer - what now?

A few beks remained frozen, their breathing heavier, fingers trembling on their sword hilts. One of the centurions took a moment longer than the others to comprehend that it was over. He made a hesitant step forward but stopped immediately upon meeting Tukal's gaze. That look said it all:

- Will you try?

And in that moment, everything became clear. Slowly, not all at once, one of the senior commanders removed his hand from his sword. Another stepped back. A third exhaled deeply and lowered his head.

Words were unnecessary. Everything had already been said. Everything had already been decided.

But somewhere deep within the ranks, someone still lunged forward - too fast, too abruptly, with a movement that was not even an attack. Yet before he could reach Bahadur, two senior beks seized his shoulders, holding him back.

- Not now, - one of them murmured, gripping his forearm so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

The Guard had not yet knelt before Tukal. But it was no longer the Guard of Kara-Buran.

Bahadur lay with his face pressed into the earth, his breath ragged, his chest rising in sharp jerks, but he did not move. Dust clung to the sweat on his skin, dried blood crusted on his split lips, yet he did not even attempt to wipe it away. His lungs had no air left - only the crushing weight of defeat, heavier than the khan's boot.

He felt Tukal lift his foot and step back, but he did not raise his head. His temples pounded, his throat burned, but worst of all was not the pain.

Worst of all was the emptiness.

He had not simply lost. He had been humiliated. He was still breathing, but his breath meant nothing. The Horde no longer looked at him. They looked only at Tukal.

Bahadur clenched his fingers as if trying to grasp something unseen, but his hand closed around nothing but dry dust.

He wanted to feel anger. He wanted to hate. He wanted to force himself to rise, but his body no longer belonged to him. It obeyed another's will, not his own.

And the worst part was realizing that he no longer knew who he was.

Meanwhile, Tukal's gaze shifted lazily to the sword lying in the dust. He did not rush. There was no triumphant scorn in his movements, only the relaxed certainty of a predator already sated.

Calmly, with the ease that belonged only to victors, he stepped forward and picked up the weapon.

Bahadur's saber.

The blade was heavy, steeped in the sweat and blood of past battles. Its hilt still held the warmth of its fallen master's grip. But now, this sword no longer belonged to him.

Bahadur heard the scrape of the blade leaving the ground. His sword. Just a minute ago, it had been an extension of his hand, a part of himself. And now, it was in another's grasp.

Tukal ran his fingers along the edge, as if weighing it not as a weapon, but as a symbol. As the essence of Bahadur himself - something that had just been taken away.

And Bahadur simply lay there.

He could have screamed. He could have spat out a final curse. But he did nothing.

He knew the steppe had already forgotten him.

Tukal slowly raised his head and looked at the warriors before him. Not all of them - only the best. The ones closest to power and the ones who knew what it meant to hold it. The Personal Guard. The men who understood what it meant to serve a khan.

His gaze settled on the deputy, Shir-Arystan.

The silence grew denser, as if the steppe had once again held its breath.

Shir-Arystan, watching this moment unfold, showed neither surprise nor doubt. He did not rejoice in Bahadur's fall, nor did he mourn it. His gaze remained cold and sharp, like that of a warrior who could see which way the wind of change was blowing.

- You are now the blade of the Horde, - Tukal said, holding the sword horizontally, hilt-first. - Will you take it, or will you follow the old man?

Shir-Arystan did not answer immediately. There was no hesitation in his eyes, but neither was there relief. He had served Bahadur for many years, knew his strengths and weaknesses. Once, he had followed him not out of obligation, but out of respect. But at this moment, he no longer saw the warrior he had once followed. He saw a man whose name no longer meant anything.

He was not sentimental. He knew the steppe and its laws.

Bahadur had been a great warrior - but his time was over.

He looked at Tukal. This man had not just won - he had denied his enemy even an honorable death. He knew how to break a man, but he also knew when to stop. This was not blind cruelty - it was cold, calculated strength. The kind that would drive the Horde forward.

Slowly, without fear or submission, Shir-Arystan stepped forward, knelt on one knee, and reached for the sword.

- My place is where strength is, khan. I am your blade

With these words, Shir-Arystan did not simply acknowledge Tukal - he cemented the inevitable. He was no longer just a warrior. He was now the first to stand between the khan and any threat. But not as a servant. Not as a chained dog waiting for its master's command. As a guardian. As a weapon that decided for itself who was worthy to wield it.

For him, this moment was neither a tragedy nor a betrayal. It was the shift in the wind that predators sense before others. He had respected Bahadur. But Bahadur had lost. His time was over.

In the steppe, there were no "loyalists" or "traitors." There were only the strong and the fallen.

And Shir-Arystan had no intention of falling.

He looked at Tukal, not with submission, but with understanding. This man had taken power so completely that it could no longer be taken from him. He had not finished off Bahadur because there was no need. He did not demand oaths because only the weak needed vows.

This was strength that no longer required proof.

And now, his sword belonged to it.

The warriors gathered around watched this spectacle of power with keen attention. Their gazes held both the pain of losing the old world and the realization that the new order had not just arrived - it had been solidified. Bahadur had been defeated. But he had not been killed.

For some, it was humiliating - to leave the vanquished alive, to let him breathe after his defeat. For others, it was a lesson. Now, no one would see him as a martyr. No one would sing of his heroic death.

He had not become a symbol of defiance. He had become a living reminder of what happened to those who stood against the khan and lost.

Tukal stood alone on the dust-covered battlefield of the Horde. Not as a warrior. Not as a killer. As the one who decided fates. And no one had the right to object. His choice was not up for debate. His power needed no words. Now, it was undeniable.

Silence hung in the air. No one doubted anymore. Those who had hesitated yesterday no longer had a choice.

- The Horde has seen who is fit to rule, - he said. - I do not ask for loyalty. I take it

His words were quiet. But the steppe already knew them. They sank into the dust beneath hooves, dissolved into the breath of the horses, passed through the eyes of the warriors.

And no one asked anymore whose voice ruled now.

The air still trembled with fading tension, but it was no longer the fear of battle. It was the stillness with which the steppe greets a new day - a day where the old world no longer exists.

The elders stood apart, their gazes shifting between Tukal, Bahadur sprawled in the dust, and the silent warriors whose postures changed ever so slightly - just a moment ago rigid with tension, now they seemed to be seeking a comfortable place in a new reality.

The first to speak was Zhangar-Bulat, elder of the Uisun clan, tall and gaunt, his face etched with deep wrinkles. He slowly ran a finger through his gray beard, as if checking whether his wisdom had crumbled over time.

- Thirty years, - Zhangar-Bulat murmured, as if tasting the words. - Thirty years since I last saw this. Back then, it was another khan who took power with the sword, not through bloodlines. And back then, I said: "The Horde will not forget." And today, I say the same

He turned his gaze to Tukal.

- This one will not be forgotten

Beside him stood Senior Bek Kurban-Asar - a broad-shouldered old warrior with a shaggy beard and hands just as accustomed to gripping reins as they were to holding a sword. He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

- We always say the steppe does not love change. But the steppe always changes, and we follow it

- Some follow, - murmured Tukhtar-Baga, head of a noble clan, - while others remain in the dust

- Bahadur remained, - said one of the nearby sotniks.

- Bahadur did not remain, - Zhangar-Bulat shook his head. - Bahadur fell, but he did not vanish. Someone will remember him when they wish to test the khan's strength

Kurban-Asar ran his fingers over the guard of his sword in silence, as if tracing an old scar.

- They will test him again, - he finally said, with no hint of doubt in his voice. - But the khan did not give them a martyr. He gave them something that lasts longer than memory. He gave them fear

The elders exchanged glances. Subash-Kutlug, the eldest among them, whose face was as hard as dried steppe clay, was not looking at Tukal but at the banner in Jalal's hands.

- This day will be remembered, - he finally said. - The question is, will they remember it as the birth of a new khan... or as the day the steppe trembled for the first time?

Tukhtar-Baga narrowed his eyes slightly.

- Is there a difference?

Subash-Kutlug slowly ran his hand over his gray beard, as if weighing the future at his fingertips, then looked at Tukal again.

- There is always a difference. But you can only understand it not today, but on the day that follows

The Horde already knew that power belonged to Tukal, but the final word always belonged to those who tested the strength of a new khan first. And Targul-Arystan stepped forward, holding the reins of the Khan's horse, yet he did not hurry to hand them over.

He lazily shifted the leather straps from palm to palm, squinting appraisingly - not like a wolf ready to submit to its leader, but like an old beast deciding whether the newcomer was worth acknowledging. In his eyes was something more than just respect.

- Well, khan, - his voice was hoarse, steeped in winds and the smoke of steppe fires. - Now we just have to see if you're on the horse, or if the horse is on you

The crowd chuckled. Some grinned in approval, while others tensed, awaiting a response. Targul was not provoking, nor was he groveling. He simply spoke his mind - as always.

Tukal did not answer. He simply extended his hand, and Targul, without hesitation, placed the reins in his palm.

- Fine, - he grunted, inclining his head slightly. - A khan like this - only forward

The words were not submission, but a statement. A fact that would now have to be lived with.

With a single motion, Tukal vaulted into the saddle. The horse shuddered, sensing the strength of its new rider, but immediately yielded. Its muscles tensed, as if the steppe itself was preparing to surge forward.

He sat straight, slowly surveying the warriors.

This was not just the Horde.

This was his army.

His will.

The first thing he would do was solidify his power. Harshly, without mercy, without hesitation. The old ways would fall, replaced by new ones - his laws, his order. He would reorganize the army, train his men in new tactics, blending them with everything he knew.

The first step - the Steppe.

To the west, stretching from the shores of the Black Sea to the Pontic steppes, lay his Horde - the Horde of Tukal-Bey. But this power was still fresh; it had to be cemented with swords and oaths. Beyond the rivers, the encampments, and the crossroads of ancient roads, began the lands of those who could become either enemies or the conquered.

To the east, along the Volga, stood the Horde of Toksoba. Its warriors were resilient, its cavalry swift, but its leaders lacked unity. They tore at each other with disputes and bloody skirmishes, fighting over who would bear the banner. While they bickered over power, their Horde remained weak.

To the north, in the bend of the Don, ruled Khan Syrchan. He was cautious and cunning but hesitant. The Middle-Don Horde under his command still listened to the winds, waiting to see where they would turn. His people would not die for him - but they might kneel before the one who could offer them strength and spoils.

Further, beyond the rolling steppe hills, in the upper reaches of the Seversky Donets, still held on Sharukan the Elder. Frail but unbroken, he remembered the times when the Polovtsians ruled unchallenged. His North-Donets Horde preserved the ancient traditions, and his name was still spoken with respect. He was one who could become either an ally - or the last enemy before the unification of the Steppe.

But among all these rulers, it was Kirchan who wavered. His power was already cracking, his people restless, scanning the horizon for a new khan. A single push - and he would fall. His Horde would become part of Tukal's strength.

And this would be only the beginning.

Then - Rus'.

He had heard that blood had just been spilled there. Princes were dead. Power balanced on the edge of a sword, and a young boy named Alexander was ascending the throne.

He would be the first to learn what the Horde's footsteps meant upon his land.

Rus' would become their granary, just as it once became Batu's spoils. But he would go further.

Further than Batu.

Further, further, further - until the whole world lay beneath the hooves of his horses.

The wind carried the banner with its horse-tail streamers across the steppe, its silver rings gleaming in the sunlight.

Tukal-Bey tightened the reins.

- Forward

And the steppe roared.

***

Thanks to everyone who reads,

Next, starting with Chapter 27, we return to Kievan Rus'.

In Chapter 27, Sophia strolls through Yaroslav the Wise's gardens, becoming acquainted with Rus culture. She is accompanied by Anna Monomakhina, the widow of Vsevolod, who has arrived at court. Meanwhile, Alexander inspects St. Sophia Cathedral in preparation for the ceremony, while Nikodim discusses with him and the boyars their roles in the coronation and their places in the ceremonial order. At the same time, Polish and Hungarian delegations arrive in Kyiv, along with Khan Tugorkan.

In Chapter 28, Alexander will visit the kitchens of Rus', providing a detailed look at what was eaten in the 11th century, which spices were available, how food was prepared, and under what conditions cooks worked. It is here that Alexander will introduce his first small reforms concerning household management and supply chains.

The next chapter about Tukal will be titled "The Young Falcon Against the Old Serpent" - the beginning of his Horde's expansion into neighboring lands. War in the steppe is not always decided by swords alone - Tukal will use every method available to future great commanders. Not all khans were strategists, but Tukal will become the embodiment of one - a young, intelligent, and powerful man forging a new order.