Chapter 17: The Divorce

The words hung in the air like a blade suspended in time.

"Divorce."

The Great Khan sat frozen, the breath caught in his chest. He was still trying to grasp the weight of what had just happened when Enkmaa turned and walked away—proud, unshaken, unchallenged. Not even the Khan dared stop her.

A ripple moved through the crowd.

"Is that a divorce request?" someone whispered.

"The Wolfborn Horde is bold," came another murmur.

The Queen Mother's face drained of color. Without a word, she turned and stormed off to her yurt as if her head had been severed from her dignity.

Pema raised her voice gently but firmly. "The party is over. Thank you for attending."

"But it just began!" protested a guest.

Unmoved, Pema's eyes swept the compound, silencing dissent. Batu stood amidst the stunned silence, unable to feel the earth beneath his feet. The world around him twisted into something unreal. He turned and walked slowly to his yurt, every step heavier than the last.

Once inside, Batu collapsed to his knees. His body shook, tears welling in his eyes. He rubbed them like a lost child, searching for reason in the chaos. His hands trembled, but his heart knew what had to be done. He began to write the letter.

---

When Pema had finished dispersing the guests, she made her way to the Queen Mother's yurt. Inside, she found Amala sitting stiffly on her bed, lost in thought, her eyes blank with worry.

"Pema," she said in a low voice, "tell me the truth. Is Enkmaa... pitiful?"

Pema's eyes softened with painful honesty. "Princess, I would lie to comfort you. But there's no space left for lies."

She lowered her gaze. "Yes. She is."

Amala trembled. Her hands shook as tears filled her eyes.

"What have I done to the greatest warrior?" she whispered.

Pema sat beside her, steady and calm. "We are Tibetans, my lady. This land—the grasslands—we will never understand their ways and values.

"But here," Amala murmured, "a warrior should never become pitiful."

She broke down then, leaning into Pema's arms. "I should never have taken Chulun from her. I knew it would bring trouble—and it has, hasn't it?"

Pema didn't flinch. "Princess, you must not fall apart. Batu needs your strength. Poor boy, he never saw it coming."

Amala wiped her tears, nodding weakly. At that moment, Soyolma entered the yurt and bowed.

"Mother," she said gently, "this marriage can still be saved."

Amala looked up at her. "It's not your place to speak—"

"But Enkmaa welcomed me with open arms. She never once made me feel unwanted." Soyolma replied.

Pema cut in. "Then speak your mind."

Soyolma drew a breath. "Enkmaa is a warrior. She wasn't born to understand politics. But if Batu had only explained things to her, I believe she would have stood by him. She always has."

Something lit in Amala's eyes. She stood and took Soyolma's hands, pressing them warmly.

"Thank you, child," she said. Then, without another word, she left the yurt and made her way through the compound.

Not far from the central fire, the Queen Consort sat lazily with a cup of Arkhi in hand, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"I came expecting bloodshed," she muttered to herself.

"And yet… I wonder, if I asked for a divorce, would Batu react the same?"

---

Amala stepped into Batu's yurt to find him sealing a letter with trembling fingers.

"My dear," she said softly, "you still have a chance."

He looked up at her, eyes hollow.

"Go," she urged. "Go to her. She'll understand if you speak from your heart."

But Batu said nothing.

Amala stepped forward and placed his childhood cloak over his shoulders.

"You were born to carry the hopes of many. But if your knees shake, remember—I will be praying on mine."

He smiled faintly at her fierce tenderness.

Then, wordlessly, he called for Anu. The loyal steed galloped to his side. As he mounted, Amala called after him, half-teasing, half-worried:

"Batu, don't walk with numb legs—who knows when they'll break!"

He laughed softly. Then she added:

"Go. Go get your woman."

---

By the time Batu reached the capital, the sky had turned lavender, the wind humming with the quiet songs of the steppes.

He dismounted and ignored the Great Yurt.

Tonyukuk approached him. "Your Majesty, the elders have assembled."

Batu said nothing. He simply handed over the sealed letter. "Give this to my grandfather. If anyone can save my marriage, it's him."

---

The capital was too quiet. Enkmaa's horse grazed nearby, untethered, unmoving—like it, too, carried the sorrow of its rider.

The flap of Enkmaa's yurt swayed in the wind.

Inside, she sat cross-legged by the fire, a bowl of untouched tea in her hands. She didn't look up.

"Did you bring the children?" she asked, voice steady.

Batu stepped inside and knelt beside her—not as Khan, not as general—but as the man who once rode beside her.

"No," he said gently. "He didn't even stand."

She looked at him. Her eyes weren't angry, only tired—like stones worn smooth by rain.

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I saw the empire rise with your hands," he whispered. "You led, and I followed. I came not to plead, but to remind you: We saw. The grasslands saw."

Her lips quivered. "And will you tell Baigalma's son that his mother left with pride, not pain?"

"I will tell him," Batu said, "that his mother was the last to leave—and the first to build. That her silence taught more than war cries. And that the Great Khan ruled the world, but you ruled the hearts within it."

Her hand found his. Her voice cracked.

"Thank you, Batu. Not as Great Khan... but as her husband."

Batu broke. "Togtuun," he whispered, using her real name. "What's the matter?"

"I want to leave," she said, eyes wet.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No," she said, trembling. "But I can't stay. I've given too much. It's time I choose myself."

"We built this empire together," he said. "Will you not stand by me?"

She looked at him. "Did you ever leave me room to stand beside you? I stood in the shadows. I gave everything, Batu. You know what I lost."

"The queenship?" he asked softly.

"It was once. But not anymore."

"You told me you didn't care about it—only about my love."

"I was young and foolish," she said. "Now I am neither. And your love…"

"Yes?" he asked.

She smiled sadly. "The last time I saw you cry was when I gave birth to Gan."

"I cried every time," Batu admitted.

"That's because I always had hard labors," she teased, wiping his tears.

He opened his arms. She leaned into them. For a while, they forgot everything.

"You're still as beautiful," he whispered.

"You've always looked at me that way," she smiled.

They laughed together.

"Can you hold on for just a few more days?" he asked.

"I've waited years," she replied softly. "A few days is nothing."

She fell asleep in his arms. He carried her to bed, kissed her forehead, and murmured, staring into the flickering flames.

"I wanted to be a good Khan… but at what cost?"

When he rose and stepped outside, he knew the empire had lost a queen… but the steppes had regained a legend.

---

Back in the Great Yurt, the elders were in uproar.

"It's a taboo!" Dorvod spat.

"How dare she break it?"

"Royal women are meant to endure!" Elder Dzhambul barked.

"If this Wolfborn woman gets her divorce," Orlok warned, "it will shake the court and undo peace among the ten tribes."

But Batu stood at the door, silent and tall.

This was no longer just about a queen or a marriage.

It was about the future of the steppes—and the voice of a warrior woman who refused to be forgotten.