Chapter 19: The Wolf’s Return

The scouts of the Wolfborn Horde rode like wind and thunder, their formation tight, their eyes sharp. But today, they weren't escorting a soldier or a guest. No—today, they welcomed their storm.

Enkmaa.

To the world, she had left her marriage in silence. But to the Wolfborn Horde, she was no divorced woman. She was a war princess returning from exile.

And they honored her as such.

Villagers gathered by the roadside, kneeling without command. They bowed to her not just because she was noble—but because they remembered. They remembered the famines she ended, the alliances she forged, the times her mind and might had kept the empire from ruin. If Ordu-Baliq still stood, it was only because she had held it up.

The moment her boots touched Wolfborn soil, a war drum thundered—pounded by the old warrior Naidvar herself. The sound roared like a jaguar's growl across the mountains.

From elders to children, all bowed their heads as she passed. None dared meet her gaze. Not out of fear—but out of reverence.

She felt it in her bones: This was home. This was pride.

Her father stepped forward, his voice clear and commanding. "Let it be known," he said, raising his hands to the skies, "and written in the songs of our ancestors—that only Wolfborn women have the courage to divorce kings. For it is only our women who bring real men into this world."

The crowd roared, as though those were the very words they had waited to hear.

"Let no one whisper," he continued, "that my daughter, your princess, was pitiful in Ordu-Baliq. No—she was never pitiful. She was a storm held back by duty, by love, by a crown she chose to carry. The world saw her sorrow but forgot her blood. She may have wept—but wolves do not cry from weakness. They cry before the hunt."

And what a hunt she had begun.

She had not given the empire a son "soon enough."

Instead, she gave the tribes a legend.

Her daughter—the tall, masked vigilante who rode like wind and struck like vengeance—was the living answer to every insult, every humiliation, every time Batu chose someone else.

She did not sit on a throne, yet people obeyed her.

Her bow whispered justice. Her presence roared:

"You may shame a queen, but never her bloodline. For ours runs with honor and dignity."

So no—Enkmaa was never pitiful.

The world had simply underestimated her.

And the daughter she raised would make them remember.

When they did, the only name they would dare utter was:

"Wolfborn Horde."

The crowd chanted. The valley echoed. A celebration burst forth, wild and fierce, as though the Horde had just won its greatest war.

But no—it was not war they celebrated.

It was the return of their fiercest war monger.

---

Amid the drums and feasting, a hush fell. The Iron Herd Tribe had arrived. Their presence stiffened the air, and hands drifted to weapons. But then came a voice—steady and proud.

"O brothers and sisters in arms," it called. "We come in peace."

The speaker stepped forward.

Khan Tömörjin.

"The past is dust," he declared. "Let us cast aside grudges and raise our cups—for the Jaguar of the Wolfborn Horde has returned."

An old warrior growled from the crowd. "She is no man's jaguar. But her parents'. She is the daughter of flame. To the Wolfborn, she is the wolf."

Enkmaa stood tall. "Tömörjin," she said with a smile, "my old fiancé. You didn't attend my wedding, but here you are at my divorce."

Tömörjin shrugged, unbothered. "So what? I came to see you happy."

---

Back in Ordu-Baliq, whispers multiplied like flies to meat. Some pitied her. Others mocked her. Yet among the storm of tongues, one voice stood still as a mountain.

The Queen Mother.

With eyes sharpened by decades of power, she saw no disgrace—only devotion. She remembered how Enkmaa had nursed the heir when no one else would. How she had soothed him with songs and stories, with a warmth no palace tutor could offer.

In front of the royal council, the Queen Mother spoke:

"Enkmaa is no discarded wife, no shadowed servant. She is my sister in strength and in spirit."

From that day, Enkmaa's place was secured beside her—as Royal Aunt. Her name was restored. Her dignity, untouchable.

---

As for Batu, he withered quietly. He told himself lies to survive.

"The greatest love is when you let go of what you love most."

And so he claimed he had the greatest love of all.

Bolorma, who thought herself now equal to Enkmaa, looked at her crown and felt only hollowness. She had won the throne—but not the people.

---

Time, like a seasoned wolf, moved forward, but the name Enkmaa still echoed through the tribes…

Five Years Later

Time, like an old wolf circling the steppes, moved on—but Enkmaa's name remained carved into the bones of the earth and the breath of her people. No longer just the woman who walked away from a marriage—she became the symbol of what it meant to walk back into oneself.

She was no longer whispered about as a divorced woman, but spoken of as the Royal Aunt, the Jaguar of the Horde, and the Storm of Ordu-Baliq. Where others saw shame, she gave the world pride. Where others offered pity, she taught them to bow.

The masked daughter she raised became more than a vigilante—she became a living myth. Villagers said her arrows never missed. Enemies said they never saw her coming. And the people? They said nothing at all—only bowed, like they had done for her mother.

Batu, now an emperor aging before his time, sat in palaces lined with gold but wrapped himself in silence.

"The greatest love," he told himself, "is letting go of what the soul holds dearest."

But no poem could console him. No crown could erase regret.

Bolorma, once triumphant in her rivalry, now found her victories tasteless. She had the seat, but not the spirit. She bore the title, but not the people's trust.

And Enkmaa?

She rode with silver in her hair and laughter in her lungs. Not bitter. Not broken.

But reborn.

And when the wind howled across the mountains, the children would say—

"That's not wind. That's the Wolfborn Horde remembering their queen."