Chapter 8 – After the Fire, Before the Storm

The fires had long died down, but the ash lingered.

In the wind-worn hollows of the Khanor Steppe, Altai's tribe had built a circle of stone and song for the mourning. Black wool strips fluttered from the Sky-Pole in the center of camp, whispering names of the lost with every breeze. The ritual had lasted eight days and eight nights. No devices were worn. No weapons were drawn. Even the Shagai Steeds stood still, as if mourning beside their human kin.

Khangai, the tribe's Champion and Chieftain—one of the few living holders of the Two Flames—stood in silence, surrounded by the stone circle carved with the names of the dead. His once-proud armor bore scratches still uncleaned. A long gash ran down his left pauldron—where a Zhongyan plasma spear had grazed him during the retreat. He never spoke of it. But he winced when lifting a heavy pot or raising his blade in training.

That morning, the council had gathered in the wind-sheltered elder tent. A circle of ten, not including Khangai, had taken their places. There were the elders—white-haired, wiry as dry grass—and a few younger voices recently elevated after the strike. One of them, Orkh, had lost both his siblings in the ambush.

The scent of boiled juniper and fermented goat milk curled through the tent. Outside, the tribe moved quietly. Children trained with their bows. Hunters inspected their pulse-knives and arrowheads. The people had endured—but only just.

Then the flap parted. A tall figure cloaked in icy blue stepped into the tent, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff shaped like twined antlers and moss. His beard trailed down like braided lichen, and his eyes glinted like old jade.

"Sharnuud the Mosswalker," Khangai said with calm respect. "You return."

"I never left," said Sharnuud, voice creaking like snow-packed bark. "I only waited for silence to do its work. Now the air is clear, and the ancestors are listening again."

He was a Dream-Seer and the envoy of the Nogoon Tsas—the small northern tribe who dwelled in the snowy ridges where even signals from satellites broke like glass in the wind. He had stood beside them during the Zhongyan strike, and though he never raised a weapon, the sight of him chanting amid the flames had unnerved even the youngest warriors.

"You spoke once of visions," said one of the elders, eyes narrowed. "Unity rising like a dawn from blood-soaked grass."

Sharnuud nodded. "Our Dream-Seekers saw a fire. And then thirteen riders. From the fire's edge, one tribe would rise with another braided into its saddle. If they merged, the storm could be endured."

"And if they don't?" asked Orkh bitterly.

"Then the steppe will burn in silence. One patch at a time."

A hush fell over the tent.

Khangai looked at the elder. "The Mosswalker speaks not in prophecy, but in pattern. The Zhongyan came not because they found our camp—but because they learned to pierce the old tech veils. The camouflage faltered. Not failed, but shimmered. It means more will come."

"We have no Champion fit to replace you," muttered Orkh. "Not yet."

Khangai let the silence stand.

Then he turned to Sharnuud. "You seek what? Full alliance? Integration? Or merely sanctuary?"

The old man tapped his staff. "We are too small to ride alone. But we bring knowledge—of ice forging, mountain thermals, and code-prayers that still turn machines blind. You hold warriors and horses. We hold frost and silence. Let us braid our strengths."

Another elder leaned forward. "And if you betray us later?"

"I'll die before that," said Sharnuud. "And you know it."

Khangai stood, his height shadowing the tent's curved walls. "I will take your request to the people. The decision of union belongs not to the Champion alone—but to all who ride beneath the Sky-Pole."

The council murmured their assent.

Sharnuud bowed with ritual precision, then turned to leave—but before stepping out, he spoke one last time.

"There are things rising in the east that no sword will stop. Only unity, born of will, can stand. No chosen bloodline. No fire from the gods. Just resolve."

As he vanished into the sun-cracked winds, the elders sat still.

Khangai stepped back, hand brushing the scar on his pauldron. Then he whispered the ancient phrase passed only to the Two Flames:

"The flame that burns alone… dies in its own smoke."

Outside, Altai helped a child from the northern tribe string a training bow. A small act. But in the shadow of fire, small acts were how new fires began.