Chapter 10 – Smoke Beneath the Sky

The air smelled of ash and cold dew. Seruun blinked slowly, curled beneath layered blankets inside her family's travel ger. Outside, faint vibrations stirred through the ground — a soft, rolling rhythm that only came when the tribe was preparing to move.

She sat up. Her side still ached faintly from the shrapnel wound, wrapped tight with salve-soaked bandages. The healers had done well, but the pain lingered — a reminder of the night the sky itself roared down on them.

Pulling on her outer robe, Seruun stepped outside.

The sun had not yet broken over the low eastern hills, but already the camp was shifting. Dismantled yurts folded like giant flowers being closed by invisible hands. Robohorses snorted quietly, metal and muscle stirring in sync as handlers adjusted their tack. Carts and gear floated slightly above the earth, powered by old hovertech stitched with solar coils and hand-grown circuits.

The new location was a few days' journey north, near a shallow basin shielded by high ridges and layered mists. Not a permanent move, just another seasonal drift — though this time they would likely remain for half a year. Long enough to breathe. Long enough to hide. Maybe.

Seruun's gaze drifted across the horizon, past the shimmering folds of camo-screens and sensor-kites, to the figure standing by the central fire.

Old Sharnuud, the mosswalker, watched the sunrise alone.

He had not spoken much since the attack, though his presence remained like an old root — stubborn, quiet, ancient. He was still waiting. Waiting for the tribe's answer. For unity. For a dream his people had seen in smoke and bone. A dream about Altai. A dream about change.

Seruun turned and limped toward the Great Circle.

Inside the central council ger, the air was warmer, thick with the scent of spiced milk-tea and burning coal. Khangai sat at the central cushion, his right arm wrapped tight and bound across his chest. The tribe's champion — once a figure of impossible strength — now looked pale, his brow lined with fatigue he refused to show.

Beside him sat the elders, each swathed in layers of felt and leather. Their faces were etched with stories. Around them, two figures stood near the projection table: Enkhbayar, the silent man with a burn-scar across one eye, and Old Baiyal, his silver braid falling like a frozen river down his back.

The engineers.

Artisans in other cultures made jewelry, painted walls, designed city towers. But for the Khanori, artisans were lifeblood. They wove circuits into wool, carved lenses from bone, and embedded memory-threads into tent fabric. They made the tribe invisible — or at least, they used to.

"Something slipped," Baiyal was saying. "Their eyes shouldn't have pierced us. Not with the illusions active."

"They didn't see us with their eyes," murmured Enkhbayar. His voice, rarely heard, was rough like old leather. "They felt us through static. A gap. A weakness in our climate net."

Khangai leaned forward, wincing. "Explain it."

Baiyal sighed. "Our gers simulate terrain — visually and climatically. Mists, thermal balance, motion shadows — everything is mirrored. But when the last update ran, one of the older emitters flickered. A pulse. Brief. But enough."

"And they followed it," another elder grunted. "Bloodthirsty dogs."

"No," Baiyal corrected. "They didn't follow it. They recorded the pulse and traced the pattern. Someone in their systems noticed the flicker was human-made. And then they sent machines to triangulate."

There was silence.

"These are not hunting beasts," Khangai said finally. "They are machines bred to erase. How do we adapt?"

Enkhbayar approached the map, pulling up a rendering of the camo-web.

"We build new layers. Not just mimic terrain — become it. We weave synthetic climate simulators directly into the yurts. Real heat flux, real wind-shifts, false echoes of life signs. We make them think we are wind, not people."

"And the warriors?" asked another elder. "Will they walk naked while our homes vanish?"

Baiyal shook his head. "The gear must change too. Adaptive cloaks, pulse-disruptors, heartbeat dampeners. Old things we tested before, never fully made. Now we must."

"But it will take time," Enkhbayar added. "And resources. And the gers must move slower."

Khangai nodded. "Then we give you that time. We will not move for six moons."

A beat passed. Then another voice spoke — sharp but calm.

"And what of the alliance?" It was the youngest elder, a woman named Khujir, who had fought beside Khangai when they were young. "The Mosswalker waits."

"We owe him our answer," Khangai said quietly. "But I will not answer until our people breathe safely."

Later that evening, the camp pulsed with quiet movement.

Altai walked the edge of the new site, fingers trailing the dried leaves of a wind-catcher net. The land was steep here, tucked beneath craggy ridges, perfect for scattering signals. But nothing felt secure anymore.

He passed Seruun near the engineers' tent. She gave him a small nod, face calm, though her arm still bore healing bruises. In her eyes he saw what he felt — that restless need to do something.

"Did they decide?" she asked.

"They will improve the yurts," he said. "Make them disappear deeper."

"And us?"

Altai turned his gaze to the stars. "We train. We wait. And we remember