Batu thought simply, but to raze every city in the path of advance and rely solely on plunder was no longer a meaningful strategy now that the Jochid Ulus had grown so vast. In earlier times, war could begin during the slack season for grazing: raid, plunder, then overwinter. After winter, grazing would resume, and in the meantime the plundered regions would recover. By the time the grass ran thin again, another round of raiding would be possible. That cycle may once have worked.

  But the times had changed.

  Without securing regular tax revenue from conquered lands and allowing both sides to develop, it was impossible to sustain a swelling population or govern a state.

  Batu was young, and the people of the House of Jochi were, by and large, rational thinkers. They did not regard indiscriminate plunder and slaughter as virtues. When carrying out a mandate, they sought to maximize profit.

  In the western campaign, cities that submitted would be spared; those that resisted would be destroyed. The destruction would be thorough, meant as a warning, to lower the cost of future invasions. Determining which cities to preserve and which to annihilate was the task Batu had assigned to Taghray.

  Calculating sunk costs, post-conquest administration, tax rates by city, systems of collection—the more Taghray thought, the more his reasoning began to circle in place. At some point, meaningless shapes began to multiply on the paper where he had written down the names of cities.

  “May I have a moment?”

  At his subordinate’s voice, Taghray looked up sharply.

  “About the candidate sites for summer grazing and winter quarters during the campaign—”

  “Oh. You’ve finished? Let me see.” Taghray pressed his fingers to his temples and rubbed as he reached for the papers.

  “No, um—actually, I wanted to ask which areas you were envisioning.”

  For a moment, Taghray’s vision went dark. He shook his head, forcing clarity back. Calm down. No one is competent from the start. You have to teach them.

  “What do you think? If you consider our army’s rate of advance so far, you should be able to estimate how far we’ll get this summer—and from there, identify suitable land.”

  “Well… maybe…” The subordinate hesitated.

  “Go on. Being wrong isn’t the problem. What matters is that you think.”

  Encouraged, the man’s face brightened.

  “Kyiv, perhaps?”

  Taghray’s mind failed to process the answer and froze again. Where, in a great city like Kyiv, did he think pasture for hundreds of thousands of sheep would grow?

  Before Taghray could respond, another document was placed on his desk.

  “The final breakdown of the army at departure. Ten thousand in total, confirmed,” said the clerk, before moving on to distribute more papers.

  Another clerk approached.

  “Um—Lord Batu is asking when the report will be ready.”

  Taghray’s heart began to pound. His thoughts were nowhere near organized enough to commit to a report. Normally, he would already have sent one.

  “Tell Lord Batu to wait. I’ll inform him shortly. And you—”

  He turned to his subordinate.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “This part is done. Now that the total force is confirmed, calculate the expected number of livestock and tents, and determine the area of pasture required.”

  “Understood.” The subordinate, looking uneasy, took the papers and returned to his seat.

  More work, again.

  Taghray bent fiercely over his documents.

  Norjin had finally managed to walk a few steps. Still, he couldn’t remain standing for even a minute. A servant had brought him a persimmon-dyed, padded deel, but it clashed with his bright navy sash. If only the sash leaned a bit more toward blue-violet, it would look better.

  Sitting on the bed, spreading the deel out and testing it against the sash, Norjin was teased by Zaya.

  “It doesn’t matter what you wear. The only thing that matters is whether you’re warm.”

  She said it flatly as she sorted fletching.

  “You don’t get it,” Norjin replied. “What you wear decides the first impression you make. Why lose on the opening move?”

  He was wrapped in fur over his underclothes, unwashed, his beard showing. The lecture had no credibility at all, and Zaya burst out laughing.

  “That’s true. Right now you could be a bear or a man—I can’t tell.”

  “Hey—”

  “Eshau said it too,” the old woman remarked, pausing her sewing. “You two really are amusing. You’re perfectly in sync—like a couple that’s been together for years.”

  In her hands was the deep indigo deel Norjin had worn that day, freshly washed, its white piping at the collar almost glowing. Eshau had recovered it from the abandoned temple while mopping up remnants afterward. Mingying’s belongings and the rest had all been handed over to Boraqchin. Eshau had suggested Norjin choose a keepsake, but he had refused. It was better to leave nothing behind. Good memories and bad alike—he had more than enough.

  “Norjin, lie down. At this rate, you’ll never leave if you don’t take care of yourself,” Zaya said, folding the deel and sash and urging him back.

  “You don’t really intend to throw him out anyway,” the old woman sighed.

  Zaya couldn’t argue and returned to sorting fletching with unnecessary intensity. Norjin watched her as though he could see straight through her thoughts.

  Snow must have fallen overnight. The ground looked pale, though nothing had accumulated; it was the frost on earth and dead grass that made it so.

  Zaya counted the bundles of fletching again, wrapped them in felt, and tied them tightly. Weapon production was moving at full speed. From early morning, the smiths’ hammers rang as they forged arrowheads and swords.

  Norjin was improving day by day, but lacking strength in his abdomen, he still spent most of his time on the bed. At least he no longer required constant care.

  Before opening the tent, Zaya glanced back at him. He waved lightly, as if to say go on. Today she would again bring the bundled fletching to Boraqchin’s tent and help her.

  Boraqchin’s pavilion was smaller than Batu’s great tent, but as the queen’s, it was the second largest in the ulus. Lately it had been overflowing with people. Women and children busied themselves making weapons and armor, or sewing small pouches of portable rations for the men. By day they prepared for the western campaign; by night, they stitched charms into deels and armor, praying for the safe return of their loved ones.

  Zaya worked alongside Boraqchin, and when she left, her foster mother handed her a leather bag layered thick with felt, filled with warm food. Holding the lingering warmth, Zaya stepped outside. The sun had not yet fully set, but the sky hung low and heavy. It might snow again tomorrow, she thought.

  Then she noticed a figure near the entrance of Taghray’s tent and slowly approached.

  The figure was sitting on the ground, arms resting on raised knees, head bowed. No hat. His head unshaven.

  Taghray.

  Zaya hurried over.

  “What are you doing, Taghray?”

  He lifted his head.

  “Zaya. I was cooling my head. I can’t get my thoughts together.”

  She grabbed his arm to pull him up. His body was cold through. Quickly she took off her cloak, draped it over him, and guided him into the tent.

  Inside, it was empty. Everyone must have gone home. Taghray staggered back to his desk. Papers were piled not only on it, but all around. Zaya went to the corner with the brazier, filled a pot with water, and set it to boil.

  She returned with strong tea. Taghray sat slumped, legs sprawled, barely perched on the chair. He leaned fully back, the collar of his loosened deel exposing his neck, Adam’s apple sharp. Stubble shadowed his jaw, testifying to his exhaustion.

  “Drink. You need to warm up.”

  Taghray let out a groan.

  “Honestly…” Zaya muttered, stepping closer.

  He shifted, then reached out and pulled her into an embrace.

  “Zaya. Zaya.”

  Like a child, he buried his face in her chest and called her name. How much had he suffered to reach this state?

  Zaya stroked his head.

  “Zaya.”

  He inhaled her scent, lifted his face, and looked at her. Desire surfaced plainly in his eyes.

  Zaya broke free, then ran from the tent..

  Zaya returned.

  Norjin looked up from his book. She wasn’t wearing the cloak she had left in. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Sorry. I’m just… tired. I want to sleep.”

  She curled up on the felt floor and pulled a fur over herself. The bundle of fur trembled violently from the cold.

  Norjin watched her in silence.

  A small note for those who enjoy the background details:I’ve started writing extra lore, character notes, and behind-the-scenes thoughts on my Patreon.Nothing essential to the main story, just things that didn’t fit into the chapters.

  If you’re curious, you can find it here:

  https://www.patreon.com/cw/EchoOrbit