It was about time. Norjin braced himself.

  Light footsteps approached, and with a burst of cold air—

  “I’m heeere!”

  Ilha burst into the tent.

  Norjin rubbed his forehead with one hand. It was fine. Today would be fine. He’d taken precautions.

  “Ilha, it’s freezing. Come in properly,” the old woman said, ushering her inside.

  “Grandma, aren’t you going to the healer today?” Ilha was brimming with energy. She clearly had something planned.

  The old woman glanced at Norjin.“I was thinking about it.”

  “Then go on,” Ilha said brightly. “I’ll watch him for you. Right, donut boy?”

  “Donut… boy?” the old woman repeated, frowning.

  “Ah—sorry for keeping you,” Norjin cut in quickly. “Ilha, get her cloak for her.”

  “Okaaay!”

  Ilha grabbed the old woman’s cloak and draped it over her shoulders, then lifted the tent flap and practically pushed her out.“Take your time!”

  Once the old woman was gone, Ilha slowly turned back toward Norjin.

  “Heh. ”She lifted her chin, planted her hands on her hips, and stared at him.

  Backing down now would damage his dignity as an adult. Norjin carefully arranged his face into a blank expression.

  Still with her hands on her hips, Ilha exaggeratedly swayed her hips as she approached the bed.

  Norjin narrowed his eyes and let out a low groan. Who on earth had taught her to walk like that?

  He ignored her and lowered his gaze to the book in his hands.

  “So,” she said.

  “What.”

  “I was thinking, you know.”

  “About what.”

  Suddenly, bang—her hand slapped down on top of his book.

  “Listen to me!” Keeping one hand on her hip, she leaned in close and glared at him.

  Norjin sighed.

  He straightened the knee he had propped up. The book lost its support and tipped, and Ila—who had been leaning her weight on it—went with it.

  “Wha—!”

  She toppled backward with a yelp and landed flat on her back.

  “No way—”

  The face that had been right in front of her was gone, replaced by the tent ceiling.

  Norjin reached out and pulled her up by the hand.

  “Why?” she protested, on the verge of tears. “Why does nothing ever go the way I want?”

  “Don’t underestimate adults.”

  “I can’t help it if I like you!”

  Norjin sighed again.

  Ilha was precocious, but she hadn’t lost a child’s blunt honesty. He could crush her feelings hard enough to make her give up—but he had no wish to be the first man to wound her that way.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Ilha.”

  She blinked up at him, startled.

  “Not donut boy,” he said. “Norjin.”

  At this point, it was unavoidable. At the very least, he had to stop her from calling him that in front of Zaya.

  “Norjin,” Ilha repeated.

  “Norjin.”She said it again, clearly delighted just to know his name.

  “Hey, hey, Norjin—”This needed to stop soon.

  “You had an idea, didn’t you?”

  Norjin propped his knee up again and reopened his book.

  Ilha plopped down beside the bed, rested her elbow on it, clasped her fingers together, and set her chin on top.

  “So, basically—”There was nothing in their conversation that could possibly be summarized, but Norjin bit back a laugh.

  Ilha continued, “I’m not allowed because I’m a kid, right? Which means once I’m an adult, it’s fine. Right? That’s how it works.”

  “…Yeah,” he said. “Once you’re an adult.”

  “Hehehe. Ehehehehe.”

  Ilha started giggling to herself.

  Norjin had no idea what she found so funny.

  It was ruin.

  Taghray felt as though he had begun to wish for ruin itself rather than salvation. In the darkness of ruin, two false comforts—relief and resignation—seemed to shimmer faintly, draped in the thin garment of hope.

  He stepped forward before Boraqchin’s throne. The queen greeted him with a gentle smile.

  Ruin, he thought. I’m heading for ruin. Cold sweat traced a line down his back.

  “Taghray, thank you for coming despite how busy you are,” Boraqchin said.

  “Not at all,” he replied. “It is I who should apologize for the delay in my reports.”

  His own voice sounded distant to him—calm, composed, as if it belonged to someone else. He should have been flustered, barely able to speak. Instead, the words came smoothly.

  “That’s quite all right,” Boraqchin said lightly. “I can hardly bring myself to look at stacks of documents right now. Still, I do need to know—where are you considering for the summer pastures and winter quarters during the western campaign? Just a general idea will do. After all, we’ll be following at a slower pace. Things tend to work out somehow.”

  “Yes,” Taghray answered. “For summer pastures, there are several options, but if the entire force is to remain together, the plains along the Danube would be most suitable. As for winter quarters, it would be best to disperse along the lower Volga and the northern shores of the Caspian Sea. Snowfall is relatively light there, and the rivers do not freeze completely.”

  The words flowed without effort. Boraqchin listened with a pleased expression while a scribe beside her took notes.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That helps greatly.”

  “You honor me,” Taghray replied, bowing deeply.

  I made it through. The sense of ruin retreated a step, and the tension drained from his body.

  He bowed once more and withdrew.

  Then he noticed Zaya.

  She was watching him with open concern. As he pushed his way through the women and children gathered nearby, the world around him blurred, leaving only her in sharp focus.

  “Zaya.”

  Taghray wrapped his arms around her.

  Still holding her, he took several deep breaths. Gradually, his pulse slowed. Zaya shifted uneasily in his embrace.

  “Hey—Taghray, stop. Let go,” she protested, trying to push him away.

  His senses returned all at once. The murmur of the crowd rushed back in.

  “Oh my.” “So it’s finally happened.” “How wonderful.”

  The voices reached him clearly now.

  Zaya finally wrenched herself free.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, cheeks flushed. “Here, of all places?”

  “I’m sorry,” Taghray said, embarrassed. “Seeing your face just now—I suddenly lost all strength.”

  That familiar, charming dimple appeared in his left cheek.

  Nearby, one of Boraqchin’s attendants leaned in to whisper something.

  “My, Taghray?” Boraqchin asked, studying her face. The attendant was smiling brightly, clearly delighted by what she had seen.

  “We’ll have to hurry the embroidery for the bridal garments,” Boraqchin said, unable to hide her pleasure. “Oh dear, what shall we do?”

  Apologizing repeatedly to Zaya, Taghray left the queen’s tent. The moment he stepped outside, his chest tightened. His pulse quickened. As he walked, his workplace tent came into view, and his steps grew heavy. The light faded from his eyes.

  A maid from Boraqchin’s household soon appeared at Batu’s great tent, smiling as she delivered the news—that Zaya had chosen Taghray.

  Batu received it with surprise.

  It wasn’t that Taghray was lacking. He was loyal, capable, and someone Batu himself relied upon. A man difficult to replace, with a respectable lineage. Even so, Batu had wondered whether Taghray might be… insufficient for Zaya.

  He ordered a servant to bring him the document chest and searched through the letters.

  What had Yelü Chucai and Sorghaghtani written again?

  He unfolded one letter and paused at a name.

  “Norjin,” he murmured. “Yes—Norjin.”

  He felt a twinge of regret toward Yelü Chucai and Sorghaghtani, but even they had not pressed the matter insistently. He had replied that the decision would ultimately rest with his daughter.

  “So. Taghray, then.”

  Batu’s feelings were complicated.

  And then he realized something else.

  Reports on the western cities—Taghray’s reports—had yet to arrive.