Khatar rests, eyes trained upon the stars above him. They are not the same glowing lights he knew once. Constellations in the sky are new, and must be mapped. It is a venture he will not take.

He flicks a short ear at his name called upon by Batu. The dark wolf rises, tail flicking lazily and rising to meet Batu and Oyun.

The khaan to be explains his plans and while the umber prince understands, it hardens his face. His brow becomes stern and he allows it to sit within him. It is uncomfortable and ugly and he is not sure which to sacrifice first: the honor of being a man of the steppes, knowing he cannot be as harsh as the plains that raised them? Or gentleness, and become who mother and father wished for him to always be. Like Jochi. A ghost that would remain in every tale woven by Alukhai.

The warriors who oppose us will not be given mercy upon a battlefield, he agrees. There is some understanding for anyone that takes up the sword that they are compliant in devastation; of family, of culture, of life itself. There is even responsibility that lay on the shoulders of royalty who never leave their gilded palace, commanding those they deemed beneath them to sacrifice a wake of bodies in their stead. He thinks of Shēnléi. He thinks of the empress. But Khatar still hones a golden heart and thinks of Tatsuhime and those of the kingdom that are innocent.

We should sway the hearts and minds to us and grow alliances where we can. Inspire trust and repay it. Take any children left behind and raise them as one of us. Do not lead others to believe we are the barbarians they already call us.

Concerns stew in the back of Khatar’s churning mind. The Emperor and Empress are due to journey with royal counsel any day now and he wonders how many allies they will gain along the way.

Batu is correct in that regard. Satriya could never be an ally, not when they value gold, sapphire and exotic wines from afar more than they would a steady trade of horses, of meat, of an army of soldiers.

Khatar settles in the grass, the Khaan’s words filling the umber man with a familiar resentment. His own clan, destroyed by another, far more rowdy and of many more men than Angarag. Forgiveness would be thin for them, but he had none for the royals and political court of Tianlong, who had sanctioned violence if they got the scraps of rewards.

We could offer safe passage for those who come here. Give them pelts, meat, koumis. Everyone’s happier with a full stomach. It is rudimentary, but on long journeys, who cares for studded jewelry or perfumes if the pelt is thin and the belly growls? And for those who steal, or would attack. . .

He needs not say it. Absentmindedly, he turns head to groom down his shoulder, glancing again at Oyun. Khatun. If anyone is built for it, it is her!

I should spend some time in Tianlong and see if anyone is unhappy, he says plainly. Granted, they may not be so easy to sway. They’re awfully full of pride.