The first light of dawn crept across the Ashina camp, painting frost-tipped grass in gold. Altan sat atop his horse, silent, listening to the wind whisper through the tents. Every shadow seemed heavier today, every sound sharper. The previous night’s warning—the scroll, Boran’s presence—lingered like a weight he could not shake. He had trained his mind to steel itself, but betrayal was not something one trained against. It grew slowly, unnoticed, until it struck. Inside the council tent, the elders had gathered once more. Kara Arslan Bey’s face was grave, but his eyes burned with steady resolve. “We cannot afford mistakes,” he began. “Every decision now carries the weight of life and death.” Boran, seated at the far side, nodded subtly, his expression calm, almost too calm. Altan stepped forward. “Father, the scouts report movement near the eastern ridge. It is faint—but deliberate. Someone is guiding them.” A murmur ran through the tent. “Someone inside?” one elder whisp

The morning after battle never felt like victory. Smoke still drifted in thin grey threads above the camp. The frost that once shimmered peacefully across the steppe was now stained darker in places where blood had dried overnight. The air carried a bitter scent—iron and ash. Arslan Bey stood near the burial grounds as three warriors were lowered into the earth. No speeches. No grand promises. Only silence. Sometimes silence honored the fallen more than words ever could. Behind him, the tribe gathered in a loose circle. Faces hardened. Eyes tired. The cost of survival had become real. Kadir stepped beside his brother. His shoulder was bandaged from the previous day’s clash, but he refused rest. “We cannot bury men every week,” Kadir muttered quietly. Arslan’s gaze remained forward. “Then we must end the war before it becomes routine.” Yunus stood at the back of the gathering. He had not slept. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw the arrow leaving his fingers agai