Empire of the Plains

Chapter Two – The Price of Chains

“Move again and I’ll cut your throat, rider.”

The voice was low, cracked like old leather. Karan froze, half-awake, the edge of a knife kissing the skin

under his jaw. Dawn light seeped through the tall grass, painting the plains in bruised gold.

He didn’t blink. The hand holding the knife trembled just enough for him to know, whoever this was, they

were desperate, not skilled.

“You’d better kill me fast,” Karan murmured. “Because when I open my eyes fully, you won’t get a second try.”

The knife pressed harder. “Big words for a slave with no braid.”

Karan turned his head slowly until his eyes met those of his captor: a thin man, sunburned, his cheeks

hollow. Chains still hung from his wrists. Another escaped slave.

Karan let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. “Then you know the scent of fear when it isn’t yours.”

The man hesitated, then stepped back. “You killed the guards,” he said. “I saw you. From the pit.”

“I killed the ones in my way,” Karan replied, standing. His muscles ached, and the gash on his shoulder burned, but his mind was clear. “Who are you?”

The man lowered the knife. “Name’s Varr. From the coast. Was a fisherman before they caught me.” He looked at the blood-crusted blade in Karan’s hand. “You planning to keep running?”

Karan glanced east. The horizon shimmered with heat and dust. “Running? No. I ride.”

He whistled once—a short, sharp note. The stolen horse appeared from behind the rocks, white flank streaked with sweat. The animal nickered and lowered its head, already bound to him by instinct and the whisper of the old words.

Varr stared. “You spoke to it.”

“I bound it,” Karan said simply, touching the horse’s mane. “Dortracy tradition. A child is tied to a horse at birth. Their souls run together.”

Varr gave a thin smile. “And what happens when the horse dies?”

Karan met his gaze. “Then so does the rider.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The wind whistled through the tall grass, carrying the smell of rain and iron.

Varr finally said, “You’re heading east. Toward the Storm Clans.”

Karan’s jaw tightened. “Toward a debt.”

“Then I’ll come.”

Karan turned to him, amused despite himself. “Why?”

“Because the men who bought us will keep hunting. And you”—Varr gestured at Karan’s tattoos, his

blade“you look like someone they’ll chase harder than the rest. Better to run with the storm than against it.”

Karan gave a small nod. “Then ride if you can keep up.”

They moved fast through the morning, following a narrow trail of dry riverbeds. Karan rode ahead, scanning the horizon; Varr followed on foot, light and quick despite the chains still dangling from his wrists.

The plains changed as the sun climbed—grass giving way to stone, then to cracked earth. Somewhere far north, thunder rolled again, but the air stayed dry.

Karan’s mind was elsewhere—on the flash of his brother’s face, the moment the braid fell, the sound of their father’s voice silenced by shock.

Raikor’s betrayal was not just personal; it had been ritual. In Dortracy law, cutting a warrior’s braid was to strip him of his spirit. It was a death performed in daylight.

He had been killed once. He would not allow it twice.

By noon, the heat shimmered off the plains like fire. They found an abandoned waystation—just a

crumbling ring of stones and the bones of an old campfire.

Varr collapsed in the shade, panting. “You don’t stop, do you?”

“Storms don’t stop,” Karan said, scanning the horizon. He saw nothing—no banners, no riders—but the

feeling of eyes on him lingered.

He crouched and drew a pattern in the dust: three interlocked lines forming a spiral.

Varr frowned. “What’s that?”

“The mark of the Sky Stallion,” Karan said. “Kor’Vareth. The wind-god of the plains. He rides above us when

we fight.”

“Your people worship a horse?”

Karan smiled faintly. “Not a horse. The first rider.”

He wiped the mark away, rising. “Eat if you have food. We move again when the sun drops.”

By sunset, the horizon glowed blood-red. The first vultures circled overhead, silent as omens. Karan had

just dismounted to check the horse’s hooves when he heard the whistle—sharp, rising, familiar.

A hunting signal.

He drew his shakar instantly. “Riders,” he said.

Varr went pale. “How many?”

Karan listened. The sound of hooves was still distant, but growing. “Six. Maybe seven.”

They had no time to run. He led the horse behind a ridge of rock and motioned for silence.

The riders appeared moments later—scouts bearing the Storm Clan’s crimson banners. His brother’s men.

They rode slowly, scanning the ground, their tattoos gleaming in torchlight. The lead rider halted near the ridge, dismounted, and bent to examine tracks in the dust.

Karan recognized him: Jarak, once his sparring partner, now a hunter for Raikor.

“Varr,” Karan whispered, “stay down.”

But the fool shifted, and a pebble clattered down the rock.

Jarak’s head snapped up. “Who’s there?” he barked, drawing his curved blade.

Karan moved before thought. He rose from behind the ridge, shakar in hand, and struck like the wind.

The first blow took Jarak across the throat. He gurgled, collapsing. The others shouted, chaos erupting.

Varr scrambled up, snatching the fallen man’s knife. “They saw us!”

“Then kill fast,” Karan said, swinging into the saddle.

The fight was brief and savage. Dust, screams, blood. The curved blades clashed under the dying sun. Karan moved with the precision of memory, every cut a line in an old song.

When it ended, the ground was slick with crimson. Only one rider remained alive, pinned beneath his fallen horse. He spat blood and cursed in Dortrac.

Karan dismounted and crouched beside him. “Tell Raikor,” he said softly, “that the slave he sold still rides.”

The man glared up. “He will take your head and your horse, traitor.”

Karan leaned closer, voice low. “He’ll have to catch me first.”

He slit the man’s throat with calm precision.

Varr stood watching, pale and silent. “You don’t hesitate,” he said.

Karan wiped his blade on the dead man’s cloak. “Hesitation is for men who expect mercy.”

He turned to the corpses, searching until he found what he wanted, a leather satchel marked with the seal of the Storm Clan. Inside, a sealed parchment. He broke it open.

His brother’s handwriting.

Karan Dor’rak is to be captured alive. The traitor bears the Mark of the Lost. Return him to the capital for judgment by the High Circle.

Karan read it twice, then burned the parchment in the campfire’s first spark. The flames licked upward, devouring his brother’s words.

Varr looked uneasy. “There’s a bounty on you.”

“There’s a debt on him,” Karan said.

He stared into the fire as the wind shifted. Sparks danced into the dark. Somewhere far off, thunder rolled again.

The horse stirred, ears flicking. Karan felt the tremor in his own bones.

He whispered under his breath in Dortrac: “Kor’ath vekh. Shor valen dor.”
(Blood for the wind. The storm remembers.)

Varr sat down beside him, rubbing his wrists. “What happens now?”

Karan’s eyes stayed on the flames. “Now the plains will burn until every clan knows my name again.”

“And your brother?”

A muscle ticked in Karan’s jaw. “He’ll learn the price of chains.”

The firelight painted his face in gold and scarlet. His eyes reflected both.

When dawn came again, the plains were quiet. The bodies of the riders lay half-buried in dust. Karan

mounted his horse, the wind whipping through the ragged ends of his hair.

Varr climbed onto another horse scavenged from the dead. “Where to?”

Karan looked north, where the storm clouds gathered thick and black. “To the old river. There’s a place

where the clans trade and the exiles gather. If I’m to take back what was stolen, I’ll start there.”

Varr smirked weakly. “A slave and a fisherman walk into a city of killers. Sounds like a bad song.”

Karan allowed a ghost of a smile. “Then let’s give them a verse they’ll remember.”

They rode together into the rising light, the plains opening before them like a sea. Above, the first lightning forked across the sky—bright, violent, a promise.

And far behind, unseen in the morning haze, a single rider watched them from a hill. A woman cloaked in

gray, her hair braided in gold, eyes sharp as obsidian.

She whispered to her horse in Dortrac: “Vesh’kor raen. The Storm rides again.”

Then she turned her mount and vanished into the wind.