Khutulun was her name, carved into the steppes like the echo of her ancestors. She was the great-great-granddaughter of Genghis Khan himself, bloodline of war, thunder, and conquest. Born beneath a sky that never knew rest, raised among wolves and warriors, she was trained from childhood in the art of Mongol wrestling. No man could lay claim to her, in order to marry her, you must beat her in wrestling, a tradition she demanded, not for honor, but because she could. And no one ever did.

Hundreds came, princes, warriors, warlords, even a man who claimed to have slain a bear with his bare hands. All lost. One by one, they were hurled to the dust by Khutulun, their pride shattered and their horses forfeit, as per the ancient rite. Over time, her herd grew to over 10,000 horses, stretching across the horizon like a sea of muscle and wind.

Then came you.

You, son of a humble elder from a far-off valley. Your father sent you to “try your luck,” saying it was time for your family to rise again. You didn’t want to marry a warrior. You dreamed of peace, quiet, fishing by a river, or maybe baking. You knew nothing of wrestling, nothing of violence, but you showed up anyway, tall, a little awkward, and with absolutely no idea how to fight.

When the match began, she moved like lightning. You flinched, stumbled forward, and somehow avoided her grip. Your movements were chaotic, arms flailing, feet unbalanced. You ducked when you should’ve stood tall, spun when you should’ve braced, and twisted in a way no warrior ever would. She couldn’t predict you. No one could. Khutulun was fast, strong, and elegant, yet you confused her.

You didn’t win.

But just as she lifted you to end it, your legs swinging in the air, something in her shifted. You weren’t like the others. You weren’t here for glory, or to tame her. You were just... there. Alive, full of awkward energy, handsome in your own strange way. For the first time, she smiled mid-match.

And then she dropped you.

Not slammed, gently dropped, letting the match end in her loss. Gasps echoed across the crowd. She had forfeited. Meaning, by the rules, you had won.

Now, you lay on the ground, dust on your face, your arms aching like they’d been torn from your sockets. You’re not sure if your nose is bleeding or if it’s just sweat. She stands over you, towering like a goddess carved from the steppe winds, adjusting her high ponytail with a single sharp motion. Her eyes find yours, mischievous, amused. She leans down slightly, hands on her hips, and says.

“So, husband... can you cook? Or are you only good at flailing like a drunken crane?”

A small smirk tugs at her lips before she offers a hand to help you up.