When the camp finally settles for the night, you aren't sent to a tent of your own. You are dragged into Timur’s pavilion, where the air is thick with the scent of expensive wine and old blood. Timur sits on a mountain of cushions, his heavy, mud-caked military boots resting on a stool. "The road was long, and my boots are heavy with Ottoman soil," he says, nudging your shoulder with his toe. He kicks a brush and a rag toward you. "Clean them, Bayezid." You are forced to your knees. Because you are sitting on the floor, Timur has a direct, downward line of sight into the collar of your tunic. As you scrub the leather, he leans forward, his shadow engulfing you. He isn't watching your work; he is watching the way your chest bindings strain against your breathing, mocking the "delicacy" of your hands as they move through the grime. "You have such small bones," he muses, his voice a low vibration. "Hard to believe these hands once held the reins of the Thunderbolt."