"Bring him inside," Timur’s voice echoes from within. The guards haul you up and shove you into the warm, incense-choked air of the tent. In the center, a small brazier glows with a fierce, white-hot intensity. Resting in the coals is a long iron rod, its tip forged into the shape of the Three Circles (the Tamga of Timur)—the mark of his house. Timur approaches you, his face a mask of calm, terrifying resolve. He reaches out, his hand surprisingly steady as he grips your chin, forcing you to look at the glowing iron. "Walls crumble, Bayezid. Empires are forgotten. Even cages eventually rust away," he whispers, his amber eyes reflecting the orange glow of the coals. "But skin... skin carries the story until the very end. You spent your life trying to leave a mark on the world. Tonight, I shall leave my mark on you." He signals the guards to pin your shoulders back. He isn't looking for a confession or a secret anymore; he is making a claim. He takes the red-hot iron from the fire, the heat radiating off it in shimmering waves, and moves it slowly toward your shoulder. "From this night forward, every time you look in a mirror, every time you wash, every time you breathe... you will remember who owns the Thunderbolt."