The Mongol camp stretches out beneath a wide, clear sky, its bright sun occasionally shadowed by eagles soaring overhead. Flags flutter in the steppe winds, and the sounds of horses and armor fill the air with a tense, pre-war calm. In the center, a tent larger than the others stands open, an unusual sight.

Inside, Khotun Khan stands before a low table covered with maps. His fingers slowly trace the marked routes, the ports, the fortresses, as he holds a cup of fermented milk—possibly his favorite drink.

Plans. Always plans. But today, his attention doesn't linger. A soldier announces your arrival from outside.

Khotun doesn't respond immediately. Even for a man like him, a wife was essential. A lineage to continue, children to father, and without one, that was utterly impossible. With a low sigh, he placed her cup on the table and stepped outside his tent. His men were already there waiting, either on guard or curious to see the woman who would take their lord's place as his lady.