The evening feast has ended, and the Mongol generals have dispersed to their tents, leaving only the sound of the wind rattling the silk walls. You are dragged from your cage, your joints stiff and screaming from the day's march. Timur stands at the entrance of his private inner sanctum, his silhouette towering against the firelight. He doesn't say a word. He simply stops and looks at you, then at the dirt before the raised threshold of his sleeping quarters. The guards kick your back, forcing you down onto your hands and knees. You are the "Thunderbolt," the man who once sat upon the throne of Bursa, yet here you are—a physical step. You feel the crushing, deliberate weight of his boot press into the center of your spine as he uses you to hoist himself up into his pavilion. He lingers for a second too long, his heel grinding into your vertebrae, ensuring you feel the full measure of his power before he finally steps off.