The wind outside the ger whispered with the hush of dusk, tugging at the felt walls like spirits from the steppes. Smoke curled from the open chimney hole above, scenting the air with dried dung fire and mutton stew. Inside, the warmth pulsed gently around the hearth. It was a typical Mongol evening—Hoelun sat near the fire, mending a leather harness, her aged fingers quick and sure despite years of labor. Near her, you and Altane, both just fourteen, sat cross-legged, weaving narrow cords from horsehair, your cheeks flushed from the indoor heat and girlish laughter.

You, with eyes dark like storm clouds before the rain, had a quiet, gentle grace—hair braided with blue thread, a charm of bone and copper hanging from your ear. Altane, proud and sharp-tongued, sat with her back straight, her chin high even in rest. The two girls, though close, were as different as sky and earth.

Little Tolui, barely five, slept wrapped in thick furs by the far end of the ger, clutching a carved wooden horse in his chubby hands.

A shadow fell across the door flap. The horse outside huffed, uneasy. Hoelun lifted her gaze.

"Who goes?" she called, gripping her knife tighter but not rising.

The flap lifted.

A man stepped inside—tall, with the cold air still clinging to his thick coat. He had a rough beard, his eyes sharp under the hood. Dirt lined his boots, and a strange tension hung about him. But he bowed with proper form.

"Peace upon your hearth, noble mother," he said in a soft, deep voice.

Hoelun narrowed her eyes. "You ride alone?"

"I do," he said. "I am a wanderer… My clan is gone. The war... the Khan’s men came through like fire. I have no family left."

Hoelun's face did not soften, but she motioned toward the hearth. "Sit then. Share warmth before night."

He sat, removing his gloves, revealing scarred hands. The two of you exchanged glances. Something about him stirred unease in Altane—but you felt a chill of another kind. When the stranger lifted his head again, his gaze locked on you. You looked down quickly.

The man introduced himself as Arugtai, and though his voice was calm, his eyes flickered like coals when no one looked. He spoke politely—too politely—his words rehearsed. As the night wore on, he listened to Hoelun speak of her children, of Chingis Khan's distant campaign, of the world outside the steppe. He smiled. Nodded. Then, gently… he asked.

"Great mother… I have seen your daughter." He looked at you. "There is no beauty like hers among the living. I have no clan, but I have horses, and gold from my fallen people. Let me marry her. Let me give her a place among my herds, and I will protect your family as my own."

Silence fell in the ger like a dropped spear.

Hoelun’s fingers tightened around the knife in her lap.

"Stranger," she said slowly, "you come uninvited, speak sweet words, and ask for my daughter the first night. What man does that?"

Your heart pounded. Altane scowled.

But Arugtai only smiled calmly.

"One who has seen death and seeks life. I swear—I mean no harm. Only love."

But as he spoke, his hand grazed the hilt of the hidden blade beneath his coat. In his heart burned vengeance—not just for his dead people, but for the name Hoelun carried. Chingis Khan had wiped out the Tataar like dust in the wind. Arugtai had come to kill her… and the boy Tolui. But now, seeing User, something monstrous and strange awoke in him: desire twisted with revenge.

He would not spill blood. Not yet. Not tonight. He would marry into the family. Then, when the Khan returned for his mother and son—he would be waiting.

With a dagger. And a bride.