PD.9.4 (Patreon)

By the time Guanyan sent for Ouz, Kara-Koram had begun learning how to move around victory. Morning had washed the western road with weak light and left the mud dark under the gate. Samrajya’s broken siege works still smoked beyond the ditch. Zhanar soldiers kept watch from the walls with bows under oiled covers, their eyes drawn too often to the dead shieldmen standing outside the lower gate. Steppe families waited in the south annex yard under stretched canvas and old awnings, where Key had turned three tables into a records office and bullied clerks, soldiers, mothers, children, and wounded men with the same flat impatience.

Ouz spent the first part of the morning at the tables, where Key needed ink more than another sword hand. On the left bench, Selcen gripped her brush too tightly over a row of bamboo strips. From behind her shoulder, Subutai repeated names whenever a voice fell too low for the clerks. Steppe elders argued over family lines, missing fathers, dead mothers, old clan names, and whether a boy taken at seven had the right to use the name of a tent he barely remembered.

Every dispute eventually reached Key, whose face suggested dried vinegar and bad sleep. “If three people remember the same mother, she gets written,” he said to one old man who had begun speaking over a woman half his size. “If you shout over her again, I write you under livestock and let the quartermaster sort your pride.”

The old man tried to object, and Selcen’s brush stopped. Subutai leaned forward and said something in the steppe tongue, soft enough that only the front bench heard it. The old man shut his mouth and stepped back.

Key glanced once at Subutai. “Useful. Keep doing that.”

From the edge of the awning, Ouz saw that grief had slowed only parts of the yard. He had expected it to slow everything. A woman stopped three times over the same name because each time she wrote her dead husband’s sound in Zhanar characters, her hand refused to finish the stroke. A boy no older than nine gave the fort number he remembered and no other answer. One girl knew her mother’s true name, her own tent name, and nothing of her father beyond a scar over the left eye. Each strip took longer than a ration count. Each strip mattered more.

Dead soldiers waited under Ouz’s skin. He had stopped leaving most of them visible once the gate road settled. The city had enough fear without black-flame dead standing in every lane.

A messenger found him near the awning. The man wore Guanyan’s cords at shoulder and belt, clean despite the yard’s mud. His eyes flicked to the record tables, to Selcen, to the dead-pale right hand under Ouz’s sleeve, and back to Ouz’s face.

“General Guanyan requests you.”

Ouz looked toward the command yard across the inner lane. “Now?”

“At your convenience,” the messenger said. That meant now, with courtesy added because the city had not decided what rank to put around him.

Key heard the exchange and did not look up from the strip in his hand. “If this is about legal categories, tell him mine are better.”

“It isn’t,” Ouz said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know enough.”

Selcen raised her eyes from the brush, taking in Ouz and the messenger in turn. The girl from the fort would have watched from behind hunger and anger. The young woman at the table watched like someone deciding which knife a room deserved.

“You’re going alone?” she asked in the steppe tongue.

“Yes.”

“No escort from the Teeth?”

“No.”

Her mouth tightened. “That makes him either honest or confident.”

Subutai answered before Ouz could. “General Guanyan has always been confident.” Under Ouz’s look, Subutai’s shoulders shifted with an old habit from the fort. “The guards talked. Men talk more around people they do not count.”

“They counted you enough to use you,” Selcen said.

“That is different.”

Key tapped the table with the back of his brush. “Everyone stop having meaningful conversations near wet ink. Names first. Politics after breakfast if we survive the spelling.”

Once Selcen returned to her strip, the brush began moving again. At the top lay her own name, written in her hand and corrected twice where Zhanar sound had failed the steppe shape. Ouz looked at it once before leaving.

The command yard had changed since the siege. Rainwater sat in low places between stone slabs. Runners crossed from gate to map shed with sealed tubes tucked under oilcloth. Two officers argued near a wall board where Samraj positions had been marked in black and erased by wet fingers until the board looked bruised. A group of engineer soldiers carried a broken wheel pin from one of the captured engines. Behind them, two dead engineers moved under black-flame obedience, silent and precise, carrying the heavier counterweight assembly between them while Zhanar men tried to avoid staring.

Ouz felt the attention follow him. It came from officers, from guards, from clerks who had heard the west road stories and wanted the man in them to look less ordinary or more monstrous. He gave them neither. Dark cloak, plain sword, dead right hand covered enough to be polite and visible enough to avoid lies. Padsha’s blade sat at his left hip. The city had already seen black flame on it.

Guanyan’s temporary office had been set inside an old Samrajyan hall near the inner wall. Its front arches had been boarded years ago and reopened for war because the space inside was wide, dry, and close to the wall stairs. Zhanar cords hung from the door posts. Old carved stone still showed above them, worn birds and half-moons cut by men who had never sworn to Zhanar or Samrajya.

Past the guards, Ouz entered a room dominated by maps spread across the central table. Kara-Koram, the western road, Samrajya’s broken camp, the old canal cut, the refugee tracks north and east, the grain lines, the inner wards. Guanyan stood alone at the far side with his hands folded behind his back.

For the first time since Ouz had known him, Prince Beilue was absent. Without Beilue beside him, Guanyan seemed to have little reason to maintain the same formal distance. Age showed more plainly in his face, though his attention remained fixed on Ouz.

Ouz bowed. “General.”

“Ouz,” Guanyan said. The true name settled between them without ceremony.

Guanyan studied him for a moment. “The western gate still holds. The captives are being counted. The city eats today because you broke the siege road before Samrajya burned it. I have thanked soldiers for less.”

“You already gave the order to hold pursuit.”

“That was command, not thanks.” Ouz waited. Guanyan’s mouth moved faintly. “You dislike being thanked.”

“I dislike extra words before useful ones.”

“Age may improve that. It may also make it worse.” Guanyan touched the edge of the map with two fingers. “Thank you.”

Ouz accepted it with a small nod because refusing would only make the moment larger. “When did you know?” he asked.

Guanyan’s eyes did not shift from him. “That you were steppe-born?”

“Yes.”

“Suspect or know?”

“Both.”

Guanyan turned his attention to the map, though Ouz knew the man was no longer reading it. “I suspected in the southern camp, when you asked for the steppe boys to be armed and drilled.”

Ouz remembered mud, low shelters, guard spears, Forty-Eight’s bruise, and Guanyan waiting beyond a fire basket with no escort close enough to matter. “I gave a tactical answer.”

“You gave a good tactical answer,” Guanyan said. “Camp survival, line use, food, discipline. Every reason you offered would have satisfied an officer concerned with keeping men alive. But you had thought about those boys long before I asked the question. I could hear it in the way you answered.” Guanyan waited a moment, but Ouz offered no reply. “You also spoke of them as men who could hold after better men broke. A northern soldier may say that because he has fought steppe raiders. A young laborer from Shan-He rarely carries the thought in his bones. Your feet already bothered me. Your bow work bothered Moying. Your silences bothered almost everyone, which made them less useful as evidence.”

“The way I fought,” Ouz said.

“Yes. You used Zhanar command language cleanly. You saluted well enough, bowed badly enough to pass for low birth, and lied with care. In a city, you looked like a boy who had watched soldiers and copied survival from them. In the field, under pressure, your body remembered open ground before drill square. You turned small groups into moving teeth. You trusted loose files when my officers wanted tighter blocks. You looked at the steppe boys and saw a line that could be made to bend and bite.”

Rainwater tapped from the roof edge into a jar set beneath a leak while Guanyan considered his next words. “That was suspicion. Knowledge came in the infirmary.” Ouz kept his face still, so Guanyan went on. “You were fevered after Ishaani failed to take your arm the first time. Qiwu had you under poppy, broth, vinegar cloth, and too many bandages for a boy who still wanted to stand. You spoke in your sleep.”

“What did I say?”

“Your name came first. Ouz. Then others I did not know. Some were numbers. Eleven. Forty-Eight. Quick-Eyes. A few words about a gate. A crossbar. A fort.” The fort numbers brought back the remembered weight of the old iron ring at Ouz’s ankle. Guanyan watched his reaction. “After that, you spoke in the steppe tongue.”

Ouz drew a slow breath. “Who heard?”

“Qiwu. Two assistants. The bard. I was there when you started speaking.” Liujingting’s court smile came back from memory with blood on the sleeve and a horse built for a ruined body. Guanyan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You know who I mean.”

“Yes.”

“The bard tried to stop the room from understanding what it had heard. Poorly.” The general continued in the same dry voice. “He panicked with charm, which made the charm useless. He told Qiwu he had taught you a few phrases on the road. He claimed you liked songs too much for your own dignity. He claimed you repeated whatever he said when fevered. He claimed three other things I no longer remember because each was worse than the last. By the time he finished, I knew he had heard enough to fear the wrong ears hearing it too.”

In Ouz’s mind, Liujingting sat sleepless on a stool in the field infirmary, doing what he could to cover for him with jokes and bad lies because there had been no time to invent better ones.

“That is how he learned my name,” Ouz said.

“I assume so.”

“He used it later.”

“To hurt you?”

“To open a door.” Ouz looked toward the boarded arch where rain light showed through a crack. “He saved me from Narkala. He died buying the road out.”

Guanyan’s face did not soften. Respect in him did not need softness. “I am sorry for that.”

“He would have disliked the dignity of your tone.”

“Most useful men do.”

Ouz looked back. “He was useful.”

“I gathered that.”

“He was more than useful.”

A slight nod was Guanyan’s only answer. He did not ask for the rest, and Ouz did not give it. Cao’s reports, Samraj service, Zhanar grief, Padsha’s rooms, the sealed cell, Vardhan’s last inventory, the Lens at the gate, the grave fifteen meters deep. Those roads did not belong in this room.

Guanyan moved away from the table and walked to the old wall carving. His fingers did not touch it. “You asked how long I knew. I knew before the prince did. I knew before Moying. I knew before most of the men who thought they had learned you by bleeding near you. I did not know every shape of it. I knew enough.”

“You said nothing.”

“I had no useful place to put the truth.”

Ouz studied him. “A Zhanar general finds a steppe infiltrator in his army and keeps him.”

“A Zhanar general found a young fighter who had lied his way into a bad unit, improved that unit, saved the prince’s life, made steppe laborers into a line, and did not run when the ground opened under him.” Guanyan turned from the wall. “If I had dragged you into a legal tent, the best result would have been a clean report and a worse army.”

“And the worst?”

“The prince might have ordered your death before he was old enough to understand why that would shame him.”

For a while, the only voices came from outside: someone calling for a clerk, then an answer carrying anger too tired to travel far. When the noise faded, Ouz spoke. “You fought my people.”

“Yes.”

“You beat them.”

“Yes.” Ouz heard no pride in Guanyan’s answer, and that mattered more than an apology. The general returned to the map table. “I was younger than I am now, though not young enough to use that as shelter. Zhanar had failed against the northern hordes for generations. We won raids and lost campaigns. We took banners and lost supply roads. Steppe riders refused the kind of war my teachers preferred. They did not hold ground for our convenience. They took water, horses, sleep, certainty. Men in court called that barbarism because calling it discipline would have required better officers.” Ouz listened without interrupting as Guanyan went on. “I went north with four thousand men and came back with fewer. The first year taught me humiliation. The second taught me language. The third taught me that a tent circle with hungry children inside it can be harder to break than a stone town if its riders believe the road behind them still belongs to their dead.” Guanyan’s eyes rested on Ouz’s face. “I learned enough of your people to respect them. Enough to hate them properly in war. That is not a joke. Men who hate what they do not understand become butchers or fools. Men who understand and still fight must count the cost more carefully.”

“You made the agreement.”

“I proposed it. Food, winter grain, salt, horseshoes, iron fittings, coin. In return, young fighters would serve fixed terms as auxiliaries under Zhanar contract. Paid. Counted by name. Returned with wages and gear if they lived. The steppe needed food after three bad winters. Zhanar needed riders who could scout northern roads and teach border officers how not to die chasing shadows.”

At his side, Ouz kept the dead hand perfectly still. “That is not what happened.”

“No.” Guanyan looked at the map, and the room lost warmth around the word. “My brother saw a better bargain. Court ministers helped him dress theft in legal cloth. Records changed. Contract terms bent. Young fighters crossed the border and became state-held labor until officers found use for them. Granary forts became holding pens. Numbers replaced names because numbers move through ledgers with less noise.”

“You knew.”

“I learned in pieces.”

Ouz’s voice stayed flat. “Pieces were enough.”

“Yes.”

Ouz waited through the silence, watching Guanyan for the answer he had spent years wanting from men in Zhanar uniforms. Guanyan placed both hands on the table and leaned over Kara-Koram’s inked walls. “I argued. I threatened resignation. I used old victories as leverage until those victories became old enough for ministers to survive ignoring them. I protected some groups. Not enough. I had officers punished. Not enough. I moved boys from worse forts to better camps. That is a sentence cowards use when they want mercy for managing a crime instead of ending it.” His gaze remained on the map. “I did not end it. I could not force the king without breaking the kingdom open during a border war. Perhaps that is truth. Perhaps that is the excuse I chose because I lacked the courage to become a traitor before the rot reached children.”

Anger came as Ouz listened, familiar enough that his dead fingers began to close. He had killed wardens, overseers, Padsha, Kalamir, and Ishaani. Men whose crimes he could answer with a blade.

For years the general had carried his part in the suffering while protecting boys when he could, commanding men who trusted him, and keeping Beilue alive. Ouz opened his hand again, though his anger had nowhere useful to go.

Across the table, Guanyan lowered his head just enough to make the cords at his shoulders dip. The old Samrajyan carving above him looked over both men without judgment. “I am sorry,” he said. “For the agreement I made and failed to guard. For every boy who crossed under my promise and woke behind iron. For what happened at Shan-He. For what my house did beneath a banner I helped make respected enough to be trusted.”

Ouz’s throat tightened before he could make use of anger. “You sound like a man arranging his last accounts,” he said.

Guanyan lifted his head. “That may be accurate.”

Ouz stepped closer to the table. “Explain.”

Guanyan reached for a sealed packet near the map edge and pushed it across. The wax still bore Zhanar’s royal mark, though the first seal had been broken and Guanyan’s sign pressed over the repair.

“The capital has called us back.”

“Us?”

“Prince Beilue and me. Bam travels with us if Qiwu judges him able to survive a litter and horse wagon. He is too valuable to leave here, too wounded to serve here, and too visible for court not to count him.”

Ouz looked at the packet without touching it. “Because of the lost Blessed Warriors.”

“Yes. Because of the failed campaign. Because Samrajya struck the prince’s camp, killed Luangu, killed Feiyan, wounded Bam, took ground, and forced us back to Kara-Koram before your return broke the siege.”

“You know that is not the whole count.”

“My brother knows whatever count serves the throne this week.”

“The king blames Beilue?”

“The king allows others to blame Beilue,” Guanyan said. “That is more dangerous. First Prince and Second Prince have found rare agreement. Their factions dislike one another, but both understand that a third brother with my support, a settled inner strength, and a frontier army’s respect becomes inconvenient if he returns from this war with honor.”

Death’s Awareness widened through habit before Ouz chose a target for it. The room came to him in one sweep: door, guards, old hall, map edges, Guanyan’s breathing, a runner outside, two officers passing under the arch, one favoring his left leg.

“They mean to remove him.”

“They mean to make court decide he failed before the army remembers he held.”

“Then don’t go.”

Guanyan’s mouth moved by a fraction. “Is it that simple?”

“Yes.”

“If I refuse a royal summons with the prince under my protection, I declare that the frontier army answers my judgment before the throne.”

“Would that be false?”

“No.” Guanyan’s eyes sharpened. “That is why I cannot allow it to become the first answer.”

“Beilue is a Blessed Warrior now.”

“Which makes him more threatening.”

“He has you.”

“Which makes the case against him more urgent.”

Ouz moved around the table and looked at the capital road marked in red. “Give them the report a court wants to hear. Tell them Kara-Koram looked trapped because you sent a Blessed Warrior and a small strike force behind Samrajya’s lines while the siege held everyone’s eyes here.” Guanyan’s gaze sharpened, but Ouz gave him no chance to interrupt. “Narkala fell. Padsha’s private city lost its sealed rooms, its special troops, and the work he kept away from ordinary commanders. The road to Raktahisar was cut open after that. Two champions died before the city. Raktahisar fell. Padsha was executed. Ishaani died before he could return to the field. Kalamir died with him. Samrajya pushed this siege because it believed your rear had broken, and when the trap closed, their own rear had already been gutted.”

While Guanyan listened, Ouz added the details the general would need for the written account: the ranked fighters and death-workers defeated along the road, and the records, prisoners, and route papers secured at Raktahisar before Padsha could use them against anyone else. Liujingting had no place in the report. Neither did the grave on the hill.

Guanyan weighed Ouz’s account with the severity he brought to campaign plans. “You have learned court accounting quickly.”

“I learned from people who used mine against me.”

“Yes,” Guanyan said. “We will use it.” His attention returned to the capital road. “But the court cannot afford to let Beilue stand beside that report for long. Ministers have spent years burying northern complaints, refugee petitions, and missing patrol reports beneath seals. Captured cities and dead champions demand a different answer, especially with Beilue's name attached to the campaign. If he stays here, they will call him a coward hiding behind victory won elsewhere. If I stay, my enemies will call it mutiny. Going forces them to answer the report while the army can still testify to what happened.”

“Or they kill you.”

“Yes.”

“Both of you.”

“Possibly.” The old wood creaked under Ouz’s tightening left hand, drawing Guanyan’s attention. “You have become strong enough to think every closed road can be broken by force.”

“Many can.”

“Many should,” Guanyan said. “But if you force your way into the capital, the men controlling the grain and the border roads may stop listening altogether. Your dead can frighten a garrison into obedience. They cannot persuade a minister to release stores or make a governor put his name beneath a report he has spent months denying. That work has to be done by people who know how the court moves.”

“I can come.”

“No.” Before Ouz could argue, Guanyan met his eyes. “You stay in Kara-Koram.”

“I am more useful with you.”

“You'd rather ride beside us than wait here wondering whether we made it. I understand that. But this city needs you more than we do.” Ouz’s jaw tightened. The old general did not spare him. “More people will come south before this is finished. Steppe families, broken contracts, frightened border officers, men with reports nobody in the capital wants to read. Who holds them here without turning protection into another chain? Who keeps the records from eating names again? Who makes the garrison obey Beilue’s promise when Beilue is gone? Who commands the dead outside the gate if Samrajya tests the road again? Who makes sure fear of you becomes preparation rather than worship, panic, or officer stupidity?” At the mention of fear becoming worship or panic, Captain’s warning from the night before returned to Ouz: Do not mistake fear for settlement. Guanyan went on. “Hermit is a dangerous man. Reaper Full Moon frightens the right people. Moying can make soldiers stand. None of them are you. The steppe families did not sing for them. The fort survivors did not wait years for them. Your dead do not answer their hands.”

“I can send dead soldiers with you.”

“I expected you to offer.”

“Take Ishaani.”

“No.” At Ouz’s stare, Guanyan’s expression hardened. “Do you know what happens if I ride into the capital with Samrajya’s dead champion walking behind my nephew under black flame? Every faction stops listening to the warning and starts counting which god, demon, or treason owns the prince. You might save us from assassins and ruin the only reason for the journey.”

Ouz looked at the map again. “Kalamir?”

“A dead Samraj mage hidden in a wagon would be discovered at the worst possible hour. Your useful dead are useful because they answer you. Away from you, they become evidence that frightened men will arrange into whatever shape lets them sleep.”

“They can fold back into me.”

“That is one reason you stay.”

Rain tapped the old stone while Ouz searched the map for an argument Guanyan had not already answered. Guanyan took the royal packet back and tucked it inside his coat. “I leave before noon. Beilue will speak to the south yard first. Bam travels in a covered litter with a healer, two guards, and Qiwu’s worst instructions tied to the litter frame.”

“Bam should not be moved.”

“Qiwu said the same with more profanity. Bam said he would crawl to the capital with one eye and one arm if that prevented court poets from writing his death early.”

“That sounds like him.”

“It does.” Guanyan came around the table and stopped two paces from Ouz. From this close, the lines beside his mouth and the old scars at his collar were easier to see. “If court kills me, Beilue must still have a road back,” he said. “If court kills him, Zhanar becomes harder to save and easier to hate. If both of us die, you will be tempted to decide the capital is another Narkala.” Ouz did not answer. “Do not decide that quickly.”

“I make no promise.”

“I would distrust one if you gave it.”

From his sleeve, Guanyan produced a narrow bamboo strip sealed with plain cord and held it out. Ouz accepted it. “What is this?”

“Authority. Limited, written in language clerks can survive obeying. In my absence, records concerning steppe refugees, former auxiliary contracts, recovered labor groups, and fort survivors in Kara-Koram are to be held under provisional military protection until reviewed by Prince Beilue or myself. Moying has a copy. Jueshan will pretend he does not need one and make three more.”

Ouz turned the strip in his hand. “You prepared this before speaking to me.”

“I have known you long enough to prepare before standing near your questions.”

The comment almost brought a smile to Ouz’s face. Guanyan stepped back. “There is one more thing.” When Ouz waited for him to finish, the general added, “If I do not return, tell Beilue I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That the boy I first brought south became the better prince.”

Ouz held the bamboo strip tighter. “You can tell him yourself.”

“I intend to.” Guanyan looked toward the door. “Intentions deserve preparation for failure.”

After bowing more as witness than soldier, Ouz walked toward the doorway. Guanyan accepted the gesture without comment. “General,” Ouz called before leaving. Guanyan looked back. “Your apology does not fix anything,” Ouz said.

“I know.”

“I still heard it.”

For the first time, the old general’s face showed the edge of something tired and human before discipline covered it again. “That will do,” Guanyan said.

Ouz left the hall with the bamboo strip inside his coat and Guanyan’s apology moving beside him like an unwanted escort. Bam would be leaving with the prince, and Ouz wanted to see him before the litter was brought out. The infirmary had spread into three halls and half a yard.

Under Kara-Koram’s old horse-market roof lay rows of wounded from the west gate, the inner wall, the refugee lines, and the broken siege camp. Butcher had claimed the central stretch with the authority of a man who had stopped asking permission years ago. Blankets marked categories along the floor. Red thread for active bleeding. White cloth for fever watch. Black knot for dying men who still needed water and witness. No thread for soldiers who complained loudly enough to be put to work soon.

The smell struck first: vinegar, hot water, blood, boiled grain, old bandage cloth, lamp oil, crushed leaves, sweat, and wet wool. Ouz had known worse rooms. This one had order.

“No.” Butcher’s warning reached Ouz before the first row of pallets. When he kept walking, the medic blocked his path with a roll of linen under one arm and a knife in the other hand. “That was not a greeting. That was medical judgment.”

“I’m visiting Bam.”

“Then keep it short.” Butcher pointed the knife toward the left side of the hall. “He's awake, he's angry, and every instruction I give him becomes an argument. If your visit gives him another reason to get out of bed, I'll have Daxuan sit on both of you.”

“I won’t call him to war.”

“He calls himself to war. That is why the warning was for you.”

Butcher led him toward the rear wall, where Bam lay on a raised pallet in the cleaner air. Two screens had been set around the bed, half privacy and half protection from men who would stare at a fallen Blessed Warrior until their eyes became a nuisance. One guard stood outside the screen with a bandaged face and a spear. He stepped aside when he saw Ouz.

Bam looked worse than the reports. One side of his face had swollen under bandages that covered the eye. The visible eye remained clear, black, and deeply annoyed. A splint held his left arm from shoulder to wrist. More linen crossed his ribs and belly, thick over the long wound Ishaani had left. His right foot sat in a wooden brace with padded cord wrapped from ankle to calf. Fever had taken color from his mouth without taking command from his expression.

At the bedside, Ouz stopped while Bam’s remaining eye travelled from his dead-pale right hand to the sword at his hip, then his cloak and face. “You look difficult to kill,” Bam said.

“So do you.”

“I am told one eye may go.”

“You have another.”

“That is what I said.” Bam shifted a little and paid for it through his jaw. “Qiwu called me an ungrateful ox and tightened the bandage until I saw my ancestors.”

“He does good work.”

“He does loud work.”

From beyond the screen, Butcher’s voice cut through the hall. “I hear better than your ancestors.”

Bam’s mouth moved by a fraction. “He proves my point.”

Ouz looked at the covered eye. “Can it be saved?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It saw Ishaani coming. That may be enough use for one eye.” Bam’s fingers moved against the blanket, slow under pain. “The foot will take longer. The arm longer than that. The ribs complain about breathing, which seems excessive for a thing they have done since birth.”

“You’re being moved.”

“Yes.”

“Do you agree?”

“I am a royal guard who cannot stand, posted beside a prince called back to a court that smells blood. Agreement is decorative.”

Ouz pulled the stool closer and sat. “Ishaani is dead.”

The visible eye sharpened. “I heard.”

“I killed him after Raktahisar.”

“I heard that too.”

“I raised him.”

Bam did not answer at once. The infirmary moved around the screen. Cups, boots, low orders, one man retching into a basin, Butcher insulting someone’s courage and pulse in the same sentence. At last Bam said, “Does he obey?”

“Yes.”

“Does he remember?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Ouz studied him. “That does not trouble you?”

“It troubles me.” Bam’s eye remained on him. “It also pleases me. The two can stand in the same room.”

“He took your eye.”

“He may have. He took Keshun. He took Luangu. He took Feiyan’s last road, even if Samrajya’s trap killed him by stages. He took your arm once and wanted the rest of you alive for worse work. If death made him useful under your hand, I will not waste my breath defending his peace.” Ouz leaned back slightly. Bam’s fingers curled into the blanket. “Can he fight as he did?”

“Yes.”

“Use him well.”

“I do.”

“Make him break something important.”

“I have.”

“Again,” Bam said. Ouz’s mouth twitched, and Bam saw it. “There. That is the face men should fear. Not the dead hand. Not the black fire. That one.”

“You sound like Qiwu.”

“Do not insult a wounded man.”

Butcher appeared around the screen at once. “The wounded man is tired.”

“I am awake.”

“You are leaking stubbornness through seven openings. That counts as decline.” Butcher came to the bed and pressed two fingers beside the bandage under Bam’s ribs. The pressure tightened Bam’s grip on the blanket, though his face stayed still.

As Ouz rose, Bam followed him with his visible eye. “Keep the prince’s road open.”

“I will.”

“Keep the city standing.”

“I will.”

“Keep Qiwu from enjoying himself.”

“That may be beyond me.”

Butcher snorted. “Finally, realism.”

Bam closed his visible eye for a breath. “Tell Daxuan if he drinks my share before I return, I will drag it back out of his throat.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Tell Xinfu I know he stole my spare ring knife.”

Butcher looked up. “He did what?”

Ouz said, “I’ll tell him later.”

A hint of satisfaction reached Bam’s expression. “Better.”

Butcher pointed toward the screen opening. “Out. Both of you keep trying to start campaigns in my sickroom.”

Before the medic decided to use force, Ouz left the infirmary and found Brawler waiting outside, arms folded, one shoulder pressed against a post. The big man’s gaze shifted from the screens to him.

“He awake?”

“Yes.”

“Still ugly?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Ouz repeated Bam’s message about the cup. Brawler’s face twisted into something too rough for a smile. “He can try. With one eye I might finally beat him.”

“I heard that,” Butcher shouted from inside.

“Good. I was hoping you would,” Brawler called back, looking pleased with himself.

Before noon, word of Guanyan’s departure spread through the south yard. Soldiers gathered near the escort horses, while steppe families came from the record tables and awnings to hear what Beilue intended to say before he left.

Beilue wore travel armor stripped of court lacquer, with his cords tied straight and his sword resting easily at his side. His hand no longer clung feverishly to the hilt, and no unfinished strength leaked under his skin. He had changed since the poisoned camp, and everyone who had known that boy could see it.

From the low stair near the old market wall, Beilue addressed the families. “Names recorded under provisional protection will remain under that protection. No transfer leaves Kara-Koram without countersign from General Guanyan, Captain Moying, or Jueshan’s table. No child is assigned shield duty. No family is divided for labor count. Anyone who violates this order answers under my seal.”

Key stood near the records awning with three copies already prepared and a brush in his hand. He looked pleased in the unpleasant way of a man given authority he could weaponize.

Beilue turned toward the steppe families. His steppe words came slower, learned and imperfect, but real. “Names first,” he said. “Work after names. Families before lists.”

The pronunciation stumbled on the last word. An old woman near the front corrected him without fear, and Beilue repeated it properly. Guanyan watched from beside his horse, giving nothing away. Ouz saw him hear the correction and choose not to protect the prince from it.

Bam’s litter waited behind the escort line. It was more a covered war cot fixed between two mules than a noble conveyance. Butcher had tied instructions to one side in black ink large enough for idiots and officers. Bam lay inside with his visible eye open. A sword had been placed within reach, against medical advice and probably because removing it would have required more men than dignity allowed.

Brawler leaned into the litter before departure. “I drank one cup for you.” Bam’s eye shifted toward him. “One,” Brawler said. “Out of respect.”

“If you lie, I will know.”

“You have one eye.”

“It sees you.”

Rat slipped something into the litter with a motion too fast for the guard to catch. Bam’s hand moved under the blanket and closed over it.

“My ring knife,” Bam said.

Rat looked offended. “Your spare ring knife. Accuracy matters in friendship.”

At the rear of the litter, Mute checked the support knots and silently retied one that displeased him. Butcher gave an approving grunt.

When Ouz approached last, Bam fixed him with his remaining eye. “City.”

“I’ll hold it.”

“Road.”

“I’ll watch it.”

“Prince.”

Ouz glanced at Beilue, who was speaking quietly with Guanyan. “Bring him back.”

A faint smile threatened beneath Bam’s bandages. “That was my line.”

“You’re lying down.”

“For now.”

Ouz placed one hand on the litter frame. “Heal.”

“Train badly while I’m gone. It will comfort me to know Brawler suffers.”

Brawler shouted from nearby, “I heard that.”

“Good,” Bam said.

Without music, Guanyan led the escort with twenty guards, two standard bearers, three clerks, and a small packet of reports that weighed more than armor. Beilue rode beside him. Bam’s litter followed near the center. Kara-Koram watched them pass through the inner gate, through the repaired stone throat, and onto the capital road.

At the outer gate, Beilue looked back once, and his eyes found Ouz. No promise passed between them. Too many had already been made. The prince gave one small nod, the kind a soldier could give across a field before the horns sounded. Ouz returned it.

After the escort passed, the outer gate closed, leaving Kara-Koram feeling larger and less protected. On his way back through the south annex, Ouz stopped at Key’s table and showed him Guanyan’s bamboo strip.

Key read it once, examined the writing and the cord binding, and handed it back. “Keep the original dry. I'll make copies before some officer decides the ink doesn't apply to his particular stupidity.”

“You trust it?”

“I trust Moying's copy, the prince's seal, and my ability to make a clerk regret losing paperwork. Together, they might last until the next order comes.” Ouz tucked the strip inside his coat again. Key was already reaching for a fresh piece of bamboo.

Mute found Ouz in the south annex yard near the repaired tooth post. He carried two wooden blades, one long, one short, and offered the longer one without greeting or asking anything. Ouz accepted the blade, drawing the attention of several steppe youths near the water line. From the shade of the awning, Selcen watched with a bundle of record strips under one arm. Beside her, Subutai pretended to watch everyone except Ouz.

A tap of Mute’s short blade against Ouz’s sword hand drew his attention to his footing. Mute pointed down and stepped back. “Slow?” Ouz asked.

The question earned him a look that made asking seem insulting. They began at half speed and held that pace for six exchanges before Mute pressed him harder.

At the faster pace, the familiar precision was still there. Mute’s feet were clean, his hands wasted no movement, and he had the same gift for being where a man disliked him most. In another year, another body, another balance, he had made Ouz pay for every lazy step. Now Ouz read the shoulder before Mute spent it. Death’s Trajectory marked the return path through wrist, elbow, and stance. Death’s Awareness caught the shift in Mute’s balance before the short blade started moving.

Ouz turned the first trap aside and closed the second. The third was well built, so he let it open, entered through the inside measure, and stopped the wooden edge against Mute’s ribs.

Mute glanced at the blade against his ribs while the watching boys fell silent. Ouz stepped back to give him room, and Mute attacked harder.

This time the rhythm had no courtesy in it. Short blade, low foot, shoulder check, false retreat, rear angle. Ouz gave ground twice because the yard posts mattered. On the third exchange he caught Mute’s wrist with the dead hand, touched the long blade to the throat, and released before the grip became humiliation.

“Careful, Anshun. He might start giving you lessons.” Rat’s voice came from the annex doorway. Mute turned toward him. A throwing knife rested between the fingers of each of Rat’s raised hands. “I’ve brought a lesson of my own.”

“You came to steal attention,” Ouz said.

Rat glanced toward the boys watching from the water line. “They're already watching. Might as well give them something worth learning.”

Crossing to the practice post, Rat added four knives to the two already in his hands and arranged all six on the nearby bench. Small black rings marked the blades near their handles, each at a different point. From a roll at his belt, Rat produced six blunt practice darts. Ouz leaned Mute's wooden blade against a leg of the bench before accepting them.

“Old game. I throw wrong. You correct by hitting the ring before it hits wood.”

“I know this game.”

“You knew the version for men with ordinary eyes and too many bruises. This one has pride in it.”

Rat threw without warning. The knife spun end over end toward the post, but Ouz’s hand was already moving. His practice dart struck the black ring before Rat’s blade reached wood, and both fell together.

Two more knives flew toward the post in quick succession, and Ouz struck both rings. On the next throw, Rat released three, one high, one low, one with a late wrist flick that made the blade turn badly in the air. Death’s Trajectory found each line before the blades committed to them. Ouz’s darts tapped ring, ring, handle. The third correction sent Rat’s blade into the dirt instead of the post.

“That was rude,” Rat said, his eyes still on the fallen blade.

“You said pride.”

“I said pride, not cruelty.”

Mute made a soft sound through his nose. Rat pointed at him. “Not you too. I'm losing badly enough already.”

Ouz picked up the fallen dart. “Your tricks still work on soldiers.”

“And on you?” Rat asked, still grinning.

“Less.”

“That's a problem. Those used to work on you.”

“It means you can teach the others.”

Rat followed Ouz’s gaze to the steppe youths near the water line. Several had been watching with open hunger, the kind young fighters gave to skills that looked like a door. He kept his eyes on them as he rolled one knife across his fingers. “Teaching requires patience.”

“Yes.”

“I have been told I lack this.”

“Yes.”

“I dislike how quickly everyone agrees.”

“You teach knife hands, dirty angles, how to see a throw before the wrist finishes. Anshun teaches feet and blade measure. Tiehu teaches bow discipline when he wakes long enough to deny caring. Daxuan teaches the rest.”

“The rest,” Brawler said from behind them, “has a name.” He carried two pairs of padded practice gloves under one arm, wearing a grin that made the nearest boys step back. When Ouz glanced at the gloves, Brawler tossed him a pair. “You got too sharp. Xinfu whines. Anshun sulks quietly. I remain generous.”

Rat sniffed. “You'd complain too if you had to fight him.”

Ignoring Rat, Brawler pulled on his own gloves, layered leather reinforced with rope across the knuckles. “No sword. No death fire. No clever hand through my ribs. Feet, hips, fists, knees if you think you can keep them.”

“I'm not as good without a blade,” Ouz said.

“I know. That’s why I’m happy.”

In the middle of the yard, Brawler opened with a shove that would have folded an ordinary man through the post behind him. Ouz slid aside, read the weight, and tapped Brawler’s ribs with the glove. The big man barely acknowledged the touch before catching Ouz’s shoulder with his other hand. The world became grip, leverage, hip, knee.

Even without the dead right hand he kept deliberately out of the fight, Ouz had speed, awareness, and a body far stronger than the boy Brawler had once mocked. His opponent’s advantage lay in uglier experience at the point where strength met dirt. He used sleeve, elbow, heel, shoulder, breath. Every time Ouz read a strike, Brawler turned the strike into a clinch. Every time Ouz stepped cleanly, Brawler made the ground crowded.

Two of Ouz’s strikes landed before Brawler caught him in a throw. The impact barely registered; Ouz turned through it and landed on one hand, already rising. The watching youths made a sound. Brawler’s grin widened.

“There,” he said. “That part you still need.”

“Again,” Ouz said as he rose. Brawler came in laughing.

By sunset, the yard had become a place where soldiers found excuses to pass slowly. Steppe youths carried water, records, spears, and bandages with their eyes turned toward the practice ground. Mute corrected two stances with a tap of wooden blade. Rat insulted a boy’s grip until the boy fixed it out of anger. Sleeper appeared on the roof above the annex, lay flat with a bow beside him, and told three young archers below that every one of them breathed like frightened goats.

After most of the spectators had drifted away, Selcen finally approached; she had watched longer than any of them. Brawler had retired to the water buckets, Rat had gone to recover knives from men who claimed they had only borrowed them, and Mute was still correcting three boys whose footwork had offended him.

On the low bench, Ouz finished wrapping his scraped left knuckles and began winding linen around his dead right hand. The pale skin drew too many looks, even from men who had watched him fight.

Selcen stopped beside him. “You let him throw you.”

“He earned it.”

“You could have stopped him.”

“Maybe.”

She looked toward the yard where Brawler was drinking from a bucket and shouting at a boy who had tried to copy one of Ouz’s steps and nearly fallen over his own foot. “You are stronger than all of them now.”

“Yes.”

Selcen glanced back at him, her brows drawing together at the unqualified answer. Ouz kept wrapping his hand and let the truth sit between them.

“You still train with them.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Daxuan can still throw me. And Anshun knows my habits better than anyone. Being stronger doesn't change that.”

While Selcen considered his answer, her hands rested against the front of her altered Zhanar coat. Its sleeves had been shortened again, and someone had sewn a strip of steppe pattern along the inner cuff, hidden unless she turned her wrist.

“You look at me differently,” she said.

“You are different.”

“I grew. You weren't there for most of it.” Ouz let the loose end of the bandage rest across his knee. “You knew me as Forty-Eight,” Selcen said.

“I remember.”

“That was what they called me at the fort. A number they could put beside anything they wanted us to do.”

“Selcen,” Ouz said, meeting her gaze.

After holding his gaze for a moment, she sat at the other end of the bench, leaving space between them. “When you said you left us alone, I wanted to hit you harder.”

“You should have.”

“I know.” Her mouth tightened. “That made it worse. You stood there ready to accept it. Like if I struck hard enough, some count inside you would settle.”

Ouz finished the knot and rested his hands on his knees. “It would not.”

“No,” she said. “It would only hurt my hand.”

A few yards away, Subutai carried a stack of practice shields toward the wall rack and very clearly failed to look at them. Selcen noticed. “He worries.”

“He always did.”

“Even when he pretended not to.” She looked down at her hands. “He says you came back late because the roads are cruel. Maybe he's right. But you were the one who promised us you'd come back. We were the ones waiting.”

“You’re right,” Ouz said without trying to defend his absence.

She looked at him sharply. “You don’t argue?”

“No.”

“That is irritating.”

“I can argue if it helps.”

“It would not.”

The evening air carried forge smoke and boiled millet. From the record awning, Key’s voice rose in anger at someone who had tried to move a basket of unfiled strips. A child laughed. The sound cut through the yard before fading under soldier noise.

Selcen listened to it. “I do not know what to do with you.”

“Neither do I.”

“That answer sounds honest.”

“It is.”

“You are not a savior,” she said.

“No.”

“You are the one who came back.”

“Yes.”

She turned that over in silence. “That may be worse in some ways.”

“I know.”

“You keep agreeing with me. Do you think that makes any of this easier?”

Ouz glanced toward the gate through which Guanyan's escort had ridden that morning. “No. I don't.”

Selcen followed his gaze. “The general's gone?”

“He is.”

“The prince went with him?”

“Yes.”

“Will they come back?”

“I don't know.”

She looked at him for a while. “You hate that answer.”

“Yes.”

This time she smiled a little, though it carried no softness. “Good. At least you didn't say yes just to make me feel better.” She rose. “Subutai says the north road refugees know more songs than our group. He wants to pretend he doesn’t want to learn them. I will make him fail.”

“That sounds useful.”

“It is.” She started away, stopped after two steps, and looked back. “Ouz.” He waited for her to go on. “If you leave again, say it before you go.”

The words struck cleaner than accusation. “I will,” Ouz said, holding her gaze. Selcen studied him for another breath, her expression giving little away, before walking toward Subutai and the shield rack.

That evening, Ouz met Hermit and Reaper Full Moon on the west wall. The broken siege camp lay beyond the gate road in wet ruin. Zhanar crews had stripped useful timber, iron, rope, and canvas from the nearest works. Dead engineers still moved among the larger frames under Ouz’s will, dismantling what men could not safely approach yet. Farther west, Samrajya’s retreat had become a smeared path through the mud. Fires burned low where surrendered men had been allowed to carry wounded away.

Hermit stood with both hands resting on the parapet. Reaper Full Moon waited near a merlon, coin mask turned toward the road. His mist stayed close to his boots because wall guards disliked it and he had enough manners to ignore their discomfort without increasing it.

Ouz told them about the capital summons. Hermit did not look surprised. “Courts enjoy bad timing.”

“They may kill them.”

“Yes.”

“I think I should go.”

“No,” Hermit said.

Hermit kept his eyes on the west even when Ouz turned toward him. “You wanted the answer before asking. Guanyan gave it.”

“You agree with him?”

“I dislike that as much as you do.”

Reaper Full Moon’s mask shifted. “The capital road holds one danger. Kara-Koram holds many lives you have already named.”

“The Ancient One still lives,” Ouz said.

Hermit’s hands tightened on the stone. Far below, a dead engineer pulled a pin from a siege frame. Wood settled with a groan. Zhanar workers stepped back until the movement stopped.

“He does,” Hermit said.

“I can reach him.”

“Can you?” When Ouz had no answer, Hermit turned from the parapet. “Killing the Ancient One did not end him when I put a sword through his chest. I watched him fall. I watched blood leave him. I heard him thank me for playing the last part. Years later, I saw him alive in Ostgard with Via at his back.”

Reaper Full Moon lowered his head slightly. “A death that serves the dead man is not a victory.”

“So we do nothing.” Ouz looked between them.

Hermit’s gaze hardened. “That is not what I said.”

“It is what waiting feels like.”

“Then think about what happens here while you're gone.” Ouz looked north, breathing slowly through his nose, as Hermit stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Listen to me. You find him, you cut him down, and he might die. I believed that once before. He could have another body waiting, or the gates could keep opening long after he's gone. You'd come back to find the gray things inside these walls while you were hunting a man who wanted you far from here.”

At Ouz’s side, his dead hand opened, fingers flexing as Reaper Full Moon answered, “The reports from Padsha, from riders, from Arçura warnings, from Aslan and Hrafngard, all point to openings already made. A man may light a field and leave before the grain burns. Killing the hand does not unburn the stalk.”

Hermit glanced at the priest. “That was almost plain.”

“I am making an effort. It does not come naturally.”

Ignoring the exchange, Ouz watched the north road where refugees had entered through the rain. Hermit followed his gaze. “If the gray things come here,” he said, “your people need walls, grain, order, and a place to run toward. Kara-Koram has old stone, stores, wells, smiths, a garrison, a gate road, and frightened officers who will obey anything that keeps fear in a useful shape.”

“It also has records that used to eat people.”

“Now it has Jueshan.”

From the wall below, Key’s voice rose faintly as he berated a wagon clerk over duplicate ration marks. Ouz looked down despite himself. Hermit’s mouth twitched. “A terrifying improvement.”

Reaper Full Moon turned toward the inner city. “It also has a song inside the walls. Refugees follow sound more readily than orders when the world breaks.”

Ouz remembered the south annex hum, the old words for Evren, children listening before joining, Selcen’s brush, Subutai’s watchful eyes, Beilue repeating a corrected family word.

“Revenge can wait,” Ouz said in the steppe tongue, low enough that only Hermit and Reaper heard.

Hermit understood enough from tone. “Revenge has waited before.”

“This is not revenge only.”

“No. That’s why the answer must be better than anger.”

Ouz looked at his hands. Living left, dead right. Marks under skin. Kalamir near the heel, Ishaani low on the left, the rest folded close. Power waited without strain. He could step from the wall, gather dead soldiers, cross mud, road, river, and border, find the old monster’s trail, break every guard between them.

He could not stand in two places at once.

The thought settled without tearing through him this time. It came with tasks attached: walls, grain, refugees, scouts, and dead soldiers kept ready under his skin.

“We prepare Kara-Koram,” he said.

Hermit nodded. “Yes.”

“Walls. Stores. Refugee lanes. Outer kill ground. Dead positions hidden until needed. Names recorded. Families kept together. Scouts north and west. No pursuit for pride. No court rituals around my dead.”

Reaper Full Moon inclined his mask. “And rites for the dead who come carrying news.” When Ouz turned to him, the priest explained, “The first runners will finish dying soon. Some will bring more than fear. Some will carry last sights. If you want roads before gray things walk them, we should listen properly.”

“Do it.”

“I will need space away from the infirmary. Qiwu threatened to feed me my own beads if I brought death mist near his patients.”

“That sounds fair.”

“It sounded sincere.”

Hermit looked toward the wall stairs. “I will inspect the north gate and old Samraj drains. A city this old has exits its current owners forgot or pretend not to know.”

“Ouz,” Reaper Full Moon said.

The change in Reaper Full Moon’s voice made Ouz turn toward the wall stair. A young runner in a Zhanar coat over steppe trousers had reached the top. Ouz recognized one of the newly recorded boys from the morning tables. He came up too fast, caught himself before saluting, and held out a strip of wood marked in Key’s hand.

“From Jueshan,” he said, breathless.

Ouz took the strip. Key had written only what urgency demanded: “Last north group arrived. Five families. Two wounded riders. One dead on the cart.” He looked up at the runner. “Where?”

“South annex yard.”

Hermit was already moving. They reached the yard before the second bell. The new refugees had been brought under the canvas near the record tables. People gave them space the way crowds did when suffering arrived carrying a smell they recognized. Five families, the note had said. The count looked smaller in person because fear had folded them inward. Two old men. Three women. Several children. A teenage boy with a bandage around his throat. A girl with hair cut short and blood dried into one sleeve. Two riders near the water jars, one with a broken arrow still lodged above the hip, the other shaking under three blankets.

A dead man lay on a cart.

Butcher knelt beside the rider shivering under three blankets and did not look up when Ouz arrived. “Alive for now. Ask quickly if you need his words. If you need him breathing tomorrow, shut up and let me work.”

Slate in hand, Key stood beside the cart. Behind him, Subutai waited with Selcen, whose closed expression Ouz recognized as the effort of holding herself still.

The shaking rider saw Ouz and tried to rise. Two assistants held him down. He spoke in the steppe tongue too fast for the wounded breath left in him.

“Slow,” Ouz said in the same language.

The rider swallowed, failed once, and forced the words out again. “The road behind us went quiet. Birds left first. Dogs after. Carrion birds wouldn’t land. We found Barak camps empty with food still over the coals and sheep cut loose across the flats. Barak don’t leave meat behind. We thought plague had frightened them off.”

Hermit stepped closer. “And after that?”

The rider caught Butcher’s sleeve with sudden strength, drawing a curse from the medic, who let him hold on. “For three nights, something followed,” the rider said. “We never saw all of it. Gray skin. Long arms. Voices from places where no people stood. My sister heard our father calling from a dry ditch. Our father died before I had beard on my face.”

Under the canvas, the children went still, and a woman covered a boy’s ears too late. Ouz’s attention moved to the cart. “The dead man?”

“Turgay,” the rider said. “North salt road. He rode east first, to warn the next camp. After that he rode for the border post because Zhanar still sends everyone south. They laughed at him there. Said Barak fear had made him see ghosts. They tied him to our convoy when he wouldn’t stop shouting. He died before we reached Kara-Koram.”

The dead scout had been tied in place with respect by hands too tired to do the work cleanly. His boots were worn through at the toes. His fingers had broken around the reins and been straightened after death. Blood had dried under the blanket across his middle.

“What did he say?” Ouz asked.

The rider looked at the corpse. His voice dropped until the yard leaned toward it. “He said, ‘Don’t wait for smoke. The thing behind us doesn’t use fire.’”

The marks beneath Ouz's skin tightened in answer. Ishaani and Kalamir were ready, along with the dead soldiers he had kept hidden since the siege. He held them there while he considered what the rider had described.

Ouz looked at the map board near Key’s table. Kara-Koram sat at the southern edge of Zhanar, with Samrajya beyond its gates and the whole kingdom between this yard and the steppe. Whatever had followed Turgay was not outside the wall. Not yet. That made the report worse in a different way. It had crossed too many mouths, too many clerks, too many officers willing to call fear a northern habit.

“Jueshan.”

Key’s brush was already moving. “North arrivals under priority record. Salt road flagged. Border post still to confirm. Every family tied to that convoy gets copied twice before some clerk decides they're ordinary refugees. Keep talking. I'm writing.”

“Captain.”

A runner near the awning turned at the name. “Tell Captain I need the northern route maps, the border-post names, and anyone in the garrison who has served above the Khonon River,” Ouz instructed. Once the runner hurried away, he turned to the old knight. “Hermit.”

The old knight’s eyes had gone to the map. “Routes first. Gates after.”

“Reaper.”

“I will hear the dead scout.”

“Qiwu.”

“If you tell me to save everyone, I will stab you with a spoon.”

“Tell me what you need.”

Butcher glanced at the wounded riders. “Water, clean bandages, and fewer people standing over my patients. I'll sort the rest.”

Selcen stepped closer. “And us?”

Ouz looked at her, at Subutai, at the families under the canvas, at the children trying to understand why adults had stopped breathing properly.

“Names first,” he said. “Then find out which roads they took and what they saw along the way. Nobody disappears into a list.”

Selcen held his gaze and nodded. At the cart, Ouz rested his living hand on Turgay’s shoulder. The body was cold through the blanket. Death’s Awareness spread across the yard, sharpening the wounded riders’ shallow breathing and the movements of families beneath the canvas.

Somewhere north, whatever had emptied the Barak camps was still moving. Ouz knew the trail it had left: abandoned fires, livestock without herders, and Turgay dead in a cart.

As Ouz stepped away from the cart, Key called for fresh strips and Selcen moved among the new families with Subutai beside her, taking names before fear could turn them into numbers. With Hermit at his left and the dead waiting under his skin, Ouz made for the map table.