Steel rang like thunder across the valley floor, the air thick with the bite of iron and smoke. The Ashekan banners snapped above the chaos—black wolves on blood-red cloth.

  Ashekan Si was already moving.

  Small for a warrior, she cut a strange figure in the melee—but no one who had seen her fight made the mistake of underestimating her. Her short sword gleamed in her right hand, not meant for death but for precision, pain, control.

  She lunged.

  The first enemy swung high. Si dipped low and slammed the hilt of her blade against his temple—not a killing blow, but hard enough to drop him limp to the dust. Before he hit the ground, she’d pivoted, catching a second opponent off-balance. A whip-quick strike to the knee sent him sprawling. Another to the side of his neck silenced him.

  She did not kill them.

  Not yet.

  Not unless she had to.

  "Down," she whispered after each strike, like a command. And they obeyed.

  She danced between the Tolak warriors—fierce mountain men who shouted curses as they swung axes and curved daggers, slow and brutal compared to her. She was wind through the pine. Her blade sought pressure points, joints, soft tissue—not vital, but enough to make them useless.

  From the ridge, Khan Ashekan Temur watched his daughter move.

  Even among the fury of war, her style was unmistakable. While his sons crushed bone and broke formation with their mighty blades, Si flowed—each strike chosen, measured, and understood.

  "Sisi!" her father’s voice cut through the din, thunder over chaos. He stood astride his black charger, saber in hand, already soaked red. "With me!"

  She turned, her breath steady, a shallow cut blooming on her cheek. Another Tolak warrior charged her—young, wild-eyed, desperate. She shifted to the side and let his momentum carry him past her. A precise blow to the back of his shoulder dropped him, groaning, into the dust.

  She paused, eyes following the young man as he crawled away. Still breathing.

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  The short sword in her right hand dipped slightly. She could end him. She didn’t.

  With one swift motion, she mounted her horse and rode to her father’s side.

  The drums of Ashekan thundered again, deeper now—closer. Behind them, the red tide of warriors surged forward, swift and unstoppable as wolves at the hunt.

  The sun dipped low over the horizon, setting the steppe ablaze in hues of fire and gold. Dust clung to every fold of cloth, every strand of hair, and every crease in their worn leather armor. The thunder of hooves slowed to a steady rhythm as the Ashekan warriors crested the ridge overlooking their camp—a sea of yurts scattered like bones across the plain.

  A roar rose from below. The tribe had seen their banners returning.

  Drums beat a deep, rolling welcome. Children ran to meet their fathers. Women held their hands to their chests in silence thanks to the Sky Father above. Smoke curled from hearths. Meat sizzled. The scent of blood and fire began to fade.

  Ashekan Temur rode at the front, regal as ever, his long war braid streaked with gray and red. He did not raise his arm in victory, nor smile—but his presence alone was enough. His people cheered louder.

  Behind him rode Arslan, tall and striking, a fresh gash along his jaw and blood on his spear. He greeted the crowd with a broad grin, his voice booming with laughter and praise.

  Boru followed, quiet and brooding, the reins loose in his calloused grip. His eyes scanned the camp, ever watchful, always calculating.

  And beside them, mounted on a pale mare dusted with ash, rode Si.

  “Bet it’s goat stew again,” Arslan said, twisting in his saddle to glance at the cookfires in the distance.

  “I’m hoping for mutton sausage,” Boru muttered. “The spiced kind. Last week’s was so dry, I nearly choked.”

  “You nearly choked because you were trying to talk with your mouth full,” Si said, eyes still forward.

  Arslan chuckled. “She’s not wrong.”

  Boru scoffed, but there was no bite in it—just the easy rhythm of siblings who’d fought shoulder to shoulder, and now rode home together.

  Ahead, Khan Temur looked back at the three of them. He said nothing, but the curve at the corner of his mouth was just shy of a smile.

  They rode the last stretch as dusk embraced the steppe—victors not only in battle, but in the quiet harmony of family.

  As they dismounted near the great tent, warriors moved aside with bows and respectful murmurs. Temur handed off his reins and turned toward the firelit opening of the yurt.

  “Sisi,” he called over his shoulder, his voice calm but firm. “With me.”

  She paused only briefly before following.

  The flap of the chieftain’s tent closed behind them, and the night outside hummed on—none the wiser to what words would pass between a father and his daughter beneath its woven roof.