Amidst the charred remnants of the settlement, the scent of burnt wood and despair linger heavily in the air. The blackened skeletons of tents stand mournfully against the desolate landscape of the razed Jabliu encampment. Naci and Horohan stand, horrified, in the heart of this devastation, their faces pallid, reflecting the ashen ground beneath their feet.
The menacing silhouettes of Urumol and his Alinkar warriors cast long shadows that seem to snuff out the remaining light within the desolation. Urumol’s face is an unreadable mask, yet a glimmer of satisfaction flickers in his eyes as his gaze settles on Naci and Horohan.
Naci, a tempest of defiance and fear swirling within her, steps forward, her gaze unwavering as she locks eyes with Urumol. Her voice, though steady, barely rises above a whisper, “We surrender.”
Urumol, his posture imbued with the arrogance of triumph, mounts his horse. “Wise choice,” he sneers, the satisfaction in his voice palpable. He turns to his warriors, issuing a cold command. “Seize her.”
The rough hands of the Alinkar warriors ensnare Naci, their leather straps creaking ominously as they encircle her wrists. Urumol strides toward Tseren, who is trembling visibly, yet maintaining a semblance of composure amidst his shattered world. “Your people are now under Alinkar rule. Your daughter,” he gestures towards Naci, “will ensure your compliance from our lands.”
Tseren, his eyes glistening with the pent-up anguish of a defeated father and chieftain, beseeches, “Chieftain Urumol, I beg you, do not take her. The Jabliu are broken, we are no threat to you.”
Urumol, devoid of sympathy, casts a derisive look towards the shattered man. “No risks,” he spits out curtly.
A melancholy procession forms as the Alinkar, triumphant yet wary, begin their return to their settlement. Naci, enchained and bound, walks with a bowed head amidst her captors. Beside her, Horohan’s expression is a tapestry of guilt and helplessness.
Temej holds Naci’s chord with trembling hands, his heart throbbing painfully in his chest at the injustice he is compelled to partake in. His eyes, brimming with unshed tears, dare not meet Naci’s, for within them lies a horrifying reflection of his own moral turmoil.
The mournful procession inches through the sprawling landscapes. Naci, still bound, walks with a strange calmness, her eyes betraying none of the whirling thoughts within.
A group of Alinkar warriors, basking in the heady brew of victory and cruelty, throw glances towards Naci and Horohan, their words twisting into jagged shards of hateful jests. “Look at the lovebirds,” one sneers, a malicious grin curling his lips.
Another chimes in, his voice oozing with disdain, “Warrior queens for you!”
Horohan, once the embodiment of regal stoicism, visibly flinches at their words, her eyes flashing with a tumult of anger and hurt. Naci feels a surge of protective fury, but her chains, both literal and figurative, strangle any rebellion before it takes shape.
Urumol, seemingly unperturbed by the cruel merriment of his warriors, continues to ride at the helm of the sorrowful procession, his eyes affixed to the horizon. Horohan, despite the bitterness constricting her throat, moves her horse closer to him.
Urumol turns to her, his voice unexpectedly soft, yet laced with an undercurrent of firm resolve. “Horohan, my child, will you not consider returning to your rightful place? As an heir?”
A heavy silence ensues, broken only by the distant jeers of the Alinkar. Horohan, her voice barely audible yet tinged with steel, responds, “No. I shall not.”
Urumol nods, as if expecting this refusal, his face a placid lake revealing none of the thoughts rippling beneath. “Then you shall marry and bear an heir, either to a man of Kolopan or Orogol,” he states, the semblance of caring paternalism oddly contorting his usually stern features. “Choose, my child, for I wish for your happiness, even within the confines of necessity.”
Horohan, reeling from this twisted display of fatherly concern, stares at Urumol, her eyes a tempest of emotions. Her response, when it comes, is a mere whisper, laden with an unspoken defiance and sorrow that blankets the entire Alinkar camp, “Neither.”
In the shadows, unseen by her captors, Naci’s eyes gleam with a slow-burning fury, her mind silently sowing the seeds of a rebellion that will rise, unbeknownst to them, from the ashes of their cruelty and scorn.
The Alinkar settlement buzzes with a victorious euphoria as the warriors return, unscathed, to the jubilant embrace of their kith and kin. Children run around, cheering and idolizing the might of their protectors, while the women express their relief and happiness through heartfelt hugs and exclamations of joy. The atmosphere is awash with a poignant juxtaposition of triumph and the forthcoming oppression of their captives.
Urumol, an imperceptible frown marking his visage, gestures to Temej, directing him to guide Naci to a secluded yurt situated far from the settlement’s bustling center and the pivotal grain and rice storage. Temej, his conscience heavily burdened, directs his gaze towards the ground, avoiding any potential eye contact with Naci, as he obediently follows Urumol’s command. His mind wrestles with guilt and shame, pondering if the bridge back to forgiveness from Naci and Horohan has been irreparably burnt.
Urumol, turning to two other warriors, sternly orders them to relocate the vital grain and rice, ensuring it is moved from the yurt and secured in a hastily erected tent on the opposite side of the settlement.
Inside the lonely yurt, Naci, her wrists still begrudgingly bound, observes her new confines, her expression an impenetrable fortress, revealing nothing of the tumultuous emotions boiling beneath the surface. Silence, thick and oppressive, wraps around her like a cocoon.
After a moment, the entrance to the yurt rustles, revealing Sarnai, her hands gently cradling a portion of cheese. Her eyes, glistening pools of sympathy and sorrow, meet Naci’s stoic gaze. “I’m sorry,” Sarnai whispers, her voice quivering like a fragile leaf in the wind. Naci remains silent, her restraint a palpable entity, barely keeping the roaring tempest of her anger at bay. Sarnai, her apology hanging heavily in the air, quietly retreats from the yurt, leaving Naci once again enveloped in solitude.
Meanwhile, within another, more opulent yurt, Urumol and Horohan engage in a tense discussion, the air between them crackling with unspoken frustrations and defiance. Urumol, attempting to cloak his authoritarian demeanor with a veneer of empathy and consideration, broaches the subject of matrimony.
“My child,” he begins, his voice attempting to weave a deceptive tapestry of kindness and understanding, “our lineage, our legacy, it requires continuation. You must consider marriage again, for the sake of our people.”
Horohan, her posture upright and resilient, addresses Urumol with a calmness that barely masks the fervent resolve burning within her. “I will not,” she replies simply.
Urumol’s façade crumbles as Horohan’s defiant words hang in the air. The deceptive veil of gentle fatherliness disintegrates, giving way to the cold, ruthless chieftain that lurks beneath. With a swift, unbridled motion, his hand connects with Horohan’s cheek, the sharp crack of the impact reverberating through the tent.
Horohan, staggered but unbroken, touches her reddening cheek, her eyes ablaze with an unyielding fire as they lock onto Urumol’s. But Urumol, far from cowed by her fierce resolve, leans in, his voice a venomous hiss laden with malice and manipulation.
“You’ve always been so headstrong, so determined to emulate the warriors you so admire,” Urumol snarls, his eyes piercing into Horohan’s with unrelenting cruelty. “I gave you a chance in life to be more than your initial condition, but fine, my child. You want to be a woman? Then you will be treated as such.”
He pauses, taking a moment to let the cruel words sink in, relishing in the palpable tension that wraps itself around Horohan like a vice.
Horohan, her voice steely and unwavering despite the stinging pain radiating from her cheek, retorts, “I am a warrior, father, first and foremost. Your attempts to chain me to a fate I do not choose will not break my spirit.”
Urumol’s expression darkens further, a tempest of rage and frustration brewing in his eyes. “It matters not, Horohan,” he declares, his tone mercilessly final. “Your desires, your ‘spirit,’ are irrelevant. I’ve made my choice. The Orogol have aided us, and they will be repaid.”
He straightens, the looming shadow of his figure a tangible oppression within the confines of the yurt. “Tomorrow, a messenger shall be dispatched to propose your hand to the Orogol chieftain in gratitude for their recent assistance. Your compliance is inconsequential.”
Horohan, every fiber of her being alight with indignation and resistance, opens her mouth to unleash a torrent of rebuke, but Urumol, uninterested in further discourse, silences her with a dismissive wave.
“This matter is settled,” he decrees, turning his back on her, the finality of his decision a chilling conclusion to the bitter exchange.
The darkness of night blankets the Alinkar settlement, the earlier euphoria dissipating into a somber quietude that blankets the sprawling encampment. Naci, now ensconced within the fabric confines of the yurt, contemplates the resonant silence, her thoughts a maelstrom of pain and memory. Her wrists, still bound, rest in her lap, an unspoken testament to the humiliation and degradation to which she’s been subjected.
Suddenly, a voice punctures the silence, its familiarity sending a jolt through Naci’s heart. “Naci,” it calls, soft yet carrying an edge of mischief amidst the whispering of the night wind. “May I come in?”
Naci’s response is a gruff, unintelligible grumble, her emotions a complex tapestry of resentment and loneliness. The entrance to the yurt shifts, and Kelik, her silhouette illuminated by the gentle luminescence of the moon, slips inside, settling herself across from Naci.
“Not too talkative, are we?” Kelik quips, a sardonic smile playing at the corners of her lips. Her gaze drifts to the uneaten cheese on the ground, a silent companion to Naci’s melancholy. “Either someone thought you’d miraculously manage to eat with your hands bound, or they’re remarkably stupid … or perhaps a bit sadistic.”
Kelik tilts her head, regarding Naci with an amused twinkle in her eyes. “Are you hungry?”
Naci, the fortress of her resolve visibly cracking, merely shakes her head. But her silent protest is betrayed as her stomach emits a quiet, traitorous growl.
Kelik chuckles softly, the sound a gentle caress amidst the thick air of the yurt. “How about your eagle, then?”
In response, the small head of Naci’s fledgling eagle peaks from her chest, beady eyes fixating on Kelik with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
Kelik extracts a piece of dried meat from her pouch, extending it to the eaglet. The bird hesitates for a moment before snatching the offering, its tiny beak nibbling at the sustenance.
“And for you…” Kelik murmurs, taking the cheese and gently bringing it towards Naci’s lips.
Reluctance gives way to practicality, and Naci accepts. As she eats, an involuntary laugh, a sound that intertwines amusement and despair, escapes from her throat.
Kelik raises an eyebrow, her features softening into an expression of genuine concern as she inquires, “How is your family, Naci?”
Naci, her mirth evaporating like mist under the sun, locks eyes with Kelik, and in a voice barely above a whisper, unveils the horror and anguish that her family endured—the agony, the violence, the utter desolation of their predicament.
And in a bitter twist, Naci recoils inwardly, recognizing with a pang of guilt and self-loathing that the atrocities she recounted mirrored those she had inflicted upon the Nipih just a day prior.
Her voice takes on a sharp, self-deprecating edge, “Funnily enough, it seems like the horrors we’ve been through aren’t much different from the ones I’ve doled out myself, is it not?”
Kelik, absorbing the complexity of Naci’s confession, remains silent, her eyes reflecting the myriad of emotions spiraling through the yurt.
She shifts her weight, creating a momentary pause, before her voice breaks through the tension, low and tinged with an emotion that seems to flow like a river from her eyes to her voice. “Naci, have you come to loathe Temej?”
Naci’s eyelids flutter momentarily, revealing the torrents of reflection and conflicted emotions within. “At first, yes,” she admits, her gaze unwavering. “The thought of what he was part of … but now, I don’t know anymore.”
Kelik takes a deep breath, trying to find the words, her shoulders sagging with the weight of a mother’s pain. “He hasn’t stopped crying since he returned,” she confides, her voice breaking with each syllable. “Temej mourns your people. The weight of what he has done—it is tearing him apart. He regrets every single moment of it.”
Her eyes beseech Naci’s, searching for understanding. “I’ve always known my boy; he wasn’t made for the blade or the battlefield. When the Moukopl drafted his brother, a part of me thanked the spirits that it wasn’t him. He’s too gentle, too kind. War is poison to souls like his.”
Naci, her emotions roiling, absorbs Kelik’s words, feeling the edges of her anger begin to fray and understanding seeping in. Many, like Temej, were unwilling participants, trapped by circumstances beyond their control. How many of the Alinkar, she wondered, had felt revulsion at the massacre, yet been powerless to stop it? How many from Haikam, had been against her actions towards the Nipih?
“I want him to live with his choices, to bear the weight of them,” Naci murmurs, her voice reflecting a mix of bitterness and newfound empathy. She pauses, taking a deep breath. “I will forgive him, but on one condition.”
Kelik, her eyes widening with hope, waits with bated breath.
Naci’s gaze hardens with determination, “I want him to do something for me..”
Kelik nods slowly. “Name it, and if it’s within our power, it shall be done.”
Naci takes a moment, formulating her request, before she finally speaks. “Take her,” she nods toward the fledgling eagle.
Kelik, gently cradling the bird in her hands, glances between it and Naci, a playful curiosity lighting her eyes. “This little one is to go to Temej, yes?”
“Yes,” Naci affirms, her gaze locked onto the creature, an embodiment of resilience and freedom. “And he will take her to Haikam.”
Raising an eyebrow, Kelik smirks, gently caressing the soft plumage of the bird. “Did you ever give her a name?”
“Uamopak,” Naci replies.
Kelik chuckles, a warm, hearty sound that reverberates through the quietude of the yurt. “Uamopak, the legendary warrior. A fitting name, though hilariously ironic.”
Naci’s eyes flash with curiosity and confusion. “Why?”
Kelik’s eyes glitter with a mischievous twinkle as she speaks, “Do you know what Uamopak means in Bugr?”
Naci’s eyes widen, a blend of amazement and curiosity simmering within them as she shakes her head. She hadn’t expected Kelik to know the language of Bugr.
With a playful wink, Kelik discloses, “In modern Tepr, Uamopak translates to Amonaci, ‘flame.’ Quite fitting, wouldn’t you say?”
With those parting words, she steps into the moonlit night, the fledgling eagle secure in her hands. Naci, left in solitude, feels something shift within her, the ember in her soul warmly crackling like her name suggests.
Amidst the charred remnants of the settlement, the scent of burnt wood and despair linger heavily in the air. The blackened skeletons of tents stand mournfully against the desolate landscape of the razed Jabliu encampment. Naci and Horohan stand, horrified, in the heart of this devastation, their faces pallid, reflecting the ashen ground beneath their feet.
The menacing silhouettes of Urumol and his Alinkar warriors cast long shadows that seem to snuff out the remaining light within the desolation. Urumol’s face is an unreadable mask, yet a glimmer of satisfaction flickers in his eyes as his gaze settles on Naci and Horohan.
Naci, a tempest of defiance and fear swirling within her, steps forward, her gaze unwavering as she locks eyes with Urumol. Her voice, though steady, barely rises above a whisper, “We surrender.”
Urumol, his posture imbued with the arrogance of triumph, mounts his horse. “Wise choice,” he sneers, the satisfaction in his voice palpable. He turns to his warriors, issuing a cold command. “Seize her.”
The rough hands of the Alinkar warriors ensnare Naci, their leather straps creaking ominously as they encircle her wrists. Urumol strides toward Tseren, who is trembling visibly, yet maintaining a semblance of composure amidst his shattered world. “Your people are now under Alinkar rule. Your daughter,” he gestures towards Naci, “will ensure your compliance from our lands.”
Tseren, his eyes glistening with the pent-up anguish of a defeated father and chieftain, beseeches, “Chieftain Urumol, I beg you, do not take her. The Jabliu are broken, we are no threat to you.”
Urumol, devoid of sympathy, casts a derisive look towards the shattered man. “No risks,” he spits out curtly.
A melancholy procession forms as the Alinkar, triumphant yet wary, begin their return to their settlement. Naci, enchained and bound, walks with a bowed head amidst her captors. Beside her, Horohan’s expression is a tapestry of guilt and helplessness.
Temej holds Naci’s chord with trembling hands, his heart throbbing painfully in his chest at the injustice he is compelled to partake in. His eyes, brimming with unshed tears, dare not meet Naci’s, for within them lies a horrifying reflection of his own moral turmoil.
The mournful procession inches through the sprawling landscapes. Naci, still bound, walks with a strange calmness, her eyes betraying none of the whirling thoughts within.
A group of Alinkar warriors, basking in the heady brew of victory and cruelty, throw glances towards Naci and Horohan, their words twisting into jagged shards of hateful jests. “Look at the lovebirds,” one sneers, a malicious grin curling his lips.
Another chimes in, his voice oozing with disdain, “Warrior queens for you!”
Horohan, once the embodiment of regal stoicism, visibly flinches at their words, her eyes flashing with a tumult of anger and hurt. Naci feels a surge of protective fury, but her chains, both literal and figurative, strangle any rebellion before it takes shape.
Urumol, seemingly unperturbed by the cruel merriment of his warriors, continues to ride at the helm of the sorrowful procession, his eyes affixed to the horizon. Horohan, despite the bitterness constricting her throat, moves her horse closer to him.
Urumol turns to her, his voice unexpectedly soft, yet laced with an undercurrent of firm resolve. “Horohan, my child, will you not consider returning to your rightful place? As an heir?”
A heavy silence ensues, broken only by the distant jeers of the Alinkar. Horohan, her voice barely audible yet tinged with steel, responds, “No. I shall not.”
Urumol nods, as if expecting this refusal, his face a placid lake revealing none of the thoughts rippling beneath. “Then you shall marry and bear an heir, either to a man of Kolopan or Orogol,” he states, the semblance of caring paternalism oddly contorting his usually stern features. “Choose, my child, for I wish for your happiness, even within the confines of necessity.”
Horohan, reeling from this twisted display of fatherly concern, stares at Urumol, her eyes a tempest of emotions. Her response, when it comes, is a mere whisper, laden with an unspoken defiance and sorrow that blankets the entire Alinkar camp, “Neither.”
In the shadows, unseen by her captors, Naci’s eyes gleam with a slow-burning fury, her mind silently sowing the seeds of a rebellion that will rise, unbeknownst to them, from the ashes of their cruelty and scorn.
The Alinkar settlement buzzes with a victorious euphoria as the warriors return, unscathed, to the jubilant embrace of their kith and kin. Children run around, cheering and idolizing the might of their protectors, while the women express their relief and happiness through heartfelt hugs and exclamations of joy. The atmosphere is awash with a poignant juxtaposition of triumph and the forthcoming oppression of their captives.
Urumol, an imperceptible frown marking his visage, gestures to Temej, directing him to guide Naci to a secluded yurt situated far from the settlement’s bustling center and the pivotal grain and rice storage. Temej, his conscience heavily burdened, directs his gaze towards the ground, avoiding any potential eye contact with Naci, as he obediently follows Urumol’s command. His mind wrestles with guilt and shame, pondering if the bridge back to forgiveness from Naci and Horohan has been irreparably burnt.
Urumol, turning to two other warriors, sternly orders them to relocate the vital grain and rice, ensuring it is moved from the yurt and secured in a hastily erected tent on the opposite side of the settlement.
Inside the lonely yurt, Naci, her wrists still begrudgingly bound, observes her new confines, her expression an impenetrable fortress, revealing nothing of the tumultuous emotions boiling beneath the surface. Silence, thick and oppressive, wraps around her like a cocoon.
After a moment, the entrance to the yurt rustles, revealing Sarnai, her hands gently cradling a portion of cheese. Her eyes, glistening pools of sympathy and sorrow, meet Naci’s stoic gaze. “I’m sorry,” Sarnai whispers, her voice quivering like a fragile leaf in the wind. Naci remains silent, her restraint a palpable entity, barely keeping the roaring tempest of her anger at bay. Sarnai, her apology hanging heavily in the air, quietly retreats from the yurt, leaving Naci once again enveloped in solitude.
Meanwhile, within another, more opulent yurt, Urumol and Horohan engage in a tense discussion, the air between them crackling with unspoken frustrations and defiance. Urumol, attempting to cloak his authoritarian demeanor with a veneer of empathy and consideration, broaches the subject of matrimony.
“My child,” he begins, his voice attempting to weave a deceptive tapestry of kindness and understanding, “our lineage, our legacy, it requires continuation. You must consider marriage again, for the sake of our people.”
Horohan, her posture upright and resilient, addresses Urumol with a calmness that barely masks the fervent resolve burning within her. “I will not,” she replies simply.
Urumol’s façade crumbles as Horohan’s defiant words hang in the air. The deceptive veil of gentle fatherliness disintegrates, giving way to the cold, ruthless chieftain that lurks beneath. With a swift, unbridled motion, his hand connects with Horohan’s cheek, the sharp crack of the impact reverberating through the tent.
Horohan, staggered but unbroken, touches her reddening cheek, her eyes ablaze with an unyielding fire as they lock onto Urumol’s. But Urumol, far from cowed by her fierce resolve, leans in, his voice a venomous hiss laden with malice and manipulation.
“You’ve always been so headstrong, so determined to emulate the warriors you so admire,” Urumol snarls, his eyes piercing into Horohan’s with unrelenting cruelty. “I gave you a chance in life to be more than your initial condition, but fine, my child. You want to be a woman? Then you will be treated as such.”
He pauses, taking a moment to let the cruel words sink in, relishing in the palpable tension that wraps itself around Horohan like a vice.
Horohan, her voice steely and unwavering despite the stinging pain radiating from her cheek, retorts, “I am a warrior, father, first and foremost. Your attempts to chain me to a fate I do not choose will not break my spirit.”
Urumol’s expression darkens further, a tempest of rage and frustration brewing in his eyes. “It matters not, Horohan,” he declares, his tone mercilessly final. “Your desires, your ‘spirit,’ are irrelevant. I’ve made my choice. The Orogol have aided us, and they will be repaid.”
He straightens, the looming shadow of his figure a tangible oppression within the confines of the yurt. “Tomorrow, a messenger shall be dispatched to propose your hand to the Orogol chieftain in gratitude for their recent assistance. Your compliance is inconsequential.”
Horohan, every fiber of her being alight with indignation and resistance, opens her mouth to unleash a torrent of rebuke, but Urumol, uninterested in further discourse, silences her with a dismissive wave.
“This matter is settled,” he decrees, turning his back on her, the finality of his decision a chilling conclusion to the bitter exchange.
The darkness of night blankets the Alinkar settlement, the earlier euphoria dissipating into a somber quietude that blankets the sprawling encampment. Naci, now ensconced within the fabric confines of the yurt, contemplates the resonant silence, her thoughts a maelstrom of pain and memory. Her wrists, still bound, rest in her lap, an unspoken testament to the humiliation and degradation to which she’s been subjected.
Suddenly, a voice punctures the silence, its familiarity sending a jolt through Naci’s heart. “Naci,” it calls, soft yet carrying an edge of mischief amidst the whispering of the night wind. “May I come in?”
Naci’s response is a gruff, unintelligible grumble, her emotions a complex tapestry of resentment and loneliness. The entrance to the yurt shifts, and Kelik, her silhouette illuminated by the gentle luminescence of the moon, slips inside, settling herself across from Naci.
“Not too talkative, are we?” Kelik quips, a sardonic smile playing at the corners of her lips. Her gaze drifts to the uneaten cheese on the ground, a silent companion to Naci’s melancholy. “Either someone thought you’d miraculously manage to eat with your hands bound, or they’re remarkably stupid … or perhaps a bit sadistic.”
Kelik tilts her head, regarding Naci with an amused twinkle in her eyes. “Are you hungry?”
Naci, the fortress of her resolve visibly cracking, merely shakes her head. But her silent protest is betrayed as her stomach emits a quiet, traitorous growl.
Kelik chuckles softly, the sound a gentle caress amidst the thick air of the yurt. “How about your eagle, then?”
In response, the small head of Naci’s fledgling eagle peaks from her chest, beady eyes fixating on Kelik with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
Kelik extracts a piece of dried meat from her pouch, extending it to the eaglet. The bird hesitates for a moment before snatching the offering, its tiny beak nibbling at the sustenance.
“And for you…” Kelik murmurs, taking the cheese and gently bringing it towards Naci’s lips.
Reluctance gives way to practicality, and Naci accepts. As she eats, an involuntary laugh, a sound that intertwines amusement and despair, escapes from her throat.
Kelik raises an eyebrow, her features softening into an expression of genuine concern as she inquires, “How is your family, Naci?”
Naci, her mirth evaporating like mist under the sun, locks eyes with Kelik, and in a voice barely above a whisper, unveils the horror and anguish that her family endured—the agony, the violence, the utter desolation of their predicament.
And in a bitter twist, Naci recoils inwardly, recognizing with a pang of guilt and self-loathing that the atrocities she recounted mirrored those she had inflicted upon the Nipih just a day prior.
Her voice takes on a sharp, self-deprecating edge, “Funnily enough, it seems like the horrors we’ve been through aren’t much different from the ones I’ve doled out myself, is it not?”
Kelik, absorbing the complexity of Naci’s confession, remains silent, her eyes reflecting the myriad of emotions spiraling through the yurt.
She shifts her weight, creating a momentary pause, before her voice breaks through the tension, low and tinged with an emotion that seems to flow like a river from her eyes to her voice. “Naci, have you come to loathe Temej?”
Naci’s eyelids flutter momentarily, revealing the torrents of reflection and conflicted emotions within. “At first, yes,” she admits, her gaze unwavering. “The thought of what he was part of … but now, I don’t know anymore.”
Kelik takes a deep breath, trying to find the words, her shoulders sagging with the weight of a mother’s pain. “He hasn’t stopped crying since he returned,” she confides, her voice breaking with each syllable. “Temej mourns your people. The weight of what he has done—it is tearing him apart. He regrets every single moment of it.”
Her eyes beseech Naci’s, searching for understanding. “I’ve always known my boy; he wasn’t made for the blade or the battlefield. When the Moukopl drafted his brother, a part of me thanked the spirits that it wasn’t him. He’s too gentle, too kind. War is poison to souls like his.”
Naci, her emotions roiling, absorbs Kelik’s words, feeling the edges of her anger begin to fray and understanding seeping in. Many, like Temej, were unwilling participants, trapped by circumstances beyond their control. How many of the Alinkar, she wondered, had felt revulsion at the massacre, yet been powerless to stop it? How many from Haikam, had been against her actions towards the Nipih?
“I want him to live with his choices, to bear the weight of them,” Naci murmurs, her voice reflecting a mix of bitterness and newfound empathy. She pauses, taking a deep breath. “I will forgive him, but on one condition.”
Kelik, her eyes widening with hope, waits with bated breath.
Naci’s gaze hardens with determination, “I want him to do something for me..”
Kelik nods slowly. “Name it, and if it’s within our power, it shall be done.”
Naci takes a moment, formulating her request, before she finally speaks. “Take her,” she nods toward the fledgling eagle.
Kelik, gently cradling the bird in her hands, glances between it and Naci, a playful curiosity lighting her eyes. “This little one is to go to Temej, yes?”
“Yes,” Naci affirms, her gaze locked onto the creature, an embodiment of resilience and freedom. “And he will take her to Haikam.”
Raising an eyebrow, Kelik smirks, gently caressing the soft plumage of the bird. “Did you ever give her a name?”
“Uamopak,” Naci replies.
Kelik chuckles, a warm, hearty sound that reverberates through the quietude of the yurt. “Uamopak, the legendary warrior. A fitting name, though hilariously ironic.”
Naci’s eyes flash with curiosity and confusion. “Why?”
Kelik’s eyes glitter with a mischievous twinkle as she speaks, “Do you know what Uamopak means in Bugr?”
Naci’s eyes widen, a blend of amazement and curiosity simmering within them as she shakes her head. She hadn’t expected Kelik to know the language of Bugr.
With a playful wink, Kelik discloses, “In modern Tepr, Uamopak translates to Amonaci, ‘flame.’ Quite fitting, wouldn’t you say?”
With those parting words, she steps into the moonlit night, the fledgling eagle secure in her hands. Naci, left in solitude, feels something shift within her, the ember in her soul warmly crackling like her name suggests.
