Chapter 76: North-Western Nation
At the north-western end of the continent lies another nation, the Khanate of Tharun’kai. And in its very centre was its capital.
The heart of the Khanate of Tharun’kai was not a place built for beauty. It was crude and ugly, but very strong.
Massive stone walls rose from the earth like jagged cliffs. Towers crowned with banners overlooked the endless plains beyond, their shadows stretching across courtyards large enough to host entire tribes.
The fortress had little gold and even less decoration. Its pride lay elsewhere.
Mounted upon the walls were the skulls of cursed beasts.
A serpent skull the size of a carriage hung above one gate. The ribs of some forgotten monstrosity arched over a corridor.
Faded banners stained with old blood fluttered beside trophies taken from enemies long dead.
Every stone seemed to proclaim the same message: this nation had survived.
A servant hurried through those ancient halls, his sandals slapping against stone.
His breath came in uneven bursts. The message he carried had crossed hundreds of miles.
The frontier had fallen into turmoil. Krynova was planning to march. War had begun.
The servant finally reached the innermost chamber.
He lowered himself immediately. "My Sardar."
Silence answered him, heavy curtains concealing the ruler’s bed from view.
The chamber itself was dim, illuminated only by several oil lamps.
For several moments, nothing happened. The servant dared not raise his head, then a laugh emerged from behind the curtains.
Deep, terrifying, and amused. As though he had just heard an entertaining joke.
The servant gulped. "My Sardar?"
The laughter continued. "That frightened expression of yours must be terrible to look at."
The servant swallowed. "My lord, Krynova has begun mobilizing. Their armies are advancing toward Kufashr."
The unseen ruler chuckled again. "Is that all?"
The servant looked genuinely confused. "All...?"
"You ran like a hunted rabbit. I assumed the world had ended," the Sardar answered with another chuckle.
The man remained frozen. The response was not what he had expected, not even close.
A war between nations was beginning. The border cities were preparing for siege. It was Krynova, the most stable kingdom apart from the two titans when it came to war.
Thousands would die, yet the Sardar sounded relaxed and almost cheerful.
Behind the curtains, the ruler stretched lazily. "Go eat something."
The servant blinked again. "My lord?"
"You’re exhausted."
"I came to deliver urgent news."
"And you’ve done so." The voice carried quiet authority.
The kind that ended arguments before they began.
"Now go eat."
The servant hesitated, then lowered his head. "As you command." He departed without another word.
The laughter behind the curtains followed him all the way to the doorway.
Far to the north, beyond Kufashr and the roads connecting the frontier cities, lay Weehri.
Unlike Kufashr, Weehri was not a border settlement.
It was a fortress city, built with the expectation of war because of its importance.
Its walls stood thick and broad, its granaries overflowed, and its wells ran deep.
Every invading army that had crossed those lands throughout history had eventually arrived before Weehri’s gates, and most had regretted it.
Apart from its defenses, it carried a booming trade. The city was crowded like a colony of ants. This city was one of the major arteries of the Khanate of Tharun’kai.
Within one of the city’s military compounds, a man sat alone.
His legs were crossed beneath him. A board game rested atop a low table.
The pieces were carved from ivory and blackwood, his gaze fixed upon them.
The room was silent except for the occasional crackle of burning incense.
Mirza Murad Khan Bijarani stroked his beard thoughtfully.
The thick grey beard flowed nearly to his chest, neatly maintained despite his age.
A white turban crowned his head, silk robes draped over broad shoulders.
Time had touched his face, yet had failed to weaken it. His features remained sharp and commanding.
The seven black lines upon his skin seemed almost carved into stone.
Marks of blessing. A sign of power earned through blood and war.
Across the Khanate, there existed countless warriors.
Many generals and tribal chiefs. None could compare to a Seven-Lined Blessed.
He was a Titled General, one of the Four Great Khans.
Mirza moved a piece across the board.
CLICK.
His opponent did not exist, yet he played regardless. Cautiously thinking and planning, preparing for possible counters.
A younger officer entered the chamber. He bowed respectfully. "Great Khan."
Mirza did not look up at him. His eyes were fixed on the game.
"The reports have arrived," the officer said.
"I know."
"The Krynovans are advancing."
A small smile appeared beneath the old warrior’s beard. "I know that too."
The officer frowned. No concern, surprise, or urgency. It was his first time fighting under the second Great Khan.
The old man looked as though he had been expecting this for months. Perhaps he had.
Mirza picked up another piece, a cavalry unit, and moved it forward.
Then removed three enemy pieces from the board.
The officer watched silently. "You expected them, Great Khan?"
Mirza finally looked up. His eyes held the calm confidence of a man who had survived too many wars to fear another.
"Krynova has spent years growing stronger. They’ve modernized, expanded trade, and strengthened their armies."
The Khan leaned back. "A nation doesn’t do those things forever without eventually deciding to test itself."
The officer remained silent. Mirza’s smile widened. "They were always coming."
His gaze drifted toward the window, toward the north, toward Kufashr and the approaching storm. "Frankly, they’ve kept me waiting."
The officer looked uncertain. "Reports suggest seventy thousand soldiers."
Mirza shook his head. "Not seventy, but closer to eighty-five with mercenaries."
The officer raised his brows. "They brought sellswords? How cowardly!"
The Khan laughed, a deep laugh that filled the room. "They are not cowards. They are smart. You are young, you’ll learn if you survive enough. Honour means nothing when a blade cuts your neck.
And if they’ve sent fewer troops than that, I’d be insulted." He laughed again.
The younger man could not tell whether he was joking. That worried him more than any army.
Mirza looked back at the game board, his fingers resting upon a carved king piece.
For a moment he remained still, then he moved it.
One square forward, a seemingly reckless decision. Yet somehow deliberate and calculated.
The move of a man inviting danger, not avoiding it.
Outside the city walls, the earth stretched toward the horizon.
And upon that earth stood an army, rows upon rows of tents.
Supply wagons, horse lines, campfires, spears, banners. Men, so many men.
Nearly ninety thousand warriors occupied the plains behind Weehri.
A sea of steel waiting for the tide to arrive, veterans sharpening weapons.
Officers studied maps, messengers rode between camps. Blacksmiths worked through the night.
The Khanate was preparing for war.
Mirza stared toward the distant north, toward Krynova and their Titled Generals.
Then he smiled, not arrogantly or foolishly. The smile of a hunter hearing movement in the grass.
At last, something worthy had entered his territory.
"Come." His voice was barely above a whisper, yet somehow it carried weight.
"Come, Krynova." The old Khan’s eyes gleamed. "I am eager to welcome you."
