To be a virtuous wife, benevolence must be ingrained in one’s bones till all they live and breathe becomes magnanimity, compassion, strength, and perseverance.
As such, it was expected that the new mother of the Valthorne tribe would be beautiful, docile and pious beyond fault.
Unfortunately, that was not the case.
For there was a viper in the winter boudoir of the Valthorne Tribe.
She arrived at midnight, when the skies were starless and dark. Winter had long since set in, snow covering the Steppes for miles like a spotless blanket, the ground frozen underneath. Hills and valleys rolled and stretched as far as the eye could see, and on one such hill, nestled amidst evergreens, was the Valthorne camp’s military settlement.
Ragnar Valthorne—The Great Khan of the Valthorne Tribe—stood at the circular table with Thane to his left, Varok to his right and four of his commanders arranged along the opposite side, their breath still carrying the ghost of cold from the walk between military tents.
Parchment covered every surface—requisition lists, delivery manifests, and an annotated map of the eastern trade routes had been nailed to the wooden table. One particular paperweight, in the shape of a wolf, had been placed on the Orkhon Main Road, where they had lost all communications with Commander Muren.
But there was much to discuss; as such, the matters of trade were set aside for a more pressing matter.
“The grain stores at Delvaar will last through the second moon, no further,” Thane was saying. He had his finger pressed to a line of figures as though the numbers might shift if he looked away. “If the southern road stays clear, we can move the second shipment before the hard frost, but if it doesn’t, we’ll be short.”
Ragnar reached across and turned one of the manifests face up. “What did Varok’s men confirm?”
“The timber came through; the grain did not.”
The vassal tribes were acting out; it bothered the men in the room; most had their faces set, brows furrowed in understanding. This wasn’t good; little acts of defiance were not something conquered tribes did without confidence. But where did their confidence come from?
Ragnar was quiet for a moment. Outside, the wind howled furiously through the military encampment as soldiers entertained themselves despite the cold.
“Then we negotiate with the Kuraltai before the roads become impossible to cross, or we go without. Write to their Great Khan—”
The tent flap was pulled open, and a young soldier appeared in the gap. A lanky boy with sandy blonde hair cut short and a newly crooked nose. Sai, barely eighteen, had his face flushed red from the cold, but his eyes were bright. He had clearly been running, as he was still catching his breath.
“Great Khan,” he pressed a fist to his chest. “The procession from the Borjigin has finally been sighted. The Khatun arrives within the hour!”
The tent fell silent.
A heart long since thawed by the tears of one woman seemed to ignite in that instant.
Between one breath and the next, Ragnar left the tent. Not even a shadow was left in his wake.
The biting cold hit him across the face. He welcomed it, his heart swelling as his steps quickened through the fresh layer of crunching snow. By the time he reached the paddock, the groom had already understood his haste because his horse was being brought forward without a word being asked. Ragnar took the reins, put his foot in the stirrup, and rode.
An hour’s distance.
He covered it in less.
The road west was hard-packed and stainless white, the fields on either side disappearing under a flat white nothing, the sky above them the same colourless grey they had been for weeks. Soon, the snow picked up, as did the wind; his hair pulled back as he rode, urging his steed to go faster.
Faster.
He only slowed when he saw them.
The procession came around the long bend in the road in disciplined order—the Borjigin outriders were situated ahead, three to each side, their banners with the viper’s emblem moving in the wind. Then the supply carts, the attendants, and the mounted guard. At the centre, he noticed a dark-wood carriage with brass fittings, the curtains drawn against the cold.
A small crowd had gathered, the Valthorne curious as to who was arriving at such an odd hour of the night at their main settlement.
Ragnar brought his horse to a halt and dismounted, walking the distance.
Her carriage door opened before he reached it and, from the inside, was pushed by a small hand—Nkiru’s—she had grown considerably since early summer. The girl stepped down; her hair was tied with lengths of red and yellow yarn. She looked up at him with large, assessing eyes and beamed.
Nkiru quickly turned back to the carriage and reached up, and Ragnar held his breath as another hand took hers.
The first he saw were nails painted red, her last two fingers covered with gold guards. It seemed she was wearing something long-sleeved, a cloak covering her shoulders, the fur lining kissed by beautiful strands of hair that fell around her.
Half a year.
He waited to see her face.
Relying only on paintings commissioned by artisans who had never beheld her beauty for themselves. An imperfect interpretation of the undeniably perfect. An insult, in all honesty. One that resulted in broken frames and many torn canvases being burnt to ash, so he did not have to see such flawed interpretations of the god of his heart.
Ragnar wished to say he missed her. But he held his tongue, finding it unseemly to look so pathetic when she had only just arrived.
Her velvet-covered feet hit the snow, followed by a floor-length dress in the style of the Steppe people, one made exactly to her fitting so she wouldn’t be scorned by the bitter cold on arrival.
Her eyes—as in his endless dreams—remained ever exquisite.
She glanced at him, weary, and yet a smile still played on her full lips.
He wondered then if they would taste the same as the last time he kissed her.
He heard his people whisper; they wondered who she was.
Naturally, he would show them.
She was the woman he had chosen to lead them, to care for them, to protect them, to whom he had vowed his life—his soul. The woman he had promised to cherish above all, under Tengri.
And so, Ragnar Valthorne stepped forward and took a knee.
Perhaps men of his rank never bowed, not to any mortal, but he did for her. As long as they all understood the space she occupied in his heart, he would bow a thousand times more.
Ragnar Valthorne took the hand of the woman before him, and he lowered his head, his lips meeting the inside of her wrist.
The Great Khan, covered in snow, a man who had ridden for the better part of an hour with no outer coat, looked up at his wife.
“Khatun,” he said. “Welcome home.”
There was a viper in the winter boudoir of the Valthorne Tribe. She arrived wrapped in furs that could not hide the strange red beads she had layered around her waist. She hid behind the Great Khan. He took her hand, and they walked deeper into the settlement. The Khanvaaris had known, of course, but to the common people of the Valthorne encampment, her arrival was as a thief in the night, catching them unaware.
The servants’ tongues wagged incessantly.
They gathered at the perimeter of the ordu, abandoning their evening tasks as the Khatun was welcomed by the Great Khan’s guards. The servants of the inner circle attended to her; those who were of low status could only watch from afar. The woman behind the Great Khan sat with a kind smile and a straight spine. When she bowed her head to greet them, she pulled down the hood of her fur cloak, and they at last saw her face.
Her hair—gods above and below—was woven from gold! Thick plaits adorned with metal rings that caught the torchlight and swayed with her movements. Her skin remained deep and luminous even in the harsh cold, and her eyes, wherever they passed, held them captive. They were fathomless and bright, the joy in them making the servant girls giddy.
“Who is she?” they asked each other with curious whispers. They dared not be presumptuous when it came to the Great Khan’s affairs.
“Where does she come from?”
“Those ornaments—I’ve never seen their like.”
The chaos spread through the settlement like wildfire. Cooks abandoned their pots. Stable hands left horses half-groomed. The few merchants still conducting late business turned from their scales and ledgers. Everyone had to see the stranger the Khan had brought back.
They watched attentively as Ragnar lowered his head to speak to her, creating an intimate scene that sparked realisation amongst those close enough to see.
It seemed the Great Khan had truly acquired a wife.
It wasn’t long until her name became known throughout the encampment.
Azul of the Borjigin.
Azul Valthorne.
“Don’t let go.” Azul hissed as her hand grabbed onto Ragnar. He seemed amused; though he had put aside his mask, he still insisted on a bōḫ.
“Khatun, you did not even ride a horse; how are you so sore?”
Azul pursed her lips. Her journey had been so slow because she couldn’t learn to ride a horse in time, and should she try, her body would only suffer. But it seemed even the carriage was too much for her.
She could only smile at the servants taking down her things and carrying them into the main tent of the ordu. Ragnar, as the Khan, had a piece of sectioned land to himself, and though there were a great many animals and guards, there was not much else.
Azul found herself attempting to commit faces to memory; being surrounded by people she did not recognise, or could not speak to, set her mind in disarray, which she quickly tried to rectify.
Ragnar leaned down, his lips close to her ear.
“Worry for nothing. I will not leave your side tonight.”
Azul’s heart was caught in arrest. Her face heated in shame. Had she been so obviously uncomfortable that he took notice?
Yet, his words brought her comfort, so she nodded. “And tomorrow?” she asked, her tone shaky.
“How long would you want me to remain in your bed, Khatun?” he replied.
Azul found herself unable to speak, as though a stone had lodged itself in her throat. It seemed her husband was more shameless than the last time she saw him.
Placing a hand on the small of her back, Ragnar slowly led her away from the gathering crowd, her feet dragging through fresh snow. She shivered as the wind picked up. Though winter had only just begun, according to Ragnar, Azul’s body could not stand the chill, and so her chattering teeth had become background noise for them.
Inside the main tent, braziers burned with fierce heat that made Azul’s eyes water with relief. The space was larger than she expected, divided by hanging rugs worked with images of horses and hunting scenes. Furs covered every surface—the floor, the low platforms that served as furniture, even the walls where they provided insulation against the wind that howled outside.
“So much fur,” Azul exclaimed in awe, wondering just how many animals one would need to catch for such. If she sold the furniture in Tarsyn, it would reap quite a bit of profit.
Ragnar laughed, a low rumble that made several nearby servants jump. “You will say that often here.”
“I will think it more often than I say it.” She turned to face him, and even exhausted, even half-frozen, her eyes held that glint the servants had whispered about. “Where do I sleep?”
“Wherever the Khan sleeps.” He gestured to the back of the tent, where a low, heavily decorated bed was situated. “There are no separate chambers here, Khatun.” His eyes narrowed, teasing her. “But if you wish, I can arrange a side room.”
Azul’s smile could have cut glass. “Do you think me a wimp?”
Ragnar shook his head. “You are very far from home. And you need to be off to bed. Whatever brings you the greatest comfort, I don’t mind either way.”
At his words, Azul hissed, her back spasming. What she would do to sleep in a bed; six months on carriage seats was not something she wanted to do ever again. She knew she could have come alone through the ritual circle, but it was irresponsible of her to leave her procession to traverse the dangerous terrains alone. She wished more than ever to establish safe roads and trade routes to save everyone else the trouble.
“Send someone to help me undress,” she said. “I cannot undo the fastenings on my cloak.”
“I will have your clothes washed thoroughly and perfumed to your liking. I made sure to buy more from Kemet before I left.”
Azul glanced back at him over her shoulder. “You remember?”
Ragnar’s expression remained unreadable, but his eyes were strangely tense.
“You think so little of me, Khatun.”
His competence was what she liked about him, and anything he could not work through would be interesting enough for her to conquer.
That was worth the discomfort of frozen toes and aching hips, just to see what interesting challenges he had for her on the Steppes.
“Send the servants,” she repeated, turning fully away from him immediately. “And have them bring hot water. I intend to wash every mile of this journey off my skin.”
“I have found a few who speak your language.”
Azul paused, but he was quick to continue. “Once they arrive, it will be easier here.”
“Prepare me a tutor; a man is fine. You are not a zealot, surely?”
“You want to learn?”
Glancing up at him, perplexed, she tried to unfasten the ropes that held her cloak together around her neck. “I take my missions seriously; why should I not learn?”
Whether her words were amusing or he genuinely couldn’t fathom her wanting to learn his language, he seemed delighted.
“Let me…” he took her cloak fasteners, large hands undoing them so quickly she found her stomach twist.
If it were that easy to do, why had she struggled so shamefully?
“Thank—” her words caught in her throat as she looked up.
His eyes were dark, the eyes she was used to, but they seemed brighter, as if being home, being on the Steppes, had breathed new life into them.
His fingers traced up her neck, pushing strands of her hair back. And for a moment, it felt as though her heart would stop.
“Wait for me, Khatun. I will return shortly.” His voice was so low she almost didn’t hear him.
Azul nodded and watched as he turned to leave. Her heart thundered in her chest as something important occurred to her.
She had agreed to share a bed without thinking of what that would mean.
She was the Khatun now; perchance, did he expect her to fulfil all her duties?
Is it now that you choose to realise this?
A voice came into her head, old, deep and ancient. Azul’s wanton thoughts vanished immediately.
Are you still cold? She asked back, distracting herself. It’s not the best time to come out.
It’s fine, tomorrow…
She nodded at Dul’s words. The poor creature had been stuffed in one of her trunks, as it wasn’t warm enough under her cloak. It hadn’t done much but sleep, almost as if in hibernation, only waking occasionally to see if she was still alive.
For a giant snake, although restricted, it was a strangely caring creature.
She heard an exchange of conversation outside and quickly turned to the entrance.
A few servants entered her tent; they were older women, their faces weathered by wind and sun, their eyes sharp with curiosity barely concealed beneath lowered lashes.
They helped her undress in silence, their gazes flickering to her hair, her skin, and the jewellery she still insisted on wearing even during the months of travel. One of them—the eldest, with silver shot through her dark braids—touched one of Azul’s gold hair rings, her expression one of wonder.
Azul met her eyes in the reflection of the bronze mirror someone had brought. The Valthorne were a wealthy Tribe, so she didn’t bring much of her own jewellery.
From across the tent, Ragnar returned briefly, watching her. His eyes were kind, but she supposed his eyes were always kind; she only just noticed.
Once Azul had been stripped of her jewels, they took her away. Her hair was unbraided and washed, her skin was scrubbed thoroughly, and her clothes were changed from pants and thick robes to a light, soft dress. Azul took a breath; he was right; he really bought the perfume Nkiru used on her, even though she did not know what it was, but it comforted her in a strange place.
The woman did not know how to style her hair, and Nkiru was far too busy trying to settle her things and arrange them, so Azul spent some time placing them into twists so she could sleep easily.
Ragnar finally came back as she dragged off blankets from the bed, his boots wet, his bōḫ covered in new snow.
Perhaps he had important matters to see to before my arrival interrupted him.
She felt the breeze seep into the ger in the brief moment before he closed the tent flaps.
“How is Nkiru?”
Dragging a small stool, he sat down to unlace his boots. “She should’ve settled with your other servants. I’ve instructed her on how to contact me, or Thane, should you need anything.”
Satisfied, Azul buried herself under the covers. “Is the military camp quite far?” she asked, knowing that was where he’d spend most of his time.
“An hour on horseback, not too much.”
Azul hummed, tiredness watching over her as her body sank into the soft bed.
“What is on my schedule tomorrow?”
Her eyes were already closed; she could only hear his movements. “Nothing tomorrow; I’ll try to arrange servants suitable for you; rest while you can. On the third day, the Khanvaaris’s wives will come and pay respects.”
“The Khanvaaris…” her voice wandered. Her mind fell into a void; the soft furs and feathered pillows welcomed her to blissful rest. Her consciousness only resurfaced when she felt a shift in weight on the bed.
Finding herself next to something warmer than just her blankets, she turned to attach herself to him, finding his chest worked better than the braziers.
The man stiffened at the proximity, every muscle tensing under her touch. Perhaps her skin was too cold for his taste, but eventually, he relaxed.
“Khatun,” she heard Ragnar ask. “Am I truly a block of ice to you?”
In such a tired state, his words held no meaning.
Why would he be a block of ice?
Clearly, he was now a heating rod.
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