Ignore all typos, ok? Ok.

Azul found herself wrapped tight in Ragnar's outer coat. Several sizes too large, smelt like iron and… she paused, a small smile playing on her lips. Solgoi stood patiently at her tether. Yisui had brought her around, the poor attendant’s face had paled, and Azul couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. Exposing a young maiden to death so quickly would scare her out of her wits and give her nightmares for months. 

Sai stood a few feet off; he too looked like a few years had been shaved off his lifespan. He held onto Dulguun who had been wrapped in layers of thick wool, eyes weary. 

"Khatun, I hope you enjoyed your little adventure," came the utterly apprehensive voice of a woman Azul had half a mind to slap. 

"Lord Varkesh." Azul hissed, eyes narrowing as Nyraxa approached, eyes glinting a brilliant green in the camplight. Azul hated to admit how formidable she looked in armour; it was spotless despite the bloodshed, silver reflecting the moonlight. 

Beautiful people were created to torment me. She thought bitterly. Between Caius and Nyraxa, she did not think she could handle anyone else. 

"You deviated from what we agreed upon," Azul spat.

Nyraxa stood with her arms crossed and her hip tilted; for a moment she truly seemed like a handsome, good-for-nothing young Lord of a Khannate. "I improved your plan considerably, no?"

"I said call General Varok for backup. With tact!" Azul hissed. "I did not say call Ragnar to slaughter the entire camp, the servants, the troupe girls I borrowed from and literally everyone else within sword range!"

"I’m sorry, Khatun; they couldn’t continue to live," Nyraxa said lackadaisically. "The Great Khan is not that merciful. He can’t get angry at you but you really should’ve considered that before pretending to be a prostitute for your own gain."

Azul’s speech faltered. 

She knew Ragnar would never raise a hand to her; that didn’t mean he wasn’t enraged at her actions. She had forgotten how terrible a reputation he had earned with that sword of his. 

"That is not the point."

"The point is that we now know what they were carrying, what they were planning, and to whom they were planning to deliver it, and none of those men are in a position to report back to anyone. I would call that a successful evening." Nyraxa said pleasantly. "Your husband seemed to agree."

Azul's jaw tightened.

Nyraxa's eyes gleamed. "This was a matter concerning the whole tribe," she continued, her voice dropping a fraction—more serious. Azul’s back straightened subconsciously. "Not just bad horses, Azul. There is more moving through these roads than a few sick animals and inflated prices. The Windborne were simply one thread of many; we need to pull it and see where it leads."

Azul was quiet for a moment. Whether it was the wind still carrying the faint scent of burning flesh or her memory refusing to relinquish the stench, she couldn’t tell. 

"How long do we have?" she whispered.

Nyraxa’s eyes crinkled but lacked all amusement. "Because of your little stunt in Tarsyn, the Valthorne have declared war on Orda Naiman prematurely. We don’t know how long we have, but we cannot afford to fight with the Kuraltai now. We will need their military, we will need their strength, or we will cease to exist."

Azul stood still, skin prickling as Nyraxa’s gaze seemed to contain something she had yet to feel from the woman. Displeasure? Content? Her heart hammered in her chest. Somewhere, she had made the wrong move, and this was Nyraxa’s warning to her: tread carefully, or relinquish your seat by Ragnar’s side. 

Lord Varkesh continued. "Once the horses have been cleared and the men have finished their work." her tone rose to its more jovial register. "We will reconvene. In the meantime, think carefully about how you carry yourself. Despite Ragnar’s words, you cannot simply do as you wish, Khatun. Not if you want your husband to keep his head on his neck. You know by now, warlords have no allies. I am not your ally; do not make that mistake."

Azul’s hands clenched around Solgoi’s reins. 

"In the mean time, reconsider how you treat Tremura Varok. Now that Vashti is gone, you need to fill the power vacuum before it disrupts the tribe’s inner network." She paused for a moment. "Have I upset you, Khtaun?" mocking her. 

Azul—for a moment—considered the choice laid bare before her. Nyraxa was right; she was careless this time, there were things she could not do; no matter if Ragnar chose to fight to give her that right, it did not mean it would come at no cost to his life. And somehow—by some means—she wanted, needed, him alive. Why she cared so much was beyond her. By all means, she could wash her hands of this mess and return to live the rest of her days in luxury by her brother's side. But she had promised that man—her husband—that she would give him the entirety of Oblivia, so she would simply have to rise above her own inexperience and deliver on her vow. 

So, in spite of everything, Azul bowed her head. "Thank you for your guidance, Lord Varkesh." 

Who to anger, who to challenge, who to kill, who to cherish—Azul knew these things in her heart. The very fact that Nyraxa bothered to correct her meant only one thing.

She was pledging her loyalty.

Whether it was to her or to Ragnar, she did not know, but it assured her she had at least one ally in this place. 

Nyraxa looked at her for a moment longer, and then, she turned to leave. 

Azul lifted her head slowly; by the time she looked up, the woman was gone. Exhaling, she turned to Sai and Yisui, who both seemed to be seething with deep anxiety. 

"Let us return," Azul said.

*** ARC/Pre-order ONLY ***

She let Sai boost her onto Solgoi's back, settled the coat more firmly around her shoulders, and they moved.

The main camp was almost an hour at the rate they rode; the roads were barren and cold, and the wind was loud enough to clear her head. 

They had only been riding for a few minutes when Azul stopped; the military camp was still at the horizon behind them.

Yisui and Sai drew alongside her.

"Khatun?" Yisui asked, nervous. The silence had been eating them alive as they remained unsure how the Khatun was feeling at such harsh words from Lord Nyraxa. 

"My silver hairpin," she said quietly. "I left it in the Great Khan's ger."

Sai and Yisui looked at each other.

"Khatun," Sai began, with a careful tone, "I can retrieve it in the morning—"

"The distance is short," Azul said, already dismounting. "Wait here. I won't be long enough to require an escort." She glanced at them both. "Stay." She did not wait for an answer.

The path to Ragnar's ger was short and familiar, lit well enough by the moonlight and the fires ahead.

Once she arrived, she dismounted quickly, stumbling into a brisk walk, her fur-lined boots crunching in the snow. 

Soldiers who saw her bowed their heads, and the guards at his tent did not announce her arrival or hinder her entrance. 

Azul crossed the threshold, entering the receiving area before going deeper towards his sleeping room, partitioned by muslin. As she approached, a small sound reached her ears, and she stopped. 

A groan. Low and rough. The sound of a man in some extremity of feeling—pain or pleasure. Then another sound beneath it, quieter, a breath moving with effort, and then again, and again, a rhythm that the outer entrance did nothing to muffle. “Azul,” her name left his lips, sending a jolt of electricity through her body, and she found her face so terribly hot that not a thought came to her mind. 

Chapter X.5

There was a sound at the threshold. Footsteps.

Ragnar went still.

His hand found his sword on instinct. He pulled up his pants and reached for his robes hanging at the partition with his other hand, pulling them around his shoulders in one motion. He didn’t bother to secure it, already moving towards the veil.

He pulled the partition aside and stepped through into the outer entrance in one motion, sword low, eyes already adjusting for the difference in light.

Nothing.

No silhouettes, no shadow retreating, and no sound of footsteps moving away. He lowered the sword slightly.

Strange, he thought. 

Standing there for a moment, he listened attentively. Only then did it find him, not a sound, but rather a scent. 

It undid him without warning, slicing into his chest and burrowing its way into his heart. A scent he knew all too well. Kyphi, the scent of the gods. The perfume she loved the most, the very one applied to the inside of his cloak every morning, just to feel as though a part of her remained with him. He kept an extra bottle by the lock of hair she had given him. 

That perfume. 

One he used sparingly, one he had yet to use that night. 

A laugh escaped him. Something akin to exasperation permeated his amusement. 

He ran his hand through his long, black locs, a hunger that had not been satiated for weeks growing tremendously with each passing second. 

“Vixen," he hissed. "If you insist, then I have no choice but to concede.”  

It seemed his wife had been eavesdropping.

He sheathed his sword. There was no point in getting dressed. No shoes, no gloves, chest exposed. He knew where she was going. He knew the route. He knew there was nowhere to hide from him. He returned to grab his mask. A few seconds later, Ragnar Valthorne rolled his shoulders as he stepped out, pushing through the tent flap into the cold, which did nothing to diminish the pulse of adrenaline in his veins. 

Hunting, then.

Azul ran for her life. 

A rational response to the situation. She was a grown woman. She was twenty-one years old. She had died once, been reborn into a stranger's body, navigated the politics of two separate courts, intimidated a general, destroyed a dining table with a woman's face, and spent the better part of the evening dancing in a tent full of men who intended to rob her husband.

Yet there she was, making her heart work harder than it had ever done in its lifetime. 

The cold hit her face and her burning lungs. 

Why, she asked herself, with genuine disorganised curiosity, am I running?

She had no answer. 

The girl knew what she heard. She knew what it meant. She had even known for some time that Ragnar Valthorne was attracted to her. It was that very same attraction she manipulated and used to put her brother on the throne. So this was not new information. She was, by any reasonable metric, in control of his heart.

And still. 

Azul glanced back over her shoulder.

Ragnar walked out of his tent. His eyes found her across the distance and her heart thrashed so aggressively in her chest, as if she—of all people—were actually prey.

So she ran harder.

"Khatun—"

She did not stop at his voice, nor at the confused glances of the soldiers who watched her scurry away.

She cut between two supply tents, her feet finding the path by memory, the coins at her waist chiming with each stride, making her feel like a decorated ball rolling away from her owner. 

"Ignore me!" she screamed at anyone who stopped to look at her with concern.

The paddock. She needed Solgoi. His legs were considerably longer than hers and she could already hear—or imagined she could hear—his footsteps behind her. 

She burst through the paddock gate, and Solgoi turned her head.

"Good girl," Azul said, breathlessly, and scrambled up. It was the first time she had praised her horse. It was also the first time she had so eagerly climbed the creature, as desperate times called for desperate measures. She got one foot in the stirrup and hauled herself up with both hands gripping the saddle. She barely had her seat before she urged Solgoi forward and took off.

They made it perhaps forty strides before she heard galloping behind her.

She did not see which horse he had taken or from whom—the hooves slowly crescendoed. Cursing under her breath, she turned to estimate the distance, but he was already so close she could see his clothing, or lack thereof. Her soul nearly left her body. And try as she might to get Ssolgoi to ride faster, it was to no avail. Ragnar had been riding on horses since he was a child; she would never be able to outride him, not in this lifetime or the next. 

The man cut them off. Solgoi made a loud screeching sound of profound equine complaint, pulled up, and Azul found herself flying off her horse. 

The snow received her without much hassle. She fell deep, as it was still fresh. 

When she opened her eyes, the skies sprawled before her, beautiful, starry and bright. She pushed herself upright as a shadow approached. 

Ragnar wasn’t panting. Perhaps this was merely child's play to him. His jaw was set, his eyes were dark, and Azul couldn’t help but feel rather defenceless at his smouldering gaze.

"Khatun," he said. "Why are you running?"

Azul opened her mouth but found herself unable to speak. She couldn’t possibly confess to eavesdropping, could she?

She stood in the snow, shivering from the cold that had seeped through her coat. Her teeth rattled terribly and she fought the urge to hug her body for warmth. 

"Are you cold?" he asked.

If she had the gall, she would've cursed him for being that because of her sorry state. But she dared not; she couldn’t even look him in the eyes. For whenever she did, she found her mind unable to formulate coherent thoughts.  

"Look at me," he said, his voice coming as a low grumble.

Forcing her eyes up, she glared in defiance, even if the heat between her legs made her feel rather abashed. 

"Would you like to come back?" he asked. "It's cold. You'll catch a chill."

She thought about his ger, which was warm, and bit her lip. 

Somehow, for reasons she did not enjoy, she did not want to say no. 

After all, she was still in control...surely.