The Winds of Tepr

Chapter 17

Days meld into a languid haze, time marked only by the occasional visitations of her captors. Roughly half a week has elapsed since the devastating assault on the Jabliu, since the world Naci knew was razed and reduced to smoldering remnants. Her once-vibrant eyes, now shadowed by the trials of her confinement, flicker with unspoken resilience, even as hunger gnaws persistently at her resolve.

When Sarnai or Ailana arrive with meager sustenance, Naci's handcuffs are temporarily removed, a fleeting reprieve that only accentuates her captivity upon their return. Her thoughts, ever resolute, vacillate between the immediate struggle and the fate of her dear Horohan, an ache that she staunchly stifles, unwilling to let it fracture her unyielding spirit.

Naci's mind weaves its way toward her brother. His situation, she recognizes, is a maw of desolation, even compared to her current plight.

An abrupt rustling at the entrance of the yurt yanks Naci from her introspections. A silhouette punctuates the dull light filtering through the flap, revealing a woman bearing a tray of dried fruits and cheese. As she steps into the murky confines of the yurt, recognition sparks within Naci's eyes. The visitor is one of the women who had sneered and scorned on the day after her wedding, an ugly presence bathed in condescension and malice.

A part of Naci, the primal, infuriated fragment, finds the woman's visage hideous, her being a revolting manifestation of animosity and spite. Yet, Naci holds the tempest within her at bay, her expression unreadable, her demeanor a tranquil sea belying the storm surging beneath the surface.

She accepts the food, her motions measured and her words non-existent, refusing to grant the woman the satisfaction of witnessing any semblance of defeat or perturbation. The woman, perhaps expecting a reaction, lingers for a brief moment before departing, leaving Naci in solitude once more.

Naci gazes at the meager offering, her thoughts spiraling back to Horohan, to the Jabliu, to all that has been wrested from her grasp. The fruits and cheese remain untouched for a long while as she loses herself in the depths of her contemplations, the nourishment before her a mere backdrop to the fervor quietly crystallizing within her spirit.

She does not partake until much later, when the fire within her has simmered into a slow, deliberate burn, a flame that will neither extinguish nor erupt, but smolder patiently, awaiting the moment when it will engulf all that stands in its way.

...

Horohan's yurt, a once-comfortable enclave, now feels like an alien, oppressive space as the flap opens to admit Urumol and his trusted shaman. The ambient energy within the space shifts, crackling with unspoken tensions and looming intent as Urumol's gaze, stoic and unyielding, collides with Horohan's apprehensive eyes.

His voice, a graveled declaration, breaks the thickening silence. "Horohan, your marriage has been arranged with an Orogol warrior."

The words hang heavily in the air, a palpable weight that seeks to constrict around Horohan's spirit. She feels a sting, an icy dread seeping into her bones, yet her countenance betrays none of the tempest within. She remains a stoic pillar amidst the swelling tide of shock and dissent, her voice, when it emerges, is deceptively calm.

"Why not an heir, Father?" Her inquiry is pointed, laden with the silent insinuation of contradiction, yet she ensures it remains sufficiently veiled beneath a façade of genuine curiosity.

The shaman, largely oblivious to the undercurrents between father and daughter, begins his blessings, a litany of prayers, and chants weaving through the tense air, seemingly out of place amidst the brewing storm.

Urumol's reply is a terse, bitter utterance. "Ungrateful daughters do not deserve heirs and titles, Horohan."

Her gaze doesn't waver, meeting the harshness of his own. "But Father, if it's the lineage and future of Alinkar you're concerned with, how will marrying me to a mere warrior achieve that?" Horohan's voice, despite its steady timbre, becomes a conduit for her veiled defiance, "Wouldn't an alliance through marriage be more strategically beneficial with an heir, rather than a warrior of no particular standing?"