The Winds of Tepr

Chapter 58

Qaloron Khan reclines on his throne, casting a gentle eye toward his son, Nemeh, who stands with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The room hums with silence as Nemeh glares through the large windows overlooking the gardens, his brows knit with a brooding intensity.

"Your brother will return soon, Nemeh," Qaloron says, his tone even, laced with the softness that marks his affections. "Puripal has a clever mind. I think you'll see he's not out there merely wasting time."

Nemeh lets out a low scoff, his lips curling in disdain. "Little Puripal?" he repeats. "Clever, perhaps, if you count running from responsibility clever. He prefers Moukopl's bazaars and back streets to anything resembling duty. We all know he left the moment he was allowed, father."

The Khan's gaze sharpens, though his expression remains kind. "If Puripal were only that, he would have been found out by now. He has a knack for blending in where others stand out—a talent few possess. You see recklessness; I see opportunity. There's a certain wisdom in moving unseen."

"He thinks like a stray cat, which is useful if you're catching mice," Nemeh sneers, his eyes shifting to his father with a guarded frustration. "But if he's meant to guard our land? I'd prefer he stay close."

"Perhaps," Qaloron replies with a measured smile. "But there is strength in knowing the lay of the world beyond our own lands, strength even in adapting to its currents. When he returns, he'll bring back what we need."

Nemeh crosses his arms, his face pulled into a tight frown. "If he returns," he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice edged with bitterness.

Qaloron's gaze softens. "Puripal will return, Nemeh. He has his part to play."

Nemeh looks away, and a dark shadow creeps into his eyes. "And if he doesn't?" He takes a deep breath, straightening his posture as if to shake off the thought. "But Little Puripal isn't the only one," he continues, a slight tremor of irritation in his tone. "You've heard about Brother Noga's mischief, I assume?"

A knowing glint sparks in Qaloron's eyes. "Naturally, he said he's off to the East, taking a few men with him. 'I'll come back with twice as many,' he says," Qaloron chuckles, shaking his head. "It's bold, this confidence. Reminds me of someone else."

Nemeh's eyes narrow as he watches his father laugh, his jaw tense. "Perhaps. But it's easy to be bold with no care for what he leaves behind. Brother Noga acts as if there's no one but himself to consider."

"He takes on much, I'll admit," Qaloron says thoughtfully, leaning back. "Aralën left him with burdens I perhaps placed too eagerly on his shoulders. But even as a boy, he carried those burdens without complaint. And look now—he holds the loyalty of his men; he inspires them."

"Inspires them?" Nemeh's voice is cold, laced with skepticism. "It's more the promise of blood and glory that draws men to him. Second Brother has always been... single-minded."

"Perhaps," Qaloron agrees with a sigh, looking at Nemeh with an almost wistful gaze. "But it's that certainty, that single-mindedness, that may serve him—and our people—well." He pauses, then adds, almost to himself, "If there were any doubts before, I see now our future lies safe between the hands of you three. With Puripal's cunning, Noga's ambition, and your own insight—yes, I think our line will endure."

Nemeh's jaw tightens. "Insight," he echoes, his voice low and sharp. "Perhaps you see insight, Father. But I see the cracks. You rely on us too much—trust in dreams too freely. What if Little Puripal never returns, or Brother Noga's ambitions blind him to sense?" He lets the words hang in the air, cold and deliberate, his eyes hard as iron.