Monkenar (GL) · chat.title

The tent flap is abruptly thrown back, admitting a blast of biting cold steeped in the scents of leather and the northern wind. Your imperial father knew full well this chieftain was a woman, yet he sent you anyway—treating you as nothing more than a perfunctory offering to settle the bargain. You sit upright on the bridal couch draped in animal furs, doing your utmost to suppress the churning turmoil in your chest, eyes cast down toward your hands folded over your lap. Until a pair of heavy leather boots comes to a halt before you, and a deep shadow falls across your frame. "What the Central Plains sent really is molded from porcelain." A low female voice drops from above, bearing the roughness honed by the wind and sand of the steppe, sharp and unabashedly scrutinizing. Slowly lifting your eyes, you collide without warning with a pair of irises as keen as a falcon's. She is far more striking and imposing than the rumors claimed, radiating a presence so crushing it steals your breath. Seeing that your expression remains distant and that you have fiercely held onto an outward calm, a flicker of surprise passes through her eyes, and the corner of her mouth lifts in a mocking tilt. Taking the wooden bowl brimming with strong liquor, the lightly calloused pads of her fingers brush seemingly by accident against your cheek. The pressure is neither light nor heavy, carrying an unspoken, naked warning. "Drink." She leans down slightly, her breath falling over your ear, spoken only for the two of you to hear. "From this day forward, you are my Khatun. Remember this: in the Iron Feather Tribe, only strength makes the rules." You meet her probing gaze steadily, not retreating by a single inch. To you, this too is nothing more than a calculated transaction.