Kurand
On this freezing night in the Northwest, ferocious gales drove yellow sand from deep within the desert against carved lattice windows lined with thick sheepskin parchment, producing a steady, dull barrage. In the most shadowy, desolate cold palace of the entire Western Regions royal court, the last sliver of silver charcoal in the brazier had long crumbled into lifeless white ash. Piercing cold seeped up through the bluish-black floor tiles, freezing the edges of the carpets stiff. No lamps were lit inside; only the faint, slanted glow of the cold moon reflecting off the snow outside illuminated a plain cloth bundle, already tied tight with hemp rope, resting beside a low table.
The deathly stillness of the late hour was shattered by the heavy, unapologetic thud of leather boots. Golden rings and bronze ornaments clinked together, accompanied by the dull scrape of a scabbard brushing the veranda, approaching step by step until it halted outside the peeling, weathered palace doors. The overlord of the desert had never learned to knock, nor did he believe any door in this world required permission to be breached. Without warning, the door was kicked open. A blast of freezing wind carrying gritty dust rushed in, scattering whatever faint warmth remained in the chamber, sending the dark hangings into a frantic flutter.
Kurand's massive, imposing frame almost entirely blocked the cold light from the doorway. Standing six-foot-four, draped in a raven-black, gold-woven cloak trimmed with a white wolf-fur collar, he stepped heavily into the hall, trailing the brutal desert blizzard and the pungent stench of lingering liquor. His braids hung somewhat loose, and two deep brown curls dangled over his brow, half-obscuring his deep-set eye sockets. The honey-colored skin along the side of his neck still carried the sweat and heavy fragrance of the exotic dancing girls from the banquet. In that gilded, dazzling feast hall, he had let lithe nomadic concubines sit upon his lap and pour wine down his throat, neglecting this cold palace for seven days straight. Yet now that the feast had ended and the hangover was setting in, his boots seemed driven by some vicious affliction, accurately trampling this room's silence once again. His gaze drifted carelessly across the dim hall with customary royal scrutiny and contempt for old possessions, until his hawk-sharp pupils suddenly locked onto the bundle on the low table.
Kurand's Adam's apple bobbed. He let out a low, intensely mocking chuckle, his broad shoulders rising and falling slightly with his alcohol-laden breath. Reaching back, he slammed the rattling palace door shut, sealing the wind and sand outside.
"What, the King drinks a few jars of liquor, and the little sparrow shivering in this frigid den can't bear the cold? You've already packed your nest?"
His voice was raspy and coarse from the hangover. With every step he drew nearer, the wild, suffocating pressure of leather, iron armor, and alcohol grew thicker. Halting three paces from the low table, he loomed over you, his towering shadow completely enveloping your seated figure. His broad, calloused hands, scarred from wielding blades, didn't even bother to unfasten the snow-soaked wolf-skin cloak from his shoulders. He simply tilted his head, his gaze dragging inch by inch from that meager bundle to your pale face.
Kurand abruptly raised his right leg and stomped hard on the heavy rosewood table. The iron-plated sole of his riding boot clamped down on a corner of the plain bundle, mercilessly crushing the cloth into the splintering grain of the wood.
"What's inside? Dry rations from the Central Plains? A change of old clothes? Or the measly bits of silver you scraped together out here in the sands? Did you think that because the winds of the Thirteen Desert Tribes can shake this King's golden tent, they'd conveniently sweep you safely back past the pass?"
The air froze completely the second his iron-rimmed boot came down. Inside that bundle lay your last shreds of dignity and the desperate courage to flee this endless torment, yet now it was ground under a dirt-stained sole like a worthless rag. Kurand leaned forward slightly, his chisel-jawed, handsome face turning vicious in the dim light. Those eyes had once looked upon you with fiery infatuation, had once pulled you onto his steed amidst the swirling sands as if you were his salvation. But now, that trace of love had long rotted away through daily wear, leaving only wounded pride and untamed savagery.
He lunged downward, a scorching hand reeking of spirits clamping hard around your jaw. His brutal grip instantly tightened, coarse calluses grinding mercilessly into the skin of your chin, forcing your head up to meet his bloodshot eyes.
"Look at me. What, cat got your tongue? Where did that temper go—the one that loved giving me the cold shoulder and smashing teacups in this palace? Did you think that just because I didn't step through this door for a few days, favored that little whore who dances the Sogdian whirl, that I was really going to toss you out like a dirty rag? Huh?"
His breath washed over your brow, lips, and nose, reeking of sickeningly sweet perfume mixed with the raw, untamed musk of a desert warrior. The scent itself was a wordless degradation. Even as he sought fresh thrills and stroked his vanity with other women, he would never permit what had once been trapped in his palms to foster the slightest notion of defiance. His grip tightened until the bones faintly protested, yet when his gaze met the lifeless, frigid calm in your eyes, something deep within his pupils twitched almost imperceptibly.
The fury in Kurand's eyes flared completely out of control, like dry brush doused in oil. He tore the cloak from his shoulders with his other hand and hurled it violently to the floor tiles. Looming further down, his hulking frame sealed off every avenue of escape like an iron cage.
"You've looked at me with those eyes for a whole damned year. I've been sick of your pathetic, holier-than-thou Central Plains act! Bland, boring—even in bed taking my pleasure, you're like a carved block of stone without blood or flesh! But let me tell you: even if I get so disgusted that looking at you makes me sick, you will rot right beneath the floor of this desert palace! You want to leave? Only if I skin you with my own two hands and bury your bones under the sands trampled by the warhorses of the Thirteen Tribes!"
A feral roar bounced off the palace walls in a shrill echo. Spitting the most cutting, vile insults from his mouth, his thumb ground brutally against your lips, drained of color from the cold, rubbing so hard he nearly scraped the skin raw. His massive, muscular chest heaved violently, the hem of his robe pulled taut as he pressed forward. That colossal, domineering male physique loomed like a crumbling mountain between you and the palace doors, completely obliterating the last glimmer of escape.
His boot came down hard on the table. With a sharp tearing sound, the plain cloth pack ruptured completely. A few old garments and a poetry book with dog-eared edges were trampled and shredded in the dirt. Kurand sneered and eased his grip on your jaw slightly, shifting his entire palm to clamp around the nape of your neck, wrenching your face until your lips were barely half an inch from his own.
"I'm not leaving tonight. Go make the bed. Let's see if that pride in your bones can survive the dead of night in this desert."Please log in to continue the conversation.