Weeks had passed since the departure of the old envoy. On that day, three weary riders arrived at the camp gates. The lather from their horses formed foam upon the ground. They were covered in ash and dust, as if they had traveled for days without rest. The guards immediately escorted them into the presence of the Han. Upon entering the center of the pavilion, the riders collapsed to their knees.
"The Kızıl Irmak tribe on the eastern border…" said one of them, his voice trembling. "It is no more."
A sudden silence fell over the tent. "They came at night," the man continued. "Riders in black armor… we could not even see their faces."
"They burned the tents. They took the women captive. Those who resisted…" The man's voice hitched in his throat. The Han's hands clenched into fists. The Black Army was no longer a mere rumor. They had entered the steppe.
The Han fixed his gaze upon the map of his lands. The annihilation of the Kızıl Irmak tribe proved that there was no more time to wait. If the Akkurt betrayal were allowed to fester, the obstacle standing before the Black Army would vanish, leaving Kökçin's homeland defenseless. Thus, the decision was final: the Akkurt Tribe would either kneel immediately, or a total war would erupt on this front of the steppe. Yet the Han knew that strength alone was not enough; the spirit of the war and the morale of the riders had to be prepared. This was why the ancient ritual of the Shaman was inevitable. Gathering around the fire, the warriors of the tribe would feel courage and unity once more through the rhythm of the drum, preparing their souls for battle.
The Shaman appeared before the fire, clad in a wolf pelt, with iron rattles at his waist and an ancient drum (kami) made of stretched deer hide in his hand. His mask, carved from bone, appeared and disappeared in the flickering light of the flames. When the Shaman struck his drum for the first time, it felt as though the earth itself shifted; it was not merely a sound, but a roar emerging from the depths of the steppe.
He began to circle the fire slowly. With every step, the rattles at his waist clashed, leaving a metallic and uncanny melody in the night. As the Shaman's pace quickened, so did the rhythm of the drum. Muffled prayers poured from behind his mask, blending into the howling wind; sparks flying through the air formed a sacred circle around him. Each heavy strike of the drum resonated within the chests of the warriors, preparing the blood in their veins for war. This was not just a dance; it was a bridge where souls met blades.
At the most violent moment of the ritual, the Shaman threw sacred herbs into the fire. He slowed down as he passed through the white smoke rising toward the heavens. The drumming gave way to a profound silence. The Shaman moved toward a scorched, soot-smelling bowl sitting by the fire. He dipped his fingers into the sacred ash within.
Starting with the Great Han, he went before each warrior sitting like statues upon their horses. Reaching each man, he would pause, take a deep breath, and draw a single line with the ash from the forehead down to the space between the brows. This ash was both the soil's farewell to those who would fall and the seal of victory for those who would remain.
When it was Alpagun's turn, the Shaman's ashen finger left a cold mark on the youth's forehead. Kökçin watched with tearful eyes from behind the flames; every warrior whose forehead was marked with ash no longer belonged to this world, but to the war and the steppe.
The next day, at the hour of the horses' neighing, it was time for departure. Everyone embraced their loved ones, seeking their blessings. For Alpagun and Kökçin, time froze. The noise of the crowd faded, leaving only their breath. As their eyes locked, every unspoken word was squeezed into that single gaze.
"Return safely to your home..." Kökçin managed to say, her voice shaking. Alpagun forced a faint smile onto his lips. He only nodded; he gritted his teeth to keep the tears from falling, for a warrior's farewell had to be dignified. He mounted his horse and looked one last time at his beloved, his hearth, and his tribe. As the warriors spurred their horses westward, the women poured bowls of water behind them—so that their departure would be as precious as water, and their return as swift.
THE TWELFTH DAY – A CRIMSON FAREWELL
For twelve long days following the Shaman's ritual, time in the camp seemed frozen, like sand stuck in an hourglass. Every morning before dawn, Kökçin climbed to the ridge above the Akay River, scanning the horizon like a hawk. On the afternoon of the twelfth day, as the sun scattered golden dust over the steppe, Kökçin tried to soothe her heart, which she struggled to restrain under the weight of the water pails on her shoulders.
However, a single rider appearing on the horizon fell over all hopes like a black veil.
The indescribable fear burning within Kökçin drained the strength from her fingers; the heavy water pails dropped one by one. As the water spilled into the dusty earth like a final goodbye instead of giving life, she noticed the burden upon the galloping horse. It was Ak-Tay, her father's loyal companion. But this time, Ak-Tay was not neighing with the news of victory; he carried a semi-conscious, blood-stained giant upon his back.
Kökçin ran toward Ak-Tay as if her soul were leaving her body. Reaching the horse, she saw her father slumped over the saddle, his hands desperately clenched into the horse's mane. The Han was not dead, but his breath was a rattling struggle in his throat. As Kökçin tried to lower her father's massive frame from the horse, she cried out: "Father! Speak to me!"
When her father's body fell slowly to the earth, into the mud created by the spilled water, Kökçin collapsed to her knees. With trembling hands, she wiped the bloody hair covering his face. The Han opened his eyes; his vision was blurred, but he recognized his daughter. The blood seeping from heavy sword wounds on his back and chest stained Kökçin's hands. Kökçin's first cry, tearing through her lungs, silenced the steppe: "Healers! Elders! Help!"
As the warriors arriving from the camp moved to separate her from her father and carry him to the pavilion, Kökçin resisted with the agility of a wounded wolf. She held her father's hand tightly. The Han squeezed his daughter's hand weakly and whispered into her ear. This was not just a father's wish, but the last will of a leader on the brink of extinction.
A few days after that bloody dawn of the twelfth day, new silhouettes appeared on the horizon. These were the last warriors who had survived the ambush and the edge of death. When Kökçin recognized those familiar shoulders and that dignified stance within the dust cloud, half of her heart warmed as if emerging from months of winter: Alpagun.
Alpagun was on his feet, though his armor was shattered and his face blackened by the soot of war. When their eyes met, Kökçin's missing piece was restored; yet this reunion was wrapped in heavy mourning rather than joy.
Meanwhile, the Great Han had been entrusted to the hands of the tribe's ancient Wise Shaman. The inside of the pavilion was filled with the scent of pungent herbs and smoke. The Shaman had cauterized the Han's deep wounds and stitched his torn flesh with deer sinew. Now, everything was left to time and the will of Tengri.
In the dim light of the pavilion, Kökçin waited at her father's side like a sentry. Beside her was her brother Tuman, washing the dark premonition in his eyes with tears. Tuman held his sister's trembling hand, stifling his sobs. Feeling her brother's warmth, Kökçin pulled herself away from the dark abyss.
TUMAN (Wiping his tears, whispering):
"Father will live, Kökçin... He is like an unshakeable rock, he will not leave us."
Kökçin nodded, clinging to her brother's innocence. She stroked Tuman's face with her fingers. He was right; the Han lived, but the price had been heavy.
Days followed days, and wounds began to scab over. But for the Great Han, the real war was just beginning. The Han had stood up, but he was no longer that towering giant of old. One arm hung uselessly at his side like a dead branch, his fingers unable to grasp the hilt of a sword. For a ruler, being unable to hold a sword was harder than being unable to breathe. This loss consumed him from within.
The camp had turned into a silent graveyard. Many tents were left without men; children without fathers, mothers without sons. As the wind blew, the sounds of mourning echoed across the steppe. The Great Han sat before his tent at night, unable to sleep, watching the darkness. He knew that at the first strike of the Black Army, the defenseless women would be enslaved and the infants slaughtered. The survival of a people rested on his shoulders.
One night, in the pitch blackness, there were only two shadows at the edge of the camp. The Great Han was seeing off a young mounted messenger he had prepared in secret. As the Han handed the sealed parchment to the youth, his voice wavered; the shoulders of that proud man, who had never bowed in his life, were slumped.
GREAT HAN (Looking at the ground, whispering in shame):
"Give this to the King of Haryu. Tell him: The Kök-Sencer accept all conditions."
Then he raised his head to the horizon, to the darkness where the enemy waited. In his eyes was the hope of a people's survival and the unending agony of a father.
GREAT HAN:
"Go swiftly to the Haryu palace! Deliver the news quickly... we do not have much time. Death is breathing at our door."
The young messenger, feeling the Han's pain in his heart, nodded and spurred his horse into the heart of the darkness at a gallop. The Great Han watched until the sound of the horse's hooves faded into the steppe. As the wind tossed his beard, that giant of a man looked as helpless as a child in the pitch black—the most sorrowful sight the steppe had ever witnessed.
With heavy steps, he returned to his pavilion, back within the felt walls where his fate was written.
THE BLOODY CONTRACT AND THE SILENT FAREWELL
Weeks had passed, and the screams of the steppe had gone silent; but the ache in their hearts remained fresh, like a wound that refused to heal. On that day, as if wanting to soothe her restless soul, Kökçin rode with her brother Tuman toward the coolness of the Akay River. They traveled accompanied by the music of the mouth harp she played skillfully. It was a strange twist of fate that their paths did not cross, written so that Kökçin might spend these last hours of freedom in peace.
Before dawn, the Haryu caravans appeared on the horizon. Glittering silks were loaded onto horses, and priceless gifts for the Great Han crossed the steppe. Prince Muhan had arrived not only with gold, but with the "Script of Dependency"—a heavy contract demanding loyalty and blood ties.
When the Prince arrived at the camp, the Great Han and Kökhan received him with the dignified weight of the steppe. They moved inside the pavilion, sitting upon felt mats as kumis was poured into chalices. Translators linked the words of two different worlds like an unending bridge. As the conversation deepened, the true matter began to make itself felt.
With a brief hand gesture, Prince Muhan had his soldier produce a parchment from within a leather case and handed it to the Han. This was not merely a tax document; it was a token of a people's submission. The Han listened to every article, his facial muscles twitching. The translator rendered the final sentence:
"The Han's daughter shall become the bride of Haryu."
An icy silence descended upon the pavilion.
The Han took a deep breath, his eyes turning to the Prince. Kökhan watched with shock and curiosity, locked onto the answer his brother would give. Finally, as if feeling the weight of the world upon his shoulders, the Han slowly lowered his head in a "yes." Prince Muhan bowed his head slightly, showing respect for this acceptance.
When Kökçin and Tuman returned to the camp under the crimson sunset, there was a heavy silence hanging in the air like lead. Kökçin saw her mother sitting in the corner; her gaze was fixed on the distance, deep in thought as if watching their fleeing freedom. Her throat tightened. Only a fearful whisper escaped her lips:
KÖKÇİN: "Father…"
Their mother's hands trembled, her voice as broken as the wind:
"My beautiful daughter… this was our fate…"
Kökçin could not make sense of it. She scanned her mother's expression with confused and timid eyes. She was about to step toward the Han's pavilion when the Great Han emerged, his eyes fixed upon her. For a moment, Kökçin was relieved; seeing her father alive lightened her heart. But the expression on the Great Han's face, like the dust of the dead, summarized everything.
The people of the tribe had gathered around her father as well. Kökçin, her eyes on Muhan and then on her father, could only take a few steps; her knees were trembling. The Han took a deep breath and spoke as if exhaling the last breath in his lungs:
"Hear me! These who have come are the soldiers of the Haryu union to the east and Prince Muhan. They offer us a proposal. In the war of the Akkurt, our warriors fell. Our arms were severed, our numbers diminished. The Black Army (Hei-Jun) has received this news and has already begun preparations for an attack. They will slaughter our infants and our women will fall captive!"
A fearful murmur rose from the camp. The Han continued:
"The Prince of Haryu opens a path of salvation for us. If we enter under their command, we shall give five hundred horses, a thousand bolts of silk, and ten thousand gold pieces annually. In return, we shall be a shield against the Black Army!"
These words were a breath of air, a hope for the tribe. But the Han's voice wavered, his eyes filled with tears, and he turned his gaze to Kökçin:
"However, another thing they demand: loyalty and a blood bond. They ask for Heqin… they ask for the Han's daughter. They want Kökçin as a bride!"
Kökçin froze where she stood. The sky had collapsed upon her; the world had stopped.
Alpagun's reaction began with horror and helplessness. First, he cast shocked glances at Kökçin, his eyes freezing; then he looked at the Han, his unshakeable trust collapsing for a moment. He gave Kökçin a desperate look; his heart was broken, his soul shaken. He struggled to remain standing.
He remained silent for a while, trying to control his breath. Then, anger, helplessness, and sadness mingled in his eyes. Alpagun's gaze was lost in Kökçin's eyes; his lips were pressed thin. His heart was shattered, but there was nothing he could do. Finally, he nodded, gripped his horse, and silently moved away.
As he raced with the wind upon his horse, every tear he wiped remained as a wound in his heart. In that moment, Alpagun's soul had experienced the most bitter union of helplessness and love...
"As Kökçin watched Alpagun vanish into the horizon, she knew she had lost not only her beloved but her freedom as well. Before her now lay a foreign palace, an unknown husband, and a bloody price to be paid for her people. But was the blue fire of the steppe destined to flicker out within palace walls, or would she be the one to burn those walls to the ground?"