From the shadow of the carpets stepped Khan Sarym-Turgay - the elder brother of the Great Khan Kara-Buran. His hair was white, his face carved by wind and age. He came to the edge of the circle, and the noise died by itself. In his hand he held a short whip with a carved handle - the mark of the warrior's senior. He raised it above the fire and said:
- The law will be brief. The first pass - speed and mark: take the center, touch the saddle, hand, or shoulder. No blood. Only the sign
His gaze moved slowly around the circle.
- The second - decisive. He who tears his brother from the saddle with the lasso shows strength. He who cuts the reins shows will. The third - settling. He who stays in the saddle - presses. He who's caught - yields with his palm. No mercy. No words
He lowered the whip almost to the ground.
- After three passes, one must remain. If two stand - face to face until one falls. Any alliance is disgrace. Whoever signals, whoever shouts - the guards will strike first. Do not strike the horses: the shame will lie on the clan
He drew a breath, and the whole steppe seemed to hold it with him.
- Blood is not the goal. It's the seal. The spirits and the iron will decide
With that, Sarym-Turgay struck the whip against the earth. The circle froze, breath stilled. The wind tore across, and the drums answered with three dull beats.
The brothers took their reins. The horses snorted, tensed - as if they too knew: it had begun.
The khan's whip fell, but no one moved. Dust settled lightly, like ash. The horses stood twenty paces apart: Kara-Tash to the left, near the fires; Tukal in the center, slightly angled; Tuman farthest out, along the edge.
- Well, - Tuman drawled, brushing dust from his reins. - Had your fill of staring at each other?
His voice was lazy, as if he spoke over a cup of kumis - but his words hit like a lash.
- Quiet, - said Kara-Tash, not turning his head. No anger. No interest. His eyes were locked on Tukal.
- You were too quick to rise from the dead, brother. Go back to where you belong
Tukal didn't flinch.
- Try it. Maybe there's still room for you there
Kara-Tash lunged first - not from thought, but from rage. His horse, sensing the fury, burst across the circle, hooves tearing the ash. He twisted his body, feinting, and the saber slashed sideways, greedy, grazing Tukal's stirrup. A spark flashed into his eye. Kara-Tash's mount reared, thrown by the jerk of the reins. For a heartbeat, everything collapsed into one motion.
Tukal leaned sideways - sharp but heavy, like an infantryman in the saddle. His blade swept not to strike, but to divert - late, flat-edged. It slid along Kara-Tash's leg, not cutting, but driving it off.
The stirrup strap snapped. His foot slipped free. Kara-Tash lurched; pain shot through his ankle - but he held, clinging to the saddle.
Then he struck back - without thought, without sight. His hand tore from the reins, the blade swinging wide - instinct, not aim. It hit Tukal's shoulder, scraping over chainmail with a crunch. It didn't cut through, but burned the flesh beneath like hot iron.
Both stayed mounted, but balance cracked.
Tukal clenched his teeth, drawing his elbow back. His shoulder burned, as if a spike had been driven into it. His fingers lagged - but his will held.
The circle woke like a beast. Warriors tensed; some rose to their toes, others gripped their scabbards.
- Strike! - someone shouted from the crowd.
A guttural roar drowned it - half laughter, half curse.
By the tents, a woman crushed her kerchief in her fist as if that could stop the blade. An old man by a cart whispered, counting, - One... two... three...
A boy leapt up, bread falling from his hands. His father yanked him down.
- Sit. Eyes open. The circle's choosing a name
By a brazier, someone spat.
- Bet on the wrong one
The crowd breathed as one body. No blood yet - but everyone knew it was close.
Sarym-Turgay lifted his whip, but didn't strike. The circle understood: the spirits had already taken their toll.
Kara-Tash gathered the reins with one hand; his ankle trembled with pain. Tukal exhaled, his shoulder throbbing like a hammered spearhead; his fingers wouldn't obey.
It wasn't a sign. It was a count.
Tuman edged his horse closer, eyes drifting over his brothers.
- No blood, and yet you're both coated in dust. Want me to call someone else? - His voice dripped mockery. - Two corpses tormenting their horses, and I'm watching with my pants still on
Kara-Tash and Tukal turned at once. Their stares - cold as blades waiting for aim.
Sarym-Turgay's voice rumbled like distant thunder:
- First
The drums answered - three beats. The shamans accepted.
The first round was over. The deciding one lay ahead.
The crowd stirred like the steppe before a storm. Fingers cracked; breaths tore loose; belts jingled, coughs split the hush. The earth waited.
Somewhere beyond the circle, the wind howled - whipping dust into jagged ribbons, like breath drawn before a blow.
The steppe did not watch - it bared its teeth, indifferent to which brother would fall first.
Kara-Tash sat firm in the saddle, not rushing. The saber turned slowly in his hand, as if he were weighing an old pain - measuring it against a new one.
At the rim of the circle, Tuman lazily drew out his lasso. The movement looked careless, but the leather stretched tight - he was waiting. Not for battle, but for a catch. One throw to bring down whoever opened first.
Tukal said nothing. His eyes flicked toward Tuman and narrowed like a wolf scenting prey. A cold smile flickered across his face - wordless.
He nudged his horse - not toward Kara-Tash, but straight at the youngest. No cry. No turn of the head.
Tuman froze. Not fear - shock bound him. He had expected the elder two to lock horns, blinded by their old feud, leaving him the wounded one to finish. But Tukal charged at him - the youngest, the shadow who mocked from safety.
Kara-Tash saw it. Tukal had thrown off the old hatred and chosen the youngest - the one whose tongue cut sharper than any blade. The moment was perfect: to strike from behind, to close in with Tuman and crush Tukal between them.
He wanted it. His hand twitched on the reins, his body leaned forward. But memory flared. Tuman's mocking words hissed in his skull:
"Had your fill of staring at each other?"
"No blood, yet dust for three"
Kara-Tash shook his head, swatting the irritation away like a fly. Then spurred his horse - not toward the foe, but the insolent brat.
The saber flashed. His horse lunged straight, without guile. He fought not for victory - but for order, so the youngest would remember his place.
- Your tongue's too long, Tuman. Time to shorten it
The ground shuddered under the hooves. The saber rose, ready to strike.
Tuman realized - the elder wasn't cutting off Tukal's path; he was cutting off his. Both bore down, not against each other - but against him. His lip split under his teeth; his fingers clenched the rope; the saddle groaned. The lasso trembled but held.
- Law! - he shouted, voice raw, ripped from his chest. - This is the circle, not a brawl! You're in league!
The crowd stayed silent. Someone spat. Another snorted. Everyone knew - Tuman had never known when to hold his tongue.
Tukal, already close, smiled - colder than ice.
- Youngest. Arrogance falls first
Sarym-Turgay watched without blinking.
It wasn't conspiracy. It was blood, tired of words.
Inside the circle they struck not for power - but for insolence. For one breath stolen from the wind.
Tuman had thought himself the hunter - ready to finish off two predators weakened by fight. But the trap snapped shut. Tukal thundered from behind, swift as a storm that knows no barrier.
Ahead, Kara-Tash cut across, his horse tracing a curve like a blade thirsting for blood. Tuman - prey between the jaws - tightened the rope, his lips trembling with a sudden chill in his chest.
He didn't falter. Jerking the reins, he flung his horse sideways, crouched low, melting into the saddle. Not outward, as they expected, but inward - into the dust where hooves churned up blindness. For a breath, he outwitted them, diving between two shadows.
Only for a breath.
Kara-Tash reacted instantly. His lasso snapped out, slashing across Tuman's shoulder, his chest. It didn't bind - it tore. Tuman's horse screamed, stumbled, and the youngest fell, hurled into a cloud of dust.
Kara-Tash straightened, triumph flashing in his eyes. But Tukal was already there.
He struck - not with steel, but with his body. Rider slammed into rider like a ram. Tukal's saber darted for the belly, but Kara-Tash twisted, his torso slipping aside, feet dancing as if with the wind.
It was a duel of riders, not soldiers. Tukal couldn't follow fast enough - Kara-Tash shoved him off balance, slashed the reins, and tore his foot from the stirrup.
Tukal slid off - thrown, not broken. As he fell, he hurled his own lasso - one last loop, one last chance. The throw was clean, but Kara-Tash dodged. The loop caught nothing but air.
Tukal exhaled. The ground met him hard.
Out of the haze of ash, the rope rose again.
Tuman - filthy, shoulder dislocated but alive - gritted his teeth, eyes blazing with fury. Lying half-buried, he yanked the leather still clutched in his hand. The loop shot upward like a snake - and caught Kara-Tash by the shoulder, wrenching him down. Not by skill - by rage.
- Feel the fall, - Tuman hissed, his mouth twisting in a vicious grin.
Kara-Tash crashed to the ground. The earth shook under him.
The steppe held its breath.
Ash settled. Time froze. The crowd gasped - then silence rippled, like wind through grass. The elders frowned, their hands tightening on their staffs. Sarym-Turgay lifted his whip but didn't strike - his gaze heavier than stone.
Tuman knew what he'd done. He'd broken the measure. He was meant to wait for the third drumbeat, when the fight turned to the ground - the final truth. Now, only victory could wash away the shame. Otherwise, disgrace would stain his clan forever.
He knew it. Yet his eyes still burned, and his hand didn't tremble.
Kara-Tash rose slowly, dust streaming off his shoulders. His eyes blazed with fury, fists tightening as if to crush the air itself. He hadn't expected betrayal from the youngest - the blow that stole his triumph.
- You... - he growled, voice trembling with rage. - Whelp. You steal not honor - but the circle's breath
Tuman, still in the dirt, barked out laughter - harsh, canine.
- Steal honor? And you two, ganging up on the youngest like cowards? Tell me - who here's dishonored?
Kara-Tash stepped forward, saber trembling in his hand - but the drums were silent, and he stopped. The circle would not forgive another strike outside its law.
Tukal, teeth clenched, struggled up nearby. He fell onto his wounded shoulder - where Kara-Tash's saber had burned a trail. Pain flared like fire; his arm went numb; his fingers barely obeyed. He pushed himself up on his good arm, but the earth seemed to drag him back, avenging the fall.
At the edge of the circle, the elders rumbled - like the steppe shifting in its sleep. Kai-Buran, his throat scarred by old wars, thrust his staff into the ground and looked around the ring.
- Stop the circle! Tuman's shame demands judgment! Leave this unpunished - and every boy tomorrow will tear the rite apart!
Khan Uysunov, scar slashing across his brow, rolled his shoulder, brushing off dust.
- The circle decides with blood, not talk. If three still stand - let them fight. The trial comes after
The elders broke into argument; voices split like cracks in stone. Some shouted for honor - to stop the fight. Others for blood - to wash out the disgrace. Some nodded to Kai, others to Uysunov - but none stepped forward.
Khan Sarym-Turgay didn't move. His stare fixed on Tuman, cold as the blade itself - ready, at any breath, to signal the guards to seize the youngest for trial. Or any who dared defy the circle's law.
Kara-Tash saw it. If they halted the rite, he would remain humiliated - not beaten, but shamed. Tuman's rope had stolen his victory. He stepped toward the center, his voice cutting through the argument:
- Give me judgment! I'll punish my brother myself - here and now, on foot!
He knew - on the ground, the sword ruled. Tuman was weak with it. Tukal, with his deadened arm, couldn't stand long. He hungered to crush the youngest before all - to trample his mockery underfoot, then defeat Tukal and claim the Khan's right.
The elders exchanged glances. Kai-Buran nodded; Uysunov clenched his jaw. Kara-Tash was the wronged one - his fury justified. There was no reason to halt the circle.
Sarym-Turgay lowered his whip. The drums beat three times - dull, like a heart before battle.
- Second
The circle passed into the fight on foot.
The three of them stood on scorched earth - hard as bone, polished by wind.The fire flickered like the eye of the steppe, and smoke coiled upward like the spirit choosing its fate. The crowd did not shout. It breathed - one breath, heavy and hungry.
Kara-Tash stepped first. His saber flashed like a wolf's fang. His ankle throbbed, but his stride was firm, as if the ground itself drove him toward his prey. His eyes burned - locked on Tuman, the youngest, whose insolence stung worse than pain.
Tuman backed away, his saber dangling awkwardly. Inside his sleeve, his fingers gripped the hidden lasso - thin, coiled, like a snake before the strike. A grin cut across his face, sharp as river ice, but his eyes darted - dust, embers, stones, shadows.
Tukal stood still. His shoulder burned, blood seeping beneath the chain. His gaze was cold, like steel before the blow. He did not hurry.
Let the elder and the youngest tear at each other. He would move when the dust settled. But a thought smoldered inside him: Tuman had climbed not by strength, but by cunning - the sixth son who became the third. Dangerous, like the wind that breaks bone.
As Kara-Tash closed in on Tuman, his glance flicked to Tukal. His voice was steady, but rage trembled beneath it.
- Brother. Let me punish the youngest. Then you and I - an honest fight
Tuman laughed - sharp, barking, like a fox mocking the hounds.
- An alliance, brother? - His tone dripped with venom. - The steppe heard. Shame heard
Tukal shook his head. His saber slid into guard - an extension of his arm.
- No, - he said flatly. - Only the circle. Strike if you must. I won't wait
The crowd murmured like dry grass under wind. Someone spat. An old man at a cart gripped his staff and whispered, - Shame... alliance is shame...
Kara-Tash ground his teeth. The whisper cut like a knife. Alliance? He - the firstborn - accused of weakness? Fury flared, hot as coals under wind. He lunged for Tuman, saber raised to carve through mockery.
- It's not alliance! It's judgment!
Tuman swayed aside, light as a shadow. His fingers scooped a handful of dust and flung it - not into eyes, but into air. Kara-Tash roared, his blade slashing empty space, the dust falling over his face like a mask of disgrace.
The crowd gasped. Someone spat again; dirt crunched underfoot. Kai-Buran slammed his staff into the ground, voice booming like thunder:
- Treachery! The circle is no place for market tricks!
Khan Uysunov, the scar across his brow pale against sunburnt skin, rolled his shoulder. His eyes - dark as scorched steppe - fixed on Tuman with a cold, almost feral respect. His voice was heavy.
- What makes the sacred circle different from a fight? - He paused, scanning the faces as if daring them to answer. - In the steppe, the winner isn't the one who strikes clean. The winner is the one who lives. Tuman fights like a wolf in a snare. Let him
The crowd shivered like grass under wind. Voices tangled - anger, laughter, whispers. A warrior by the brazier clenched his knife hilt, eyes blazing.
- Disgrace! The circle is law!
Beside him, a wind-bitten horseman spat and muttered:
- Law? In a fight I'd shove sand down his throat myself
A woman with leather-bound braids squinted, her voice quiet but firm:
- The spirits see... and cunning's still strength
Sarym-Turgay stood like stone. The whip in his hand didn't tremble, but his gaze was weight itself, as if the steppe judged through him. The drums were silent. The earth waited for blood.
Tukal moved first - a shadow through dust. His saber flashed, but the strike was false. His left hand darted like a snake toward Tuman's throat - iron grip, ready to tear.
Tuman twisted. The lasso slid from his sleeve, the loop stretching like a jaw. He aimed for Kara-Tash - who squinted, blinking ash from his eyes. But Tukal was closer. His saber snapped out, and Tuman crashed sideways into the dirt. His fingers scooped ash, flinging it into Tukal's face. Dust rose like the breath of spirits.
Tukal didn't flinch. His arm rose, covering his eyes. The saber hovered, ready to strike. Dust settled on his chainmail like snow on stone. His shoulder burned; blood dripped - but his legs held.
- Enough, little brother. Your tricks are done
The fire cracked. The steppe exhaled. Ash swirled, like the ghosts of ancestors.
Tuman said nothing. His eyes gleamed - beast's eyes, trapped but alive. Dust had failed him. The saber wasn't his weapon. But the circle - was. The fire flickered, the eye of the spirits. A sharp stone waited near the edge. A dry twig lay a step away. Ash whispered under his boots. He didn't think - he felt.
Tukal struck first. The saber hissed like a whip. Tuman moved around him - a snake in dust, slipping through steel. Tukal had never seen such movement - not in this life nor the last. Slippery, like a shadow over water.
His shoulder burned, but his blade sang. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kara-Tash - shaking off ash, his eyes burning like coals. Tukal slowed. Let the elder spill his anger. Let the younger twist.
Kara-Tash lunged across. His saber rose, sharp as thirst for blood. Tuman was the target. Alive or dead, the youngest would pay. The blade cut through air; dust surged like a shroud.
Tuman staggered - pretending to stumble - stepping toward the fire. Tukal froze, blade poised. Kara-Tash charged, his saber slicing for the kill. Tuman's hand shot out - fingers closing on the dry branch. A swing. The stick flew into the fire.
The coals exploded into sparks; smoke roared upward, thick as a spirit's veil.
Kara-Tash coughed; his eyes stung with tears. His blade struck smoke - emptiness. Tuman rolled through the dust, a shadow among ashes. His hand found a stone - not a weapon, but enough. The throw cracked against Kara-Tash's knee. He stumbled, growled, his step breaking like ice beneath a hoof.
Tukal saw it. His saber lifted - but he didn't strike. He waited. Let the two tear each other apart. But Tuman met his gaze.
- Waiting, brother? Afraid to stain your steel? - His voice cut like a sting.
He shifted sideways, toward the edge. His hand slid to his belt - where a short dagger hid, meant not for war, but for deceit. His fingers flicked it - not at Tukal, but into the dirt at Kara-Tash's feet. The blade struck, ringing - distracting. Kara-Tash flinched, eyes narrowing.
In that instant, Tuman whipped his arm - the lasso flashed like a serpent.
Tukal swayed aside. His saber swept down, the blade slicing the rope. The cord split, the ends falling into dust. Tuman darted forward, feet light as wind. He leapt, shoulder-first into Tukal's chest. His saber gleamed, aimed for the throat. But Tukal was ready.
His free hand lashed out like a whip, caught Tuman's wrist, twisted. His leg swept low, breaking the stance. Tuman fell; dust billowed up.
- Strike! - someone roared - hoarse, hungry.
Tukal loomed over him, elbow crushing Tuman's throat into the earth.
- Tricks are nothing before strength, - Tukal's voice cracked like bone.
Tuman writhed like a wolf in a snare. His eyes blazed; his body faltered. His fingers scraped the dust, clutching ash - to throw, to blind. But Tukal's grip tightened. Tuman kicked, foot glancing off chainmail. He grabbed a stone - sharp as a claw - but his fingers went numb; it slipped away.
He gambled. He lost. The steppe watched - unmoved.
Kara-Tash didn't wait. He was behind Tukal, shadow in ash. His saber rose, aimed for the back. But Tukal sensed the step - like a beast sensing fangs. He turned. Steel met steel. Sparks burst as blades screamed.
The crowd gasped like wind through a gorge. The warrior by the brazier gripped his sheath, eyes aflame. A nomad spat, - The back? Shame!
A youth with a spear thrust at air.
- Hit him!
Kara-Tash struck again - wild, open. His saber crashed down, but Tukal stepped in close, into the dance of death. Steel met steel, then slipped. Tukal needed no weapon. His hand seized Kara-Tash's wrist, twisted. The blade fell, clattering against the ground.
Kara-Tash lunged, bull-strong. Tukal met him - forehead into face, bone cracking. Knee to gut - hammer blow. Kara-Tash gasped, folded, dropped to one knee. Tukal's fist rose and drove into his jaw.
Crack.
Kara-Tash collapsed. His eyes went dark - like coals dying under ash.
Tukal stood. Blood ran down his arm. His back was straight. The saber lowered, but did not fall.
- Law
Sarym-Turgay stepped into the center. His gaze pierced the circle like a spear.
- Tukal stands. Tuman and Kara-Tash have fallen
The drum struck once. And all fell silent. Tukal stood; his shadow stretched across the circle - long as a road. The steppe was mute. But it remembered. Kai-Buran gripped his staff; Uysunov turned away. Kara-Buran stared into the fire, not at his son. A whisper crackled like fire itself.
- Clean - but not Khan, - someone murmured.
- Blood of five still waits, - another replied.
Tukal stepped toward the fire, blood dripping into dust. He lifted his gaze - not to the elders, but to the circle. His voice was firm as a blade, even as the steppe itself.
- The blood of five is a debt, not a shame. I'll pay it - horses, silver, hostages for the dead men's homes. Their clean kin will return to their hearths
He paused, his eyes sweeping the crowd.
- Order is higher than vengeance. Before this fire, I swear - I will hold the steppe, not tear it
Silence thickened. The flame leapt higher, as if listening. Khan Baga-Buka rose.
- The circle has spoken. Tukal stands. Let any who oppose it cast their blade into the fire
The crowd rippled. The warrior by the brazier clenched his hilt - but said nothing. The nomad spat into dust and muttered, - Law... - The youth with the spear thrust at air, but the smith beside him hissed, - Quiet. The steppe judges
Khan Bayan-Burkut stood, hand on his belt.
- The spirits have accepted. The law has spoken. Tukal is the Great Khan's son - and the circle has chosen him
Khan Sarym-Turgay didn't move. His gaze, cold as iron, fixed on Tukal.
- The victory is clean. The debt will be paid. But a Great Khan is the whole Horde. And the Horde decides
Khan Kai-Buran struck his staff into the ground; his voice rasped.
- The blood's not washed. Victory is not the throne
The silence deepened. The fire cracked, listening.
The Great Khan Kara-Buran raised his hand - dry as root. The murmurs died.
- The circle has chosen Tukal. The spirits have spoken
He paused, his gaze cutting through the flames.
- But the Khan is the steppe itself. It will accept him only when the debt turns to ash
The fire surged higher; Tukal's shadow stretched wide, almost touching the khan's tent. The drum sounded once. The crowd exhaled, like a beast waking from sleep. The guards' spears quivered - but did not rise.
Sarym-Turgay lowered his whip.
- Tukal - the second son. The circle has raised him. The Horde watches. The steppe remembers
The khanate lay one step away - but the debt of five still smoldered, like coals beneath the dust. The drum struck again - dull, steady, like the heart of the Horde.
Fate waited for the steppe to speak.
***
Dear readers, thank you for taking the time to read my story!
Recently, I was a bit busy with real life and had to pause work on the book for a while. But when I returned, I was surprised to see a few 0.5 ratings.
Unfortunately, those who left them didn't write any comments - not a single word about what went wrong or how I could improve.
It's a bit puzzling, especially when ratings like 2 or 3 often come with helpful feedback and thoughtful notes that I gladly take into account to grow as a writer. But silent low scores after just a couple of chapters remain a mystery to me - why bother if there's no desire to share one's thoughts?
Still, I won't let it throw me off course. I'll keep writing, because this story lives within me, and I believe it will find its readers.
I wonder - have any of you faced something similar? If so, I'd love to hear how you deal with it.