The Steppe
The steppe once moved like breath beneath the heavens. Grasslands stretched to the edge of sight, gold rippling under skies that changed with the wind. Jagged black stones stood as ancient sentinels, smoothed by centuries of sun and sand, their presence sacred and patient. Herds swept across the land in tides, followed by riders low in the saddle, bows strapped tight across their backs, hands steady, breath calm. They were the Orontai—children of storm and silence—whose ancestors bound their spirit to the sky, not to walls or thrones. They named the stars, sang their lineage in firelit circles, and carried the bones of the fallen on the same horses that bore them into battle. This was a life of motion, not permanence. Of bloodlines remembered through breath and bow. Then came the Zhong. And the steppe burned.
Smoke Over the Steppe
Ash drifted across the northern rim of the empire. It fell softly, like dust on a forgotten grave, but its weight was heavy with finality. The Zhong did not conquer land. They consumed it. Villages vanished beneath their advance. Shrines were crushed, their relics ground into the soil. Where once the Orontai galloped free, now silence reigned. Whole clans were erased without even smoke to mark their passing. This was not war. It was obliteration. Among the surviving riders, only one message passed from voice to voice: Run if you can. Remember if you must. The Zhong called it peace. The wind called it slaughter.
The Last of the Orontai
Altan moved through charred grass with a limp that tore at his nerves. Blood soaked his thigh. A jagged arrow had snapped in his calf. His left arm hung useless. He clenched the hilt of his saber with his right, dragging the blackened blade behind him, half a weapon, half a burden. The plains had gone quiet. Not even the scavengers remained. But silence could not erase names. His father had charged the Zhong phalanx with no illusion of victory. His mother, the last Flamecaller of the steppe, had held the ridge alone, torch raised high, her voice casting fire into the wind. They died as Orontai. He did not run to save himself. He ran so their deaths would not vanish with him. If he fell, no one would remember. And the Zhong would win again.
The Pursuit
He ducked beneath a stone shelf carved by wind, breath held as still as stone. Then he heard it—light, disciplined footfalls, not the rumble of hooves. The Zhong hunters had found his trail. They did not march—they surged ahead on heina: muscle-bound hybrids of wild boar and hyena, with bristled manes, tusks curving forward, and snarls echoing like laughter across the wind. They were faster than horses, and the riders faster still, trained in the Way of the Iron Meridian. It was a brutal internal art that transformed flesh into tempered steel and breath into force. They cultivated Jing-qi, the essence of endurance, letting it pulse through their meridians in disciplined flow. Their bodies ran hot with inner flame, muscles taut with suppressed momentum. Once they chose a path, they could chase without rest. No horn sounded. No orders were shouted. Only the quiet rhythm of pursuit, relentless as time.
Altan shifted forward, teeth clenched, eyes scanning west. There was only one place left where even the Zhong hesitated to tread.
Trackers
"He's moving west," the young imperial said, crouching beside the flattened grass.
A jade medallion at his belt marked him as a novice of the White Fang Sect. His stance was wide, but his balance floated. Too proud. Too fresh.
Two other hunters stood nearby, robes swaying in the cold wind. Between them crouched a third figure, his furs dusted with ash. Silent. Watchful.
Toqto'a did not wear Zhong colors. He hailed from the outer provinces, places where imperial maps left the paper blank. His mount, a tusked heina, snorted, pawing the ground, refusing to step near the slope ahead.
"He's hurt," Toqto'a muttered, pressing fingers to the soil. "But he's not wandering. He's choosing."
"There's nothing west," the novice said.
Toqto'a rose slowly. His braid swayed with the wind.
"The Kharan Chasm."
The woman frowned. "That name isn't listed in our records."
"It wouldn't be," he replied. "Your empire doesn't record what it fears."
"Just myths," the novice said, scoffing.
Toqto'a didn't argue. The wind shifted, cooler now, carrying a low hum that settled in the bones. The heina let out a low warning call and backed away.
"They feel it," he said. "The old places still breathe."
The two imperials stood unmoving.
"They won't go?" the woman asked.
Toqto'a turned away. "Then follow on foot."
The Edge
By dusk, Altan reached the place where the world ended.
The Kharan Chasm stretched before him like a wound in the earth. Its walls were crooked and pale, shaped not by time but by force, as if something had clawed it open and left the bones of the world exposed. Mist rose from its depths, drifting against the wind. It tasted faintly of copper and incense. The chasm was forbidden. Not by decree, but by instinct. No Orontai had mapped it. Not because they could not, but because those who entered did not return whole—if they returned at all.
Altan stood at the edge, blood trickling from his wound into the void. It made no sound. Behind him, the footsteps stopped. Three shadows emerged from the grass.
The woman drew her sword.
"You're out of ground," she said.
The novice laughed. "Jump if you want. We'll still find your body."
Altan's grip tightened on the hilt. His saber hung low. His legs trembled, but not from fear. Inside, something stirred. Not memory. Not rage. Flame.
He had learned the Breath of the Falling Flame as a child, not from a master, but watching his mother teach the tribe's fire-keepers. It was not a technique of destruction, but of release. One breath to gather pain. One to name it. One to let it burn. He exhaled. His vision sharpened. The roar of blood softened. The steppe disappeared.
He stepped backward.
And vanished into the abyss.
The Descent
There was no scream. The fall stripped away sound and sensation. The mist rose to meet him, not fog but consciousness. It pressed into his skin, seeping into his thoughts. Heat and cold mingled until there was only pressure. Pain receded. Time stretched thin. His heartbeat slowed. Then stopped. He did not land. He was caught.
Above
"He's dead," the novice said, brushing his hands off.
Toqto'a said nothing. His eyes were on the sky, watching the wind coil into shapes that did not belong to the day.
"No one returns from the chasm," the woman added.
Toqto'a spoke quietly. "No. But no one enters to die either."
The heina gave a low moan. Somewhere deep below, the mist shifted.
And the chasm began to wake.