By morning, the storm had died. The world outside the hidden yurt lay buried under smooth, sculpted dunes, as if the steppe had been remade overnight.
But Arslan wasn't looking at the landscape.
He was looking at the place where the masked figure had stood.
He stared at it for a long time, jaw tight, breath sharp. Ayisulu could almost feel the thoughts racing behind his eyes — calculation, fear, anger, questions he didn't yet know how to voice.
The others emerged from the yurt groaning and stretching.
Kanykei yawned. "If I ever sleep sandwiched between Temir and Bair again, please knock me unconscious first."
Temir indignantly adjusted his blanket. "I'm a delightful sleeping companion!"
"You elbowed me in the face," Kanykei snapped.
Bair nodded solemnly. "Multiple times."
But none of their bickering mattered.
Arslan finally turned to the group.
"The Falcon was here."
Silence fell instantly.
Kereg swore under his breath.
Bair choked on his tea.
Temir fainted very briefly.
Ayisulu swallowed hard. "He didn't attack us."
"Yet," Arslan said.
Kanykei crossed her arms. "So he stood in the middle of a sandstorm. Dramatic."
Arslan didn't smile.
"This isn't a joke. He's close. Too close."
Ayisulu looked away. She didn't tell them the truth — that during the storm, she hadn't felt danger from the masked figure. She had felt… recognition. Like something familiar brushing her memory from a time she couldn't name.
The symbol in the sand tugged at her mind again.
Three lines.
A spiral.
A mark she had seen only in dreams.
Arslan noticed her silent focus.
"Ayisulu," he said softly, "what did it mean?"
She hesitated, then answered honestly. "I don't know. Not fully. But… it's old. Very old. Shamanic. And it always appears before something changes."
"Changes how?" Temir asked nervously.
"Not sure yet," she admitted.
Kanykei muttered, "That's not encouraging."
Arslan stepped closer to Ayisulu, searching her expression.
"Does it warn of danger?"
"I don't think so," she said. "It feels more like… a door. Opening."
Arslan's eyes darkened, not with fear but with something heavier. "A door to what?"
Ayisulu shook her head. "I wish I knew."
---
They began preparing to leave the shelter and continue north. The storyteller lingered by the fire, watching Ayisulu with the kind of knowing that made her uneasy.
"You stand at the edge of two paths," he said, just loud enough for her and Arslan to hear. "One leads to truth. The other to loss."
Ayisulu stiffened. "Loss?"
Arslan stepped directly between them.
"Speak plainly."
The storyteller's gaze slid to Arslan, calm and ancient.
"When you protect her too fiercely, you may blind yourself to the road beneath your feet."
Arslan's jaw tightened.
Ayisulu touched his sleeve lightly — a silent plea not to escalate.
The storyteller turned to her again.
"And you, child… you will soon remember what your ancestors once carried."
Ayisulu felt cold.
"My… ancestors?"
But the storyteller only smiled.
"The wind knows. Follow it."
And with that, he packed his instruments and walked into the dunes as if the storm had carved a path just for him.
---
Hours passed as they traveled north, the sun rising higher, the wind calmer. The steppe felt too quiet — like a held breath.
Ayisulu rode beside Arslan, though she wasn't sure whether she chose it or he subtly guided her horse closer. Their knees touched occasionally. Every time they did, Ayisulu felt the memory of last night — his forehead against hers — burn warm in her chest.
But he hadn't spoken about it.
He hadn't even looked at her directly.
Until now.
"Ayisulu," he said suddenly.
"Yes?"
"You didn't tell me everything you saw. Last night. With the symbol."
She gripped her reins. "I wasn't sure how."
"Try."
His voice wasn't sharp. It was earnest. Almost gentle.
Ayisulu exhaled.
"When I touched the sand… I saw a woman. Dressed in white. Carrying a bowl of fire. She stood on a cliff, and the wind swirled around her like a living thing."
Arslan straightened. "Who was she?"
Ayisulu lowered her gaze. "I think… she was one of my ancestors."
Arslan turned fully toward her now, his horse slowing so theirs matched pace perfectly.
"Ayisulu," he said, voice steady but tight, "if your power comes from a bloodline — if others knew this before you — then the Falcon… he may know more about your past than we do."
Ayisulu felt something twist in her stomach.
Fear?
Curiosity?
Both.
"What if he knows where you come from?" Arslan asked. "What if he knows why you dream?"
She didn't answer.
Because she couldn't.
She wasn't ready for that truth.
Arslan saw the fear flicker in her eyes.
His voice softened instantly.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push."
"You're not pushing," she murmured. "Just… opening doors I don't know how to walk through yet."
He exhaled, relieved she wasn't pulling away.
"I'll walk through them with you," he said quietly.
Ayisulu's breath trembled. "You don't have to—"
"Yes," he interrupted gently, "I do."
Her chest tightened painfully.
Because he meant it.
Every word.
---
Ahead, Kanykei and Temir began arguing loudly about who stole whose dried apricot. Their shouting echoed across the open steppe.
But Ayisulu and Arslan stayed in their bubble of silence.
Finally, Kereg trotted up, his expression carefully neutral — which meant he was worried.
"Prince," Kereg said, "the others fear the Falcon will keep tracking us as long as Ayisulu is with the group."
Arslan's expression darkened instantly.
Ayisulu felt her stomach drop.
Temir, from afar, yelled helpfully, "We don't WANT to leave her! We're just SCARED AND SMALL!"
"Speak for yourself," Kanykei snapped, though she subtly drifted closer to Ayisulu too.
But Kereg continued calmly.
"They fear she is the bait the Falcon seeks."
Arslan's reaction was immediate and explosive — but quiet.
A sharp inhale.
A shift of posture.
A coldness that made even the wind hesitate.
"She is not bait," he said through his teeth.
"No one said she is," Kereg replied, unfazed, "only that the danger is real."
Arslan's horse moved slightly in front of Ayisulu's, a protective block so instinctive he didn't realize he did it.
Ayisulu touched his arm. "Arslan—"
But he wasn't done.
"If any of you suggest leaving her behind," Arslan said, loud enough for the entire group to hear, "you will answer to me."
Dead silence.
Temir whispered, "Oh spirits… he's in love."
Kanykei replied, "We know, Temir. We've known."
Arslan blinked as if waking from a trance — realizing what he'd revealed.
Ayisulu stared at him.
He looked away fast, ears reddening slightly despite his stoic posture.
"I meant," he corrected stiffly, "that we do not abandon innocent travelers."
Kanykei snorted so loudly a nearby marmot ran away.
Ayisulu's cheeks warmed.
Arslan risked one glance at her — and the unspoken truth hung between them like a held breath neither was brave enough to release.
Finally, he muttered, barely audible,
"You're… important. To our mission. To all of us."
Ayisulu smiled softly.
"To the mission?"
A beat.
A longer beat.
Arslan exhaled in surrender.
"And to me."
Ayisulu's heart nearly unraveled.
But before she could respond — before the moment could explode into truth —
A falcon screamed overhead.
Not a spirit.
Not a bird.
A signal.
The Falcon's scouts were nearby.
Arslan immediately drew his bow, tension snapping back into his shoulders.
"Ayisulu," he said tightly, "stay close."
She did.
But not because he ordered it.
Because for the first time, she understood:
He wasn't protecting her because she was fragile.
He was protecting her because losing her was the one danger he couldn't bear.