The khan met her at the entrance to the great tent.
He was old, yet he stood straight and proud. A gray beard, sharp eyes, and a face etched with deep wrinkles and old scars. His clothes were simple but expensive, without unnecessary ornaments. There was no weapon in his hands.
“Reaper,” he said, his voice carrying no hostility — only curiosity. “I have heard much about you.”
“Khan,” Amanda nodded. Her metallic voice sounded hollow through the helmet.
“Come in,” the khan stepped aside, inviting her into the tent. “Do not fear. If I wanted you dead, I would not have wasted time on letters.”
Inside, the tent was enormous. Thick carpets, cushions, and low tables laden with food. In the center stood a long table groaning under the weight of dishes: golden platters, silver goblets, fresh fruit, roasted meat, and wine.
The khan lowered himself onto the cushions and gestured for Amanda to sit opposite him.
“Sit. Eat. Drink,” he said. “You are my guest in my house.”
Amanda sat down, but she did not touch the food.
The khan smirked.
“Afraid of poison?” he asked. “I am not a fool, Reaper. A poisoned enemy cannot become my ally.”
“I am not hungry,” Amanda replied.
“As you wish.” The khan took a piece of meat, bit into it, and washed it down with wine. “See? Everything is clean.”
Amanda remained silent. The glowing red lenses of her helmet were fixed on the khan.
He leaned back against the cushions, studying her.
“You are interesting,” he said. “I have waged war for fifty years. I have seen many warriors — brave, foolish, cunning, desperate. But never one like you.”
“What honor have I earned for such praise?”
“You defeated me twice,” the khan chuckled. “Two armies. Thousands of warriors. All by one man in black armor.”
“You exaggerate my role. I had allies.”
“Allies are those who follow you,” the khan leaned forward. “And they do follow you. Beastfolk, escaped slaves, outcasts. They believe in you. They die for you. That is worth more than any army.”
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Amanda stayed silent.
“I want to offer you a deal,” the khan’s smile faded. “I have lost too much in this war. Men, gold, time. My enemies in the east are only waiting for me to grow weak. Continuing to fight you would mean losing everything.”
“What are you offering?”
“Autonomy,” the khan spread his hands. “Your city, your lands, your laws. You become my viceroy in the west. You will pay a symbolic tribute — just enough for me to save face before my own people. Other than that… you are free.”
Amanda fell into thought.
It was the best offer she could realistically hope for. Better than years of guerrilla warfare in the forests. Better than endless bloodshed.
“I accept. Excellent,” she said.
The khan smiled. But it was not the smile Amanda had expected.
“I am glad,” he said. “But a deal is not just words, Reaper. A deal is sealed with blood. Or, in our case, with family.”
Amanda tensed.
“What do you mean?”
The khan clapped his hands.
“Naya! Come in!”
The tent flap opened, and she entered.
The girl was beautiful. Long black hair cascaded over her shoulders, almond-shaped eyes the color of dark honey, delicate hands adorned with golden bracelets. She wore a shimmering silk dress that left her shoulders and arms bare. A translucent veil covered the lower half of her face — a niqab, Amanda recalled, the kind eastern women wore.
Even through the veil, it was clear she was smiling. Shyly. A little coyly.
Amanda stared at the girl, and something inside her shattered.
No, she thought. No, no, no…
“My daughter,” the khan said with pride. “Naya. She is eighteen years old. Clever, beautiful, educated in letters and the art of governance. The finest match in all the steppe.”
“A pleasure,” Amanda forced out, her metallic voice sounding strained.
Naya took a step forward, lowering her gaze.
“I have heard stories of the great warrior,” she said softly. “The one who knows no fear. The one who wears black armor and never removes his helmet.”
“Legends exaggerate,” Amanda replied. She could feel her face burning beneath the helmet.
“I don’t think so. You are a great man,” Naya lifted her eyes. There was genuine admiration in them. Real, sincere admiration.
Amanda wanted the ground to swallow her whole.
“Reaper,” the khan rose to his feet. “My daughter deserves the best husband. I do not wish to give her to some chieftain who reeks of horse sweat. I want to ally myself with the man who defeated me. With someone worthy of her.”
“Khan, I…”
“You said you accepted the deal,” the khan smiled. “In the steppe, a deal is sealed with marriage. You will take my daughter as your wife. I will gain an ally I can truly trust. Everyone wins.”
Amanda opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“I… I am already married,” she managed. “My wife…”
“I know,” the khan nodded. “The daughter of the Forest Clan chief. Mia. A fine woman, from what I hear. But steppe warriors may have several wives. That is not a problem.”
“This…”
“Or,” the khan raised a finger, his voice gaining a steel edge, “do you wish to insult me by refusing? Do you want me to believe that my enemy considers my daughter unworthy?”
Amanda looked at the khan. Then at Naya, who was watching her with hope and shy expectation. Then back at the khan.
Inside her head, everything was screaming: I’m a woman! I can’t take your daughter as my wife!
But out loud she said:
“I… accept the proposal.”
The khan laughed heartily.
“Excellent!” He raised his goblet high. “To the alliance! To the Reaper and my daughter!”
Amanda lifted her own cup, barely feeling its weight in her armored hand.
The glowing red lenses of her helmet were fixed on Naya, who smiled shyly behind her veil — happy and flustered.
Randel… Amanda thought. If you ever find out about this…
She didn’t finish the thought.