So went the han through a mythic cavern refused by the nomad, whose tastes better suited the open sky under which all life is spent. A rutted road had taken him eastward over ranges, skirting deltas, and deviating from the main thoroughfare as the sun pressed its fingers too sharply along his spine. There, Batu had witnessed small settlements and dwellings in abandonment, with not even a prisoner to man their keep. Near the ruin of many dens, limbs had been torn from date palms whose fruit once nourished populations. Wherever he turned, he’d seen destruction— hills of churned earth which might have been mass graves. Empty stretches of dry land and no prey. All wisdom wagered for a foothold in court, bestowed by a man of the earth likely viewed as a menace to orderly life.

Hundreds of li had passed before his eyes, Batu managing to ride from one desolation eastwards, only to find another; a barren obelisk. Water in the land was too precious to waste, and a nomad risked offending the spirits if he washed in running streams.

The man’s stench is that of old flesh and seared blood. Dust embeds deeply so as to monotonize a fulvous pelt.

Death and decay and sepia he’d seen. The stallion atop his high mount now stands to vastness.

From night his wraith begins to emerge more definitely while the man basks in shadow.

“Imperial Highness,” the length of her face is consumed before bowing. Even in a lack of retinue and servants, the kin knows who stands before him. “You disturb nothing. Join me.”

But it gleams too boldly for the horselord to overlook—

She is achingly beautiful.