While Maral speaks, khaan keeps the green of his eyes attuned for the stranger, climbing the spare lines of a frame seemingly unaccustomed to toil. A shame he is here and not north with the willowy han-men.

Unmoving, he takes in the boy’s scent, tasting of desolate rain. Not pack. Not family. In gradients of bay roaning, the tiger is interested in where he comes from, but does not ask.

“Batu. Khaan of alukhai,” acknowledges the heavy accent. Alone, the roan poses little threat, and still Batu remains watchful, hearing him out with two or three sharp inspections of his face. Although visibly exhausted, the boy seems utterly determined to hide this.

“Pack stuff,” khaan mimics, exchanging a look with Maral in a tramp of humor. “What you do, Yelp? Herd? Hunt? Heal?”