Chapter 1: Night of Ashes
The winds howled like wild wolves across the steppe.
Jamukh was only five, but his world was already steeped in fire and screams. The yurts around him blazed like torches, the sky above painted red by flames and falling stars of ash. Men shouted in fury, horses screamed, and steel clashed against flesh.
He didn't know why they were attacked. One moment, he was holding his mother's hand, walking back from the river, and the next—arrows rained down like death from the sky.
"Jamukh! Run!" his mother screamed.
He didn't. He couldn't. His little legs were frozen. The fire in her eyes—that mix of fear and determination—was the last thing he saw before a mounted warrior tore her down in front of him. Blood sprayed across his face. His world cracked.
He ran.
Tears blinded him. The smoke choked him. But he ran.
Until he stumbled. Until hands grabbed him. Rough hands. Cold metal. A deep voice said, "This one's strong. We'll take him."
That was the last night he saw his homeland as it once was.
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Years Passed…
The boy became a slave. In a land where no one spoke his tongue. Where the sun burned hotter, and the food was thrown at his feet like he was a dog.
He learned to keep his head down. To obey. To survive.
But he never forgot.
Not the fire. Not his mother. Not the blood.
Inside, a seed of vengeance grew with every passing season.
At ten, he learned to fight in the pits. They made children brawl for sport. Jamukh didn't win because he was the strongest—he won because he had nothing to lose.
He met another boy, same age. Kind, clever, and calm. His name was Temülen. They became brothers, not by blood—but by pain. Temülen shared his bread. Shared his silence. Shared his hate.
Then came the night everything changed again.
The tribe that enslaved them was under attack. Enemies stormed the gates. Flames rose once more.
"Now," Temülen whispered. "We run."
Jamukh nodded. But something inside him clicked. He wasn't just going to run. He was going to save them all.
The other children. The weak. Even the ones who kicked him. No one deserved chains.
As they fled into the night, he heard a roar.
A giant boy, his age, was cornered—three men beating him down. Bloodied, howling in rage. Jamukh didn't hesitate.
He picked up a rock and charged.
He didn't care about his size. He only saw someone like him, someone with fire.
They escaped together.
The boy's name was Zorig—a wall of muscle, but soft-hearted. He would one day become Jamukh's sword. His shield. His most loyal general.
And as they ran, an arrow flew toward Temülen.
Jamukh jumped in the way.
The pain was sharp, sudden, bright.
Darkness came.
But his dream had already begun.
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To Be Continued...