By the time Altai returned to camp, the winds had shifted. Not just the air — the mood. Something silent coiled beneath the fires and faces.
The old men sat in tighter circles. The sky-tents were drawn lower, their camouflage veil activated even though no drones hovered above. His grandmother didn't greet him, but stood at the fire sharpening her Echo Blade. The strokes were slow, rhythmic — not for use, but for readiness.
Altai slid off Tengri and patted the robohorse's flank. The steed folded its legs and knelt, entering rest mode, solar panels spreading subtly like the back of a beetle. He handed his Khunn Bow to the nearest warrior and gave a single nod.
"We're not alone out there," he said. "Scouts near the west ridge. And something worse in the basin."
Elder Galt approached with a long walking staff and a scowl carved from the Earth itself. "AI fanatics?"
Altai nodded. "Called himself Syntar. He spoke without connection. No signal. No tech I could see."
Galt clicked his tongue. "Another prophet. They think code is divine fire."
"Or infection," Odval muttered. "Either way, they burn clean."
A sudden voice broke the circle.
"Then maybe it's time we stop hiding from fire."
Altai turned sharply. Saruul stood at the edge of the tent ring, her braid half-finished, hands clenched. Her cheeks were flushed — from cold, or anger, or both.
"You're not supposed to be here," Altai said.
She stepped forward. "And you're not supposed to face cultists alone."
"I didn't face them," he snapped. "I watched them. That's what we do. That's how we stay alive."
Saruul crossed her arms. "You think just surviving is enough?"
Altai looked at her — really looked. She wasn't the little girl who used to race goats across the ridge or play tag around the yak pens. She was fifteen now, nearly grown, wearing light armor beneath her tunic. She already had her own signal flute and carried a bone-handled knife at her hip.
He hated how much she looked like their mother when she was angry.
"We're not warriors, Saruul," he said, softer now. "We're watchers. Guides. Memory-keepers."
"We're prey," she spat. "Scavenged from above, from below. The Dominion thinks we're insects. The AI zealots think we're outdated flesh. Even the Eurexers treat us like relics."
"We are relics," Odval said calmly. "But not broken ones. Living ones. Stories that still breathe."
Saruul ignored her and looked back at Altai. "Let me train with you. Let me scout."
"No."
The word was a slap.
Saruul's jaw tightened. "You think I can't do it?"
"I know you can do it," Altai growled. "That's the problem. You'll be too brave. Brave enough to get caught. Or worse."
A silence fell.
Then, Odval spoke.
"If she wishes to train, she may. She has blood in her. Same as you. Same as I did."
Altai turned to his grandmother, aghast. "She's still a child."
Odval raised a brow. "So were you when your mother died in the Plasma Rain."
Altai said nothing.
That night
The winds howled again, louder this time — or maybe it was the silence in the camp that made them louder. Sky-tents rippled in their camouflage state, blending with the star-strewn horizon. The fire was low. Even Tengri didn't stir.
Saruul sat across from Altai, sharpening her knife. The shagai bones lay between them, scattered in a game of prophecy and chance.
"You still mad?" she asked without looking up.
"I'm not mad," he said. "I'm scared."
She blinked, surprised.
Altai picked up a bone and rolled it between his fingers. "You think riding out makes you strong. But out there, strength doesn't matter. Drones don't care if you're brave. Zealots don't care if you're good. All that matters is who sees you first."
Saruul looked down.
"They killed a caravan last week," he continued. "Left no tracks. No bodies, even. Just emptiness. You ever seen a memory wiped so clean it hurts to remember what was supposed to be there?"
She said nothing.
"I'm not trying to keep you small," he said. "I'm trying to keep you whole."
A long silence.
Finally, she looked up. "Then teach me. So I can stay whole and free."
Altai stared into her eyes.
And saw himself.
Next Morning
Training began before the sun. Saruul arrived at the ridge with her Khunn Bow — the string too tight, the grip too high. Altai said nothing. He just gestured toward a distant target: a wooden disc hung from an old comms pole.
"Wind's at ten clicks," he said. "What do you do?"
She frowned, raising the bow. "Adjust aim to the left. Three degrees."
Altai nodded. "Wrong hand."
She blinked and adjusted.
The bow vibrated slightly as it adjusted its tension, responding to her grip. She exhaled, fired.
The arrow curved high, hesitated — then dipped. Missed.
"Again."
She adjusted, fired again. Missed.
"Again."
The third one clipped the edge.
Altai didn't smile. "You're fighting the bow."
"I'm using the bow," she said, exasperated.
"No. You're commanding it. It's not a drone. It's not a slave. The Khunn Bow learns with you. But you're trying to dominate it."
Saruul frowned. "You make everything sound like poetry."
Altai shrugged. "Everything is poetry. The good stuff, anyway."
They trained until the sun crested the hills, then until it dipped again. Saruul cursed, sweated, bled.
And began to hit her mark.
That Night
Altai sat with Galt, studying the movement map. Dots flickered near the ridge. Dominion drones had changed pattern. They weren't scanning randomly anymore — they were tracking.
"They've seen us," Galt said.
"They're watching our watchers."
"We'll need to move camp."
Altai looked toward Saruul, sleeping beside her bundled Khunn Bow, the corners of her lips curled in a proud dream.
"If war comes," he said quietly, "she'll want to fight."
Galt gave him a tired look. "Then you'll have to teach her when to run."