The Year of Saston, 620 After the Purgatory, 23rd Day of the Lamos Month
As the first light of dawn struck the ruby-domed rooftops of Tengritugen Palace, a crimson gleam swept across the sky. The stillness of the morning mirrored the fragile peace that lingered over the empire but on this day, the echo of footsteps behind the stone walls foretold that something was about to change.
Attila sat alone in his chamber in the early hours, flipping through the thick, leather-bound History of Tengritugen. As his eyes moved steadily over the lines, his mind drifted measuring both the weight of the past and the demands of the future.
At twenty-five, the young commander stood 1.75 meters tall, his agile body honed by years of warfare. The sharp lines of his face carried the imprint of deep thought, and his eyes held the fierce, watchful gaze of a wolf in waiting. His thick black hair and sharp jawline gave him an aura that was both regal and untamed. It was as if he bore both the burdens of history and the responsibilities of what was yet to come...
The door was knocked three times. Attila lifted his head.
"Enter," he said in a firm voice.
The door opened slightly. An armored soldier stepped inside and saluted by striking his right fist against his chest.
"Lord Balamir summons you, Commander Attila."
Attila nodded slightly.
"Understood. You may go."
The soldier bowed and stepped outside, the door quietly closing behind him. Attila paused for a moment. It was rare for his father to summon him personally; such a summons could not be about an ordinary matter. He tucked a spear-pointed dagger into his belt beneath his coat, fastened his fur cloak over his shoulders, and stepped out of his room with heavy footsteps. The palace's inner corridors were grand yet cloaked in an ominous silence.
The flames flickered softly in the bronze chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, while the golden-embossed reliefs on the stone walls danced in the morning light. As Attila walked between the rows of columns lining both sides of the corridor, his footsteps echoed with each step, the gravity of what awaited growing heavier. Upon reaching the massive doors of the throne room, the guards standing watch on either side struck their golden-embossed spears against the floor in salute.
Attila nodded in response. The guards pushed open the heavy oak doors; as the hinges creaked, a powerful and majestic aura flowed from within. The throne hall was enormous and magnificent. Silver-polished columns stretched upward toward the ceiling, and the marble floor bore historic Tengritugen maps etched into its surface. On the walls hung oil portraits of ancestors and tapestries depicting sacred wars. Dominating the hall was the high throne adorned with gold. Sitting upon it was Balamir, an old yet upright ruler whose eyes carried wisdom and power.
Attila walked with heavy steps to the throne. He knelt respectfully on one knee and bowed his head.
"Greetings to you, Ruler Balamir," he said in a firm and respectful voice. "The only son of the Wise Khan, the great khan of the Tengritugen Empire."
Balamir looked at his son and nodded slightly.
"Rise, Attila, the future khan of Tengritugen, the Whip of God."
Attila stood up. His eyes locked with his father's. There, he saw both the future of the state and the weight of fatherly responsibility.
Balamir, though 60 years old, was still a powerful ruler who stood tall and commanded respect with his dignified posture. His white hair falling on his shoulders and his silver beard reaching his chest did not show his age, but rather reflected the wisdom and experience he carried. Deep lines marked his face, not from fatigue, but from the insight gained over the years and the responsibility of a ruler who survived many wars. Anyone who looked into his eyes would read the will of not just a khan, but a leader who had made history. Even his silence was commanding. His name was whispered with respect among the people and struck fear into the hearts of his enemies. During his reign over the Tengritugen Empire, he had brought into his lands three powerful kingdoms that were famous for their courage and strong attachment to independence—especially those known for controlling key trade routes through his intelligence, patience, and determination. For this reason, he was given the title "Lord of the Brave Tribes."
Attila gave his father a serious look.
"I have received your order and come, my khan. What is the matter?"
Balamir took a deep breath and turned his gaze to a distant point.
"My son… We have a history spanning centuries with the Alphamos Empire. The last twenty years, by the grace of God Umay, have passed in peace."
"I know, my khan. It is one of the longest periods of peace in our state."
"Correct. But this morning… That peace officially ended."
Attila frowned. "What happened?"
"The former emperor of Alphamos, Romulus… As you know, he died two weeks ago. His son Sezar took the throne, and now… They have attacked our border town Asmanda."
The young commander's eyes flared.
"An attack? That is a declaration of war! And a treacherous one at that!"
"There is no official statement yet, but we are certain about the incoming intelligence. Sezar attacked the border town Asmanda with a small force and tried to massacre its people. Sezar clearly trusts blood, not diplomacy."
Attila's voice filled with anger.
"What about the Athinan Treaty? The peace oath signed between the two empires?"
"Sezar does not follow his father's policies. Just like in his youth… You remember, when he was still a prince, he raided one of our border towns. His father Romulus sent me an apology letter and promised to personally punish his son. I did not want the peace period to end because of a reckless brat, so I stepped back then. But this time, the situation and conditions are different."
Balamir made a hand gesture. A soldier waiting at the edge of the hall brought a letter sealed with two hands. The emperor took the letter and handed it to his son.
"You will take this letter to Sezar."
Attila looked at the letter, then turned his eyes to his father.
"My khan, forgive me, but why me? Wouldn't a messenger do this more safely and diplomatically?"
Balamir smiled, but his eyes kept their seriousness.
"You are Attila... You have a will that makes not only enemies but entire states kneel. The nickname 'God's Whip' wasn't given to you for nothing. Sezar knows you and fears you. If I had given the letter to a messenger, he would have sent back the messenger's head with the letter. But he dares not kill you. Because he knows what you are capable of."
He paused for a moment, his voice grew deeper and continued.
"Give him the letter. Then offer Sezar two choices. Either bring me the head of the commander responsible for this attack and sit at the table with me to make a new treaty, withdrawing his troops from the border, or face the wrath of Tengritugen."
"Your command is my duty."
Then he called out loudly to a soldier.
"Send word to Ebren. He should wait for me outside the palace, fully equipped. We are departing."
"Yes, sir!"
Silence fell again over the throne room. Balamir looked at his son for a long moment.
"This is not just a message, my son. This is the first step of your destiny. I do not have much time left; I have grown old. You will continue to write our glorious history as my heir. Go, and with the help of God Umay, decide what will happen."
Attila nodded quietly. His heart was filled with a mix of sadness and pride. He looked once more at his aging father and left the throne room with heavy steps.