The red slanting sun withdrew its warmth, and the river's surface glittered with a sheen of blood, like the fleeting brilliance of life ignited and blossoming.
Where life perished, the blood-soaked earth would, in the next season, surely sprout magnificent flowers.
"Jakarang," wielding a massive axe, severed the heads of the fallen and those near death. Young girls nimbly retrieved arrows from the corpses, laughing as they placed them into their baskets.
The struggle for resources, the reduction of population, and ensuring the victors had more space and supplies for survival—war had been internalized as a biological instinct, etched into the very genes of the Dothraki.
Blazing flames painted the sky red, and Möngke rode through the injured Roaring Warriors, who looked at him with eyes full of reverence and fervor.
At that moment, Ófvor rode up, bowed, and spoke:
"Great Khal, you have lost over three hundred warriors, yet you have conquered more than thirty-five thousand new subjects. According to their identification, Qiumo Khal and his Bloodguard, along with all his raiders, were slain."
The elder Dothraki had fought in many battles, but he had never witnessed such staggering results. Now, he began to believe that this young Khal before him was truly blessed by the gods. As the Khal himself had said, the gods had bound defeat to the enemy's braids.
Ófvor had observed the entire battle, and had participated in the rapid march around the Darkflow River to ambush the Long Bridge. Even so, he still found it hard to believe.
A faint smile touched Möngke's lips. Suppressing his light-hearted joy, he proclaimed:
"In the name of the Khal, handle the new tribes properly. Once they submit, they are of the same bloodline—do not humiliate them. If anyone disobeys my will, I will personally behead him."
"Wise Khal, your will shall be followed," Ófvor replied with a smile. He did not leave immediately, but continued:
"I also wish to recommend a warrior to you."
Looking behind the elder to an empty space, Möngke asked, puzzled:
"Where is he? Among the wounded?"
Ófvor's gaze faltered; he avoided Möngke's eyes and said hesitantly:
"Just a runaway slave. He's been captured, and now Kosoro is about to execute him personally."
Möngke smiled faintly, already suspecting, but did not answer directly. Instead, he asked:
"Ófvor, I trust your judgment in recommending him. But I also trust Kosoro. What makes this slave exceptional, and why must he die?"
Ófvor relaxed and quietly explained:
"This person was originally a slave of Qiumo Khal's tribe. Before the battle ended, amidst the chaos on the east bank, he stole a horse and fled the battlefield. He was discovered by our scouts and captured after wounding twelve people."
Seeing a hint of anger on the Khal's face, Ófvor hurriedly clarified:
"All twelve were only lightly injured. The slave did not strike with lethal intent; otherwise, he could have escaped entirely."
Möngke's interest in the slave was piqued. If the slave could serve him, he might have a chance. History was full of famous figures who had risen from slavery.
He could give the slave a chance—but not unconditional forgiveness.
Möngke glanced at the anxious elder, and in a commanding voice said:
"Go to Kosoro. If the slave is still alive, convey my orders: punish him with fifty lashes according to Dothraki law for runaway slaves, then integrate him into Kosoro's kash. If he tries to flee again, Kosoro shall execute him by the harshest means. This slave must kill twelve enemies on the battlefield to earn true pardon."
Ófvor smiled again and quickly rode off.
Watching the elder disappear into the distance, Möngke shouted:
"Tell that slave: when he earns forgiveness, I will grant him a chance to be freed from his status."
The hazy moonlight wove a gauzy glow over the night, with stars unusually bright and plentiful.
The light of the moon and stars shone upon the highlands far along the Darkflow River.
After the battle, Möngke fully understood the logic of setting camp away from rivers, even when water access is inconvenient, and the importance of occupying high ground.
"Khal, we captured a merchant caravan attempting to approach the camp. They carry a large chest of gold. The leader claims to be an envoy sent by Qohor," reported Ófvor.
Outside the tents, a group of Roaring Warriors held a thin, middle-aged man with a goat beard by ropes.
Yet in the calm brightness of his eyes, there lurked a sharpness.
"Qohori?" Möngke frowned, suspicious of the man's claim. "To my knowledge, Qohor has closed its city gates and controlled the outskirts, so how could they send an envoy to pay tribute?"
The goat-bearded man stepped lightly toward the light, showing his bound hands to indicate good faith. With a hoarse yet elegant and gentle voice, he said:
"Respected Khal Möngke, I am Morey Hett, a masked priest of the Black Goat God, sent by the Qohor faithful to pay respect to the victor."
Ófvor, acting as interpreter, was amazed. Morey Hett spoke fluent Dothraki, which explained why only he had been brought to the camp. The harsh, staccato Dothraki language sounded unusually gentle and calm through his voice.
Ófvor whispered to Möngke:
"The Black Goat God is a deity of the Qohori, requiring daily blood sacrifices. Normally, they offer calves, castrated oxen, and horses at its altar. During sacred festivals, masked priests sacrifice criminals. In times of crisis, nobles might even offer their children, hoping the god will protect the city."
The objective explanation angered Morey Hett slightly.
Yet Ófvor deliberately added aloud:
"I've heard the Faceless consider the Black Goat God an incarnation of the Many-Faced God, in the House of Black and White…"
"Shut up! Heretic!" Morey Hett's face twisted with rage, his composure gone.
The mention of the Faceless struck fear in Möngke's heart. He had sought resurrection of the body through the Twelve Trials because life was never guaranteed; very few could threaten him, and the Faceless were one of them.
The Faceless were a sect of religious assassins worshipping the Many-Faced God, gathering in Braavos at the House of Black and White. They excelled in disguise, could change appearances at will, and wielded a potent poison known as the "Strangler" to suffocate victims swiftly.
Möngke understood Ófvor's caution. Morey Hett's sudden appearance warranted suspicion. Qohor's delayed tribute made this gesture unusually suspicious.
However, Möngke also thought it improbable that Qohor could hire a Faceless so quickly, or afford such an expensive assassination. The Faceless demand a high price for a human life, adjusted for the target's importance and defenses.
Perhaps Ófvor was merely probing Morey Hett's identity using the Black Goat God's reputation. Yet even an unintentional mention of the Many-Faced God heightened Möngke's vigilance, as fame often hides danger.