Chapter 30:

2.16 A Princess and Her Friends

The Red Warrior


Once again, Arsec stood before a hearth.

Not one made by hands or bricks—this one floated in endless dark, the fire crackling in defiance of silence. It glowed red-gold, its flames licking upward not hungrily, but gently. At the center of the flame hovered a shape—small, dancing, alive.

The Red Blaze.

Arsec didn’t speak at first. He only watched it, breath shallow, heart heavy. Then the weight of it all surged upward and spilled from his mouth.

“I tried,” he said, voice raw. “I tried everything. I fought. I burned. I believed.

The Blaze flickered.

“I drained my power. Again. I lost my arm. I lost control. What more can I do? How can I fulfill the purpose you've set before me?”

The fire didn’t answer—not at once. It crackled a little brighter, as if stirred by a breeze that did not exist.

Then a whisper came—not words, but a presence.

Not judgment. Not pity.

Just memory.

The flame pulsed once, and in that pulse came meaning:

“Find Au-terali.”

The name settled into Arsec’s bones like a spark into dry wood.

He frowned. “Au-terali... What is it?”

The flame did not reply.

"Blessed Flame! What is Au-terali?"

"The next step," the voice said.

The hearth faded, and with it the warmth.

He awoke to the smell of herbs and blood.

Dried mint, earthroot. Leather smoke. Pain.

Arsec gasped, then choked as he tried to sit up. His body protested immediately—his chest was bound tight, his right shoulder and bicep swathed in thick linen. Where his forearm had been… only air.

He swallowed.

A canvas ceiling hung above him, painted with ochre glyphs. Shelves stacked with bundles of wrapped herbs and carved bone lined the tent’s edges. Charms clicked softly in the breeze.

A figure sat near the entrance.

Goblin. Older, with crow’s feet around her eyes, and black paint along her cheekbones like flowing rivers. Her robes were crimson and gray, woven with threads of animal hair and tiny stones that shimmered as she moved.

She studied him without blinking.

“Good,” she said. “You’ve survived the dying.”

Arsec cleared his throat. “Where am I?”

“The camp of Khenet Khan. You are among allies.” She stood, walking toward him with the grace of someone long used to moving through pain. “I am Sechen, spirit walker and advisor of the Khan.”

He blinked, confused. “I… don’t remember. Much.”

“You were fortunate that whatever did that to you did not chase you after,” she said, pointing at the bandaged shoulder. “It was also fortunate your friend, Princess Mesui, decided to give a turn back home, or otherwise you wouldn't have found the Khan.”

He leaned back onto the cot, letting the words sink into him. “The others?”

“Alive. Tired. You brought quite the freak show, boy.” She paused. “A human, a goblin, an ogre, a... bison-ram or whatever that thing is, and of course, the wilderkin badgers... Oh yeah and that stoat girl—"

The tent flap snapped open with a rush of hot wind and indignation.

Narwa stormed in, her bare feet kicking dust across the woven floor. Her single piece of cloak hung uneven, stained with soot, and the stoat mask—once pristine, now bearing a spiderweb crack down its right cheek—remained fixed to her face. That fracture hadn’t been there before.

Arsec blinked in surprise as she approached, her face got too close for comfort to his, too close.

“You’re alive,” she growled.

He gave her a crooked smile. “Surprised?”

“No,” she snapped. “Annoyed.

She sat in front of him, arms twitching at her sides as if unsure whether to throttle him or bolt.

"Hey... hey! Do you mind—blasted winds, you always do this! Stop it!"

 Then she leaned closer, staring down through the cracked eye-slit of her mask.

“Next time you get your arm torn off, do it after the battle. Not in the middle of it, like some soft-necked deerling trying to impress a thunder god.”

Arsec exhaled a shallow, painful laugh. “I wasn’t trying to impress anyone.”

“Good,” she said, turning away sharply. “Because you failed.

She said nothing more, but remained next to him on the cot, on top of his legs, as if making sure he didn’t try dying again while she wasn’t looking.

The tent flap stirred again.

Mesui entered next, brushing aside one of her spirit cubs as it tried to crawl up her side. Her arm was wrapped from elbow to wrist, but her walk was brisk and confident—classic Mesui: injured, but unwilling to act like it.

She took one look at Arsec, then smirked.

“You look like boiled fungus.”

“You smell like it,” Arsec shot back.

She smiled wider. “There he is.”

Without ceremony, she dropped to the floor beside his cot and leaned back on her good arm, letting the spirit cub curl up beside her.

“I swear, if you’d died, I’d have dragged your soul back just to chew you out.”

Arsec noticed a tear peeking out of her eyes.

“Didn’t doubt that for a second,” he said.

“Good. Now sit still and stop making everyone cry." 

"What do you think I'm trying to do, but Stoaty here—!"

He tried to move his legs, but Narwa's hips were firmly pressing down.

Mesui grinned, "Even Narwa got weird.”

“I did not,” Narwa hissed, jumping across the tent.

“Sure,” Mesui said. “You just guarded the tent in that beast form of yours for a whole day.”

Before Narwa could retort, Ronai limped in, ducking low. He wore a stitched leather tunic and a crude brace on his leg, one hand gripping a carved staff for support. His usually sharp expression softened when he saw Arsec.

“Welcome back,” he said quietly.

Arsec pushed himself up slightly, wincing. “You’re not dead either.”

“No,” Ronai said. “But I was almost in your funeral pyre. Narwa nearly dragged me in with you, thinking she could brute-force your spirit back into your body.”

“I said I almost did,” Narwa muttered.

Arsec smiled, then winced again. “Thanks for not letting me go.”

Ronai sat carefully at the edge of the cot, his voice low. “Well... yeah, you know how to scare people.”

“Tell me about it, I scared me.

From the rear of the tent, Sechen chuckled, shaking her head as she stirred a bowl of warm herbs over a tiny ember-pit.

Sechen dipped a wooden ladle into the simmering clay bowl and stirred with a slow rhythm, adding a pinch of dark powder that hissed when it touched the surface. The scent of red moss and pepper root thickened the air, sharp enough to sting the nose.

“Drink this, boy,” she said, lifting the bowl toward Arsec. “It’ll strengthen your heart and dull the pain.”

Arsec reached with his left hand—but before he could take it, Narwa stepped between them.

She didn’t touch the bowl. She didn’t growl. She just stood, arms crossed, stoat mask glinting, cracked and unmoving.

“What’s in it?” she asked flatly.

Sechen tilted her head, amused. “Moss. Thornroot. Ghostleaf. Things your kind should remember, if memory still clings behind the bone.”

Narwa didn’t flinch. “I remember poison too.”

“Girl, if I wanted to kill your friend, I’d have done it when you were still a slobbering beast.”

Narwa’s fingers flexed, but she didn’t move.

Arsec looked between them, confused. “She’s just trying to help.”

“She’s just trying to brew disgusting concoctions.”

Sechen laughed under her breath, passing him the bowl anyway. “You’ve got spine, Revenant. I’ll grant you that.”

She turned her eye on Narwa, gaze narrowing just a touch.

“It’s no small thing that one of the Verdant Fang’s revenants walks with this little troupe of misfits. Your kind doesn’t usually travel with mortals. Let alone defend them.”

“I didn’t join them,” Narwa said. “I stayed.”

“Hmph,” Sechen said. “Same thing.”

She stepped back toward her hearth. “Either way, it’s a story the Khan will not ignore.”

Narwa didn’t reply. She just stood there a moment longer, then returned to her place by the tent wall, arms crossed tight.

Arsec sipped the brew. It was bitter—bitter enough to taste like truth. Then he looked at Narwa, then at the fracture. His voice softened. “Akrumei?”

The girl nodded once, curt and quiet. Her fingers briefly touched the crack, then fell away like it burned.

Mesui gave Arsec a side glance, reading the moment.

Arsec laid his head back, suddenly tired again.

“Still here,” he murmured.

They let the silence stretch.

Outside, the steppes whispered with wind and distant war drums.

Inside, in the warm-smelling dark of the tent, four battered souls sat close in the calm after the storm. Each one scarred. Each one changed.

But not broken.

Not yet.

*******

The skies above the Khan’s camp were unnatural.

A perfect ring of clouds crowned the steppes, as if the heavens had been carved open. Sunlight poured directly through the circle, forming a brilliant halo above the massive, sun-bleached tents below. The wind, once wild and howling, had gone still at the center of the world.

Arsec shaded his eyes with his good hand, marveling. “It’s… incredibly chilling here.”

Sechen nodded, her voice low with reverence. “The Circle of Winds. I have grasped the concept, but it still baffles me how the skies are altered whenever the Khan goes. It is said the Twin Sisters blessed him to rule over Goblinkind, and assured him their power would join him in his quest. Thankfully, in this dark hour, they still walk beside him, unseen.”

Narwa snorted beneath her mask. “Wind spirits playing favorites now?”

"Not sure if I'd be a favorite," Mesui said, "but still, I was chosen... It kind of feels like fate."

"Tell me about it," Ronai said.

Rows of banners snapped in place without gusts. Spears glittered beside yurt-thrones. Goblin cavalry ringed the horizon—silent, watchful, obedient. In the distance, the great standard of the Khan rose above all else: two braided wind currents spiraling around a rising sun.

Once inside a vast ceremonial pavilion lined with ivory silks, the party waited.

Mesui sat uncomfortably on a velvet-covered stool, trying not to squirm in her newly embroidered steppe noble dress. Gold-threaded hems dragged on the floor. Her hair had been pinned into a tight braid with obsidian loops, and she looked about ready to explode.

Across from her, Gray Fang, the elderly Tulag caravan leader, humbly squinted in disapproval as he tugged at the hem of her sleeves. “I beg you to stop fidgeting, princess. This is not a normal court like your father, the chieftain. This is the Great Khan’s presence. You carry the Tulag name—stewards of these grasslands.”

Beside him, Captain Abagai was more sympathetic, though not by much. “It suits you, Princess,” she said. “Even if you wear it like battle armor.”

“I don’t want to be this kind of princess,” Mesui muttered. “I don't want to wear this type of armor.”

"My lady, I beseech you," the old goblin said, "it is important that you follow protocol and honor years of tradition!"

Mesui rolled her eyes but fell silent.

Even Narwa, seated in the corner on a patterned cushion with her cracked mask tilted upward, had been given a ceremonial cloak of white and crimson feathers. She hadn’t touched it much, but she hadn’t thrown it away either.

"It's kind of hot here..."

Ronai looked like he was about to melt into his cloak. His goblin-made tunic was decorated with silver teeth and fur trim, clearly made for someone a foot shorter. 

"Oh, right, you'd rather be bare-chested," Arsec said.

"Our blood boils with the warmth of our lands!" Ronai exclaimed.

"You just want to show your muscles..." Arsec teased.

"What? No! I would never do such a thing in front of the Khan!"

"I'm messing with you, man."

Ronai sulked, feeling his blood pressure suddenly rise and fall.

Arsec’s formal wrap was simple but striking—dark wool with a crimson sash, covering the bad shoulder to account for the bandages beneath.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked.

Sechen gave him a sidelong glance. “When you stand before the mountain, do you wear sandals?”

Arsec frowned. "Kind of... I used to be a slave.”

“Eh? Ah...” the old goblin shaman hesitated,  "Well, hush anyway!"

"Disgusting... just... Disgusting," Narwa uttered, "This cloth is making me feel sick, trapped, even. I want to go back to the wilderness, hunt something, and devour it and—Hey even better! Princess, we can share some bread over the fire like we did before everything went down!"

"I would love that, Narwa!" Mesui replied, a big smile showing amidst the Captain and the elder vying to adjust the dress.

"Princess, please, don't be so sudden with these movements or you'll rip the dress apart!" begged the elder.

"Hey, hey!" Narwa shouted, "Leave her alone! You're suffocating her!"

"I-it's okay Narwa, I guess it's my duty..." Mesui calmed her down, realizing the masked girl's eyes started to glow.

While all of this was happening, a certain human suddenly became... disconnected. Everything was blurry, and the sounds distorted into mumbles. Arsec stood for a moment next to the others, running his fingers across his long, brown hair, going down and massaging his aching shoulder, and then running down his shoulder until... 

He looked down at his left side—at the bandaged stump where his arm had once been.

It still felt like it should be there. Every shift of his shoulder brought a ghost of a motion, like he could still clench his fist or reach for his spear. But there was nothing. Just air and aching.

He sighed, staring at his hand—his one hand—and flexed it. Strong enough, sure. But unbalanced. Slower. Clumsier. And in battle…

Dead weight, he thought bitterly.

“You know,” came a voice in front of him, “for someone who threw fire at gods, you mope like a boy who lost a tooth.”

Arsec turned slightly as Mesui approached, her formal dress swaying with each step. The embroidered sleeves shimmered in the light, and the thin veil at her shoulder caught on the breeze like a banner. She looked more regal than he’d ever seen her. And more uncomfortable in her own skin.

Gray Fang and Abagai cleared their sweat off their foreheads and shook hands, as if dressing a princess—or this particular princess—was a real ordeal.

Arsec huffed. “You wear that like it’s choking you.”

“It is choking me,” she said, tugging at the stiff collar. “Too many layers. Too much ceremony.”

"My lady, please! I beseech you," Gray Fang exclaimed from the back, ever relentless, "A Tulag princess should be accustomed to those habits—!"

"Yeah, yeah! Thank you, elder," Mesui waved her hand. "Abagai, please... some air?"

Abagai grabbed the old goblin.

"Unhand me, captain, don't you know who I am?"

"Only too much, Gray Fang, give the princess a respite."

As Abagai dragged the old caravaner away, Mesui sighed and stopped beside Arsec, her expression softening as she glanced at the remains of his left arm.

“You know.... you’re not broken...”

He looked away. “You don't have to lie to make me feel better.”

“I'm not lying.” She said confidently. “You're still incredibly ugly with that pink skin of yours and the lack of fans, but you're not broken. Ugliness is not the same as brokenness.”

"Is this your way of making people feel better?" Arsec said, irritated.

"Not better... no, I'm trying to say you have other things to worry about."

"Shut up."

"He's disgusting, even without an arm," Narwa commented.

"Even without—?" Arsec turned, aghast, "You know what, I won't go to your bread dinner later today. It sounded cool, but it looks like I'm too disgusting for you, even without an arm."

"I wasn't inviting you, I invited the princess."

"Glad to know."

Mesui giggled, "I would welcome you, if you—you know—you bring Ronai."

"Why am I hated so much... like seriously, don't you guys see that—?"

Mesui stepped in front of him. Arsec appreciated her change of appearance once more, but at this point, he was too irritated to say anything. 

"Mesui, I get it, knock it off..."

The goblin princess just grabbed his face with both her hands and pressed her forehead against his. Arsec's eyes were open at first, but after sensing his friend's warmth, a tear came out of his eyes, then another. Arsec soon saw himself sobbing a little.

"It'll be all right, you'll never be alone," Mesui reassured him, "You were there with me when I needed you, and I will be here for you as well."

"Hey—HEY!" Narwa said, "What are you doing to him? STOP!"

Ronai stopped the masked girl with his hand as she rose from the cushion, "Let them, Stoaty, they're having a moment."

"The hell they're having a moment, butting heads is something animals do when they're fighting or when they're... anyway, it's not nice!"

Arsec and Mesui separated. The goblin princess was not blushing, just smiling in an amusing, exciting way at her friend. Arsec sighed and gave her a nod.

He glanced at her dress again and, following another, deeper sigh, said, “You look pretty.”

Mesui blinked. “What?”

“I mean, not like—uh—fine, or whatever word the goblins use for nobility,” Arsec said quickly. “I mean… You look like you. Even in that thing. That’s... that’s good.”

Mesui tilted her head, smiling. “That’s the worst compliment I’ve ever liked.”

He smiled back. “Good. I worked hard on it. It's the best you can expect from me after that soothing motivational speech of yours... and I mean the 'you're ugly' one.”

Just then, a voice spoke from the side.

“I do think it suits you, princess.”

They turned to see Ronai, sitting on one of the cushions. His tone was casual, but the way his eyes lingered—just a second too long—said more to Mesui, whether it was true or not.

The princess, to her credit, stayed composed… until she turned away slightly and tugged at the collar again.

“Stupid dress,” she muttered, but the flush rising in her cheeks betrayed her.

Arsec grinned.

Mesui threw him a sideways glare, but it didn’t last. Her smile returned a heartbeat later—smaller this time, but real.

The tent flap stirred again—this time with a hush of reverence.

A goblin noblewoman entered.

She was tall for a goblin, and built like a winter hawk—sharp bones, sharper eyes, and dark robes lined with ceremonial bone. Her every step spoke of discipline. Her hair was tied high in a crown-braid, and silver rings lined her nose and ears.

Mesui stiffened.

"Mother...?"

"Lady Khada!" Arsec said.

Khada’s gaze swept across the room before settling on her daughter with all the weight of the North behind it.

“I see you lived.”

Mesui stood, slow and straight-backed. “And I see you returned.”

Khada approached, stopping just before her. She studied her attire, the cut of her braid, and the confidence in her eyes. Then she glanced at the others, one by one.

"You changed a regal retinue of goblins for a band of misfits? What is she supposed to be?"

Her hand pointed at Narwa. The masked girl stood up and prepared to answer, but Arsec immediately grabbed her with his good arm. She was about to retort but Arsec's state made her reconsider.

Khada rolled her eyes.

“The North offered betrothal to the Koltan tribe. I left to bring you honor,” she said.

“You left to teach me a lesson,” Mesui replied evenly. “I learned something else.”

Khada’s lip twitched—too much pride, not enough warmth.

“You went to Makeb without permission.”

“I went where I was needed.”

“You abandoned your name—”

“I carried it into the fire,” Mesui cut in, voice low but unflinching. “What I saw… what I fought for… It wasn’t just politics. It was real. Bigger than any marriage. I know that now.”

Khada exhaled slowly, then looked to Gray Fang, who said nothing, only nodding solemnly while sweating profusely. Even Abagai, a Khenet captain, didn't know what to do.

The tension didn’t break—it simply passed, like a storm moving toward another horizon. Khada stepped aside and took her place near the far cushions, dignified and unreadable.

Then, a deep horn echoed through the camp.

A ripple passed through the air. The tent walls trembled ever so slightly. Outside, goblins shouted commands and scattered into ceremonial ranks.

Sechen turned toward the group. Her voice dropped to something like a whisper.

“Stand.”

The party rose. Cloaks adjusted. Shoulders squared.

“The Khan comes.”

The tent flap rustled as one of the Khan’s Guards stepped in, adorned not in ornamental armor but in layered leather and travel-worn steel. His voice was firm but respectful as he addressed the room.

“The Khan requests an audience—but only with the Princess of Tulag and her companions.”

A hush settled over the ceremonial chamber.

Gray Fang nervously exchanged a glance with Khada, who nodded curtly, folding her arms. Abagai shuddered with excitement at the possibility. Mesui stood with barely a pause and turned to the others.

“Well, let's go, guys... Narwa, don't say a word,” she muttered, and led the way.

Narwa growled beneath the mask, but joined anyway. Arsec sighed, as she seemed to understand other people's customs.

They followed the guard through a narrow path between tall, fur-lined yurts and banners swaying like muted thunderclaps. Despite the size of the camp, the inner sanctum felt quiet, sacred, almost. A place where no shouting dared rise, no hooves thundered.

*******

The courtyard of the palace lay drowned in twilight.

What had once been Makeb’s heart—a garden of statues, flowing fountains, and pale columns—was now a lifeless altar to something far older and stranger. The fountains no longer sang; they whispered, dark water pulsing in spirals. The columns dripped with slime. And above it all, the eye of Cycloth turned lazily through the skies, a god watching his seedling stretch skyward.

Akrumei stood in the center, hovering just above the cracked mosaic floor.

The black cloak that wrapped his twisted body floated without wind, and the eye on his mask blinked slowly, unnervingly, as if syncing with the heartbeat of the world. No insects buzzed. No birds dared sing. Only silence. And then—

Footsteps. Bare. Precise.

Samina emerged from the shadows of the colonnade, her corrupted crystal pulsing beneath her black robes. Her mask—like his—gleamed in the half-light. But her blade was sheathed at her back. And her voice was far from quiet.

“You should’ve let me finish it.”

Akrumei did not turn. “You mean the boy.”

Samina’s hands clenched. “He was vulnerable. All of them were.”

“They were always vulnerable,” he said, finally looking at her. The eye on his mask dilated slightly, as if amused. “And still, they are nothing.”

“They’re alive.”

Barely.” Akrumei descended until his feet touched the ruined tiles. “You cling to the past. To the idea that he matters. He does not. None of them do.”

Samina took a breath—shaky, but controlled. “He’s stronger than you think.”

“Then let him run,” Akrumei replied. “We no longer chase gnats when the air itself is ours to command. Cycloth grows. Gaia trembles. You feel it. You know it.”

He began walking through the ruins of the courtyard, each step silent, weightless.

“Our priorities have clearly shifted. We have taken Makeb. The thralls multiply. However, Khenet Khan refuses the tide.”

At that name, even Samina paused.

Akrumei stopped at a broken statue—once an effigy of some forgotten emperor, now twisted and overgrown with black moss.

"His capital was taken from him, General," Samina scoffed, "This was his most populous hub, not even the Khan recover such a loss."

“I would not underestimate the person who brought this side of the world to heel in a span of a decade. There is a reason why the goblin armies triumphed over orcs and ogres. It's because... he is one of the most powerful individuals on this world,” Akrumei said. “And unlike the others, he remembers the old oaths. He walks with spirits who have not yet turned.”

Samina’s voice dropped. “You fear him.”

“I respect him,” Akrumei replied. “Cycloth does not fear. He prepares. We should do that too.”

He turned toward her now, his full form silhouetted against the eye-filled sky.

“The world has begun to bend. Cycloth has spoken to kings, princes, and wizards in their sleep. Sorcerers. Warlords. Beasts and bones. They prepare the cleansing. And when the old powers crumble, Khenet Khan will be the last fire.”

Samina stared at him in silence, her hand drifting to the crystal embedded in her chest.

“And what would you have me do?”

Akrumei raised a hand, and the air shimmered behind him. A map formed—glowing, ghostly, and immense. It pulsed with black veins. One of them led westward.

“The Mosara Desert. Your home, genie. Cycloth's reach goes deeper than just influencing a spellsword. In the sands beyond the sea, your kind is already turning to us for guidance.”

Samina frowned behind her mask. “The Purple Gem, did she...”

“Power is true beauty,” Akrumei said. “The promises of Cycloth run deep in geniekind. Show them your strength. And if some happen to refuse—”

He let the sentence dangle.

Samina turned her eyes toward the horizon, where dunes shimmered just beyond the veil of the cursed clouds. Her fists unclenched.

“I will go.”

Akrumei nodded.

“Good. The winds of Gaia are shifting. Let the sands bear witness to the next eclipse.”

And as she vanished into shadow, the eye in the sky blinked—slowly, knowingly—as if pleased.

Cover for 2025

The Red Warrior


Kurobini
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