After the raid, the aul elder declared that the land itself had been disturbed.
When danger touched a place, the steppe demanded cleansing — not with swords, but with smoke and intention.
Villagers gathered materials: dried juniper, wolf sage, the soft fluff inside cattail reeds. The scent of herbs filled the night air as fires were lit again, not for warmth or warning, but for rebirth.
Ayisulu tried to disappear into the crowd. She wanted to help; she didn't want to be in the center. But elders noticed her anyway. One old man pointed at her with a shaking finger.
"The girl who stopped the fire. She must walk through the smoke first."
Ayisulu froze.
Kanykei smirked.
Temir gasped.
Bair clasped his hands like a delighted grandmother.
Arslan stepped forward instantly. "She doesn't have to if she doesn't want—"
But Ayisulu nodded. "It's fine. I know the ritual."
Arslan quieted, but his eyes never left her.
A ring of burning herbs was placed around a low stone. Ayisulu stepped into it. The smoke curled upward, wrapping her like a living creature. She felt it slide across her skin, through her hair, tugging at something deep inside her — something she usually tried to soften, hide, dim.
Tonight, the smoke didn't let her.
It whispered.
It opened.
Her senses sharpened.
The crackling of fire became a pulse.
The shifting of wind became language.
The heartbeat of the aul — the people, the animals, even the land — brushed against her like a warm hand.
And she felt something else.
Someone watching her with a warmth stronger than the flames.
She opened her eyes.
Arslan was staring at her like he'd forgotten the world existed.
Ayisulu nearly stepped out of the smoke entirely just to escape his gaze, but the elder woman raised her hand.
"Stay, girl. Let the smoke tell the truth."
Ayisulu swallowed. She hated this part. Smoke didn't lie.
The elder circled her, sprinkling crushed petals into the flames.
"Do you carry fear?" she asked.
Ayisulu opened her mouth to deny —
but the smoke spiraled upward, bright orange.
The elder nodded. "Yes."
Ayisulu bit her lip.
It wasn't fear of the riders.
It was fear of losing control.
Fear of her dreams becoming real.
Fear of letting Arslan see her too clearly.
Arslan didn't move, but his jaw tightened, and Ayisulu looked away again.
"Do you carry love?" the elder asked next.
Ayisulu almost jumped out of the circle.
The smoke hesitated… then twined upward in a slender ribbon, shy but distinct.
Ayisulu's heart stopped.
Kanykei's eyes widened.
Temir immediately elbowed Bair off-balance.
Arslan inhaled sharply.
Just once.
The elder smiled knowingly — annoyingly.
"She cares deeply. More deeply than she admits."
Ayisulu wanted the earth to swallow her.
The smoke dimmed, signaling the ritual's end. She stepped out quickly, brushing her sleeves as though she could wipe the truth away.
Arslan approached her carefully, like someone approaching a frightened animal.
He stopped close — too close — but didn't touch her.
"You didn't tell me you knew the cleansing rites," he said softly.
"I grew up in the steppe," Ayisulu replied, avoiding his eyes. "Everyone knows something."
"Not like that," he murmured. "Not the way you do."
Ayisulu exhaled. "I don't want attention."
"You didn't ask for it," Arslan said.
"But you deserve respect for what you did."
Ayisulu blinked at him.
Respect?
From a prince?
His gaze softened.
"And for what you can do."
That was dangerous territory. She stepped back slightly. Arslan followed — not closer, but refusing to let distance become separation.
"Ayisulu," he said quietly, "you saw things again tonight, didn't you?"
She tensed.
He always noticed.
It was infuriating.
"I saw… possible outcomes," she said carefully.
He tilted his head. "Dreams?"
"Not exactly."
"Visions."
She looked away.
"Ayisulu," he said again, not demanding — requesting, almost pleading.
"You must trust someone. Let it be me."
Her breath caught.
He wasn't giving an order.
He wasn't trying to command her.
He was trying to reach her.
"I want to protect you," Arslan said. "But I need to understand what you're facing."
She finally met his eyes — and regretted it instantly, because they were too open, too intense.
"You can't protect me from my dreams," she whispered.
His expression changed — not fear, not frustration — something deeper.
"Then let me protect you from everything else."
She swallowed hard.
"Arslan…"
He stepped closer — just enough that his cloak brushed hers.
"Ayisulu," he said softly, "you don't have to pretend with me."
Her heart beat so loudly she was sure the whole aul could hear.
She wanted to tell him.
Everything.
The dreams.
The falling.
The shadows following them.
But her throat tightened.
"I can't," she whispered.
Arslan closed his eyes for a moment — just a moment — and Ayisulu saw how much he hated that answer.
Not because he felt betrayed.
But because he felt helpless.
When he opened them again, the warmth was still there.
"Ayisulu," he said quietly, "whatever happens next… I won't leave your side."
The words struck harder than any confession.
Not romantic.
Not poetic.
Just truth.
She didn't know what to do with that truth.
So she stepped back.
He let her — reluctantly.
The night wind carried juniper smoke between them, thinning, curling, drifting toward the moon.
Ayisulu looked up at the sky and thought:
If fate is testing me, it's doing an extremely dramatic job.
Across the clearing, Arslan watched her like he was thinking:
If fate is testing me, it's doing a cruel one.
Neither knew the other was thinking the same thing.