Chapter 3

Horohan stands at the entrance of his yurt, staring blankly at the vast horizon, painted in hues of twilight. The festivity around him seems distant, the loud cheers and joyful dances reduced to mere echoes in his ears.

Inside him, there is a storm brewing. A whirlwind of emotions, doubts, and fears that seem to threaten the very foundation on which he has built his identity. Horohan had always lived a life of duality. Born with the grace of a woman, yet bound by the expectations and roles of a man. The Alinkar tribe's customs and traditions had made it clear: he was to lead, to conquer, to ensure the lineage's continuity. The weight of these expectations had been thrust upon him since childhood.

He rubs his palms together, feeling the roughness, an emblem of the battles he's fought, both against rival tribes and against the reflection staring back at him from still waters. He's wrestled with his identity for as long as he can remember. Each passing day was a testament to the dichotomy he felt—of being Horohan, the heir to Alinkar, and also being the soul that whispers a different truth in the silence of the night.

The union with Naci was to be another milestone, another layer added to the mask he wore. She was vibrant, fierce, a force to be reckoned with. The tribe had rejoiced at their union, seeing it as a bond that would bring unparalleled power and unity. But Horohan saw more. He saw the spark in Naci's eyes, her dreams, her ambitions. To tether her to a life with someone as fractured as him felt like an injustice.

He cannot let her be chained to his internal battle, his daily struggle for identity. She deserves more. More than a partner who can't offer her the whole of his heart, for half of it was still lost, searching for who he truly is.

The distant sounds of the steppe break his reverie. The sound of hooves, the rustling of grass, the distant laughter. It all seemed to ask him the same question, "Who are you, Horohan?"

As the night deepens, he takes a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs. He knows that tomorrow would bring with it decisions, confrontations, and perhaps, revelations. But for now, he just lets himself be, standing amidst the vastness, a solitary figure grappling with the complexities of identity and love.

…

Horohan is jolted awake by the sharp, piercing cries of his eagle, Khatan, perched outside his yurt. The bird's shrieks are more than just a call; they are a reminder of his duties and the day that awaits.

Blinking away the remnants of sleep, he sits up, stretching his limbs. The coolness of the early morning air seeps through the gaps in his yurt, a gentle caress against his skin. He dons his daily attire, a mix of leather and wool, adorned with the emblem of the Alinkar tribe—a stylized eagle in mid-flight.

He steps out, and the first thing he does is approach Khatan. The bond between them is unique, a symbol of his position. Horohan offers the eagle a piece of fresh meat, which Khatan grabs with his sharp talons. As the bird feasts, Horohan strokes its feathers, the softness juxtaposed against the fierceness of the bird's nature.

His morning prayers follow, as he stands facing the rising sun. Words passed down through generations, invoking blessings from the spirits of the steppe and the ancestors of the Alinkar. The vast expanse of land stretches out in front of him, and for a moment, he loses himself in its sheer vastness.

Breakfast is a communal affair, and Horohan joins the elders of the tribe, sharing tales and discussing matters of importance. The meal is simple—fermented mare's milk and some dried meat. But it's not just sustenance; it's a moment of bonding.

The remnants of the previous night's festivities lay strewn across the ground. Leftover food, discarded decorations, and the aftermath of dances and laughter now silent. The morning after a celebration is always a stark contrast to the joy and revelry of the night before.

Horohan, never one to shirk his responsibilities or put himself above his tribe, joins in the cleaning efforts. His hands, which can skillfully wield a sword, now pick up debris and clear the grounds. The people of Alinkar respect him even more for this—a leader who is not afraid to get his hands dirty, literally and figuratively.

As he works, the women can't help but steal glances at him. Whispers and giggles float in the air as they admire his dedication, his form, his grace. Some even muster the courage to approach him, offering assistance or merely trying to strike a conversation. Horohan, always polite, acknowledges them with a nod or a smile but remains engrossed in his task. His popularity, especially among the women, is evident, but today, his mind seems distant.

Midway through the morning, word reaches him that the Jabliu clan left before the first rays of dawn kissed the earth. 

Between the rustling of fabrics and the whispered conversations, Horohan finds himself lost in thought. The radiant image of Naci, the fiery spirit in her eyes, the grace she embodied—all these memories flood his mind. Would she hate him for last night? A pang of guilt gnaws at his heart, making it heavy with remorse. Despite being born a girl, Horohan always found himself more drawn to women, and Naci was no exception. He noticed the way her lips curled when she smiled, the gentle sway of her hips, the intensity in her gaze. Horohan takes a moment to admit it to himself; he was enchanted by her. And in the very act of pushing her away, he had allowed his true feelings to become tangled in a web of identity, duty, and societal expectations. He feels trapped by his emotions, yearning for something he can't quite comprehend and berating himself for not being brave enough to face it head-on. The realization that he's powerless against these feelings, despite being the heir and future chief, makes him feel all the more pathetic.

With the cleaning done, he heads to the training grounds. As the heir, it's essential for him to be adept at combat. As he walks, a distant, rhythmic rumbling reaches his ears. The unmistakable sound of hooves pounding against the earth grows louder, resonating with the rapid beats of his heart.

He slows down, straining his ears, trying to make sense of the sound's source. Emerging from the veil of dust in the distance, a silhouette grows clearer. A horse—not just any horse, but a magnificent white steed, its mane dancing like waves, reflecting the sun's golden rays.

Atop this majestic creature sits a rider, holding the reins with confidence and poise. As they come closer, Horohan's breath catches in his throat. It's Naci. Her dark hair flows behind her like a banner, her eyes focused and fierce, her posture the embodiment of grace and strength. The scene before him feels ethereal, as if he's been thrust into a living painting.

The morning sun bathes her in a gentle glow, accentuating her features, making her seem almost otherworldly. The juxtaposition of her tender beauty against the raw power of her mount leaves Horohan spellbound. Each stride of the horse, each gust of wind that flutters her attire, only adds to the enchantment.

As Naci gracefully brings her horse to a halt, dust swirling around them, the world seems to pause. For a few heartbeats, all that exists for Horohan is her—the woman who he's unintentionally hurt, the woman who now stands before him in all her glory, challenging the norms, defying expectations, and leaving him utterly mesmerized.

Naci's gaze meets Horohan's, her eyes revealing a tapestry of emotions—determination, anger, pain, but also a hint of vulnerability. She gracefully dismounts her horse, her feet barely making a sound as they touch the ground.

"Horohan," she begins, her voice strong, yet laced with a touch of hesitance. "I expected to find you here."

He struggles to find words, his throat tight with the shock of her unexpected confrontation. "Naci," he finally manages, his voice betraying his surprise, "I thought you had left with your clan."

She tilts her head, a wry smile touching her lips. "Did you think I would run away so easily? I came here for answers, and I intend to get them."

Horohan's astonishment and vulnerability tangle within him, creating a storm of emotions. As he watches her, he finds it increasingly difficult to conceal the fluttering in his chest. "Naci," he says, voice tinged with exasperation, "I agreed to this marriage believing it was in the best interest of both our tribes."

Her gaze sharpens, a fierce determination evident. "You agreed to a decision for both of us, without knowing me. There's a difference."

He clenches his fists, the weight of his choices and the unfamiliar stirrings of his heart pressing down on him. "I thought I was doing our tribes a kindness. Freeing them from the threat of war through our union."

Naci steps forward, her poise unwavering. "Your kindness felt more like a strategy. And your assumptions feel like chains. I never asked for you to decide my fate."

Horohan narrows his eyes, attempting to shield the storm brewing inside him behind a wall of confusion and growing affection. "This isn't about what you want or don't want, Naci. It's about our tribes, their futures, and the legacy we leave behind."

She matches his intensity, her voice rising. "Legacy? Our tribes have survived for centuries without us being tethered in matrimony. Why use that as an excuse now?"

He grits his teeth, frustration evident. "Because times have changed! The external threats, the skirmishes at the borders… We needed this union, now more than ever."

Naci's laugh is bitter. "So, I'm just a pawn in your grand strategy? A mere token to be bartered away for peace?"

Horohan's face reddens, his voice cold and cutting, yet internally, he's wrestling with the realization of his growing feelings for her. "You're twisting my words, Naci. I entered this arrangement thinking it would spare both our tribes the chaos of war. I thought it would give us a chance at stability."

She takes a step towards him, her fury palpable. "You thought wrong. I'd rather stand on the front lines, fighting, than be handed over like property for the sake of an alliance."

He nearly shouts, "You're being naive! Sometimes we must make sacrifices for the greater good. This isn't just about you and me."

Naci's voice is sharp, "But it should be, at least in part. If we're to be wed, shouldn't my feelings matter? Or is this alliance more important to you?"

Horohan takes a deep breath, attempting to steady himself and conceal his conflicted emotions. "It's not about valuing one over the other. I just… I thought I was saving our tribes from the weight of this responsibility."

She stares at him, her voice laced with icy resolve. "Stop pretending to save everyone, Horohan. I can bear my own burdens, and make my own choices."

Feeling a flare of anger and an unexpected sting in his heart, Horohan responds, "So you want to challenge my decisions? Fine." He unsheathes his blade, the metal glinting menacingly under the sun. "Trade blades with me. If you win, I'll answer any question you have. If I win," his voice drops, the undertone revealing a hint of reluctance, "you will leave the cottage and never look back."Naci raises an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and respect flashing in her eyes. She had thought Horohan was a thoughtful and measured leader, but this fiery passion was something new. Pulling out her own blade, she nods, "Very well. Let our blades speak for us."

The tension between the two of them is palpable, stretching the air until it feels thick and suffocating. Both stand poised and ready, sizing each other up for what feels like a lifetime but is merely a few seconds.

The first move is swift. Horohan lunges forward with a speed that belies his size. But Naci is ready, parrying his blow with practiced ease. She pivots on her heel, sending a strike towards his side. He deflects it at the last moment, and the two fall back, reassessing.

As they engage, Horohan can't help but be aware of Naci's grace and precision. There's a fluidity in her movements, a determination in her eyes that he finds strangely captivating, though he pushes the thought away, focusing on the fight.

The sun reflects off their blades as they clash again and again, each trying to find an opening, a weakness in the other. The sound of metal against metal fills the clearing, echoing with the intensity of their emotions and Horohan's growing, unacknowledged admiration for the woman before him.

Dust rises beneath their feet as they dance, their movements synchronized, yet opposing. At times, it seems like a choreographed performance, two masters showcasing their skill. But the undercurrent of tension, the real stakes of this duel, are evident in their focused expressions and the force behind each strike.

Naci's training as a warrior shines through. She's agile, moving fluidly from one stance to the next, using her smaller stature to her advantage. Horohan, for all his strength and technique, finds himself on the defensive more often than not, all the while stealing glances at Naci's form, appreciating her combat skills more than he would like to admit.

They both wear visible signs of fatigue; sweat drips from their brows, their breaths come faster, and their strikes lose some of their earlier precision. Still, neither gives any indication of backing down, and Horohan finds a growing respect for Naci's resilience and tenacity.

During a particularly aggressive exchange, Naci feints a high strike, causing Horohan to raise his guard. But it's a trap. She quickly reverses her motion, sweeping low, aiming for his legs. Horohan barely jumps back in time, but the maneuver throws him off balance. Seizing the opportunity, Naci thrusts forward, her blade stopping just inches from his throat.

The world stills.

Horohan, realizing his position, drops his blade, his breathing heavy. Naci lowers her weapon, her eyes never leaving his. There's no gloating, no triumphant expression. Just a quiet understanding and a heavy weight that comes with such a victory. In that moment, Horohan, while defeated, can't help but feel a pull towards Naci, a fascination he refuses to name.

She speaks, her voice soft yet firm, "I've won. Now, answer my questions." And as Horohan meets her gaze, he senses the beginning of something he hadn't anticipated, something he isn't quite ready to confront.

Horohan takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "I owe you an apology, Naci. Last night… I never meant to hurt you."

Naci's expression hardens. "Is that so? Then why? Why reject our union so coldly?"

He looks away, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him. "It's complicated," he murmurs.

"Complicated?" she scoffs. "I think I deserve more than just that."

Taking another deep breath, Horohan faces her, his gaze earnest. "I have always lived a life of conflict, torn between the expectations of my tribe and the whispers of my own soul. I wanted to spare you from being entangled in my battle."

Naci steps closer, her eyes searching his face. "And who are you to decide what I should be spared from? Did you even think about how I felt?"

Watching her, Horohan feels a twinge of envy for her fierce determination and the way she openly confronts her feelings – so different from his own guarded nature. He admires her for it, but it also makes him feel vulnerable, exposed. "I… I feared that I couldn't offer you the life or love you deserved."

Naci's eyes soften, but her voice remains firm. "Horohan, life is filled with uncertainties and challenges. But don't make decisions for me."

He looks up, their eyes locking once more. "Naci, I didn't realize how strong you truly are." The more he sees of her, the more Horohan finds himself fascinated, drawn to her authenticity and carefree attitude.

She smirks, a playful glint in her eye. "Maybe it's time you start seeing more clearly."

And in that moment, amidst the vast steppe, two souls, each grappling with their truths, find a moment of understanding. Horohan can feel something shift within him, a growing acknowledgment of his own identity and the possibility of embracing it, much like Naci has.

The unexpected chorus of applause ripples through the vast expanse, punctuating the quiet that had blanketed their intimate confrontation. Both Naci and Horohan turn sharply, surprise clear on their faces as they take in the large group of tribe members, all of whom had apparently borne witness to their intense duel and subsequent exchange.

A group of young warriors start chanting Naci's name, their voices rising in fervent admiration. "Naci! Naci! Naci!" Horohan watches as the tribe celebrates Naci, a twinge of jealousy mixed with admiration in his chest.

The women, some with children clinging to their sides, join in the cheer, their voices carrying tales of Naci's bravery and skill. Amid the revelry, an older tribeswoman steps forward, her gaze locked onto Naci. "Today," she declares, her voice deep and resonant, "we have witnessed the strength and spirit of the legendary warrior queens of old reborn in Naci!"

The tribe erupts in whistles and cheers, their admiration palpable. Naci, momentarily taken aback, then breaks into a hearty laugh, her pride evident. She waves at the crowd, taking in the genuine love and respect radiating from them.

Beside her, Horohan stands stiffly, his expression a mix of embarrassment and envy. The title of 'warrior queen,' a moniker that he had wished to hold, now belonged to Naci. The dichotomy of his feelings is evident—pride for the woman he cares for, and a deeper pain from the identity struggles that have long plagued him.

Watching Naci bask in her moment of glory, Horohan can't help but wonder what it would be like to be so uninhibited, so embraced for being unapologetically oneself. The seeds of realization are planted – perhaps he, too, could find pride in being perceived as a woman, in being who he truly is.

Drawing in a deep breath, he turns to face Naci, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "Seems like I'm set to wed a legend," he remarks, his voice tinged with both pain and genuine admiration.

Naci grins, nudging him playfully. "Better get used to it," she replies with a wink, the two of them standing together amidst the cheers, Horohan feeling the stirrings of a newfound self-acceptance.