Twelve months after the truce, the wind over the Steppe carried a sound unlike any other—a thunder not of nature, but of boots and hooves and iron wheels grinding the land. The Zhong army had come.
It was a Gale scout who first glimpsed them, perched from a stone outcrop that overlooked the distant eastern horizon. The scout pressed a bone-carved lens to his eye, squinting as the dust clouds grew. Eight legions marched in tight discipline, banners unfurled like rivers of blood and black ink. War engines followed: siege towers, flamecasters, and plated rams the size of barns. Cavalry squadrons moved in arcs, flanking the procession like wolves.
The scout exhaled through his nose and turned his horse. By dusk, he knelt before Altan.
"They're here. Zhong legions. Eight, maybe more. War engines, cavalry, full supply trains. They'll breach the Steppe in days."
Altan nodded once, slow. The night air held no scent of fire yet, but he could feel it. In the silence that followed, his mind moved like a blade across parchment.
"We fall back," he said. "Get word to every tribe in their path. Tell them to vanish."
Burgedai blinked. "Vanish?"
Altan turned to him. "I prepared a sanctuary. There's a valley hidden deep inside the southern chasm—beyond the low ridges where the sky narrows. It'll hold them. It has to."
Khulan stepped forward, brushing dust from her cloak. "What about the Zhong scouts? They'll notice movement."
Altan's eyes met hers. "Then make sure they only see ghosts. You'll lead our rangers, scouts, and light riders. Delay them. Hit and fade. Every minute you buy is a family that gets away."
She gave a quick nod, no hesitation. "How far can I go?"
"Harass the flanks. Poison wells. Burn empty food stores. But don't get drawn into a full fight. Not yet."
Khulan grinned. "Understood."
She vanished into the wind that night, her riders streaming behind her like trailing smoke.
By morning, the Zhong marched through the outer ridges, their vanguard stretched and overconfident. It was then that Khulan struck. A hail of arrows swept from the rocks above, not aimed to kill—but to break cohesion. Horses reared. Officers shouted.
Then silence.
The Zhong advanced cautiously. Too late.
A trapline snapped, and fire bloomed across the dry grass. Panic surged. From the rear, rangers on lightfoot cultivation surged forward, released arrows, then vanished before blades turned to them.
The Zhong chased smoke. They caught only silence.
At dusk, Khulan knelt beside a rock outcrop, fingers pressed to the earth. She felt them coming. Two thousand strong, moving fast. She clicked her tongue once, and her second-in-command signaled with a silent hand.
Three teams peeled left, four right, and one remained to draw them in. The Zhong charged the bait—only to find themselves encircled by archers above and light cavalry behind.
A storm of arrows fell.
They turned to engage, but the Gale riders were gone again, melting into the dust.
The delay stretched. Hours turned to days. Supplies burned in the night. Maps stolen. Commanders slain in the dark.
All the while, the Steppe folk vanished, one caravan at a time, descending into the Chasm's hidden valleys. Old trails were covered. New ones made. Nomad elders moved in silence, guided by Warden-Marshals and Iron Hands who waited at the edge.
Altan stood at the entrance to the lower canyon, watching each group pass. Children clung to mothers, and old men clutched relics of bone and leather. None spoke of fear, only of duty. They would wait. They would survive.
Khulan returned at dawn, her cloak torn and her eyes burning with exhaustion. She dismounted without a word.
Altan handed her a skin of water. "Report."
"We held them for nine days. Slowed them without losing anyone important. They're angry now. Sloppy."
"Good. That's what we need."
She drank, wiped her mouth, and nodded to the cliffs.
"They'll reach the plains in four days. After that, they'll push harder. You sure this valley will hold them all?"
Altan's eyes drifted to the vast scar in the earth beyond.
"It's not just a valley. It's where the Steppe once broke open to swallow an empire. And if we fail, it'll swallow another."
The wind shifted. A crow cried in the distance.
He turned to the Iron Hands nearby. "Ready the fallback lines. Once everyone's inside, seal the upper pass. Burn the approach behind us. If they want war, they'll have to bleed for every step."
Khulan looked back to the horizon. "They will."
Far to the east, the Zhong army had begun its long march across frost-bitten ridges and snow-choked rivers. Within a silk-lined pavilion near the center column, Lord Qiu studied a map laid across a table, edges held by dagger and jade.
The wind tore at the canvas flaps. Officers gathered inside—stern, armored men with blooded banners strapped to their backs.
Qiu's gaze didn't lift. "The Gale forces have begun harassment. Hit-and-fade tactics. They won't face us directly."
One of the younger generals stepped forward. "We should press them. Hunt them down. They're nothing but mounted raiders."
Qiu looked up, eyes cold. "You'll lose men chasing smoke. They want you to split. Stay with the column. Protect the engines."
Another commander frowned. "Some detachments have already broken pursuit. One of them—General Wen's riders—pushed too far west."
Qiu's lips thinned. "How many returned?"
"A hundred. Out of a thousand."
The tent fell silent. Qiu stood slowly, walked to the center, and drew his blade in one smooth motion.
"Bring him."
General Wen, his armor scorched and his eyes hollow, was dragged into the circle. He tried to speak, but Qiu raised a hand.
"You defied command. You underestimated Altan."
The sword flashed once. Wen's head fell to the ground, eyes still wide.
"Let this be a warning."
No one looked away. No one breathed.
Two hundred prisoners from the ambush were later found strung along the Zhong army's path. Crucified on burnt stakes, their armor scorched and their mouths sewn shut. Some still bled.
The march slowed.
As soldiers passed the grisly rows, silence followed. Officers gave no orders. None were needed.
The first war of the Steppe had ended in embers. This one had begun with ghosts, fury, and a trail of iron crosses.
The sun rose over the chasm, and the final exodus began.
From within the hidden canyon below, the tribes gathered. Fires flickered low. Children whispered. Warriors stood ready.
And Altan waited.
The Zhong had crossed into the Steppe.
Now the real war would begin.