The Year of Saston, 620 After the Pratogony, 32th day of the Month of Lamos.
Three silhouettes appeared at the front gate of the Tengritugen Palace. As soon as the palace guards noticed them, their hands went to their weapons; however, there were familiar marks on the faces of those approaching. This was Neva's group, the one that had failed the raid on Asmanda. Two of Alpen's soldiers had brought Neva safely to the palace with heavy steps. Despite being a prisoner, Neva held his head high, his gaze still defiantly fixed forward.
Just as the trio approached the gates, a second group appeared behind them, walking slowly. This time, it was the delegation sent by Attila: an elderly prisoner and two soldiers guarding him. The old man lay unconscious on a stretcher; the soldiers pulling it were cautious and alert. Both groups arrived in front of the palace without hesitation. A few moments of silence followed. Amid the cold air and the tension crackling in the stone , only the sound of footsteps echoed. The four soldiers from both sides stood ready, with the weary but determined posture of those who had completed their mission, prepared to hand over their captives.
Aro, one of Alpen's soldiers, took a deep breath and spoke in a confident voice.
"I have come by the order of Commander Alpen from the town of Asmanda. The prisoner beside me is Neva of Alphamos, who personally led the attack on Asmanda. I was ordered to deliver him directly to Vizier Ilterish."
Aro's face was serious, with not a trace of hesitation. Then, one of Attila's soldiers stepped forward with the elderly prisoner. After saluting the two guards, he bowed slightly and began to speak.
Ramte, one of Attila's soldiers who had accompanied him on his diplomatic mission, pointed to the old man on the stretcher and began to speak, his tired eyes heavy.
"I am from the military unit that accompanied Commander Attila on his diplomatic mission. The elderly man on the stretcher is our prisoner. I was ordered to deliver him personally to Vizier Ilterish, along with a letter."
Ramte's voice was calm, but carried a weight within it. His face showed the fatigue of the long journey and the burden of the responsibility he carried.
One of the guards smirked slightly, raising his eyebrows as he joked.
"Looks like today's going to be fun."
Then he adopted a more serious tone and continued.
"Understood, soldier. Vizier Ilterish will be informed first. If he deems it appropriate, you will be brought before him. Until then, wait here."
After a short while, a soldier approached with quick and determined steps. His posture was firm, and his voice was clear.
"Vizier Ilterish is expecting you."
Aro and Ramte gave a respectful nod and silently followed the soldier. The heavy iron door creaked open, and they passed into the inner part of the palace.
The palace was divided into two main sections. The right side belonged to the royal family — the khan, his spouse, children, and the direct heirs resided there. The left side was allocated to the extended royal family, which also included high-ranking officials, viziers, and advisors. Without hesitation, Aro and Ramte turned toward the left wing. Their footsteps echoed through the wide corridors as they moved forward. The flickering flames of the torches embedded in the stone walls cast shadows that trailed behind them.
After passing several corridors, they stopped in front of a large ornate door. Two guards stood motionless on either side of it, watching the approaching men closely. Their spears were planted firmly into the ground; their stances were as stern as their gazes. The guards examined the visitors from head to toe. Their eyes were like scales, silently weighing who they were, what they brought, and how much of a threat they might pose.
After a brief but careful inspection, the two guards exchanged glances and gave a silent nod of approval. The door slowly opened. A cool and tranquil breeze from inside brushed across their faces. Aro and Ramte stepped inside without a word.
The room was large; the wide stone walls absorbed sound, and the high ceiling spread a peaceful silence. Yet everything was simple — modest but orderly. There was a sense of discipline devoid of extravagance. At the far end of the room stood a man who drew all attention to himself. His eyes were still, his gaze sharp, his stance unshakable. Aro and Ramte walked toward him without hesitation. That man was Vizier Ilterish.
When they reached Ilterish, they all bowed their heads in respectful greeting. The silence lingered in the room, echoing the reverence in the air. At first glance, it was difficult to guess his age. Though he was forty-five, the marks of time had nearly vanished from his face; he looked like a man in his thirties. His features were defined yet composed — the wisdom of age and the vitality of youth seemed to have merged in one body.
He was the brother of Khan Balamir — the uncle of Commander Attila, and the father of Ebren. The nobility carried through bloodlines rested upon him with undeniable weight. He was strikingly handsome. His posture, his voice, his gaze… none of these things impressed on their own, but together, they created an undeniable presence. Anyone who saw him once would find it hard to look away.
His hair was black as night, though time had left its trace in the white strands of his beard. This contrast only added to his solemn appearance. His bearing could not be defined by grandeur or humility — he was simply Ilterish. His majesty did not stem from ostentation, but from the weight of responsibility he carried, the knowledge he held, and the quiet strength he radiated.
Vizier Ilterish remained silent for a while. As his eyes scanned the group before him with careful scrutiny, his expression revealed no emotion. Then, he slightly tilted his head and turned his gaze toward Aro. His voice was deep and commanding.
"Speak, first you."
Aro stepped forward, clasping his hands behind his back and holding his chest upright. He met Ilterish's gaze without hesitation. His tone was neither disrespectful nor fearful—only the steady seriousness of a soldier fulfilling his duty. He explained the situation in full detail.
Ilterish listened intently. When Aro finished, a faint, barely perceptible smile curled at the edge of Ilterish's lips—one that carried a hidden, dark meaning. It was the smile of a man whose plan was unfolding exactly as intended. He then turned his head slightly and looked at Neva, who was kneeling on the floor. His eyes rested on him for a moment; the look alone was enough—words were unnecessary. Neva lowered his head and fixed his gaze on the ground, as if trying to escape the stare.
Ilterish then turned his face back toward the group, this time directing his attention to Attila's soldier. Without a shift in the deep tone of his voice, he spoke again.
"Your turn. Speak."
Attila's soldier, Ramte, stepped forward. He reported the situation briefly but clearly. Then, he carefully took out the letter he had brought and offered it to Vizier Ilterish with both hands. Ilterish accepted the letter with an unreadable expression. Ramte, relieved to have fulfilled his duty, stepped back into place.
Silence fell over the room for a brief moment. All eyes were now on Vizier Ilterish, awaiting his reaction. Ilterish placed the letter aside. His gaze swept across the group once more. This time, his voice was sharper, with no room for discussion.
"Everyone out, except Neva and the old man on the stretcher."