The Kharat caravan was a collection of high-wheeled wagons draped in colorful, faded silks and smelling of dried meat and woodsmoke. The people were weathered and wary, their eyes sharp with the survival instinct of those who lived between the borders of two warring empires.
When Livius, Cian, and Raven approached, thirty bows were leveled at them in an instant. The Kharats didn't care about "Ghosts" or "Emperors"; they cared about the integrity of their circle.
"We are travelers seeking the Salt Market," Livius said, his voice carrying a calm authority that made the lead archer's hand tremble slightly. He didn't use magic; he simply projected the "Sovereign's Presence" at a fraction of its power—enough to command respect, but not enough to cause a panic.
An elderly woman, her face a map of deep-set wrinkles and tribal tattoos, stepped forward. She was the 'Elder Mother' of the caravan. She looked at Livius, her eyes narrowing as she sensed something "off" about the boy.
"You walk like a man who owns the ground he stands on, boy," she rasped, leaning on a staff made of a Drake's rib. "But the Steppes belong to no one. They eat the arrogant and bury the loud. Why should we let three more mouths into our circle?"
Cian stepped forward before Livius could answer, pulling a small, sealed jar from his pack. "Because we have Southern Spice and refined salt from the Argentine coast. And because we know that the patrol following you isn't looking for tribute—they're looking for 'Conscripts' for the Khan's vanguard."
The Elder Mother froze. The Kharats were outcasts because they refused to give their children to the Khan's beast-rider pits. The revelation that they were being tracked made the air in the camp grow cold.
"How do you know this?" she whispered.
"The wind told me," Livius replied, glancing toward the high ridge a mile away.
The Elder Mother looked at the salt, then at the calm, golden-eyed youth. She knew a lie when she heard one, but she also knew a lifeline when it was offered. "Join the circle. But if the riders come, you fight first. We do not shield those who cannot bleed for us."
"Agreed," Livius said.
As they settled into the caravan, Livius sat by the fire, watching the Kharat children play with small, domesticated lizards. Using his Silver Sight, he watched the "Bond-Threads" between the people and their animals. It was a beautiful, delicate web of mutual survival. But as his gaze drifted toward the ridge, he saw something much darker.
The Khaganate riders were approaching. Their bonds with their massive, six-legged wolves were not webs of survival; they were chains of agony. The mana flowed only one way—from the beast to the rider, draining the animal of its will and its life-force. It was the "Golden Way" of the Steppes—the same parasitic philosophy his father's line had used on the Silver Dragons.
Livius felt a cold, sharp anger beginning to coil in his gut. It was the Silver Dragon's memory reacting to the sight of a stolen soul.
"Cian," Livius whispered, the fire in front of him turning a pale, ghostly blue. "When the riders arrive... do not interfere. I want to see how the Khan's 'Bond' holds up when the source of the power decides to rebel."