The Khaganate patrol descended the ridge just as the moon reached its zenith. They didn't come with a greeting. They came with the thunder of twenty-four hooves and the guttural snarls of 'Steppe-Ravagers'—beasts the size of small horses with fur like coarse iron wire.
The lead rider, a scarred captain with a bronze breastplate, didn't bother to dismount. He looked down at the cowering Kharats with the bored indifference of a butcher looking at cattle.
"Elder Mother," the captain barked. "The Khan requires ten of your youth for the Earth-Drake pits. Hand them over, and we might leave you enough grain to survive the winter."
The Elder Mother stood her ground, her staff shaking. "We have no youth to give, Captain. The Steppes have been lean."
"Then we will take them from the wagons ourselves," the Captain sneered, gesturing for his men to advance.
Livius stepped into the center of the camp, his silhouette small against the massive beasts. He wasn't wearing his mask. He looked at the Captain, his eyes shifting—not to the Gold of the Emperor, but to the Silver of the Moon.
"The beasts are tired, Captain," Livius said, his voice resonating with a frequency that made the Steppe-Ravagers whine and tilt their heads. "They are hungry, and they are cold. Why do you continue to starve the things that carry you?"
The Captain laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "A philosopher in the dirt? Kill him first. My Ravager hasn't tasted noble blood in a week."
The Captain kicked his beast, commanding it to lunge. The Ravager bared its fangs, its eyes clouded with a forced, magical rage. But as it leaped, Livius didn't dodge. He reached out and grabbed the air, his fingers twitching as if he were plucking a string on a harp.
In the Silver realm, Livius saw the jagged, black chain of mana connecting the Captain's soul to the Ravager's heart. He didn't break it with force; he "Untied" it. He fed a tiny drop of his own Silver mana—the cool, healing essence of the Moon—into the beast's side of the chain.
The effect was instantaneous.
The Ravager's eyes cleared. The cloud of forced rage vanished, replaced by a sudden, terrifying clarity. It realized it was being drained. It realized the man on its back was its tormentor, not its master.
The beast didn't bite Livius. It skidded to a halt, bucked with a strength that shattered the Captain's bronze breastplate, and pinned the man to the ground with its massive paws.
One by one, Livius "snapped" the chains of the other riders. The camp erupted into a chaotic symphony of beasts reclaiming their freedom. The Khaganate riders, who had relied entirely on their bonded mounts to fight, were suddenly helpless—thrown into the dirt and faced with the very predators they had spent years abusing.
"What... what have you done?" the Captain wheezed, the Ravager's hot breath on his neck.
Livius walked toward him, his silver-gold eyes glowing in the moonlight. "I didn't do anything, Captain. I simply reminded the beasts that they don't owe you anything. Now, tell me... where is the Khan's 'Iron Yurt'?"
The Captain looked at the boy—at the ghost who had just dismantled a decade of training with a flick of his wrist. He realized then that the stories of the "Golden Throne" were wrong. The King of Argentine wasn't a dragon of fire. He was something far older. He was the one who could talk to the world, and the world was finally starting to answer.
As the Kharats watched in stunned silence, the freed Steppe-Ravagers didn't run away. They circled around Livius, bowing their heads as if acknowledging a long-lost alpha.
"Cian," Livius said, looking toward the horizon. "Pack the salt. We have a new escort."