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A party of twelve people rode on eleven horses. Driving hard and fast to escape the wintery onslaught, the horses galloped through the growing flood of snow that covered the open steppe. In the very center of the group, the Ketchenak Khan rode his horse with intensity, gripping its reins and pushing it further onward; great plumes of hot breath mixing with cold air emitted from the horses, their breathes heavy and deep, grunting as they never relented under the tightened grip of their owners through the snowy oblivion.

…

As smooth as the entire journey had been from its start, to the beginning of their adventure back towards the capital region, it quickly took a turn for the worse as they had instantaneously become enveloped in an early spring snowstorm as the temperature started to drop with the coming of night. Their tents outside and partly under the Amanbikaegh Gate became covered in a growing abyss of white, added onto as the wind picked up and started to slash across the vast steppe with its frigid iceyness; even ripping one tent out the ground and sending it to be plastered against the foundational pillar of the monument.

It continued to spiral as the Vu’duce came down with a cough, and then a fever in a matter of hours upon nightfall; with symptoms that came into full effect just as the full ire of the early spring snowstorm came into effect. He was coddled, wrapped up, and laid down underneath the Gate of Amanbikaegh on a propped up cot and told to rest as many of the men fell into quiet, panicked conversation on what to do next.

Costin, the Ketchenak [Future] Khan, rested on his knee, bent down to be by his father’s side. For now, the Vu’duce slept, his overly bushy and near-animated mustache and eyebrows moving softly as he instantly inhaled and exhaled. His skin was pale, and had the subtle glow of an in-creeping sweat. Costin sighed to himself and leaned up from his fathers side, taking one more second to study his face before turning his back to him.

Exiting the aura of his father, he took one step and reentered the hostile environment of his elder peers. They all sat closely huddled together around a small fire, each with their hands either tucked into their pockets or extended to be warmed by the flames. They continued their former conversation, still bickering amongst themselves on what the best route was for their situation. A couple argued for hunkering down and waiting, others fought to escape, while a select few wanted the military to come in to rescue them.

Costin found it hard to sit between the elders, both literally and figuratively. He pushed and scooted his way into the circle with the quiet grumbling of the two he sat between, and was irked by some of the logic presented by his countrymen. Wait, flee, or be rescued. The three words floated in his head as he floated in and out of the conversation at hand; tired and entranced by the warm flicker of the soon-smoldering fire. Soon, the option of crying wolf to the military was thrown out of the picture, each man knowing of the ancestral right and pride in the Ketchenak Khan’s journey and the drama that might create coming out of the knowledge of the dynastic family needing saving within their own open lands.

Costin warmed his hands on the fire and looked over his shoulder at his father, who remained asleep. The Ketchenak Khan stayed assured in his survival with the soft rise and settling of the Vu’duce’s stomach as he slept. In the silence between silences, Costin opened his mouth to speak but was spoken over by another; who merely looked over him as he continued to project his voice slightly louder before.

He slightly grumbled to himself and took a slow breath. Waiting for another opportunity, Costin said silently and patiently until the right time presented itself. Finally, the man of twenty five spoke to the men of sixty to eighty in even terms, a feat not seen before by Costin; always subservient to his father in the eyes of the oligarchs. “After hearing all arguments, I have decided.”

His simple words took all by surprise. Until then, he had barely been a part of the conversation, now he wanted to take charge. One elder opened their mouth to protest but immediately stammered, now spoken over by the younger Costin- his voice holding a sort of depth they had never heard before. A voice reminiscent of his fathers.

“Like buffalo, we must charge the storm.” Costin said, “Fleeing against the storm will extend our misery and continue my father’s suffering. If we drive hard and fast, considering we’re already enveloped in the storm, we should escape it quickest. I don’t believe we can stay here lest we truly become trapped.” He said with confidence, his eyes unyielding, hidden behind the reflection of the flames.

One man spoke to resist, but was stared down by another. Without haste, there was respect and understanding between the group. In this time of crisis, with Lucian down, his son Costin must step up. And so he did and with providence.

The group immediately readied for their journey braving the storm, some rapidly packing up knocked down tents, others readying and bringing over all the horses, while some did personal last checks and prepped themselves for the mental and physical challenge ahead. In a matter of fifteen minutes, the Gate of Amanbikaegh returned to the untouched state they met it at, with nothing more than a smoldering fire marking the appearance of the Ketchenak Khan to the monument.

He looked over his shoulder at the monument and felt the weight of his father press against his back. Slumped over and bundled up, with the blanket tied holding the two holding them together, the ill Vu’duce faded in and out of consciousness as the group eventually set off. Costin couldn’t help but look back at the monument’s intensive beauty, something exemplified by the arrival of an artistic snowy white to the gray and pale grasses of the steppe.

A beacon of quartz white, emergent from the white horizon, adorned with gold and the celestial visions that the people worship. Even for a nation of stone, life shone throughout the montone abyss. And trapped in the whirl of a snowstorm the steppe had never seemed more painted.

Costin rode valiantly, carrying everything he held with him in mind. Himself, the elders that he now rode in between and commanded as they traversed the foggy, never-ending snowy plain, and most importantly, his father, who he felt grab at his back inconsistently as he woke and fell from awareness with the galloping of the horse.

They pushed on and on, seemingly endless through the white void. Snow, in its greatest volume, fell from the heavens and soaked and weighed everything down, tiring the horses and the men that rode atop them as they braved the cold and growing wall of snow. Costin rode with his hand wowned around the reins tightly, transferring his stress through his glove onto the horse's rope and bit.

The wind whipped and muffled the words shouted amongst each other; directions fed by Costin and the lead man that determined the track of their course. Pushing into and out of the storm, they headed northwest, conveniently towards the capital region, their original destination, where they would eventually hit some city along the great open trek and if not reach the Chubvlai’s and the capital of Chan’Kogalnikeau. Snow stuck too and soaked the clothes of the party and the many blankets wrapped around the Vu’duce in an effort to keep him warm.

…

It went on forever, at one point Costin asking himself if he knew what he was really doing, and if he was really fit to serve, but quickly shook those thoughts out. Just as quick as it had arrived, the storm began to break and the great falling wall of snow started to fade into nothingness- back into the open white canvas of a post-snowstorm steppe. Still, the feeling of loss loomed over their heads.

Cold, wet, and hungry, they had rode throughout the early morning and endured the hellish conditions of the steppe.

The sun started to rise beyond the horizon, painting the black and dark blue sky with the early colors of the full-sun sky, a growing beacon of blue and a glare of white emerging from the trodden lands out beyond. It held the same sort of beauty the Gate of Amanbikaegh had, but without any of the humanistic qualities. Costin gazed out at its beauty, the horses fallen to a trodden.

He nudged at his fathers legs, waking him up from his tired and sickened sleep with a slight snort. The Vu’duce opened his tired eyes and looked at the sky.

The glare of the white light, with the crest of the sun just reaching up, blinding yet easy on the eye.

“Beautiful.” the Vu’duce remarked with a tired, raspy voice.

“Yeah.” Costin paused, still taken aback. “It’s beautiful.”

He felt his father’s weight shift, and his legs loosen off the side of the horse, as if drifting back to sleep. His head violently thumped against Costin’s back with dead weight, and his body started to slowly fall off the horse in the same direction. Costin’s heart jumped, and his head reached back to support his father.

His eyes enveloped in tears immediately. He wasn’t strong enough, and the weight of his burly father took both of them down off the horse, then tied together by the blanket wrapped around the Vu’duce to keep him warm. They plummeted straight off the horse and into the feet-high snow to the surprise and shock of the group around them.

Costin immediately scraped and clawed to his feet, unwrapping himself from the blanket as he was twisted in it as they fell. He clawed at the snow and rolled his father over from his position face-down and onto his back. His face was covered in snow, his eyes closed, and his expressions emotionless except the monotone stillness of a glimpse of a smile.

The Ketchenak Khan fell as quickly as he rose, dropping to his knees at his father’s side. Tears fell from his eyes freely. He had fought so hard, fighting to escape a destiny made at the Amanbikaegh Gate, all for nothing. He looked at his father’s gray face and hair. He couldn’t stop crying.

He wept over his dead father, until he couldn’t weep any more.

The Khan is dead, Long live the Khan.

…

On the back of the Khan, the dead Khan rests. With no coffin sworn, he himself will return the body to Chan’Kogalnikeau.