The day of Lavaro's first ride finally arrived a week later. It was the first joyous occasion in a long time, and a sense of hope spread through the tribe. They had not been attacked by marauders or bandits recently, so it felt like the dark times were finally over. With the Mosyv boy's initiation, perhaps a new chapter could begin in the Zakhira tribe's young history.

  All those who were not on hunting or lookout duty gathered to watch Gavro help his son onto their mildest-mannered Shinoon steed. It was not a test of his talent but a symbolic gesture. The real training would begin the next day. Lavaro wore his dark blue silken outfit and carried a child-sized tasseled ceremonial spear. He looked positively princely, putting on a calm and proud demeanor as he finally sat securely atop his mount. His father led the Shinoon by the reins and walked it past the gathered onlookers as his son waved to them regally.

  A sense of history being written before their eyes filled the tribe. Lavaro was prophesized to become a hero who would drive the Gadat off the steppes for three generations. They could see the spirit of the future looming over him, a mighty Mosyv warrior leading an army the size of which the steppe had never seen before.

  Viyal breathed the cold winter air deeply, pride filling her chest. But then she noticed Layavi swaying on her feet beside her. When she looked at her little cousin's face, it was redder than the coldness warranted. She turned to her mother, whose condition had improved enough over the past few days to come out and watch the ceremony. Nayavi noticed her daughter's expression and furrowed her brow in concern.

  "I think Layavi is not doing so well," Viyal whispered. She did not want to interrupt the joyous occasion since the tribe needed this moment.

  "What's wrong with her?" Yunil overheard their conversation and bent down to look at Layavi's face. She touched her nose to the little Mosyv's forehead and grimaced. "She has a high fever."

  "She seemed fine this morning," said Nayavi, feeling her niece's temperature. "We have to get her in a warm place quickly."

  "Go. I will tide your absence over," Amiro suddenly said behind them. Viyal and Yunil nodded, and the Nokkoy picked her cousin up carefully. The chief stepped past them and clapped his hands. "My nephew is a sight to behold. He will surely surpass his father in due time and become the hero he was promised to be!"

  As everybody joined Amiro and cheered, Viyal and Yunil quickly stole off between the distracted onlookers and headed for one of the least-occupied tents with their cousin. As a child, her immune system was weaker than that of adults, so she needed even more medical attention. Viyal sent Mamai to fetch fresh snow to melt in a bucket and Yunil to bring the Takheleh.

  A while later, Gavro burst in on the soothsayer's prayer over his sleeping daughter. He stopped himself from calling out to Layavi and watched over her silently. When he saw Viyal sitting next to her bed, he nodded gratefully. She returned the nod with a smile. It was only natural to tend to her cousin. In these trying times, they had to stick together more than ever.

  When the Takheleh left the tent, Gavro finally sat down beside Layavi and caressed her cheek. She did not respond to the touch and continued to slumber uneasily. Viyal motioned to replace the cold, wet cloth on her forehead, but Gavro stopped her. "I will do it. You should get some rest, lest you fall ill, too."

  "I'm fine," Viyal said but handed him the cloth nonetheless. She was not particularly tired, but seeing her uncle caring for his daughter so lovingly moved her heart. He was a towering, muscle-packed man who could bash in Selemur heads with his bare hands. Yet, now he held a small cloth in his fingers and placed it on Layavi's forehead delicately.

  Viyal quietly exited the tent and walked past the one where Altuna rested. After receiving food and medicine, the Shuva's condition improved quickly. She had a strong body and an even stronger mind, so she would recover before long. It would be a few weeks before she could walk around again, but things started to look up. Not just for Altuna but for the entire tribe.

  However, Layavi's condition did not improve, and her fever continued to rise over the next few days. The Takheleh tried every remedy and prayer in her repertoire, but she admitted that her abilities were limited. Only a soothsayer who completed their training would know what to do in this situation.

  "I will ride for the Temple of Time and bring back a Takheleh immediately," Gavro declared while readying his gear.

  "No, Brother, the tribe needs you. I will send our fastest riders instead," Amiro grabbed his wrist and stopped him.

  "That's wrong, Father. Forget the tribe. Layavi needs you," Viyal stood at the tent door and corrected her father. He furrowed his brow but then sighed in agreement.

  Hearing his niece's argument, Gavro dropped his equipment and hung his head in powerlessness. She was right. He could never forgive himself if Layavi's illness worsened due to his absence. His presence was surely more effective than any prayer. He would have to rely on the envoys to bring back a Takheleh as quickly as possible.

  The same afternoon, seven warriors led by Yava, the female Khevelir warband leader of the Sakhatul, departed the tribe and rode westward. Gavro watched them anxiously until they disappeared over the horizon before returning to Layavi's bedside. All he could do now was tending to her diligently.

  A few days later, tragedy struck.

  While Gavro remained by his daughter's side day and night, Lavaro's riding lessons progressed. The boy was mature enough to understand that Layavi needed his father more than he did. Still, he grew reckless from worry and rushed his training. He would drive his Shinoon onward faster than the instructor told him to and lost control a few times.

  One of those times, he did not regain it. The Shinoon galloped out of the camp, followed by the riding instructor and several warriors trying to save the boy. Their chasing only spooked it further, and it started to move erratically. However, that caused it to stumble and fall over itself.

  Lavaro, whose feet were tangled in the stirrups, was not thrown off into a relatively safe landing in the snow. Instead, he ended up buried underneath the Shinoon's body, its weight crushing him from the waist down. The warriors stopped the beast before it got back up and dragged the boy along, but the damage was already done. They carefully carried him back to the camp and informed his father.

  Gavro collapsed by Lavaro's bedside and shook all over. Viyal had only seen him like this once when he found Zalavi's body. It was clear that the boy would not survive his injuries. Even modern medicine would have been hard-pressed to do anything, let alone what this medieval world could achieve.

  The people of the tribe could only watch in impotent agony as Gavro cried beside his feverish boy as he slipped in and out of consciousness from the shock and pain. He held his child's hand throughout the night and felt it growing colder in the morning hours. Then, shortly after sunrise, Lavaro took his last rattling breath.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "No, this can't be," Gavro pleaded and shook the boy's lifeless hand, fearful of hurting him. But there was no response, no matter how he tried. His hands hovered over Lavaro's broken body, afraid to touch him as if it would cause him pain still, looking for something, anything he could do. "You were destined for greatness. You can't die like this!"

  Nobody could say a word to console Gavro; no words could do his loss justice. He cried bitter tears, pleading to Azakhal to return his boy and take him instead. Of course, there was no answer; their god was silent as ever. The towering Mosyv let out a howl of anguish like a mortally wounded beast and hugged Lavaro's cold body like he had his wife's not so long ago.

  Yet, it seemed fate would deem Gavro's suffering insufficient. Nayavi came into the tent on shaky legs, tears running down her face. Even before Lavaro's body was fully cold, she had come to report that Layavi had passed away from her fever. As if she had sensed her twin brother's death, she lost her will to live and followed him into the afterlife.

  Gavro could not even muster a whimper as he stumbled out of the tent, carrying his son's body under the pitiful gazes of his people. He laid Lavaro down beside the lifeless Layavi and caressed their cheeks, sobbing voicelessly. So devastated was he that he could not speak a single word.

  Viyal stood outside and covered her crying face. She could not even imagine what her uncle must feel like when even her heart was broken like this. Her mother staggered over and hugged her quietly. Then, Amiro put his strong arms around them, cradling them both. He could offer no solace to any of them and shook from his feeling of impotence. What use was he as a great chief, unable to save his own nephew and niece, unable to keep his brother from grief?

  Thus, the Zakhira tribe sunk into mourning.

  A lookout woke up Amiro and reported that Gavro had left the camp on a Shinoon by himself. It was the third day after the twins had died, right on the morning after the mourning period for them had ended. He was seen confronting the Takheleh about his children's prophecies before his departure westward.

  Gavro rode like the wind. He needed answers, answers nobody but the Akhma Merkheleh could provide. In his state of grief, nothing else mattered now. His wife had fulfilled her prophecy when they married. However, his children had their whole future before them. Why had they been saved from the Selemur betrayal only to die by something as mundane as a riding accident and a fever?

  Lavaro was supposed to become a hero of the steppe. Layavi should have embroidered the flag of the steppe people for all time to come. They had barely taken their first steps toward fulfilling their prophecies. How could their lives have been cut so tragically short? They were destined to become figures who would go down in the steppe people's legends!

  Gavro scarcely rested, only giving his Shinoon time to regain its strength before he continued his journey. Days turned into weeks, and his body weakened from hunger and lack of sleep. Still, his singular focus was such that he did not feel any of it. Grief and simmering rage drove him beyond the limits of any living being.

  On the twelfth day, he caught up to Yava and her men. They rode the fastest Shinoona and had barely taken a break, but Gavro's indomitable will seemed to have driven his stronger but slower mount beyond its limits. She urged him to rest when she saw him with sunken cheeks and dark rings under his eyes, knowing the worst had happened.

  Finally, Gavro was convinced to slow down and ride with her. She had followed him into battle against the Gadat and the Selemur. To her and her warriors, he was just as much their chief as Amiro was. They tended to his every need even when he barely spoke a word in return and made sure he did not collapse during the journey.

  Around noon on the twenty-seventh day since his departure, the snow-capped mountains of the West came into view. Gavro's sunken eyes lit up with purpose again when he beheld them in the distance. The destination of his quest for answers was right before him now. His eight followers were swept up in his second wind, and they drove their Shinoona onward into the lands under Azakhal's protection.

  Three days later, they saw the Temple of Time towering over the city at the lake. It was discourteous to ride quickly in this holiest of sanctuaries, but Gavro cared not for decorum. Their Shinoona kicked up the gravel path as they stormed through the city, scaring the peace-loving people inside as they jumped out of the way.

  However, they saw the emaciated Mosyv at the head of the riders. As he passed the statue of Valoro standing in the center of the city, they were hit with a flash of understanding. His appearance closely resembled the First Akhma Merkheleh; perhaps a divine revelation was at hand.

  Finally, Gavro stopped at the foot of the winding path up the mountain and dismounted. Even if he was stricken with grief and could not think straight, violating the laws of Azakhal was something his very blood would not abide. Yava and her men waited below as he took to foot and climbed the narrow path up to the Temple of Time.

  Despite being exhausted and starving from the journey, he walked steadily under the watchful eyes of Azakhal and climbed the mountain quickly. When he finally stood before the grand arch, the two guards in the alcoves beheld Gavro and bowed their heads. They recognized a man who had lost everything and sought only answers.

  The monks inside did the same, silently expressing their respect for the Mosyv so reminiscent of Valoro. He paid them no heed and continued into the main hall as the bell announcing his arrival rang out. An elderly monk came to guide Gavro, but he walked past him without even noticing his presence.

  His eyes were focused on the very back of the hall, where the elevated platform was steeped in twilight, illuminated only by candles. On the fallen log sat the current Akhma Merkheleh, a young Khevelir with the air of a wise man. He opened his piercing yellow eyes and watched Gavro approach him on steady feet.

  "Welcome, Gavro of the Zakhira," he spoke, opening his palm slowly in a gesture for him to sit. His was the voice of Azakhal, his words the proclamations of a god. When the Mosyv was seated, he continued, "I regret the reason for your pilgrimage, truly."

  To Gavro's surprise, a tear appeared in the Akhma Merkheleh's eye and ran down his cheek. It dripped onto the platform and darkened the stone surface. The Mosyv knew that the Akhma Merkheleh was different from the soothsayers that accompanied every tribe. He saw the movements of the stars themselves and could pierce the mist of time as if parting tall grass to view the open steppe beyond. Of course, he would know of his situation.

  "If you knew this would happen, why did you not instruct your Takheleh to warn us?" Gavro found himself blurting out, shocking himself. But the Akhma Merkheleh took no offense and looked at the Mosyv with his inscrutable gaze.

  "You were most unfortunate. What should have been was distorted by an unexpected arrival. But perhaps that, too, was preordained," he finally said with a distant look at the darkness above.

  "What do you mean? What unexpected arrival?" asked Gavro patiently.

  "The Omen Child was born in this generation," responded the Akhma Merkheleh, putting his palms together as if to capture the words between them. "A soul bearing a destiny far heavier than any other in this world. She now walks among us. It is her fate to die before she sees the thirteenth day of her birth or live to conquer the world."

  "Viyal," Gavro muttered in realization. With this, everything came together.

  She was an aberration among aberrations, a lone-born child of Mosyvvi, a being touched by moonlight, showing wisdom beyond her years. She was the Omen Child, a being destined to change the entire world. His family had merely been caught up in Viyal's grand prophecy. Only her future mattered in the flow of time. Her actions were like rocks thrown into a river, and everybody else was akin to leaf boats being tossed about or sunk by the whims of fate.

  "Why did brother not confide in me?" Gavro spoke to himself.

  "Because he was afraid that the truth would spread. The fewer mouths to speak of it, the better to keep a secret," the Akhma Merkheleh provided the answer in an impartial tone.

  "But I am his brother." The Mosyv looked up at the elder of the mountain in confusion. "Why would he not trust me with the truth?"

  "It would not have changed anything," came the heartless response.

  "My children. They were destined to die before their time because of the Omen Child's existence?" asked Gavro in a shaky voice.

  "Perhaps they could have been saved once. Perhaps twice. But the Omen Child is a distortion of what is and what will be. She has decided to embrace her prophecy. Thus, all will fall in line with her choice," the Akhma Merkheleh explained calmly.

  Gavro stood up and turned away. The monks in the vicinity looked upon the towering but emaciated Mosyv with disapproval, but the voice of Azakhal did not speak up. They deferred to Akhma Merkheleh's silence as approval of this act, which would otherwise be considered disrespectful.

  With staggering steps, Gavro walked out of the Temple of Time. His mind was in turmoil. He was unable to form a coherent thought. All he knew was that his wife and children were dead because of the Omen Child's existence. His beloved brother had lied to him. His beloved niece was the reason for his suffering and grief.

  Die before she was thirteen years old, or live to conquer the world. Had she not already tumbled down the path toward the former conclusion? The steppe people had lost against the Gadat; the Zakhira were in shambles. There was already no path toward conquest left for Viyal. But her destiny was so grand that she would pull them all along with her into destruction. Everybody would die with her.

  That implication severed the last string that held together Gavro's faltering sanity.

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