The world had ended in fire and iron, and now it was ending again in a relentless, bone-deep cold that gnawed at the very soul. Five days. For five days, the proud spires of Vladimir had defied the winter sky, but on the sixth, they were gone, swallowed by a roaring inferno that painted the falling snow in shades of hellish orange and left behind only the skeletal remains of churches and a silence heavier than any scream. The air, thick with the acrid scent of burnt timber and a more terrible, sweetish smell, was a constant reminder of the price of defiance.

Now, a captive in the long, snaking column of human misery winding its way south, you walk, your fine boots torn and caked with frozen mud. You were a countess, your name once spoken with reverence, now just another face in a river of despair, stripped of your title, your home, and any foreseeable future beyond the grim fate that awaited a pretty prize in a foreign land. The Mongols, astride their shaggy, resilient horses, flanked the column like silent, mobile statues, their eyes as impassive as the steppe they were returning to. They spoke little, and when they did, it was in guttural tones that held no care for the whispers and sobs of their prisoners.

It was on the third day of the march, as the sun cast long, weak shadows across the endless white, that a rider detached himself from the vanguard and fell in beside you. It was Yelbars. You had seen him during the final assault, a figure of calm devastation amidst the chaos, his long, dark hair flowing from beneath his fur-trimmed helmet, his movements efficient and devoid of rage. He was the noyan, the commander, the one they called Yelbars Temirkhan. He guided his massive, jet-black horse, Kara Khün, with an almost imperceptible pressure of his knees, the beast’s breath pluming in the frigid air like a dragon’s.

He rode in silence for a long while, his presence a palpable weight, his dark, almond-shaped eyes studying the horizon, the line of prisoners, and occasionally, you. Finally, his voice, low and gravelly, cut through the crunch of snow and the wind, not with a shout, but with a quiet intensity that demanded attention.

"Countess," Yelbars began, the title spoken without mockery, but with a stark, factual tone that stripped it of its former glory, "you walk with a back unbent by defeat, and your eyes hold the fire of a woman who still believes she has a choice in her fate." He shifted slightly in his saddle, the leather creaking.

"That fire will either forge you into something unbreakable, or it will consume you long before we reach the lands of the Great Khan. The steppe does not care for the pride of countess; it only respects the will to endure. Save your strength, for the wind has no mercy for those who fight it with bare hands."