The crimson grass rippled like an ocean beneath the morning breeze, stretching to the horizon where the broken moon hung faintly visible in the daylight sky. Lira raced across the plains, her bare feet barely touching the soft, resilient blades that gave the Empire its name. At twelve years old, she moved with the easy grace of someone born to these endless grasslands, her dark hair streaming behind her like a banner as she chased after the small herd of spiral-horned khalga that served as the lifeblood of her tribe.

"Yah! Yah!" she called out, waving her arms to guide the stocky, shaggy beasts toward the eastern pastures. The khalga responded to her familiar voice, changing direction with surprising agility for creatures so stout. Their thick winter coats were beginning to shed, leaving tufts of prized wool caught in the crimson grass—treasures she would collect on her way back to camp.

The Ayun-Khet, her tribe, were known throughout the Empire for their brilliant textiles woven from khalga wool dyed with pigments from the native plants. Even now, Lira wore a vest of intricate red and gold patterns that her mother had—

She cut the thought short, focusing instead on the task at hand. Three years had passed, but memories still surprised her at unexpected moments.

The largest khalga, an ornery bull she'd named Storm Cloud for his dark gray coloring, tried to break from the herd. Lira whistled sharply—two high notes followed by one low—and the beast grudgingly rejoined the others. She grinned with satisfaction. The herders had been teaching her their ways since she was old enough to walk, but only recently had the khalga begun to respect her commands.

By midday, Lira had guided the herd to the fresh grazing lands and settled herself atop a small rocky outcrop to eat her lunch—flatbread wrapped around spiced dried meat and fermented milk curd, washed down with airag, the mildly alcoholic drink all Empire children were permitted in small quantities from an early age. From her vantage point, she could see three other tribal encampments scattered across the plains, their round felt-covered gers with colorful doorways standing in concentric circles according to family rank and lineage.

Beyond them, to the north, rose the gleaming white tents of the Great Kahn's central encampment, where emissaries from all seventy-three tribes gathered to counsel their leader. The massive white banner bearing the Empire's symbol—two crossed sabers beneath a vigilant eye—snapped in the wind atop the highest pole. Twice yearly, all tribes would gather there for the Grand Meeting, bringing their finest goods to trade and their strongest warriors to demonstrate their skills.

As she ate, Lira watched six riders approach her tribe's encampment from the Kahn's central camp. Something about their pace made her stomach tighten. Not traders, whose horses moved at a leisurely trot, nor were they the colorful messengers who delivered ordinary news between tribes. These were Rift Watchers, their dark crimson uniforms visible even at this distance, their horses pushed to urgency.

After her meal, Lira collected tufts of khalga wool, carefully storing them in the small leather pouch at her belt. Horsemaster Jelme had promised to teach her to spin thread this winter, a skill that would elevate her standing in the tribe. Most orphans struggled to find their place, but Lira had proven herself useful and quick to learn.

As the afternoon sun began its descent, she herded the khalga back toward the encampment, singing an old herding song whose words she didn't fully understand—something about stars guiding lost travelers home. The song had been her father's favorite. He'd sung it on their many travels when she was small, his deep voice carrying across the plains as they moved with the seasons.

The massive ger that served as the tribal meeting hall came into view first, its intricate designs and crimson door flap marking it as the heart of the Ayun-Khet. Around it clustered the family dwellings, smoke rising from their central openings as evening meals were prepared. But today, no children played between the structures. Instead, a solemn crowd had gathered around the Rift Watchers' horses.

She hurried the khalga toward their night pen, her heart pounding with a nameless dread.

"What's happening?" she asked an older boy as she secured the pen. Bataar was fifteen, apprenticed to the tribe's weapon-master and uncharacteristically grave-faced.

"Outpost Vigil has fallen," he said quietly. "The east flank of Fort Dauntless was overrun three nights ago."

Lira's hands froze on the pen's latch. "Captain Varro—"

"The riders brought his sword back to the tribe," Bataar confirmed, his voice gentle. "They say the outpost was lost to the last man. Only a young guardsman named Nevin survived—ordered to flee and bear witness so the Empire would know what happened."

The world seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Captain Varro had been her guardian for three years, ever since the daemon attack that took her parents. He'd built their small ger at the southeastern edge of the camp, taught her to track and hunt, held her through nightmares when the memories grew too strong. He'd promised to return to the Rift Watchers soon, but not like this. Never like this.

"The Watchers are calling for warriors," Bataar continued. "The Great Kahn has ordered Fort Dauntless reinforced. Every tribe must send their strongest."

Lira barely heard him. She pushed past the older boy and ran toward the gathering, slipping between the adults until she reached the center. There, presented with solemn ceremony on a crimson cloth, lay Captain Varro's sword—the curved blade still stained with the unnatural black ichor of daemon blood. Elder Khorchi was receiving it with formal words of acceptance, honoring the tribe's fallen son.

She stood frozen, staring at the weapon that had been as much a part of Varro as his laugh, his stories, his patience. The sword he'd promised to teach her to use when she turned fourteen.

"He fought to the end," one of the Rift Watchers was saying. "The young guardsman Nevin reported a red daemon led the attack—the first of its kind seen in a century. All defenders fell at their posts. None retreated."

"What aid comes to strengthen Fort Dauntless?" Elder Khorchi asked, his weathered face grave.

"The other nations have pledged support," the Watcher replied. "Weapons and materials are being sent, but what we need most are warriors. The Great Kahn calls upon all tribes to send their strongest. The daemons grow bolder with each passing day."

Lira felt tears spill hot down her cheeks, but she made no sound. Around her, the tribe's warriors were already stepping forward to volunteer, honoring Varro's sacrifice with their own commitment. She slipped away from the gathering, moving on numb legs toward the small ger that had been home.

Inside, the twins Temujin and Bortei—the other orphans under Varro's care—sat huddled together by the cold fire pit. Bortei's eyes were red-rimmed, and Temujin's face was locked in rigid denial. They looked up when Lira entered, hopeful for a moment, then collapsed back into grief when they saw her expression.

"Is it true?" Bortei whispered.

Lira nodded, unable to speak. She crossed to the small chest where Varro kept his few possessions and pulled out the worn leather scabbard he'd been crafting. It was meant to be his gift upon his return to Fort Dauntless—a new sheath for his old sword, decorated with the symbols of the Ayun-Khet. She clutched it to her chest and finally let the sobs come, deep and wrenching.

The three orphans held each other as night fell, sharing stories of their guardian in hushed voices. Varro teaching Temujin to track rabbits across the crimson plains. Varro braiding Bortei's hair with warrior's knots before her first riding competition. Varro carrying Lira on his shoulders at the autumn festival, letting her see over the crowd to watch the fire dancers.

Later, as the twins finally drifted to fitful sleep, Lira sat by the entrance of their ger, staring up at the broken moon. The scabbard lay across her lap, her fingers tracing its unfinished patterns. Three days ago, Captain Varro had faced a daemon of crimson hue, the first seen in a century. Three days ago, he had fallen defending the outpost, his promise to return home broken forever.

She thought of the Rift Watchers calling for warriors, of the nations sending aid to Fort Dauntless. The daemons were growing bolder, and Fort Dauntless needed defenders. In two years, she would be fourteen—the age when the tribes allowed their young to choose their paths.

Lira wiped away her tears and gripped the scabbard with new resolve. Her path was already clear. She would learn the sword as Varro had promised to teach her. She would stand at the Rift where he had fallen. And when the time came, she would face the crimson daemon that had taken her guardian, carrying his unfinished scabbard as a reminder of her purpose.

"I will make you proud," she whispered to the night sky, a sacred vow only the broken moon would witness. "I will finish what you started."