Several days had passed since the magnificent Talrakia caravan had pulled Entya away. Yet, life on the steppes had to continue. Under the vast blue sky, the residents of the Salkha clan were beginning preparations for the nomadic rotation journey. The gers were disassembled, belongings were packed, and livestock was herded.

This was the never-ending cycle of life, even though sorrow still hung heavily in the air.

That morning, the Salkha clan elders rode out. They were going to scout and select the best pastures within the promised territory. With an ancient ritual, they placed three stones upon the ground—symbolizing the foundation of a home, the hope for the ger that would stand there, and the new life that would grow.

Amidst the hustle, Elder Eldeghai issued the long-awaited command: Yul's release.

The moment the ropes were loosened, Yul didn't hesitate. Although his body was worn out and his muscles protested, a hot rage boiled up inside him.

The Salkha clan. That name had been his entire identity, the pulse in his veins. For a decade, he had poured his life into leading their hunts, fighting, and bleeding for this village’s survival and honor. His reward? Betrayal, sacrificing Entya for their own gain. All the loyalty he had given now felt like a bitter joke. He was no longer one of them—he was merely discarded remnants. His sole allegiance now belonged to Entya, the young girl claimed by the Talrakia Commander.

"Do you love me?"

Entya's hollow laughter still echoed in his mind.

"You couldn't even lie for me."

Yul was imprisoned by his own failure. His inability to say that Entya was the most precious thing to him had pushed the girl to accept a destiny that took her away.

He couldn't stand it. Entya was the core of his memories, the center of his world. Without Entya, he was merely an empty, hollow shell.

He should have been bolder and claimed Entya, giving her the love she deserved, even if it contradicted his inner turmoil and made him a predator. Even if he had to fight the Elder and the villagers. Even if he had to challenge a kingdom. As long as Entya remained by his side, he was ready to accept any consequence.

Nothing else mattered to Yul anymore. Entya was his sole objective.

Yul staggered to the horse stable. He found his horse there—the same one he always rode on hunts. Though his hands trembled, he managed to fasten the saddle quickly.

"Yul, don't!" Bataar yelled from a distance.

Yul paid him no mind. The voice, the concern—it all felt like interference. He jumped onto the saddle, spurred his horse, and galloped quickly west, heading toward the direction the Talrakia entourage had gone.

He did not care that the group was already far ahead, perhaps past the grasslands border. Nor did he care if he was falling behind. The only thing he knew was he must pursue them and fulfill his promise.

He rode nonstop for hours. His horse’s hooves pounded, covering ground under the scorching midday sun. His wounds, which were barely healed, started to ache badly with every jolt. His chest and lungs felt like they were on fire. His vision was becoming blurry from severe dehydration. On the vast steppe, beneath the massive sky, Yul realized how slow he was alone against a large, well-trained convoy, equipped with full gear and moving with military discipline.

Finally, his strength failed him. In the middle of the endless grassland, Yul passed out and slid from his horse. His body slammed into the ground.

Later that afternoon, as the sun began to set, Bataar discovered Yul. He had been worriedly following Yul’s trail until he found him.

Bataar returned Yul to his resting place. To bring back his stubborn son, Bataar was forced to break away from the moving clan, thus postponing his responsibilities. He carefully settled Yul, washed the wounds, and applied simple herbal medicine.

When Yul awoke, his body ached, but his heart was shattered. He stared at the tent ceiling, and the memory of Entya—his promise and his failure—struck him hard. He struggled to get up and leave, wanting to chase them again, but Bataar kept him pinned down with sheer force.

"Where are you going? Are you trying to get yourself killed out there?" Bataar’s voice cut like a knife.

"I have to find her, Father! Entya means everything to me!" Yul struggled, his words hoarse with desperation.

Bataar stayed silent. Then, with a sudden, forceful move, he slapped Yul across the face; the sound cracked inside the quiet ger. It was a slap intended to shock him back to reality.

"Get a hold of yourself, Yul! Know your place!" Bataar roared. "You endangered the agreement that saved our clan! I raised you to be a hunter, not someone controlled by his feelings."

Bataar pointed west, toward the unseen Talrakia. "Entya is now under the protection of a kingdom. She left as a bride, Yul, not as property! And look at you, you're dying here from your own rage. If you truly love her, become a man worthy of getting her back. Don't throw your life away on the steppes!"

The phrase 'Know your place' from Bataar hit Yul hardest. Entya was now a pawn of royalty, protected by forces he couldn't touch. And he was just an exiled, skilled nomad who nearly died foolishly on the steppe. He realized that in his current state, he would never be able to retrieve Entya.

Two weeks had passed since Entya's departure, and for Yul, every second was torture. The physical wound on his chest was healing into a thin scar. But the wound in his heart was taking much longer to heal.

Bataar's words, "Know your place!", constantly echoed in his mind, slowly destroying every bit of pride he had left.

Yul knew he couldn't just pursue Entya in his current state. He needed to be more than just an exiled Salkha warrior, more than a young man who only knew how to hunt and ride. Entya had gone to the palace, and Yul had to become the man capable of taking her back.

Yul slipped away silently before dawn, while Bataar was deep in his sleep. He packed his belongings, including his longbow, his ever-present sword, and the dry food he'd saved. He left a short, determined note for Bataar.

'Father, I will find a way to become strong enough to bring her home.'

There were no tears, no hesitation. Only a pure, unbreakable resolve. He refused to die uselessly on the steppes. He would not be a fool led by emotion. He would become the man worthy of Entya, the man capable of destroying a palace, if that was what it took to get her back.

In the silent dawn, Yul leaped onto his horse. The cold wind bit at his skin, but he ignored it. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, which was just turning red where the sun would soon rise. With a gentle urge, the horse broke into a run, taking Yul away from everything familiar, driven solely by the promise he had to keep.

While Yul began his journey with burning determination, Entya went through a vastly different experience.

The Talrakia convoy, maintaining its military formation, transported Entya through different environments. Leaving the cool steppes behind, they soon reached a wide desert. This landscape was completely new to Entya. The sight of sand glistening under the hot sun, fine grains driven by the wind, and the towering, curving dunes was as strange as it was beautiful.

They traveled for days and weeks. The desolate desert gradually showed signs of life. Footpaths appeared in the sand, followed by small oases used as merchant stops. Finally, one evening as the sun began to set in the west, she saw the huge shape of a city emerge on the horizon.

Entya held her breath.

This was the capital of Talrakia. It wasn't just a city; it was a stunning blend of nature and human craftsmanship. A magnificent palace seemed to grow directly out of the reddish-brown cliffs, reaching high into the desert sky. Below this natural fortress, the city sprawled out, protected from the harsh environment by massive sandstone walls and jagged rock formations.

As they passed through the heavily guarded gates, the bustle of Talrakia life surrounded them. The local people had much darker skin, tanned by the intense desert sun. They weren't as muscular as the Salkha nomads, but they had large, sturdy frames and a more relaxed way of moving. Dressed in vibrant robes with scarves covering their faces, they were busy trading, talking in the markets, or watching children play in the stone alleys.

As the carriage came to a halt at the palace gates, a man with a rigid and observant demeanor stepped forward. He wore a dark, decorated robe and a head covering that hid most of his hair. He greeted the dismounted Nashr with a formal bow, then fixed his sharp eyes on Entya as she emerged hesitantly from the carriage.

"With all due respect, My Lord. Welcome back to Talrakia," the man said in a flat, emotionless voice. "The preparations for your arrival are complete."

Nashr nodded. "Rashid. This is Entya. Our palace guest."

"It is an honor, My Lord."

The name Rashid settled in Entya’s mind. He was Nashr’s right-hand man. Entya looked at Nashr, who stood with full authority beside him. His robe billowed in the wind, his long maroon hair and gold headpiece caught the afternoon light, and his amethyst eyes radiated undeniable power. The people around them bowed deeply, showing him the respect due not just to a commander, but to a ruler.

The entire scene, the formal greeting, the way the people bowed to Nashr—all pointed to one shocking truth.

Entya finally understood.

She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.

Nashr wasn't just a commander. He was the King of Talrakia. The ruler of the desert land and the master of this magnificent cliffside castle.

And Entya, a girl from the steppes who still looked like a child, had not come here as a prisoner or even the wife of a commander.

She had come as a future Queen.