Inside Zhenjin's quarters, the air was thick with the scent of jasmine tea. Huaizong, Mahintha, and Master Po sat together on low cushions, their movements refined compared to the ruggedness outside.

  "Khatun Ulaan referred to Chabi as Empress," Huaizong noted, setting his cup down.

  "Yes, it is proper," Zhenjin answered, his gaze thoughtful. "In this house, it means she recognizes Khubilai is Emperor."

  "Are all Khans Emperors?" asked Urduja, leaning against the doorframe.

  "Only if several nations say so, Urduja," Zhenjin clarified. "Only if you have conquered enough of the world to make the title undeniable."

  "Ariq has never conquered," Po interjected, his voice low. "He has never even left the horizon of his home. He has spent his entire life here on the steppes, yet he styles himself Emperor. Who does he expect to hail him as such?"

  "His brothers?" Huaizong suggested, playing the part of the obtuse scholar. "Khubilai, Hulagu, and M?ngke? Perhaps he expects them to bring him tribute like dutiful younger siblings."

  "It worries me," Zhenjin admitted, his eyes narrowing. "A Khan who stays at the center of the world often forgets how large the world truly is."

  The next day, under a sky like polished turquoise, the traditional contests of the Khuriltai began. It was a clash of factions: the Eastern Appanage of Khubilai against the Central Appanage of Ariq. Kaido and Ulaan led the Central huntsmen, while Zhenjin and his band of Vassal Heirs stood for the East.

  In the royal box, the three great ladies sat side by side. Empress Chabi showed the dignified lines of her years; Queen Dusshela was aging but remained hauntingly beautiful. Between them sat Doquz, young, voluptuous, and glowing with the vitality of the West.

  "How do you find Kharakhorin, Khatun?" Chabi asked, her voice like rustling silk.

  "A welcome break from the war zone, Khatun," Doquz answered, adjusting her heavy brocade.

  "Ah, I can sympathize. You must come visit us at Xanadu. It is... softer there."

  "Oh, if only I could," Doquz sighed. "Stories of the magnificence of Xanadu reach us even in Khorasan. You grew up here at court, did you not, Khatun?"

  "My father was a simple herder on these steppes," Chabi replied with quiet pride. "He was Kheshig to the Great Chinggis himself."

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  "Then you are the very blood of the Great Khan," Doquz said, rising slightly to offer a respectful bow. She then turned to the other woman. "Queen Dusshela, your beauty and grace belies the tragedy of Dwarka."

  "Thank you, Doquz," Dusshela replied softly. "Your good works in saving lives and the sacred manuscripts at Baghdad are well known even in the distant East."

  The three women—Chabi, Doquz, and Dusshela—bowed formally to one another. In the world of the Khans, a bow was not just a gesture; it was a bridge. "We must be sisters," Chabi insisted, and the bond was sealed with a shared glance.

  At the archery range, the mood was less serene. Ulaan was a force of nature, her arrows finding the mark with terrifying precision. She defeated the Xinese vassals one by one, then bested the Lady Sumita with a shot that split the air. Finally, only she and Zhenjin remained.

  "I won last year," Zhenjin reminded her, testing the tension of his bowstring.

  "That was last year," Ulaan retorted. She drew her longbow, the wood groaning under her strength. She sighted the target, inhaled deeply, and then did something daring: she glanced mischievously at Zhenjin, holding his gaze. Without looking back at the target, she released the string.

  Thwack. The arrow pierced the very heart of the bull's-eye.

  The equestrian games followed, a blur of thundering hooves and flying dust. The riders guided their mounts through routines of jumps, canters, and delicate side-steps. The Kharaks were the finest horsemen in the world, and Ulaan rode as if she and her mare were a single soul. Yet, Zhenjin matched her stride for stride.

  "Not this time, cousin," Zhenjin laughed as their horses jostled. "I have the best-trained horse in the stable."

  "It is not just the horse that needs training, Zhenjin—it is the rider," Ulaan shouted back.

  The crowd gasped as the mounts began a game of horse-football, the animals themselves neighing and biting as they fought to kick the ball between the goalposts. These were intelligent creatures, their eyes bright with the thrill of the sport.

  But it was the lassoing that truly stole the day. Ulaan slung her ropes with the grace of a weaver, finishing her routine by performing a dizzying dance atop her galloping horse, leaping through the spinning loops she had cast. The stadium roared in approval as she performed a final, soaring jump off the horse's back, landing perfectly on her feet.

  She took her bow before the royal box, her eyes locking onto Zhenjin’s. He stood and offered a deep, respectful bow, gracefully accepting defeat.

  “Three Queens enjoying tea together,” Ulaan said, breathless and glowing from the games, as she poured herself a cup. “A rare occurrence indeed. But we should be fair, even to the young. Urduja, come. Join us. You are a Queen too.”

  “I am not Queen yet,” Urduja said, trying to dodge the invitation. “I might not be until I cross the Kalaliman.”

  “You will cross it,” Dusshela said, her voice carrying a truly regal weight. “I saw you train that wild steppe horse. Royalty is not about what we achieve, child. It is about the courage to step up and try.”

  Urduja cleared her throat, her usual bravado softened. “Courage or foolishness... I try. I try my damnedest best.” She smiled, stepped toward the royal party, and bowed low.

  The Queens acknowledged her with a collective nod, and Urduja took her place on the cushions. Chabi, Dusshela, Doquz, and Ulaan raised their cups in a final, defiant toast that echoed through the pavilion:

  “We are Queens!”