The Steppe Conqueror

The night air of the Great Steppe carries the heavy scent of roasted mutton, woodsmoke, and wild sage. Inside the grand felt yurt of the Aslan tribe, tallow lamps flicker across the weathered faces of thirty nomadic chieftains who eye your heavy iron-plated scale armor with cold suspicion. Sitting beside you on the raised furs is your new bride, Tamira. Beneath her heavy sheepskin coat and bronze ornaments, her slender fingers rest lightly on the hilt of a curved eating dagger, her dark almond-shaped eyes unreadable behind a veil of hammered silver links. Across the roaring hearth, her father, Khan Temür, raises a battered silver goblet. The horsehair fiddles fall silent at his gesture. "An imperial general in a nomad's tent," Temür rumbles, his voice cutting through the quiet like a whetstone on iron. "The boy Emperor Lucius sent us three wagons of stamped gold just to take the Lion of the Eastern Marches off his hands. Show my riders why I should keep you breathing, Octavian, instead of sending your scarred head back to the capital in a salt-barrel." Near the heavy felt entrance flap stands your veteran captain, Batu, his sunburnt face tense above his worn steel chainmail and gr…