By nightfall, the Steppe had shifted from mourning to preparation.

  The women led Dorian back to the guest tent. One side of it stood open, the leather flap tied up to let in air and firelight alike. He noted it without comment and stepped inside when guided.

  They began to undress him slowly.

  It was done properly. Deliberately. Fingers loosened buckles, slid fabric from his shoulders, folded each piece away as if it mattered. Their voices rose together in a low song, old and steady, in the Steppe Loteri tongue. He did not understand the words, but the rhythm carried direction rather than prayer.

  Dorian did what Mireal had told him to do. He accepted.

  When they finished, they led him out again, barefoot, into the night air. They guided him down in the soaking tub until he sat. The first pour was mare’s milk, thick and warm, cut with crushed herbs and sacred bud. It ran over his shoulders, his chest, his arms, streaking pale against his skin. The women washed him with their hands, thorough and unhurried, leaving no part of him unaddressed. Inner thighs, hips, the most private lines of his body were treated with the same calm precision. It was procedural, designed by people who had never lost sleep over embarrassment.

  For a brief moment, he allowed himself to notice the women properly. Different ages, different bodies, different faces. Attractive. And his body reacted. His timing, as usual, was poor.

  Dorian exhaled, relaxed his shoulders, and let the thought pass. Control returned with some effort. The ritual continued.

  After, they drew him up and stood him beside the tub. Life water followed, cool and clear, poured slowly to wash away the milk, the herbs, the residue of offering. Dorian felt as vulnerable and naked as he had not felt in a long time.

  Inside the tent again, they dried and rubbed his skin with oil infused with herbs. The scent clung, sharp and green. Dorian noticed the rubbing grew more precise.

  When they were done, they stepped back and formed a half-circle before him.

  One of them stepped forward and placed a wreath into his hands.

  It was made of small steppe flowers, pale and fragrant. Dorian stared at it, caught off balance for the first time that evening. The women waited.

  “You must choose,” one of them said at last.

  Choose whom, was his first thought. The most skilled? The best singer? The one who had taken most care?

  His gaze moved along the line of them and stopped on the Desert woman he had met earlier that day. She had fed him and had been careful with him throughout the ritual. It seemed reasonable.

  So he lifted the wreath and placed it on the Desert woman’s head. Her face lit with unguarded joy. The others nodded once and withdrew without comment, sealing the flaps behind them. The Desert woman stayed. She did not move closer, but she did not step back either. Her eyes held his openly now, desire plain and unashamed.

  He paused. Of course. Another offer. Mireal’s words returned.

  Dorian stepped closer and lifted a hand to the Desert woman’s face, touching her cheek gently. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers, slightly rough from wind and open days. She smelled of sun-warmed leather, herbs, and faint smoke. Dorian carried her to the mat, set her down with care, then settled opposite.

  She smiled up at him at last.

  “So,” she said softly. “You chose.”

  He considered the statement for a moment. “I try not to disappoint,” he said.

  She let out a brief, quiet laugh and reached for his hand, fingers warm and certain. “You are slow to read signals,” she said, guiding his hand to her knee.

  Dorian’s mouth curved faintly. “But I learn.”

  His hand moved as if confirming a theory, sliding along her knee and a little higher, stopping while it was still proper. The Desert woman met his glance briefly, then reached for the tray set nearby, already prepared. Food, tea, and a smoking pipe packed with sacred bud, set there in advance.

  Time stretched while they shared the pipe, smoke passing between them until the tent softened at the edges. The sacred bud dulled urgency and sharpened sensation, turning moments elastic. Everything arrived a little late. Everything lingered.

  They sat close, then too close to pretend it was accidental. Her tunic slipped from her sun-touched shoulders, revealing her breasts. Dorian’s hands traced her body with deliberate attention, following curves without haste. He enjoyed the sounds she made, the quiet laugh when his touch surprised her, the way her breath caught and settled again. There was no rush in him. Only interest.

  She explored him in return. Fingers mapped his shoulders, paused over old scars with curiosity rather than caution, traced their paths without asking. She touched him everywhere with calm confidence, as if nothing about him required permission.

  When his hand moved lower and firmly parted her thighs, she inhaled sharply. He stayed patient, letting the pause do its work. Whatever she had expected, it was not this. The slowness stretched further, then shifted. He changed the rhythm gradually, steadily, watching her control slip and fail to return.

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  The mat darkened beneath them as she arched, breath leaving her in a sound she did not bother to restrain. Dorian kept his hand where it was, calm and present, until the last tremor passed and her body finally slackened. He watched her face throughout. The disbelief. The surrender. The instant when she stopped caring how open she had become.

  She pressed her face into his shoulder and laughed softly when it was over. He gave her a moment to recover, then moved his fingers deeper, setting the pressure and moving with intent now, carrying her to another peak. She came apart soon after.

  “Mirrorwalker,” she murmured, voice rough and amused, once she could finally speak again, “no wonder people are curious about you.”

  He smiled and waited, letting her gather herself again.

  When she reached for him in return, it felt less like a request and more like a natural conclusion. Her hands were quick and certain. Dorian let go of what little control he had left and followed without resistance.

  The Desert woman watched his release with fascination, surprise briefly flickering across her face. Even this marked him as other. A Mirrorwalker’s release carried a mirrored sheen, catching the oil-lamp light like newly polished metal.

  Dorian landed on his back at last. She curled against him, warm and unguarded. They kissed, slow and close, and fell asleep without noticing when it happened.

  ***

  On the other side of the settlement, Liana underwent the same ceremony. It was not smooth. Even men’s gentle hands could not soften her mood. When the wreath was offered, she did not look at anyone. Toren hoped anyway and was disappointed immediately. Irritation won out, aimed at the ritual, at Dorian, at the timing of it all.

  Liana lifted the wreath and placed it on her own head, ending the matter.

  She went to bed alone and slept.

  ***

  Most of the settlement was asleep. A few Loteri moved through the half-light. Liana and Toren were already up.

  Liana sat cross-legged beside her pack, tightening straps that did not need tightening. Toren knelt opposite her, sorting dried herbs into small cloth rolls with careful fingers.

  They worked well together. Always had.

  A quiet sound came from a yurt near the guest ring. Both looked up at the same time. Morning had settled fully over the settlement when a Desert woman stepped out, adjusting her loose tunic against the cool air. Her hair hung free now, her pace unhurried. She did not look back at the tent she had left.

  Dorian’s tent.

  Liana watched her go.

  “Well,” Liana said, flat as old ash. “I am not surprised.”

  Toren did not look up from the strap he was tightening. “You think we should be?”

  “Do not pretend that you do not understand,” she said sharply.

  He exhaled. “Liana. It was part of the ritual.”

  “So was mine.” She folded her arms. “And I slept alone. The choice is part of it.”

  “What he did is not the point,” Toren said. His hands stilled on the strap. He did not look at her. “Among the Loteri, this is how people choose each other.”

  “That is not a rule,” Liana said. “It is a habit.”

  “It is how people say what they want,” Toren replied. “And you did not choose me.”

  Silence settled between them.

  “I needed my head clear,” Liana said.

  “And I needed to know if you saw a future with me.” He looked up at her then. “You did not answer.”

  Liana hesitated.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  Toren nodded once. Not relieved. Not angry. Just careful.

  He pulled the strap tight and lifted the pack onto his shoulder.

  ***

  Elder Mother Elasya did not raise her voice. She did not need to.

  “Toren,” she said.

  He turned at once. Liana barely glanced up. She knew that tone.

  “Yes, Elder Mother.”

  “Walk with me.”

  He obeyed, casting Liana a brief look that held apology and curiosity. She waved him off with two fingers.

  Inside the Elders’ tent, the air smelled of ash, ink, and old fabric. The relics were already prepared: the preserved rune taken from the Drommala’s body, a section of her trunk, and a small jar holding her blood.

  “You saw the runes more than once,” Elder Mother Elasya said. “More than anyone else.”

  “Yes.”

  “You may be able to recall them.”

  “I am not certain,” he said carefully, “but I can try.”

  “There is a man in Mossgrove,” she continued. “A monk. Aren Thal. Pain-Bearer. He understands bodies, magic, and damage done with intent.”

  Toren’s breath caught. “The Pain Monastery.”

  “Yes.”

  “That is not a small request.”

  “No,” she agreed. “Nor is it optional.”

  She leaned forward. “You will travel with the Mirrorwalker and the guide into the Forest Loteri Lands. When the path turns, you will leave them and continue on to Mossgrove. You will ask Aren Thal for his help and return with what he learns.”

  Toren nodded, hands steady as he accepted the relics.

  ***

  By the time the settlement stirred awake, Liana was seated in the communal dining area, eating quickly from a bowl of grain and dried fruit, eyes scanning without focus. Dorian approached without announcement. He looked acceptably fresh. Dressed. Awake. Irritatingly so. Liana did not smile.

  “Sleep well?” she asked, without looking up.

  “Well enough,” Dorian said. “Still in one piece.”

  She stirred the bowl once, though there was nothing left to mix. “Good. Thought you might be exhausted.”

  Dorian shrugged. “I’ve had worse. At least this time no one tried to drown me.”

  She didn’t answer. Not even a twitch.

  He exhaled, realising the air between them wasn’t about to clear. “It was informative,” he said simply. “I enjoy learning by exposure.”

  She looked at him then. Briefly. Her face tightened, then settled back into control. “Of course you do.”

  Dorian sat opposite her. Not invited. Not challenged. He waited, which suggested experience.

  “You settled in quickly,” Liana said.

  “I find it useful to know where I stand,” he replied.

  That earned him another look. “You had your choice of guides,” she said. “People who would please you.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why me?” The question was flat. No accusation. Just distance.

  “Because you know the land better than anyone else here,” Dorian said. “And because pleasing me is clearly not on your list.”

  “That is not flattering.”

  “I am not trying to flatter you,” he said. “I need someone who will tell me when I am wrong.”

  She finished her food and set the bowl aside. “You understand I am here out of duty?”

  “Yes.”

  Liana nodded once. “Then we understand each other.”

  Dorian stood. “A rare luxury.”

  ***

  Toren returned with a travel bag slung over his shoulder. Elder Mother Elasya walked beside him. The sight snapped Liana upright.

  “What is this?”

  The Elders gathered quickly.

  “Toren will travel,” Elder Mother Elasya said. “With you. And with the Mirrorwalker.”

  Dorian inclined his head. The Elders were law here.

  “Toren will leave you when your path turns toward the Mother,” she continued. “From there, he will go to Mossgrove.”

  Liana did not hide her relief. Having Toren with them, even briefly, settled something she had not realised was loose.

  Dorian registered the arrangement without comment. Tolerable.

  ***

  They left shortly after.

  Two horses moved ahead, familiar and steady. Liana rode first. Toren followed, posture easy but alert. Behind them, the Lucky lifted with a restrained growl of steam and metal, hovered, then settled into a smooth glide. The Steppe opened around them, vast and indifferent.

  Three travellers set out under a pale sky. Each carried a different understanding of what was coming.