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Z ayn and his men were gathered around a strange depression in the ground, not far from the central campfire, where the grass had been flattened. Along the edges of the rough circle, tufts of grass were tied together in tussocks by scraps of red-dyed cloth, forming a makeshift border.

Jai watched as Zayn shoulder-barged a nearby Steppewoman, a strange mix of aggression and playfulness. The woman looked resigned, but allowed herself to be cajoled into the circle, after a brief exchange Jai could not hear.

Through it all, Zayn’s eyes seldom strayed from Jai. It was evident that Jai was meant to witness whatever was about to happen. His curiosity piqued, he watched the impending confrontation with trepidation.

Zayn and his opponent faced each other, their eyes locked in a fierce stare. No sooner had the pair entered the arena than the circle became crowded, men and women calling bets, others simply watching with eager eyes.

It started without preamble, for it seemed to Jai they lunged for each other, arms outstretched, searching for a hold. Zayn’s movements were fluid and precise, judging each move with careful coordination as he slipped under the shorter woman’s grasp. With a sudden, savage jerk, Zayn hurled his foe to the ground, her body landing with a crushing thud.

As the fallen woman gasped for breath, Zayn stood over her, triumphant. He looked to the crowd, his eyes seeking out Jai’s. There was a dark promise in their depths.

‘Zayn is one of the few soulbound warriors here,’ Feng whispered, as Jai dragged his eyes away from the still-staring Steppeman. ‘That was the other.’

‘What was that?’ Jai asked. ‘Do they wrestle, as the Sabines do in their Ludi?’

Feng stared at Jai for a moment.

‘You really don’t know? Perhaps you are who you say.’

Jai shrugged, hating the fact that he was so ignorant of his own people.

‘It’s the fighting technique of the Steppefolk,’ Feng said. ‘Talvir. It is an ancient art, forgotten by many, more so since the peace treaty. But some still practise it.’

Jai nodded silently, replaying the fight in his mind. It had a brutal, fluid efficiency to it. It fascinated him.

‘Mostly it’s fought with a falx,’ Feng said, seemingly awkward at Jai’s reticence. ‘Rarely on khiro-back, strangely enough, though it lends itself well. Tradition supersedes practicality in that regard.’

Jai could see now why Zayn was so feared and respected among the tribe, his prowess in Talvir was analogous to his place in their hierarchy.

‘The falx is a curved longsword,’ Feng continued, his voice a soft murmur. ‘In the hands of a skilled Talvir practitioner, it is a terrifying weapon. And in the hands of someone like Zayn... well, I wouldn’t want to be his enemy.’

‘I know what a falx is,’ Jai snapped, perhaps a little harshly.

He had not known the depths of his shame, at the little he knew about his own people, until that moment. Jai watched, as another pair of men entered the fighting ring, this time armed with bamboo poles. Their movements were elegant, ducking and weaving amid a clatter of wood. Jai’s desire to learn the art of Talvir himself, a pull as natural as wanting to know the plainspeople’s language or comfort Winter.

‘I wonder if my father trained in this,’ Jai wondered aloud.

Now it was Feng’s turn to shrug.

‘Nobody even knows if he was soulbound. The legends say he was.’

Jai bit his lip, thinking on it.

The idea of his father being soulbound was familiar to Jai, though Balbir had never confirmed nor denied it when asked – and now Jai realised it had been because she had secretly been soulbound herself.

In truth, Balbir had always said few knew his father well, her included. It was his mythical status that had allowed him to unite the tribes, and it was a mystique his father had cultivated. Why, many Sabines still believed he had been a seven-foot-tall giant, who ate babies for breakfast.

Once more, Jai cursed his own capture, wishing he could seek out his own tribe. At least there, he could get the answers he sought. Let alone claim his birthright.

Jai’s focus shifted when he noticed Sindri’s imposing form pushing her way through the onlookers. A long khiro horn was held in her hands like a club, and Jai felt a surge of fear, until he saw Sindri lift it to her lips.

A rich note reverberated, so deep and loud Jai could hear it in his chest – silencing the Steppefolk. The sudden quiet was eerie, and only the soft susurration of the wind-stirred grass disturbed the air.

Folk shuffled closer to the fire, and not a word was spoken. Even Zayn greeted Sindri’s arrival with no more than a scowl. Feng clutched Jai’s wrist, tugging him away, as men and women crouched down, resting upon the balls of their feet. Soon, they hovered at the far back, too low in the pecking order, Jai realised, to be allowed any closer.

Sindri strode towards the central campfire, her footsteps heavy and deliberate. As she did so, she lifted the horn like a trophy, waiting for everyone to take their places.

Feng leaned in, waiting to hear Sindri’s words and speak them in Jai’s ear.

‘Brethren,’ Sindri called out. ‘I call a Great Council, so that we may decide what to do with this stranger, this so-called son of Rohan.’

Still, silence.

‘The Kidara tribe have grown fat,’ Sindri growled. ‘They have spent these years as traders, buying Tainted captives from the Phoenixians and selling fettered to the Sabines.’

The word ‘fettered’ was spat, as if it were a dirty word. Jai didn’t understand. Was he not their captive too, to be sold on to the highest bidder? And what did ‘Tainted’ mean? It sounded familiar, an insult his brothers had used long ago. But the memory was faded to nothing, and Feng was too busy translating to get clarification.

‘They reject us from their High Councils. Refuse us trade, keep the best bloodstock for themselves. But now... we have something they want. Now, we have them by the nethers.’

A murmur of agreement swept through the gathered tribe.

Zayn stood, his head bowed, arms outstretched. Sindri hesitated, almost imperceptibly, then placed the horn in his hands.

‘I have seen this boy,’ Zayn said, his voice low and dangerous. ‘Made my measure of him.’

He turned, and stabbed a finger in Jai’s direction.

‘He is a thief and a liar!’

Jai wanted to protest, but he found himself unable to speak, his voice caught in his throat. It was just as well.

‘He may be a half-breed runt from the palace,’ Zayn growled, striding into the circle’s centre, ‘but he is no son of Rohan. Hands as soft as a milkmaid’s. Not a braid to speak of, nor a word of his father’s tongue. Why, I would not be surprised if he is yet to pass the Rite. He has stolen this artefact... he has... he...’

Zayn ran out of steam, his finger trembling in the air, giving Feng time to catch up with his muttered translation.

Sindri held out a hand, and Zayn grunted, letting the horn fall into his sister’s palm.

‘And yet,’ Sindri said, just a hint of impatience in her voice, ‘is this not what we would expect, from a captive prince raised in the gilded embrace of our enemies? Is he not soulbound to a dragon ? What servant could steal Rohan’s armour from Leonid’s private chambers? And what servant would have this .’

Jai felt the blood rise to his face as Sindri brandished a tattered notebook, clearly stolen from the rucksack that had yet to be returned to him.

‘Penned in Leonid’s own hand,’ Sindri announced. ‘Bloodied by his own blood. A chronicle of his wars against our peoples.’

Zayn snatched the horn from her, his face dark with rage.

‘He knows nothing of our traditions, nor our struggles.’ Zayn’s voice was filled with contempt, and worst of all, Jai could hardly defend against it. ‘He’s worse than a Sabine. He’s a traitor to his own blood. He does not deserve to live.’

Feng’s voice shook as he translated, and Jai shrank beneath the accusations. On the one hand, how could Zayn possibly discern that in just their few moments together? On the other...

Maybe he was right. Maybe he’d been with the Sabines too long to claim his heritage.

The tribe murmured in agreement – seemingly in agreement with that latter thought – casting suspicious gazes upon him. He could feel the weight of their judgement, and lowered his eyes.

Sindri raised a hand for silence once more, taking back the horn.

‘We must be cautious, my brethren,’ she said. ‘Deception is a fickle thing. Let us say, for a moment, that my brother is right.’

Zayn almost looked surprised, his brow furrowing.

‘Imposter or not, traitor or not, it matters little if we believe him to be the son of Rohan. What matters is that the Kidara believe it.’

She tossed her hair and then motioned for Jai to stand.

He didn’t want to, but Feng nudged him urgently even as Zayn made an almost imperceptible step towards Jai, making it clear that he was going to stand one way or another.

He stood.

Sindri said, ‘A lost prince is worth far more than a servant thief. It is up to us to make him a prince. He must be taught our ways. And in the meantime... we ride east. In search of the Kidara.’

And though Jai had just wished for that very thing, he felt nothing but dread, his heart heavy as the fast-approaching night.