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That night the axe vanished, it was as if the sky had fallen. Every man, woman, and child felt themselves hanging over a razor’s edge.
While panic reigned, the eight-year-old Naran mounted his direwolf Finn, gripped an ordinary woodsman’s axe, and plunged into the blizzard.
One boy, one wolf, one plain axe, gone for a full day and night.
When Naran returned, he was drenched head-to-toe in blood, eyes alight with exhilaration, and in his fist he carried the golden Khagan’s Axe, its edge crimson with fresh gore.
He snatched the golden axe back before it could reach Hudor’s hand.
In that instant his childhood peeled away. He became a lone eagle surveying the heavens, a lion-king in his prime. Only eight years old, he led a hundred tribal warriors straight into the Bronze Clad Tribe’s encampment, shattered Hudor’s rebel force like dry twigs, and then executed every traitor and every accomplice in pitiless fashion.
Blood and bones piled into steps beneath his boots.
Step by step he climbed, until he stood at the summit as the true Khagan
Li Yuan listened, speechless for a long time. He could picture the danger and the thrill of...
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