Children of Tengri

The wind was sharp that morning, but it carried no malice—only the scent of dew-soaked grass, distant fires, and the shifting breaths of thousands of hooves moving through the tall steppe. The tribe had finally reached a new campsite two nights ago, a small basin between two rising hills where the winds curled like sleeping serpents and the land cradled their wounded pride. It wasn't home, but it was safe for now.

Altai stood on the ridge above the camp, arms crossed as he looked over the sprawling sea of gers below—hundreds of them domed like smooth white stones, glinting with iridescent shimmer as they adapted to the land. The illusion tech was new—part of the recent upgrades brought about by weeks of restless debate among the elders, engineers, and warriors. The gers no longer simply mimicked terrain; they now emitted localized climate behavior—air temperature shifts, dust trails, even the scent profiles of the surrounding environment. It was imperfect but enough to scramble most aerial or orbital scans.

From a distance, the nomads might appear as a mere ripple in the earth.

"Don't let the engineers hear you staring," a voice said gently behind him. Altai turned to see Old Baiyal, his silver-braided hair swaying in the wind like a banner of frost. "They'll think you're admiring their work too much."

Altai gave a faint smile. "Maybe I am. We're still alive because of them."

Baiyal grunted, resting his walking staff beside him. "And yet, they say we're behind the times. Primitive. Backward."

Altai looked back at the camp. "We are not behind. We just walk a different path."

Below, the tribe buzzed with quiet activity. Children gathered dried moss and roots. Artisans tinkered with gear beneath awnings, adjusting camo-thread robes and pulse-dampening boots. Warriors sparred in low silence, training under the still-weakened gaze of Khangai, the tribe's Champion. Somewhere in the southern ring of the camp, Sharnuud the Mosswalker sat in meditation, waiting patiently for a decision that might reshape the fate of the steppe.

Suddenly, a sharp cry echoed across the sky. Altai snapped his head up and saw the glint of metal wings slicing through the clouds. A shagai eagle, half-robotic, half-flesh, descended from the north, spiraling down with uncanny precision. Its chrome-tipped talons clutched a sealed bone capsule. The scouts from the distant watchposts had sent word.

Altai raced down toward the central camp where Enkhbayar, the one-eyed engineer, stood with others. The eagle landed before them with a mechanical whirr, its wings folding like blades into a sleek resting state.

Enkhbayar took the capsule and cracked the seal. His single eye scanned the bone-inscribed message. Then, in his usual silent fashion, he simply held it out for Khangai.

Khangai, still wrapped in a thick fur cloak, read it aloud:

"Empire patrols along the eastern and northern front have been lessened. Surveillance drones thinned. Satellite overlays now favor the southern coasts and inland valleys. They've turned their gaze elsewhere."

A soft murmur went through the gathering.

"They think we've scattered and lost strength," one of the elders said.

"They think wrong," muttered a young warrior beside him.

Altai felt the old fire stirring in his chest again—not rage, but a quiet, determined heat. The kind that doesn't scream but endures.

"I'll scout the eastern rise today," he said.

Khangai gave him a nod. "Take Suld. Let the steppe remember you."

The wind was louder atop Suld, Altai's beloved Shagai Steed. The creature's coat shimmered like molten bronze beneath the sun, its joints reinforced with bio-synthetic sinews and light-reactive armor that bent and curled with muscle-like fluidity. Its eyes—mechanical but warm—moved with animal intelligence.

They shot across the plain, rider and steed as one.

Suld's limbs barely touched the ground, galloping with bursts of silent thrusts from internal kinetic coils. Altai leaned into the rhythm, hands steady, his eyes narrowed not against the wind but with it. He felt the land beneath him—not just its shape but its spirit, humming through his bones.

He let out a deep growl that built into a rumble, then soared into a low, resonant note. Throat singing, taught to him by his father in the still hours of childhood. It was more than song—it was vibration, memory, and message all in one.

"Khoomii…" he sang, his voice merging with the gallop and breeze.

His song spoke of home—not the place they lost, but the fire they carried.

He sang of the fallen—those who would never see this new sunrise.

He sang of Suld, his companion through blizzards, battles, and silence.

And he sang of the question that clung to him in every waking moment: What now?

By the time he returned to camp, the sun had begun its slow descent. Fires were being lit, meals prepared. Children ran beside the warrior yurts where new gear was being fitted. He passed by Enkhbayar and Baiyal, who were running final calibrations on a new adaptive cloak that shifted patterns and thermal signatures in real time.

"Not bad for old hands, eh?" Baiyal chuckled as sparks flew from a polished tool.

Altai nodded. "We keep walking forward."

He found his sister, Saruul, sitting by the elders' tent, her wounded leg propped up on a pile of insulated furs. She looked stronger than the week before—no longer pale, her eyes focused.

"Any word?" she asked.

"They're not looking for us. Not now. That's our chance to disappear deeper than ever before."

She nodded slowly. "Then we better make sure we're worth finding again."

That night, as the stars poured over the horizon and the fire pits lit the central ring of the camp, Altai lay on his back beside Suld, the steed curled like a sentinel beside him. He watched the stars blink.

Around him, the nomads of the Khangai tribe moved like whispers in the dark—not primitive, not forgotten, but steady.

They weren't the past.

They were a different future—one that didn't kneel to machines, but shaped them to fit life instead of submission.