Children of Tengri

Volgrad Empire, Metropolis of Karskaya

The gilded towers of Karskaya shimmered beneath the midday sun like spears of frozen light. They rose into the sky with imperial pride, veined with shimmering conduit lines pulsing gently with neural data, like the blood of the empire itself. From her marble balcony, Anastasia Volkova leaned against the rail, watching the automated carriages float silently through the hover lanes below, swans of steel gliding between spires.

She had everything — luxury, status, beauty, power — yet her hands clenched the rail until her knuckles whitened.

"Lady Anastasia, your father awaits in the Winter Library," said a soft mechanical voice behind her. Her personal assistant drone, shaped like a polished silver dragonfly, hovered dutifully at shoulder height.

"Tell him I'll be down shortly," she muttered. The drone blinked once in acknowledgement and drifted away on whisper-quiet wings.

She didn't move.

The winds that swept in from the steppes had once been wild, untamable. Now they were filtered through climate domes, regulated for temperature and scent — infused with calming compounds. Even the wind, like the people, had been tamed.

She closed her eyes and let memory take her. Her mother's voice — husky and strong — reading her stories by candlelight. Her mother had refused the implants that could've saved her from her illness. Refused them outright.

"They steal your self," she had whispered once. "Piece by piece, you forget who you are. I'd rather die remembering."

And she had.

Anastasia, at sixteen, had pleaded, cried, demanded she take the cure. The empire's neural implants could halt almost any disease — could rewrite pain, override trauma, erase grief.

But not rebellion.

She turned from the balcony, her silk robes rustling faintly. Her father was a stern figure — the Grand Duke Prime Minister of Volgrad, the second most powerful man in the empire. He had built their family into a dynasty of order and legacy. But with Anastasia… he was gentle. Overprotective. It was the one crack in his armor.

In the Winter Library, ancient leather-bound books lined the walls in thick shelves that reached the ceiling — a mark of the noble elite. Books were symbols of patience, discipline, memory. Only the highest classes still read by hand.

He stood by the fire, a tall, graying figure in a black coat threaded with silver, his back ramrod straight even in rest. When he turned and saw her, his expression softened. He held out a hand, and she took it, her fingers slipping into the calloused warmth of a statesman who still wrote longhand letters by choice.

"I saw your scores," he said. "Excellent. You're ready for Phase Four of training."

She looked away. "Father… why can't I just get the implant like everyone else?"

His face darkened slightly, but he remained calm. "Because you are not everyone else."

"But it would be easier. I wouldn't need these long hours of memorization, the exams, the protocols. I could learn in minutes what now takes years."

He placed both hands on her shoulders. "The common classes are taught by machines, yes. They are fed knowledge like cattle. But we are Volkova. The bloodline of leaders. If you cannot earn your wisdom, it does not belong to you."

She studied his face, wondering again how a man so powerful could seem so… afraid. Not of enemies. But of her becoming like them.

"My mother died because of this," she said quietly. "She died for an ideal."

"She died free," he answered without hesitation. "And we are the last who remember what that means."

Silence stretched between them. Behind him, the fireplace crackled with artificial flame — clean, safe, illusionary. Just like everything else.

Later that night, Anastasia sat in her room with a forbidden device — a cracked datapad salvaged from the servant sector, rigged to receive unfiltered public signals. She waited for the signal to stabilize. Then — there it was.

Flickering images of movement — blurry, wind-blown, alive.

Nomads.

She had heard whispers of them. Not in public education, not in sanctioned books. But in old, half-erased files, locked archives, and passing references from fallen noble houses.

People who refused registration. Who lived beyond the dome. Who remembered their ancestors.

She stared as the video played again — a man riding a mechanical horse across the plains. His face was hidden under a wolf-helm, a bow in his hand, his robe flowing like a banner in the wind. He didn't look like a savage.

He looked free.

Anastasia Volkova leaned closer to the screen, her fingers trembling not with fear — but curiosity.

"Who are you?" she whispered