Siege of Banua Day 3

Banua After the Siege

As later recounted in the Chronicles of the Northern Frontier

Bo-Jing rose early, his breath misting in the cold air as he stood atop the ramparts of shattered Banua. The fires had been stamped out, the beasts driven off. Victory, of a kind, had been won.

The warriors of the Bolad horde honored him with raised voices and lifted blades. They had seen him stand against horrors not born of nature — war machines vomiting flame, beastmen with the eyes of demons. Under his command, they had not broken. His companions, strangers just weeks ago, had shielded the innocent, destroyed siege weapons, and carved paths through the worst of the enemy.

But even as those cheers echoed in the narrow alleys, another sound rose — bitter, sharp, and raw. Grief.

It came from the Nergui.

They had buried their best beneath the rubble. Fathers, sons, daughters. The elders said they had been lured here, promised protection — and instead corralled into a slaughterhouse. Bo-Jing met their words with reason. You came of your own choice, he reminded them. But truth, in that hour, was no salve. Only salt in the wound.

And so the Nergui answered not with words, but with action.
“If we are to die,” they said, “we will die standing — not as shields for Ganbaatar and the Bolad.”

They did not speak again. They simply packed what was left: battered tools, limping beasts, orphans in tow. They left their dead where they fell, to be buried by the Bolad.
And then, they turned not west — not home. But southeast. Toward the lands of the Eagle Horde.

All save one.

Batzorig, son of Nergui, stood by the gate and watched them go. He did not weep. But he did not hide the tremble in his hands.

When they were gone, he turned to the ruins. His sister, Naransetseng, had been in Banua. She had not walked out with the others. No body had been claimed for burial. Her ger had burned.

He searched the rubble with Bo-Jing beside him, neither speaking much. Salt stood nearby, head bowed. Even Bangqiu — ever aloof — seemed touched by the loss. It was Bo-Jing who found it, beneath the blackened remains of the ger wall: Naransetseng’s necklace, unbroken, untouched by flame.

Batzorig fell to his knees. Clutched it like it might still be warm from her skin.

Bo-Jing looked to the smoke curling toward the eastern sky.

“She was not killed here,” he said. “I think she fled. Cast the necklace as a decoy. The beasts did not attack Banua — they passed it by. They’re still hunting her.”

Batzorig lifted his head, eyes red with dust and hope.
“Then I go after her,” he said. “Alone, if I must. Or with all the brave men who love what is beautiful and good.”

Bo-Jing clasped his arm. “You won’t go alone.”

And by dusk, the host rode out again. One hundred warriors, led by Bo-Jing, Bangqiu, Nar-Nuteng, and a man with hope clenched in his fist like a blade — chasing smoke trails and the memory of a woman who might still be alive.