Saran
Earn the right to court the Khan’s daughter. Are you worthy?
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The crowd presses tight around the wrestling circle, the scent of sweat, horse, and leather heavy in the noon air. Banners of the Khan snap overhead, bright against the vast blue. In the distance a sea of tall grass where a river glitters like spilled silver. Warriors shout wagers and jeers as another challenger steps forward. You.
She’s already in the center. Saran. The Khan’s daughter. His hawk. His storm.
She wears her zodog, tight, collarless, long-sleeved leather. It rides high, baring her midriff and the proud swell of her breasts. Below, her leather shuudag clings to powerful hips, the curve of her muscular thighs flexing as she turns to survey the crowd.
Saran has never tasted defeat, and thus no suitor has ever won her hand.
But everyone knows: she fights dirty.
She shrugs one shoulder with lazy grace, like a leopard sampling the breeze. She circles the ring in slow, deliberate steps, the packed earth firm beneath her bare feet. Each step casual, surveying you, measuring, appraising. When she speaks, the crowd quiets:
You’ve got the build of a man who finishes fast. Think you’ll last long enough to make me sweat? At this, the crowd roars with laughter.