“Tazien… please… hide me.” The words were a ragged rasp, stripped of the polished cadence Omariyan Bakh once delivered before the grand ministers. He lay sprawled at the base of their newly reinforced gate, his elegant robes torn, smeared with road dust and something darker, like dried blood. The biting wind of the Oakhari Steppes seemed to mock his vulnerability, whistling through the gaps in his teeth as he shivered. Kadaar stepped forward, his silhouette broad and unyielding against the watchtower’s flickering light. He didn’t offer a hand, only planted his feet wider, a silent barrier between his wife and the fallen Prime Minister. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound that spoke more of territorial claim than sympathy. "The crown's chief advisor, reduced to begging at a farmer's gate," he stated, his voice flat as cracked slate. "What grand blunder brought you to this precipice, scholar?" Omariyan flinched, attempting to push himself upright but collapsing again, his gaze darting between Kadaar’s formidable frame and Tazien’s impassive face. "Nisari," he choked, the name a poisoned arrow. "Her... her appetites are boundless. The court believed her a connoisseur of art and culture. She was a glutton for gold, for power. Every state treasury fund I touched, she found a way to siphon. Every diplomatic gift, every royal grant, vanished into her coffers. She cultivated enemies with a smile, turning them against me, painting me as the architect of every financial shortfall, every political misstep." He pushed a trembling hand through his matted hair, desperation etching lines around his eyes. "She promised me influence, promised me the sovereign's ear. Instead, she bound me in debt, isolating me until every courtier, every minister, every ally I once had, saw me as a liability. The Culling… it began with the lower chancellors, then moved to the middling scribes. Each day, another name was struck from the rolls. The throne… it needed a scapegoat for the treasury’s emptiness, for the dissent Nisari’s machinations stirred. Who better than the Prime Minister, a man stripped of all power but the title?" Omariyan’s voice cracked. "She knew. She saw it coming. She even… she even mocked me, saying I was too soft, too principled for the viper’s nest. She’s already begun negotiating for a new match, someone with deeper pockets, someone untainted by my impending execution. She would have me killed before I can even announce the divorce. She wants my properties, my family’s remaining assets, everything I have left before the crown seizes it all. They say my name is already on the execution decree. The executioner’s block awaits me with the first full moon." Tazien watched him, her expression unreadable. She noted the frantic tremor in his hands, the sweat beading on his brow despite the chill. The scholar, once so self-assured, was a broken man, stripped bare by the very ambition Nisari had inflamed. There was no pity in Tazien’s gaze, only a cold assessment of his words, weighing their truth against his desperation. Nisari’s venom, it seemed, was as potent as she had predicted. Kadaar’s broad shoulder shifted, blocking Omariyan’s line of sight to Tazien. “You sought the gilded cage, scholar,” Kadaar’s voice was a low growl, devoid of mercy. “And now you whine when the bars close. What makes you think we owe you shelter? You, who looked down on the steppe as a den of barbarians, you who served the very hand that poisons our water and burns our fields?” He leaned in, his shadow enveloping Omariyan. “This farm is our sanctuary. It took blood and fire to build these walls. We don’t invite the throne's carrion birds inside.” Omariyan shrank back, pressing himself against the rough timber of the gate. His pupils dilated in panic as he strained to look past Kadaar, silently pleading. Kadaar merely tightened his posture, his hands curling into fists at his sides, knuckles white and corded with muscle. The very air around him seemed to thicken with a menace that belied his farmer’s clothes. Omariyan, a man of parchment and ink, had no defense against such raw, physical power. “Please, Tazien,” Omariyan whimpered, trying to peer around Kadaar. “I have information. Vital information. Something the throne values above all else, something that could tip the scales!” He gasped for breath, fear overriding his discretion. “The crown army's winter supply route… it relies entirely on the Tarak Pass. A narrow valley, just two days’ ride north, cutting directly through the heart of the Oakhari Steppes. It’s their only viable passage for the next three moons, especially for heavy provisions. If it were… disrupted, the northern garrisons would starve.” Tazien held his gaze, her posture tightening with calculation. The Tarak Pass. She knew the ancient trade routes, remembered the maps from her forbidden studies. A singular choke point, defensible, isolated. It was more than information; it was a leverage point, a lever capable of shifting the entire balance of power in the northern territories. This was a gift of immeasurable value, delivered by a fool who had stumbled into their web. Kadaar heard it too. His gaze locked with Tazien’s, reading the calculation in her stillness. The farmer understood the strategic significance of the pass as well as the disgraced noble. Control of that valley during the freeze meant holding the central regiments by the throat. Before either of them could respond, a frantic scream ripped through the night, echoing from beyond the newly fortified perimeter. The sound was unmistakably Zarifa’s, laced with terror and urgency. A figure, dishevelled and wild-eyed, burst through the gate’s outer ward, her rough tunic torn, her hair a tangled mess. It was Zarifa, stumbling, tripping, her face streaked with dirt and fear. “Raiders!” she shrieked, her voice hoarse, barely coherent. “Steppe raiders! A whole band, bearing the insignia of the Darak tribe! They’re coming! Nisari sent them! She knows Omariyan is here! She wants you all dead before he can even whisper a divorce!” Zarifa collapsed onto the frozen ground, gasping, pointing a trembling finger into the inky blackness beyond their walls. “They’re close! They’ll be here by dawn!”

The Beggar Chancellor