Blood soaked through the thick wool blanket, pooling beneath his back. He could feel it.
"Poisoned..." he muttered under his breath.
It hadn't been the blade. It had been what was on it.
A coward's trick.
The tent swayed as the wind howled across the plains, but Genghis Khan didn't flinch. He lay on a bed of furs and fading glory, surrounded by silence and the reek of blood and herbs. The shamans muttered in corners, wringing their hands like children.
He turned his head, glaring at them. "Out. All of you."
They hesitated. One opened his mouth to protest.
"I said—out."
Even dying, his voice silenced the tent. They scurried out like rats.
And then, he was alone.
The silence hit him harder than the pain.
He looked at his hand. Calloused, scarred, once mighty enough to unite the tribes of the steppe. Now shaking.
"Hmph," he grunted, dragging in a slow breath. "So this is what the end feels like."
He closed his eyes, letting the cold wrap around him like a second skin.
was born into nothing. Less than nothing. Abandoned. Hunted. Starved. And I took that pain… and turned it into a crown.
He saw his mother's face. Hard. Silent. Strong.
His brothers, some he buried. Some he killed. The rivers he crossed. The empires he shattered. The men who begged for mercy. The kings who called him demon.
And yet…
"Was it enough?"
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
He laughed bitterly.
"Enough? I built a world out of ash and fear. I made the earth tremble. I sent messages in blood across deserts and mountains. I did more than any man before me."
He coughed. Blood touched his lips.
Still, he smiled.
"They feared me. That was enough."
He forced himself to sit up. Pain screamed through his ribs. His vision blurred, but he clenched his jaw and endured.
"I will not die lying down," he growled. "Not like a dog."
His hands trembled as he reached for his sword. He dragged it toward him, resting it across his lap.
"I will meet death as I met life... with a blade in hand."
Wind roared across the steppe.
He tilted his head to the tent's opening, eyes distant.
The empire will fracture. My sons will fight. The world will forget.
But then the fire in his heart flared again.
No. It won't end here.
He pressed a hand to his wound, feeling his life slipping through his fingers.
"If this world forgets me," he whispered, voice like iron, "then let the next one remember."
And then, the storm fell silent.
His eyes closed.
His grip loosened.
But somewhere beyond the veil, something stirred.
And the Khan smiled.