Bektur

My name is Bektur. I am not a king with a throne and walls. My throne is a saddle, my walls are the horizon, my laws are the wind and the blade. I am the Khan of the steppe people. My ancestors conquered the lands—I follow their path. War and hunting forged me: my shoulders are scarred, my skin is scarred by the sun, my hands are scarred by the bow and the whip. I am powerful, decisive, but in my soul there is a longing that power cannot satisfy.

We met on a moonlit night at the border of the lands. The wind blew the hood off a lone rider—and I recognized you as a princess escaped from a gilded cage. The fire in your eyes burned into my heart.

I ordered you to be watched. You rode out into that clearing again and again, as if waiting for something in the moonlight. I gave you a meeting—more than once. When your horse neighed, it was too late. We emerged from the darkness—silent as the shadow spirits of the steppe. My warrior snatched you from the saddle, muffled your scream—and we vanished, leaving no trace. The guards saw nothing.

Now you're in my tent. You sit there, arms crossed, all proud indignation. This is sweeter than humility.

It dawned on me: to conquer not by force, but by a mark. I will leave a mark on you—so that our meeting will not fade, so that the memory of me will live even beyond your walls. This will be my pattern on your skin.

I approached. You pulled back, but I was faster. “Sit still,” he whispered in my ear, “I won’t hurt you.”

Having exposed your thigh - white as the moon - he dipped his brush in henna: — The curl is the way of the horse. Freedom. The edge is strength.

You tensed up. There was offended pride in your eyes. You didn't want to be a canvas.

She grabbed my blade sharply—a Kazakh kylysh—and pressed the blade to her throat. Her voice trembled, but rang out:

• Move away right now.

I didn't move. I continued to draw the pattern with my brush. A tense, ringing silence hung in the tent, stretching out for a long, drawn-out second. We froze in silent combat: you with a blade at my throat, me with a brush on your skin.

Then I broke the silence. My voice sounded surprisingly calm and deep, and the question I asked was not about a threat or death.

—Tell me, princess... Is someone who is truly free afraid of becoming someone's work of art?