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Sadu is mocking him.
It’s clear in how her messenger relays her (and the whole of the Dotharl’s) decision to keep their women to themselves instead of presenting them to the Sun as possible Nhaama. The declaration makesMagnai’s blood boil hotter than the worst Steppe summers. He’s the sun incarnate, the most glorious and radiant child of Azim, and Sadu has slighted him like he is no more than an unruly Mol youngling. He seethes, eyes narrowed where they’re fixed firmly on the Dotharl sent to relay their khatun’s refusal.
The messenger is slight, lean muscle visible same as the slight swell of their chest beneath blue fabric and feathering, and distinctly unarmed. It’s not like those of the Oronir would force supplicants to leave their weapons at the door. Truly, they have to reason to. Beyond the accepted rules that govern the Steppe and all those who reside within its bounds, it’s by martial prowess that any one warrior earns the right to be Kahagan. Magnai has confidence he’d be able to snap them in two, fury giving way to curiosity at the hows and whys of their casual stance. Why they’d chance such a trip without the slight intimidation of visible weaponry speaks of confidence and a lack of fear all too common in the Dotharl.
When they open their mouth again (without prompting, of course, because there’s no way any of Sadu’s would ever wait for permission), it’s to excuse themself from the Dawn Throne and return home. Their voice grates at his ears, unfairly mellisonant where it fills the air. “If that is all, I need return. May Nhaama smile upon you.”
It’s insubordinate a goodbye as it is sincere, the easy way the Dotharl warrior smiles at him stoking the heat of his fury where it had begun to burn lower
.
Magnai frowns and it’s a dangerous thing, a promise of violence communicated solely through the curve of his mouth. They do not seem to care, already turning to leave even as Baatu calls after them to wait─to pay tribute to the Sun for his grace.
There’s a split second between when the warrior reaches out to grab them by the arm and that of the moment the messenger dances out of range and asks, “If you need me stay, why not say please? I had thought the Oronir and Buduga both in possession of so basic a knowledge as politeness.”
It’s in the same breath that Magnai feels his lungs stutter. They’re insubordinate without the feral snappishness found in the Dotharl khatun, frustratingly so, and he wishes they were a bumbling embarrassment to the Steppe and all who reside within it instead of this maddening incarnation set on mocking him by virtue of
existing.
“Have you forgotten who it is you stand before? Be thankful you have not been made to kneel for your disrespect.”
They laugh, one hand brushing silvered hair back over their shoulders where it has spilled free of a haphazardly placed pin. “I would not forget the radiance of Azim, not even in a thousand lifetimes, but I have no want to be blinded by your whims. My allegiance is to Nhaama above any Sun.”
“As it will be. You need earn the right to serve the Sun.”
“You seem sure you hold the power to keep one of my tribe around,” they reply. “For someone so set on hating my khatun, you seem all too keen on getting up close and personal with those of the Dotharl.” They smile again, a flash of teeth bared in the Khagan’s direction, drawing attention to their mouth unknowingly. They blink slowly, all too comfortable heckling a sleeping dragon when they should otherwise let him lie.
“The Sun has naught to learn from those of other tribes, merely to protect and preside over them as the radiant children of Azim should for Nhaama’s own,” Magnai corrects. The messenger seems to pay the words no mind, shrugging them off with a cacophony of clinks and clicks from where their necklace beads crack together.
“Are you sure of that, most Radiant Sun,” they tease. “Could you tell me why the Moon watches over the day while the Sun is never seen at night?”
Magnai opens his mouth to reply before closing it with a very angry, very
audible
click.
The messenger laughs. “So you
don’t
know. I could tell you that and much else, but never under orders.”
Their offer is unprecedented, leaving Magnai to stare down at them in disbelief.
“Is that not what you wished of me?”
“Would you swear fealty to the Sun?”
“If that is what you wish, then so it shall never be.” Their limbal rings are fever bright when they stare him down as if in challenge, daring him to demand more despite his previous claims.
“Leave with a message to Sadu. Tell her she is to report here with all the women of the Dotharl, or risk the Sun’s wrath. Be grateful that you retain your life and freedom, Dotharl.”
The messenger nods, unruly locks tumbling back over their shoulders and catching on their top’s ornamentation, and strides from the inner chamber. They call over their shoulder on the way out, as if an afterthought, “If you’ve need of me, call for Aadhira. They will know of whom you speak.”
It’s long after they’ve left the Dawn Throne that Magnai calms even a fraction. Truly, it’s a wonder he didn’t have them killed. Knowing the Dotharl, it would be a minor setback in their grand scheme of pissing off any Oronir in a fifty malm radius. He growls and worries the fabric of his coat between gauntleted fingers.
Daidukul strides into the room a good two hours after the moon has begun to set and inquires, “What is it that has you troubled, Magnai?” The Khagan glares at his hands, petulance making itself known by way of silence. “No luck finding your Nhaama?”
“Yes. Sadu has refused to obey the rightful rule of the Sun
,”
he replies. “She sent the least of her warriors to announce as much.”
Daidukul knows better than to laugh at his friend’s misfortune, but the thought of that woman obeying anything short of Nhaama herself is truly laughable. “What of the other tribes?”
“None of them were my Moon,” Magnai laments. “The Nhaama I seek is elegant and kind, the sort of woman who can soothe hurts and raise the Sun ever higher.”
Daidukul sighs quietly, long since used to his friend’s obsession with finding his perfect vision of a life partner. “And you are sure such a woman exists?”
“Yes,” Magnai asserts, “and she will soon be found. Even if it means leaving the Steppe to find someone worthy of the Sun’s love.” He nods to himself as if pleased with the idea of finding his Nhaama in some foreign beauty. “Speaking of travel, there is someone I’d have your assistance tracking.”
There is no question in the words, but Daidukul knows he is one of the few with the ability to refuse Magnai’s orders. (He does not, or course, because he wishes to see his friend happy despite how it makes his heart ache.) “Of course, your Radiance. What would you wish be done?”
“Get someone to tail the messenger from the Dotharl. They were disrespectful and uncouth, now owing the Sun a great debt for their continued ability to draw breath,” he instructs, muttering, “ even their name is an affront to Azim’s benevolence.”
“And may I know what it is about it that has the Sun so distraught?”
“It is a name that is akin to being one and the same as Nhaama,” Magnai snarls. “It is Aadhira.”
Daidukul frowns, “And as a child of Her creation, it is within their right to hold. Speaking of, why allow such a slight to go unpunished?”
“You know of the Dotharl,” Magnai snaps. “They hold no fear at the thought of death and bow before naught else. Sadu is the worst of them.”
“Ah, yes,” Daidukul replies, “they are difficult to convince of their need.”
Magnai glares at the floor, thoughts clinging to the image of impossibly dark skin as if refusing to let it go, and agrees.