Chapter 9: The Naming Ceremony
In the vast grasslands where warriors are honored above all, a woman earning the respect of men—especially warriors—was almost unheard of. Nobility alone didn't guarantee respect. But there were three exceptions.
First, Amala Yara, daughter of a Tibetan king, queen mother of the Khanate, and Lady of the Silk Road. Her honor came not from sword or empire, but from the womb—"Blessed is she who gave birth to the Great Khan," the people said. Her son's greatness became her crown.
Second, Naidvar, queen of the Wolfborn Horde. Known as The Old Warrior, her swordsmanship was unmatched. One of the last loyal subordinates of the late Korloo Khan, she was so revered that most dared not utter her name. She earned her title in blood, not birth.
The third was Odval. She wasn't feared for armies or lineage—but for her mouth. Even the Great Khan tread lightly around her sharp tongue. Her words, like arrows, never missed their mark.
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That night, under the rare Blood Pearl Moon, said to appear only once every five generations, the world held its breath.
In the Grand Encampment of the Golden Hoof, beneath the eternal blue sky, a thousand yurts circled the Khan's grand pavilion like stars around the moon. Banners of silk and hide flew proudly—emblems of Tengri, the Tiger of Tibet, and the Eastern Dragon dancing in the wind.
Persian war drums thundered. Incense from the Middle Kingdom mingled with rose oil from Samarkand and the musk of steppe mares. The air was thick with the scent of ceremony.
Chinese lacquer tables were arranged facing the Great Khan's throne, guests arriving in waves: Persian merchants, Sui envoys, Tibetan monks, and all nine tribal Khans—all but the Wolfborn Horde.
The Mongols wore traditional deel, many draped in cloaks of honor.
An elder man arrived, old enough to be the Khan's father. All stood, even Batu.
"To what honor do I owe this, Grand Sage?" the Great Khan asked.
Rumor called him The Book of All Answers. He bowed humbly.
Soon, the Royal Prince of Ma'rib, tall and striking with mixed Arab and Mongol features, entered. The Khan embraced him warmly.
"Cousin Amir, at last!"
Beside Amir stood the Queen of the Western Göktürks—a fierce Arab woman, aged gracefully but untamed. Known for fleeing every marriage, her spirit remained wild as the wind.
When young Rajah saw her, she ran up yelling, "Grandmother!" The queen embraced her fiercely. Upon seeing Amir, Rajah knelt.
"Greetings, father." She kissed his hand as per the Arab tradition.
As Rajah sat beside her grandmother, Batu and Amir resumed their brotherly chatter.
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With the sun gone, the naming ritual began.
The Moon Crows, tribe of shamans, led the rites. Their leader, Yesün Aral Khan, younger brother to Khaltma, lit the family fire. Drums beat. Juniper burned. Shamans danced in spirals, summoning spirits.
By the sighting of the Blood Pearl Moon,Yesün Aral Khan stood up to offer offerings to Tengri (Sky God) and Eej Mod (Mother Tree). Suddenly under the glowing Moon, a young woman in royal deel rose and danced—a shamanic trance overtaking her. She moved like a serpent, ghostlike, until she collapsed. The shamans bowed; she was entering the shamanic red path.
The Chanting, drums and dancing resumed until it was the time, signaled to the Shamans by the spirits then they stopped.
Khan Yesün Aral fell to his knees seeing the red-hued moon and whispered: "She will not only inherit roads, but rewrite them."
The Ritual of the Three Circles of Identity began.
First Circle – Name of the Flesh
In the bright sky full of stars, the Queen-Consort whispered:
Orghana – sacred root, named after her healer mother who once saved a village from plague.
A mother's name guides the child's heart wherever fate may lead.
Second Circle – Name of the Blood
In front of the council, the Great Khan raised his child.
"She shall be known as Naimanzunnadintsetseg—the flower that silenced ten tribes!"
This name symbolized ten once-warring tribes, now united. A name of strength and legacy.
Third Circle – Name of the Spirit
The bones were cast. The flames crackled. Silence fell.
"Altun-Töre," the White Shaman declared meaning "Golden Dynasty" or "Noble Bloodline," emphasizing her royal heritage.The one from prophecy who brings prosperity."
A name not given, but discovered. It had always been written—in wind, in time, in fate.
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The feast began.
Milk tea flowed. Dried meats and airag passed from hand to hand. Monks chanted blessings. Then came the Wolfborn Horde—cloaked in furs. The Grand Sage asked a teen next to him,
"Why the cloaks?"
"It's tradition of worriers" the boy whispered. "Warriors must kill an animal before initiation for its fur. The stronger the beast, the greater the honor."
"So it's their identity?" The Grand Sage replied
"Yes. This is the grasslands—not the Central Plains where cloaks are for fashion."
The boy smiled. "I'm Tomorbatar, second son of the Great Khan."
Baatar Zuun, Khan of the Wolfborn, barked, "Is the Moon Crows witchcraft finally over?"
Yesün Aral rose in fury, but the Great Khan intervened.
"Perfect timing. I announce the engagement of my elder daughter, Princess Khishigjargal, to my military advisor—Tonyukuk."
Silence.
Baatar Zuun looked thunderstruck.
"What nonsense is this? She was to marry within the Wolfborn!"
Engagement gifts were presented. The old Khan nearly fainted, luckily saved only by Enkmaa who just arrived with her hand maid, Delbee.
"Take me to sit down," he gasped. She nodded, Delbee assisting him.
Enkmaa turned, furious. "Batu, is this how you repay the Wolfborn? Do you think we are weak, now that no warrior remains to defend my father's honor?"
"Dear… I meant no insult," Batu stammered.
She walked away coldly.
Baatar Zuun calmed down and shouted at Tonyukuk,
"You are her uncle! her uncle dummy.You watched her grow! Great Sky, what witchcraft is this?"
He turned to Khaltma. "What have you cooked of recently in the name of my granddaughter, woman?"
"Watch your tongue, Father in law!" Batu warned.
Then a commanding female voice cut through the air. "Tall and old—if not for the age gap, you might mistake her for Khishigjargal."
All stood and bowed—even the Great Khan Her presence froze time.
The undefeated old warrior, Naidvar had spoken.
Dulgun whispered, "Mother, I want to be like her."
She, wife of Baatar Zuun, continued,
"The shamaness told me not to worry. The wedding will happen, and Khishigjargal won't be tied down like her mother. She'll still be there for you... you know what I mean as she looked at BaatarZuun. "
The old Khan groaned, "Then I must draft conditions for this wedding!"
The warrior worrier Naidvar folded her arms said calmly, "No need, husband. I already took care of it. He only needs to sign."
The agreement was handed to Tonyukuk. One glance was enough—his eyes widened in shock.
"What? You want ninety-five percent of her time to go to her tribe and her humanitarian work? And what about me?"
The Baatar Zuun glared. "Don't make me slap you. You're not even worthy of her. No merit on the battlefield, can't even hold a sword properly." His voice broke with disdain. "You're a worthless scrap. A disgrace to our tribe. I can't even lift my head in front of fellow warriors knowing you're my grandson-in-law."
The old woman, not one for excess emotion, simply asked, "So, do you want to marry her or not?"
Tonyukuk glanced at the Great Khan for help—but the Khan remained silent. Everyone knew the unwritten law: no one speaks when the old warrior does.
Reluctantly, Tonyukuk signed.
She nodded, then added with measured kindness, "I respect your diplomatic talents. But I am a warrior. Those skills mean nothing to me but remember—Khishigjargal is no pawn."
She then turned to Dulgun. "How many battles have you won?"
Proudly, Dulgun answered, "Two."
The old warrior raised a brow. "If I were your average grandmother, we'd be celebrating those. But I'm not. Two victories don't earn pride."
Her eyes shifted to Khishigjargal. "Others have won countless battles and still haven't tasted pride."
She looked back at Dulgun. "You're just starting your path."
Dulgun's pride faltered. She clenched her fists. "Then I want to duel you."
The old warrior smirked. "What boldness! Even the Great Khan never dared challenge me. But I like that—that's the spirit."
She took a few steps, then Dulgun blurted out, "But you did duel my father!"
Turning slowly, the old woman replied, "Indeed. It was the condition for his marriage approval." Then, bluntly, "I defeated him."
Silence fell.
Naidvar added, "No has ever been a worthy opponent and challenged me quite like Enkmaa. But even she fell—crippled by lovesickness for the Great Khan."
Enkmaa stiffened, then walked away, face unreadable.
Dulgun called out, "But you still approved their marriage!"
The old woman answered, "I never did. Not until now." Her gaze dropped to Dulgun's hands. "But those hands—Enkmaa trained you."
With pride, Dulgun said, "Yes."
The old woman replied, "That's why you'll die halfway on the road to Orlok. Just like Enkmaa's spirit died—thanks to the Great Khan."
Dulgun whispered to her mother, "That was cruel."
Her mother sighed. "Indeed. Cruelty and arrogance run in that family like a curse—just like Enkmaa."
Just as the words left her lips, an arrow whistled through the air—aimed at the old warrior. But she caught it mid-flight, swift as ever. She turned the shaft in her hand, recognizing the mark.
"Enkmaa," she said flatly.
The women gasped. The men remained still.
The old warrior continued, voice cold. "Your skills have rusted. But it seems the fire has returned. Tell me, did you fall out of love?"
That sent a shock through Batu.
Enkmaa threw down the bow and stormed off, her voice trembling with rage.