The rising sun gazed down like a solitary eye.
Möngke calmly stared at the tall, dark-skinned man before him. Even in the presence of a sharp curved blade, the Red Robe monk Machiro remained unafraid and maintained complete composure.
"Servant of the Lord of the Light, has your god shown you visions of the future?"
Machiro exuded an almost detached aura; neither his face nor his eyes revealed any emotion.
"The Long Night is dark and dangerous everywhere. The Lord of the Light grants dawn to the world."
Möngke waved his hand and let out a cold laugh:
"Perhaps I do not have the legendary power to resurrect the dead, but anyone who stands before me—I can declare their time of death. Not even their god can save them."
Machiro remained calm and finished his prayer:
"Now the followers of the Black Goat occupy the fortress, difficult to attack. But the Lord of the Light's Hands of Sacred Fire have infiltrated the enemy. They can open the gates when the guards are distracted and coordinate with your army."
The Hands of Sacred Fire were guardians of the Lahlo temple, bought and trained from childhood as warriors. They were known as the Holy Warriors of the Lord of the Light, always kept at a strength of one thousand; whenever one died, a new recruit replaced him.
Möngke did not respond immediately, relaxing his right hand from the sword hilt while stroking his whip with his left.
Neither prolonged siege nor direct assaults matched his expectations. Any lapse could give the enemy time to counterattack, risking Dothraki lives and possibly even his braid ending on Unsullied spears.
In war, the side with advantage cannot allow the enemy to breathe; otherwise, they will seize the rhythm and turn the tide.
Machiro's proposal briefly caught Möngke's attention. He clenched the whip and looked at Machiro:
"Servant of the Lord of the Light, state your request."
Machiro remained calm and gentle, as if the world around him did not concern him. But even a god's servant had demands.
"After the Long Summer, the stars will weep blood. Cold darkness will envelop the world. In this fearful hour, a warrior will draw a burning sword from the flames. That sword—the Red Sword, the Messenger of Light—marks its bearer as the reincarnation of Asor Ahai. He will drive away darkness."
Möngke recognized the prophecy from a five-thousand-year-old Ashar text: the Lord of the Light would awaken Asor Ahai to confront the Cold God when darkness falls after the Long Summer.
The Lahlo faith resembled a dualistic religion, believing in opposing supreme forces: good and evil. Only the good god was worshiped. The Lord of the Light represented heat and life, while the Cold God embodied darkness, cold, and death. Their endless struggle determined humanity's fate.
In silence, Möngke observed Machiro and laughed with pleasure:
"Machiro, enough prophecy. Speak plainly—what do you want?"
He knew the Lord of the Light was a true god, capable of showing visions and granting powers, including resurrection. But the Lord of the Light's power had not fully returned; it was more influential faith than divine force. Besides, the blood witches of Qohor and the Black Goat also prophesied him as king of men.
Machiro's face was like a sealed black wall, unreadable:
"Servant of the Lord of the Light hopes that Khal Möngke can guarantee the lives and property of Lord of the Light followers after the war, and allow the construction of a temple in Qohor for free worship."
Möngke's expression softened slightly. He despised preachers' cryptic words but stroked his whip and asked:
"How many followers of the Lord of the Light are there in Qohor?"
"Fewer than ten thousand."
Möngke raised an eyebrow, surprised at the faith's reach, explaining how they could provoke citizens to destroy local idols, angering the Black Goat followers.
"Any nobles?"
"None."
The Lord of the Light faith was mostly among lower classes and slaves, even in Volantis.
Möngke fell silent, thinking deeply. After a pause, he looked at the monk with seriousness:
"I swear by the name of the Horse God: as long as followers of the Lord of the Light submit to my rule, their lives and property will be guaranteed. After victory, they will gain merit for participating in the war. They may build a temple in the inner city, but all followers must be registered. They hold no special privileges; anyone violating city law will face Qohor's judgment. Temple priests will also be held accountable."
He approached the monk on horseback, locking eyes with Machiro:
"Servant of the Lord of the Light, can you uphold this?"
Machiro lowered his head, sweating and conflicted.
Finally, he raised his head and said seriously:
"Servant of the Lord of the Light agrees to assist you in capturing Qohor. After the war, I will report to the High Priest in Volantis and convey your demands."
Möngke's cold gaze lingered; he accepted the answer but still seemed slightly dissatisfied.
A sharp tension lingered in the air.
Machiro felt the genuine killing intent from the Khal, a chill piercing his body, sweat soaking his back.
Muscles tensed, voice stiff:
"Servant of the Lord of the Light will assist you in taking Qohor. I will relay your requests to the High Priest afterward."
"Ha! That's what I want—victory at all costs!" The tension disappeared. Möngke laughed heartily, patting Machiro's shoulder:
"As long as you help me take Qohor, my promise to the followers of the Lord of the Light stands. If your High Priest respects my conditions, my commitment to your temple also holds."
Möngke had no reverence for gods except for their utility; only gods he could use were "good" in his eyes.
He doubted the Lord of the Light's power to resurrect all followers—but he might allow a test.
Having considered this, Möngke gently ordered a Dothraki to bring a horse.
Once Machiro mounted, Möngke smiled warmly:
"Now we can discuss the safety of the Hands of Sacred Fire and your followers in the inner city. They are my loyal subjects. The sooner we win, the sooner they will be safe."