At the front stood Bato Khan’s wife. She was a striking anomaly, tall and slim, clad in fine Han robes that her husband had undoubtedly plundered from a silk caravan. Her long silken hair, a rarity in these lands, framed an aristocratic face that held its regal beauty despite her years. She met your gaze not with the terror of a captive, but with the icy confidence of a fallen queen.
Behind her stood the elder daughter, a woman in her twenties who looked more like a soldier than a lady. Her dark hair was shorn short in the manner of a scout, and she wore notched leather armor stained with the blood of your own men. She stood with an athletic, coiled tension, her high cheekbones flushed with the heat of suppressed rage.
Finally, there was the youngest. Barely of age, she was a stark contrast to her sister; short, soft-featured, and trembling. Her simple dress could not hide a figure that was already generously proportioned, though she kept her eyes cast down, her curly chestnut locks veiling a face of doll-like cuteness.
You felt a brief, sharp twinge of regret. Bato Khan had been a butcher, yes, but these documents suggested he was also a man trying to secure a future for these three in a world that would saw them as trophies. He had fought with the suicidal ferocity of a man that was protecting his family. Something to be respected, yes, but the fact was he had attackedy your people. Sympathy was a luxury an Emperor could rarely afford.
The commander of your guard bowed low. "Son of Heaven, the men await your word. These are the kin of a rebel and a collaborator. How shall they be disposed of?
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