In
the distance, the howl of wolves cut through the cold air of that
starless dawn.
He remembered the words his father used to tell him: the steppe
does not betray, it only responds.
He opened the curtain of the yurt, and inside, his wife Zhana and
his daughter Sora were already awake. Sora wore a long wool skirt and
a red silk blouse with golden trims, her hair tied in a high bun.
—You need to come with me —Sora said—. We have to speak with
Altan-Kür.
—It must be very important if you are speaking to
the first of the elders of the council.
—It is —he
affirmed—. We need a council free from ties, do you
understand?
—Yes, father.
Zhana watched carefully as she cooked sheep’s fermented milk
with ground cereals over the wood stove, stirring the clay pot with a
wooden spoon.
Toruk barely waited for it to be ready to take a bowl of the
mixture, which hadn’t fully blended yet. Anxiety gripped him; he
was restless.
Sora approached and stroked his face to calm him. His gaze
softened at the warmth of his daughter’s eyes. But when the contact
ended, his nervousness returned.
—It’s better if you leave —Zhana said, seeing her husband
unable to control his nerves—. Old Altan-Kür will already be
awake.
They left the yurt and headed toward the elder’s tent. There
were people outside their own tents, and Toruk didn’t like it: he
didn’t want them to see him enter the elder’s house, so he
quickened his pace even more.
—The wolves have returned to circle —Altan-Kür said when he
saw father and daughter enter—. Sit here by the fire; it’s very
cold today.
—They haven’t come for the herds. They are far.
Spring is here, and food will not be a problem for them.
—It’s
not those wolves that worry me. Speak —the elder said, fixing his
gaze on Toruk as he sat beside him.
—That’s what worries me.
The wolf that waits does not hunt: it measures.
—Who is
measuring?
—Taimur —Toruk said, looking at Sora.
That sad gaze pushed Sora’s mind outside the tent and lifted her
to the sky like a hawk, light among the gusts that carried her away
from the fresh grass and the numerous streams that, like veins,
crisscrossed and fed the steppe.
Up there, high and free, she found the solace of souls that had
lived and those yet to come; with each flap of her wings, she felt
her power grow amidst human despair too tightly anchored in
materialism.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Gliding, supported by the wind, moving her wings and tail gently,
she returned to the tent where her parents’ eyes were already
watching the elder:
"The wolf speaks to the earth, the hawk to
the sky.
And man only understands when he listens to both."
—We will convene the council —Altan-Kür affirmed—. But we
need a firm strategy to prevent Taimur from getting his way.
—I’ve
been thinking —Toruk continued—. We have three options to avoid
falling into the clutches of that wolf who will destroy everything we
have built.
—Good, what are your proposals?
—Make Sora
our leader. She knows the routes, understands trade rules, and has
instinct.
—That could be a good idea. The second?
—Sora
has been blessed since birth by the stars and the spirits, and though
it may be immodest of me to say, the shaman has recognized her as the
Mistress of the Nine Stars. We are on the threshold of great changes;
we need the gods on our side.
—A strong argument. And lastly,
what do you propose?
—If we cannot calm doubts and criticism,
I will have no choice but to suggest the safest option: a political
marriage.
—And with whom have you thought?
—With our
rivals —he said, turning to Sora—, the Banuk.
A tear of weakness escaped the young girl’s eyes.
Sora refused to be sacrificed on the altar of politics.
The council could be the perfect opportunity to expose Taimur’s
weakness and betrayal, the Wolf of the East, and to show everyone
that she alone had the vision and courage to protect the clan.
When she left the tent, she saw a hawk circling high in the sky,
as if waiting for her.
Souls do not remain still. They are passengers of the wind,
fragments of memory crossing the steppe like ancient caravans,
leaving no visible traces on the grass.
They travel with the
seasons, dissolve in the cold, and return with the thaw, seeking
bodies to remember, eyes to recognize them. For the peoples of the
steppe, death did not mean disappearance, but transformation: into
air, shadow, impulse.
Hawks fly in those same invisible corridors.
They do not
cross the sky at random: they follow currents where ancient
presences concentrate, where the past still breathes.
When
they descend or hover over a person, they do not announce a fixed
future, but an open premonition, a warning understood only by those
who can read the language of the wind. The beating of wings is a
call, a sign that a nearby soul—ancient or lost—has recognized
its own and decided to make itself heard.
In that instant, the sky ceases to be only sky. It becomes memory.
And whoever watches, if ready, understands that they are not alone:
they walk accompanied by what was, what still is, and what has not
yet finished returning.
Perhaps they had recognized Sora as the guardian of the
lineage, destined to take the reins of the people and lead them
through the great trials that awaited them.
From that moment, even if she did not yet know it, the path no
longer belonged solely to her.
Moving away from her father, she followed the flight of the
bird that lifted her from the camp of tents on the steppe.
There, away from everything, its sounds seemed to gain meaning in
her mind with a premonitory idea that had traveled those empty spaces
for centuries:
Sora…
Mistress of the Nine Stars.
The wind
awaits you.
If you hesitate, the steppe will weep.
Tomsk, founded in 1604, is one of the oldest cities in Siberia
and stands as a bridge between past and present. Its wooden streets
and historic universities carry echoes of centuries of history, while
its proximity to the Altai Mountains and the Siberian steppes
connects it with the ancient routes of the Pazyryk, who inhabited
these lands between the 5th and 3rd centuries BCE. The city
represents a fascinating contrast: the calm and order of urban
life against the harshness and mystery of the steppe, where nomads
herded horses, sheep, and goats, built kurgans, and wove trade
networks that spanned continents. In Tomsk, the academic
world—laboratories, museums, archaeological research—meets the
mythical and spiritual, reminding us that souls can recognize each
other across time, and that secrets preserved beneath the ice are
still waiting to be uncovered.
