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.

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  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.