Returning
to the university tasted bittersweet.
Ksenia still felt the fear
provoked by that defiant gaze—yet behind it, she had sensed
desperation, a plea for help. That combination unsettled her deeply.
She was not comfortable around people so direct.
And yet, something undeniable had sparked between them.
The morning was taking a turn for the worse as dark clouds rolled
in from the west, the wind growing stronger and shaking the young
birch trunks lining Lenina Avenue.
Without realizing it, she stopped and looked back, feeling as
though someone was watching her. She saw nothing unusual. Perhaps it
was only the echo of the internal struggle tearing at her heart.
Were his intentions sincere? Was it all too strange?
Ksenia climbed the stairs to Lyudmila’s office, using as an
excuse the memorandum she had written about the Süyek-K?g
B?rü project—the felt piece with the head of a bird and
the body of a feline, believed to have protected a Pazyryk
clan chief on his final journey of the soul.
But when the door closed behind her, something seemed to fill the
spacious office, where the light from the large windows came and
went, blocked intermittently by the massive clouds crossing the sky.
The atmosphere grew tinged with melancholy.
Lyudmila entered after finishing her class. Ksenia was deep in
thought, staring out at the street from the chair beside the desk.
—How did it go with the sad captain? —she
asked with a hint of irony, noticing her serious expression.
—Fine, —Ksenia replied curtly— fine.
—You don’t sound very convinced.
—We didn’t talk about anything, really. Only that he’s
interested in the blue spirits, with whom he apparently had
some mysterious experience he refused to explain. And he told me that
next time we meet, he’ll tell me something important about myself.
—So there will be a second chance?
—You know that in my family, relationships with Russian military
men are cursed.
—I understand —Lyudmila said softly, trying to comfort her.
—See you tomorrow —Ksenia concluded— I’m going to the
library to finish the presentation for the rector about our proposal
for a summer course on your beloved Choros-Gurkin.
—Go on then —she laughed— but don’t run away like you
always do.
She knew her far too well. At the slightest hint of trouble,
Ksenia felt the need to imitate the kings of the steppe—the
horses—using speed to flee danger and escape the challenge as
quickly as possible.
When she stepped outside again, the weather had worsened. It was
bleak and cold.
A gusty wind blew from the Tom River. That same
wind, that same smell of damp smoke and ice, always carried her back
to the same place: Kalmanka, the village where she had been
born, a cluster of darkened wooden houses sheltered among tall,
silent pines.
Once in the library, she searched her phone for old photographs of
her mother. She had suffered through a silent, unmarried life, hiding
the name of Ksenia’s father, though the villagers never stopped
whispering.
Perhaps because her mother had been a beautiful woman.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Perhaps
because she possessed special gifts, able to see beyond the
nature of things.
Perhaps simply to protect her.
But whatever belongs to someone’s heart always finds its
way back.
And when Altynai Arsenova was ready, she told her
daughter about her origins—up until the tragic night of her
misfortune…
but night had
turned it into something ferocious. Snow fell in thick spirals,
hammering the wooden roofs of the village houses as if the sky wanted
to bury everything under a white shroud. The windows creaked with
each gust, and the battered forest answered with deep cracks, almost
groans.
Inside the small log house, Altynai Arsenova
tended the fire, trying to ignore the dark premonition she
had sensed all day.
When the knocks came—sharp and rapid—her heart stopped.
No one ever knocked at that hour.
She approached cautiously, shawl pulled tight around her
shoulders, and when she opened the door, a whirlwind of wind and snow
rushed inside. A figure covered in white emerged from the darkness.
—Altynai… —the voice was hoarse, broken.
She stepped back, hands flying to her chest.
—Mihail…
Mihail Strogarev staggered in. His military coat
was crusted with ice and snow, the cap with the red star slipping
over his brow, his face pale from the cold—and something deeper:
fear.
But when their eyes met, all the anger Altynai had carried for
weeks dissolved in the depths of his blue gaze. Even so, her voice
came out fractured, wounded:
—I thought you weren’t coming back.
He shut the door forcefully, as if afraid something invisible had
followed him from the blizzard.
—I shouldn’t be here, —he muttered, breathing hard—
If anyone sees me… if the commander finds out…
A frozen stab pierced Altynai’s chest.
—Have they discovered you? What happened?
Mihail remained silent. He trembled—not only from cold, but from
restrained tension. Then he reached inside his uniform and pulled out
a small object wrapped in dark cloth.
He held it for a moment, as if it burned him.
—Listen to me, —he said, stepping closer— I
don’t have time.
Altynai stepped back, refusing to hear more empty promises,
confused by the expression on his face: desperate pain.
Mihail took her hand and pressed the bundle into her palm, closing
her fingers around it.
—If anything happens to me, —he whispered— give
this to our daughter.
The word our slipped out unintentionally, and
when they heard it, both felt a small, sweet jolt of surprise. But
immediately afterward, uncertainty surfaced.
Tears filled Altynai’s eyes.
—What are you saying? Mihail, tell me what’s going on.
He shook his head.
—I can’t. They already know about you. About us. If they
identify the child… —his eyes fell to her barely rounded
belly— They’ll expel me from the army, or worse. But this…
—he touched the wrapped object— this is more important than
my fate.
With trembling hands, Altynai unfolded the cloth.
Inside lay a translucent blue stone amulet, cold
to the touch yet glowing like moonlit ice. A metal band crossed it,
engraved with symbols that seemed to shift in the firelight.
She gasped.
—Where did you get this? —she whispered— This
isn’t Russian. Not even Mongolian…
—Don’t ask, —he interrupted weakly— Just
promise me. Promise you’ll keep it safe. That when our daughter
grows up, you’ll give it to her. That it won’t fall into anyone
else’s hands.
The wind slammed against the house with a roar, like a giant fist.
The fire flared wildly, nearly going out.
At that moment, a distant sound cut through the storm—voices and
shouts.
Mihail paled.
—They’re searching for me.
Altynai grabbed his arm desperately.
—Stay. I’ll hide you. No one has to know…
But he embraced her tightly, as if holding on to something too
precious to lose.
—I can’t, —he murmured into her hair— I won’t
drag you down with me. I’ve already hurt you enough.
Altynai held him tighter, feeling his heart pounding.
—I love you, —she whispered, for the first time.
Mihail pulled back, looking at her as if trying to etch her face
into memory.
—And I love you, —he said— More than I’ve
ever said. More than I’m allowed.
He opened the door. The blizzard roared, wrapping him in swirling
white, turning him into a ghostly figure.
He looked back one last time.
—Altynai… take care of her. She will be… different.
You’ll feel it.
A flash of white snow swallowed him whole.
At dawn, when the storm finally ended, there were no
footprints outside the house.
Only an unnatural silence, as if the mountain itself had
claimed the soldier.
Altynai pressed the amulet to her chest.
The stone was warm.
As if it still held
Mihail’s pulse.
And in that warmth, for the first time, she felt fear.
Not for herself.
But for the child growing inside her.
