Three hours later, the atmosphere inside the small wooden house had shifted completely. The husband—who had first looked like he could break steel beams just by glaring—turned out to be an absolute softie.
He laughed loud, talked louder, and somehow managed to pull Riley into an impromptu arm-wrestling match after lunch. "Good men, good food, good vodka!" he bellowed in thickly accented English, slapping Riley so hard on the back the Aussie nearly fell face-first into his bowl.
Riley wheezed between laughs. "Bloody hell, mate, you're built like a tank!"
Meanwhile, Rudra sat cross-legged by the small hearth, sipping tea with a detached calm. Serenkhand's husband had taken a shine to him too, calling him "Red Boy" after mishearing his name, which made Riley laugh so hard he choked on his bread.
Serenkhand smiled softly as she poured steaming tea into the chipped clay cups. "He is not usually this open," she said in a low voice, her eyes flicking toward her husband's animated gestures. "You must have… good energy."
Rudra tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I'm good at making friends," he replied, tone smooth but distant. Across the room, her husband erupted into another hearty laugh—he didn't understand a word, but something in Rudra's calm confidence made it contagious.
The fire crackled, painting the walls in amber hues. Outside, the Mongolian wind howled softly against the wooden beams, but inside there was warmth, light, and the unspoken ease of temporary peace.
"That's a good skill to have," Serenkhand said, placing a hand on the kettle.
"Especially when your job keeps you moving across the planet," Rudra replied, watching the flames twist in the hearth.
Serenkhand's laughter tinkled softly as she settled beside them, clearly amused by their exchange.
Rudra picked up a slice of yak meat with his fingers, inspecting it like it might reveal some cosmic secret. "Alright then," he said, and just as he brought it close, Riley's hand shot out.
"Oi, mate," Riley said, incredulous. "I thought you can't eat cows."
Rudra blinked, then tilted his head thoughtfully. "Well, you're right," he admitted. "But… yaks aren't exactly cows, are they?"
Riley squinted. "They're woolly cows, mate. Still counts."
Rudra shrugged with mock solemnity. "Sheep are woolly goats. You see anyone boycotting mutton?"
Before Riley could retort, Rudra bit into the meat. The smoky flavor hit him first—rich, gamey, and oddly sweet from the firewood. He chewed, thoughtful, as the warmth spread down his throat.
"Hmm…" he murmured, eyes narrowing in exaggerated contemplation. "I can't really explain the taste."
The man's hand paused mid-air, fingers hovering over a rook. For a moment, only the soft pop of the firewood filled the silence. Then, slowly, he moved the piece forward and leaned back, eyes narrowing with the weight of memory.
"I did not choose Mongolia," he said in a low, measured voice. "I escaped to China first. Too many eyes there. Then crossed the border with traders. Mongolia was... quiet. Forgotten."
Rudra studied him, brow furrowed, the flicker of the flames cutting sharp lines across his face. "So you traded one master for another," he said quietly. "Still under the hammer, just a smaller one."
The man's lips curved into a humorless smile. "Maybe. But here no one knocks at my door at night. No one asks who I write to. That is enough freedom for me."
He took a sip of his tea, the steam curling around his scarred knuckles. "Serenkhand learned English from the radio," he added, almost as an afterthought. "BBC. She liked the sound of it. I only corrected her mistakes."
Rudra leaned back, arms crossed, gaze steady. "You sound like someone still running," he said.
The man looked up at him, eyes glinting like flint in the firelight. "Aren't we all?"
For a moment, the air hung heavy between them—one fugitive of empire facing another. Then Rudra's eyes dropped to the board, lips twitching faintly as he moved his queen.
"Check."
The man's hand paused mid-air, fingers hovering over a rook. For a moment, only the soft pop of the firewood filled the silence. Then, slowly, he moved the piece forward and leaned back, eyes narrowing with the weight of memory.
"I did not choose Mongolia," he said in a low, measured voice. "I escaped to China first. Too many eyes there. Then crossed the border with traders. Mongolia was... quiet. Forgotten."
Rudra studied him, brow furrowed, the flicker of the flames cutting sharp lines across his face. "So you traded one master for another," he said quietly. "Still under the hammer, just a smaller one."
The man's lips curved into a humorless smile. "Maybe. But here no one knocks at my door at night. No one asks who I write to. That is enough freedom for me."
He took a sip of his tea, the steam curling around his scarred knuckles. "Serenkhand learned English from the radio," he added, almost as an afterthought. "BBC. She liked the sound of it. I only corrected her mistakes."
Rudra leaned back, arms crossed, gaze steady. "You sound like someone still running," he said.
The man looked up at him, eyes glinting like flint in the firelight. "Aren't we all?"
For a moment, the air hung heavy between them—one fugitive of empire facing another. Then Rudra's eyes dropped to the board, lips twitching faintly as he moved his queen.
"Check."
The man smiled faintly as he reset the board, the oil lamp casting slow-moving halos of amber across his weathered face. "You play well," he said, voice softening as if a weight had finally left his chest. Then, after a pause, his eyes drifted toward the doorway—where the faint sound of Serenkhand's laughter came from outside, mingling with Riley's lighter tone.
"She's beautiful, isn't she?" he murmured, almost to himself. "Sometimes I still don't believe she's real. The day we married…" His words trailed off; his gaze turned distant, pupils trembling slightly as though replaying a dream he couldn't quite hold on to. "It was snowing. I remember her hair smelled like firewood and juniper. But—" he hesitated, his brow furrowing— "the rest of it feels… like something I dreamt but never woke from."
Rudra leaned forward, studying the man's expression. The room had grown still again—the kind of silence that hums when the truth hides behind memory.
"She's been my wife for three years," the man continued, almost in wonder, "yet every night, when I see her asleep, I feel like she's going to vanish if I blink too long." He smiled again, gentle, fragile. "If this is a dream, I hope I never wake up."
Outside, the laughter had faded into the murmuring of the wind, and the last light of dusk seeped through the cracks in the walls like the slow bleed of memory.