That night, the east wind blowing from the Altai Mountains was so strong that it made it difficult for Ksenia to enter the apartment building near the Tomsk University campus, on Ulitsa Mikhaylovskaya.
Her brutalist-style building, constructed during the Soviet era, contrasted sharply with the more classical red-brick buildings with wrought-iron balconies, decorative window moldings, and carved wooden doors—places she always longed to move into someday, if ever given the chance.
The premonitory buran blew harshly from the east, sweeping through with an icy force that announced abrupt changes in the weather. This cold wind had long been associated with hardship and danger for those who felt its bite.
When she finally stepped into her small apartment on the eighth floor, she barely managed to hold the door as it slammed violently shut behind her. Ksenia immediately felt the comforting warmth of the central heating.
She took off her fur-trimmed anorak, hung her leather gloves and colorful scarf on the coat rack in the small entryway, which also served as a passage connecting the living room, the compact kitchen, the bedroom, and the tiny bathroom.
Two large windows, one in the bedroom and one in the living room, looked out onto a park where the conifer trees were being battered by the wind, unable to regain their upright posture. The yellowish glow of the streetlamps scattered light and shadow across their violent movements, while drops of water and remnants of snow were flung from their branches.
She boiled some water and prepared a chamomile tea. Looking at the smiling face of her mother in a framed photograph, Ksenia felt a wave of comfort. If her mother were still alive, she would be proud of her daughter's achievements—but perhaps, from beyond, she was already sharing in them.
She recalled what she had spoken about during the radio program on shamanic traditions, where winds were considered messengers of the spirits. Her mother, a descendant of Siberian shamans, had taught her that the winds—especially those blowing from the Altai Mountains—could be sent as signs from the spirits of nature.
And, following that belief, she perceived this one as the Siberian nomads and hunters once had: a warning to change course, abandon a temporary camp, or move swiftly to avoid danger.
A sudden gust knocked over her mother's photo, leaving it face down on the cabinet among the other frames, none of which had been touched. She glanced at the clock—barely half past midnight.
— Too much of a coincidence —she whispered, trying to calm herself.
She set the photo upright again, turned off the light, and headed to bed. The wind returned, softer this time—but just strong enough to lay the picture face down once more.
— All right, Mom —she murmured—, I won't argue. If you want to stay like that, I'll let you rest.
Lying in bed, with only her bedside lamp still glowing, Ksenia felt that same air stir around her again. Perhaps it's a sign, she thought. Maybe, as her mother used to say, it had come during a moment of indecision or confusion—and should be read as a message of guidance and clarity.
She opened her book, The Soul of the Taiga, and randomly landed on page 67:
"The snow blanketed the ground for long stretches, from late November to early April, forming a thick layer that lingered through most of winter. But Yüd, the crown prince, could not wait for the coming of spring. Mounted on his horse, the young warrior rode out in search of his promised bride…"
Fatigue soon drew her into a deep sleep, and her dream continued the story—following Chinggis Yüd, the great heir destined to rule the lands west of the Altai Mountains. He galloped on his white horse, his long kher tunic woven from horsehair and adorned with gold and silver threads forming geometric patterns that symbolized his power.
A band of warriors rode behind him, sworn to protect him on his long journey to a neighboring tribe. The wind howled stronger, and leaving his escort behind, the young Yüd pressed on recklessly, chasing his dream without fear of the dangers lurking at every step.
— Too young… too inexperienced —Ksenia murmured within her dream.
Yüd rode with his gaze fixed on the sky, where his falcon soared high above, guiding his path in an almost mystical way. The bird, with its sharp reflexes and piercing eyes, represented both the connection to wild nature and the need to keep a clear vision amid confusion.
Then suddenly, the wind ceased. The falcon vanished. And Yüd found himself alone in the steppe, at the mercy of an implacable enemy—fog so dense he could barely see, and the lurking threat of bandits or wild beasts.
The alarm rescued her from the void and the loneliness where she had been lost. She awoke uneasy; her intuition told her she was in danger, leaving a bitter taste of foreboding in her mouth.
She rose from bed. Outside, the streetlamps still glowed, but daylight had begun to filter between the buildings, brightened by the abundant snow covering the streets and gardens.
She stepped into the hallway, descended the stairs, and walked through the snow toward the university. It was late February, that in-between season when winter begins to yield to spring—and she felt the need for change.
The morning sky was a deep, vivid blue. She remembered the falcon's flight from her dream, its sharp gaze from above. As she walked, it was as if her thoughts stretched upward toward the open sky where the bird still soared.
Her heart beat fast—partly from the cold, partly from the sense that everything happening to her carried a greater purpose.
— Professor Ksenia —said Nadezhda Vladimirovna, the vedel in charge of the entrance to the prestigious Institute of Archaeology and Social Sciences—, there's someone waiting for you in the Academic Collaboration Hall, in the north courtyard. They insist on seeing you.
Ksenia frowned. She checked her planner, pulling it from her bag in case she'd forgotten an appointment—but there was nothing.
— They were very insistent —added Nadezhda—. Said it was something very important.
— At least —Ksenia asked—, did they tell you their name?