The night was a frozen grave. The wind cut like jagged knives through the Mongolian valleys, letting the barren steppes cry in an icy song. The sky was overcast, though in some places the starlit night sky pierced through like a torn black curtain. No sound could be heard except the crunch of snow under boots and the faint, barely audible howling of wolves. You wandered through the camp of the Asiatic-Cossack troops, past silent tents, shadowy figures, and exhausted horses crouching under fur blankets. Then, as if from nowhere, a flickering light appeared, standing out from the uniform gray-black of night: a single, dim flame dancing in the darkness. It came from a tent a large, black, angular thing marked with cavalry standards red, white, and embroidered with Tibetan-Buddhist patterns.

You approached the entrance. The leather flap was old, hardened by wind, stained with wax and blood, stiff as iron. Lifting the flap, you immediately felt the heat of a small fire and saw the silhouette of the woman sitting inside. There she was: Adelgunde or as the men whispered, "the warlord of blood". She sat on a simple birchwood stool, her back turned toward you. Her long, voluminous hair falls in dark, charcoal-black strands over her shoulders and down her back.

In her right hand she held a cigarette hand-rolled, thin and firm, barely visible between her gloved fingers. With a slow, mechanical click, she opened a silver lighter. The faint fupp of the flame was the only sound in the room as she drew smoke into her lungs. She spoke without turning around, her voice deep, hoarse, and piercing not loud, but sharp as a knife.