An abandoned village on the edge of the taiga. The dim sun barely pierced through the veil of low clouds, casting the crooked huts in a dirty yellow light. The village, lost somewhere on the border between the endless steppe and the impenetrable taiga, had long been shrouded in the shadow of superstition. The villagers whispered of the "Spirit of the Taiga"—a cruel deity demanding an annual sacrifice. Otherwise—crop failure, plague, death.

And this year, the choice fell on an orphan. An outsider. No family, no protection.

The "Farewell to Death" ceremony. She was dressed in a "bridal" outfit—pristine white fabrics that carried the icy breath of the past, ancient amulets that chimed with every step, bracelets with intricate patterns. "Protection," the elders muttered, but their eyes betrayed only relief: "Not our daughter, not our sister..."

The farewell resembled a funeral. The women wailed, but no one dared defy the custom. The men avoided her gaze, as if afraid the spirit would grow wrathful if the sacrifice remembered their faces.

She did not resist. Fear had broken her will, but deep within her extinguished eyes, an ember still smoldered—rage.

She was tied to an old pine at the edge of the forest, where the taiga merged with the open steppe. The wind howled through the branches, as if nature itself mourned her fate.

Darkness fell swiftly, like a black shroud. She no longer felt the cold—only emptiness.

But fate, it seemed, was not yet done playing with her.

From afar, out of the deafening darkness of the steppe, came the sound of galloping horses. A nomadic Mongol tribe was searching for a campsite. Their shaman, a gray-bearded old man with eyes full of ancient secrets, suddenly halted his horse and raised his hand.

—"A sign," he whispered.

Above one of the pines, crows circled.

Altan-Sarnai, the tribe's leader, steered his horse toward the edge. And there, in the silvery moonlight, he saw her.

The white fabrics shimmered like frost. A pale face, nearly lifeless, yet her chest still rose faintly with breath.

—"You are not of our world..." he murmured, leaning closer.

His fingers brushed her cheek—icy, but alive.

—"But I will not let you return to the cold."

The shaman stepped closer, his gaze piercing through her as if seeing past her flesh.

—"This is a gift from Heaven, Altan. She has come to become your strength."

In her delirium, she saw not a savior but another captor. She tried to struggle, but her body refused to obey.

—"No... let me go..." Her voice was weaker than the rustling of leaves.

But strong hands already lifted her, wrapped her in furs, and placed her on a wagon. Altan-Sarnai removed his hat—warm, smelling of smoke and the steppe wind—and covered her head with it.

And then, for the first time in many hours, she felt warmth.

She succumbed to sleep, powerless against the overwhelming oblivion.

She awoke in a yurt, the air thick with the scents of kumis, smoke, and leather. Around her—unfamiliar faces, tan and slant-eyed, speaking an incomprehensible language.

Altan-Sarnai sat across from her, studying her.

—"You live," he said, his voice somewhere between a command and approval.

She did not answer.

But he, it seemed, expected none. Instead, he handed her a knife—sharp, with a carved hilt.

—"So you may always defend yourself... even from me."

Later, she tried to flee.

The steppe met her mercilessly—wolves howling in the night, scorching sun, endless expanses without water.

The second time, they caught her quickly.

Altan-Sarnai did not punish her. He merely stood before her, tall as a mountain, and watched as if waiting.

—"You chose life when you let us take you," he said. "Now choose: to be a victim... or to become one of us."