“When the wind stops speaking and the reindeer look to the sky, the

  thunder is already awake.”

  Those were the signs the nomadic

  peoples used to detect when the formation of a storm was imminent.

  The city of Tomsk, surrounded by conifer forests

  buried under white snow, grew restless at the end of winter in that

  boreal woodland where the great changes of humankind had once been

  born.

  In these lands once ruled by Scythians, Huns, Tatars, and

  Mongols, massive migrations—driven by tribal disputes,

  climate shifts, and imperial expansions—had shifted the very axis

  of civilization between East and West.

  Captain Alexander Viktorovich had been uneasy for

  weeks. Each night, thoughts about the strange behavior of the blue

  spirits robbed him of sleep. When he did manage to rest, his

  dreams multiplied into distorted, incomprehensible visions.

  He understood nothing. At only thirty-four, he felt as though he

  had thrown away both his military career and his life. Worst of all,

  he kept delaying the moment he would have to tell his father—the

  Artillery General Viktor Mikhailovich Bondarenko.

  Perhaps he should speak first with his mother, Natalia,

  or his sister, Yelena. From his window, he watched

  the cadets complete their drills with the same enthusiasm he once

  had. He decided to wait and think—there were too many shadows in

  that story.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a phone call. When he saw the

  name on the screen, his pulse quickened and his face flushed with

  tension. His throat tightened. Before answering, he opened the window

  to breathe in the cold, pure air.

  —Alexander, —a woman’s voice came through the line—

  it’s Inessa. I suppose you remember me.

  —At

  your service, Lieutenant Colonel Arkadyevna Serova, —he

  replied formally, using her surnames.

  —Relax, she

  said. There’s no need to be so formal. Remember, I’m the

  defense attorney you chose. I’m glad you did; we have things in

  common. I also served in the paratrooper corps, where you began your

  career.

  —I’m honored to be represented by such a

  distinguished military lawyer, he replied.

  —I’m

  afraid I have bad news, —her voice deepened, her words spaced

  out to be better understood— the date has been set: May 5th, in

  the Gorno-Altaysk Military Court. The proceedings will begin then.

  I’ve sent you an email with all the details.

  —It

  will be an honor to attend, he said quietly.

  —I have

  worse news, she added. The assigned prosecutor is Colonel

  Igor Leonidovich Saranin. They call him “The Crow.” He

  specializes in expelling “weak” or undisciplined elements.

  They ended the call, and Alexander immediately opened his computer

  to read the email. It was an official document, stamped with the

  seals of the regional military authorities. It listed the

  participants in the process and cited the articles of military law

  under which they were being summoned.

  The phone rang again—this time it was his younger sister,

  Yelena. Her gentle, calm voice soothed him. Looking

  out the window, he watched a military convoy leaving the barracks.

  The air was still; not a trace of wind.

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  —Kashtan misses you, —she said, referring to his

  Samoyed dog— we all do. How are you?

  —Disappointed

  and frustrated, —he whispered weakly. I’m not even sure

  where all this is heading.

  —I warned you, Yelena

  reminded him. They’ll never forgive that Dad took part in the

  coup against Gorbachev to stop the dissolution of the USSR.

  —That

  has nothing to do with this, he said, trying to escape that

  reasoning.

  When the call ended, memories of that violent time flooded back

  like an unstoppable cascade. His father, General Bondarenko, had been

  implicated in that plot.

  The result was humiliation—retirement without honors,

  despite having been decorated for severe mutilation

  during the Soviet campaign in Afghanistan, where he lost his left leg

  to a mine in Kunar Province.

  He needed air. He needed to uncover the truth about what had

  happened at the Tavan Bogd pass, the route

  connecting China’s Altai region with the Ukok Plateau in Russia.

  He opened his folder, where he had collected notes from the

  expedition. The military map, marked in red, traced the path along

  the eastern side of Lake Teletskoye, climbing

  between Mount Belukha and Juiten Peak.

  And there, on the Ukok Plateau, the final

  point—buried deep in snow and ice. Barely fifty kilometers

  separated them from the refuge in the alpine valleys and the mountain

  pass of Chapchan-Daban.

  The brigade’s central command had provided coordinates up until

  just before the accident. His friend Alexei, the

  second-in-command of the expedition, had been in charge of

  communications.

  Moments earlier, they had carefully studied the terrain to avoid

  traps. Fear of brittle ice over rivers and lakes pushed them higher,

  and along those slopes they tried to avoid rockslides or fissures.

  That afternoon, the sky darkened unusually fast. The eastern wind

  ceased its insolence. They thought perhaps an anticyclonic window was

  opening, allowing them to cross the pass—nearly two thousand meters

  high—in peace.

  They checked the weather reports. Nothing suggested danger. But

  they forgot the ancient wisdom of the high steppe dwellers, who could

  foresee when harsh winter storms were about to descend.

  The route became blocked. No radio signals. No GPS. Nothing. They

  searched the maps, unsure of their exact position. In such

  circumstances, there is only one choice: go on—to

  descend or freeze to death.

  Did he do the right thing? Or had fear clouded his reason, driving

  him to make a fatal mistake? Had he truly failed in a moment of

  crisis…

  Or, as his sister claimed, had someone made him fail?

  Then he remembered the radio program—the university professor.

  Her book was titled “The Soul of the Taiga.”

  Perhaps it held answers about those strange blue spirits he

  had felt holding him back just before he fell into the pit.

  He wandered the snowy streets. On his phone, he searched for

  nearby bookstores and called to ask about the book. No success—his

  anxiety grew. His only chance was slipping away like a fish between

  his fingers.

  Just as he was about to give up, the cheerful voice of a clerk

  from the Knigi Bookstore rekindled his hope:

  —We don’t have that book, but you might find it at the

  Tomskaya Library. Most university professors’ works are archived

  there. The address is Lenin Avenue, 111.

  From where he stood, he moved toward the first stretch of Lenin

  Avenue. After only a few meters, he saw in the distance the

  grand white building with tall columns—Tomsk Federal

  University.

  Maybe it was better to meet the professor in person and talk to

  her. And so he did. He entered the building and asked for her. A kind

  young man, noticing his limp, took pity on him and helped him look.

  One of the custodians told him the professor was teaching at the

  Institute of Archaeology and Social Sciences.

  The

  chapter closes without resolution, leaving Alexander at the

  threshold of finding the mysterious professor who might explain the

  secret of the blue spirits that saved him from

  death.

  Emotionally, the chapter deepens his inner

  collapse—haunted by guilt, family disgrace, and the ghosts

  of the past—while setting up the next step: the search for

  answers in Tomsk University, where the supernatural and

  scientific threads will start to intertwine.