The

  circle of yurts slumbered in the silence of the early hours of the

  spring night.

  The nomadic village was arranged in a semicircle for defensive

  purposes. A bluish thread rose vertically from the chimneys. The cold

  mountain air swept between the felts, forcing the animals to huddle

  together in the herds. The dogs remained alert to predators.

  The vast steppe seemed to unfold from the great universe of

  lights, where the silhouette of the moon emerged in the east. The

  movement of clusters of stars and celestial bodies in the depths of

  the sky was awe-inspiring under such clear skies.

  Some footsteps disturbed the magic. Hurried, they headed toward

  the yurt of the clan lord, Toruk, a clever and

  respected merchant. The Tuguluk maintained their

  leadership by inheriting ancestral traditions; they were an ancient

  lineage of shadow hunters, called by many the Lords of the

  Frozen Gorges, and by others silk traders. But for everyone,

  they were masters of the long winter nights on the steppe.

  Darkness was the perfect time to weave deceit and foster intrigue.

  There, faces were hidden, words modulated, and sounds softened.

  A man began to whistle faintly beside Toruk’s yurt. Toruk

  emerged from within, wrapped in his large white Siberian marten coat.

  —I don’t like being seen lurking around here —said Toruk—.

  What do you want?

  —I’ve brought what you asked for.

  Toruk grabbed him by the arm and, walking with firm steps, led him

  to the outskirts of the camp. He didn’t want anyone to hear or know

  about this connection.

  Once they could see the village on the horizon, Toruk asked him to

  reveal the results of his investigations.

  —First, you’ll have to pay me what we agreed upon —he

  said.

  —Fine… tell me the name.

  —Taimur, your

  brother’s son —he said, stabbing Toruk’s heart like a dagger.

  After the brief encounter, silence reclaimed everything.

  Back at his yurt, he gently lifted the entrance flap. He looked at

  the young Sora, his daughter, sleeping on the

  blankets, her breathing calm, framed by the bluish light of dawn

  filtering through the small window. Toruk observed her for a moment.

  She had suddenly grown into a young woman, yet he still remembered

  her gestures as a child, when she played with Taimur, which deepened

  his sorrow.

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  He stroked one of her dark braids without waking her.

  He had

  a daughter… but not a son.

  And the council would never allow

  succession outside what had been established.

  As he entered her yurt, he saw Sora sitting with

  her gaze fixed on the sky, still tinged with dark blue. The young

  woman—almost an adult now—seemed to read a destiny among the

  stars that no one had taught her. Toruk was struck by how, in the

  middle of the steppe, she moved with the certainty of someone

  observed by invisible forces, guided by ancient signs.

  —Nine stars —murmured Toruk, recalling the stories

  told when Sora was born. Each star represented a virtue of the clan:

  strength, cunning, patience, loyalty, courage, wisdom, discretion,

  vision, and resilience. From then on, the elders began to call her

  “Sora, the Mistress of the Nine Stars”, because

  she seemed destined to carry within her all of the Tuguluk lineage

  and its uncertain future.

  The night stretched endlessly in Toruk’s mind. His thoughts kept

  him awake until dawn. With the first sounds of the day, he decided to

  act.

  He crossed the distance to the yurt of the elder Yalmar,

  head of the village council. He was warming himself by the fire in

  the center of the tent, seated on a bench.

  —The problem must be very serious for you to come so early —said

  Yalmar.

  —You’re not wrong —replied Toruk.

  —Sit by

  my side and tell me —he offered, as his wife handed him a cup of

  hot tea.

  —Do you remember that day you told me that if I didn’t have a

  son, I would face problems leading this village?

  —Yes, I

  remember.

  —Well… that day has come.

  They looked into each other’s eyes. Yalmar perceived the deep

  sorrow in Toruk’s gaze.

  —If you call the council —advised the elder—, you will have

  to propose a solution; otherwise, you will only make the problem

  worse.

  —And what do you suggest?

  —Perhaps, to preserve

  your chances of maintaining your lineage, the only option is to

  arrange a future marital alliance to protect your daughter.

  —With

  whom?

  —With our main competitors in the fur trade: the Baruk.

  Askat has a son, Turan, about your daughter’s age.

  It could be a good opportunity for you… and for our people.

  Toruk felt the air in the yurt grow heavy. The crackling of the

  fire in the silence seemed to wait for his answer. Sora,

  his little Sora, bound by obligation to a rival clan… that tore him

  apart more than any threat from Taimur. But he knew Yalmar did not

  speak lightly: life on the steppe was harsh, and decisions were

  sometimes inhuman.

  He left the elder’s yurt even more troubled. The solution Yalmar

  offered gave him no relief—only a new labyrinth of shadows.

  The dawn barely brightened the horizon, and the weak light mingled

  with the frost on the grass, but inside him, night still reigned.

  Every step toward his yurt felt as if he carried the fate of the

  entire clan on his shoulders.

  The wind from the mountains whistled through the taut cords of the

  camp, and in that sound, Toruk thought he heard the question he most

  feared:

  How far would he be willing to go to protect Sora… and

  her power?