Once Upon A Time In Dresden.

2.

A few days earlier.

The damp Baltic wind cut straight to the bone. Sanal Kurdeyev, a somber forty-five-year-old Kalmyk, stepped out of the hostel and involuntarily shuddered. His brow, etched with deep furrows, was shadowed by a tangle of hair streaked with distinct gray at the temples. The morning was unwelcoming: the air hung heavy with moisture and the faint scent of burning, and the low, leaden sky seemed on the verge of spilling into a cold, relentless rain.

Sanal pulled a blue-and-yellow bucket hat—emblazoned with the words "Stand with Ukraine"—lower over his eyes. It was a trophy he had swiped the day before, alongside a pack of cookies, from a talkative elderly lady at a rally for Ukrainian refugees. Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his frayed jacket, he began to walk. The cheapest diner in Riga was several blocks away; it was a long trek, but Sanal preferred to walk. Every euro saved on bus fare meant another day of staving off hunger.

The street greeted him with a dismal parade of facades: ancient buildings with peeling stucco, storefronts bearing signs in an alien tongue, and murky puddles in which the gloomy clouds seemed to drown. Passersby hurried past, shivering in their cloaks, hiding their faces from the wind. Sanal walked slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground, as if fearing the weight of a chance encounter. He was a stranger here. A complete and utter outsider.

Finally, the sign appeared—simple, unadorned, but promising scrambled eggs at half-price before eleven. Sanal pushed open the heavy door. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of burnt oil and coffee, tinged with a flavor of hopelessness and stagnant longing. At the tables, as expected, sat men much like himself: solitary figures in worn-out clothes with extinguished gazes, and a couple of women with haggard, earth-toned faces. Sanal sank into a chair by the window and ordered eggs and coffee.

The waitress set a plate before him: the omelet was pale, their edges slightly scorched, yet in his current state, they felt like a luxury. He ate slowly, savoring every morsel. He took a sip of the instant coffee—a bitter, lukewarm swill that tasted of plastic and disappointment—and involuntarily squeezed his eyes shut.

Instantly, the memory of home flared to life: the taste of real tea, the rich, hearty Kalmyk jomba with butter and salt. The kind his grandmother used to brew. He remembered the steppe, the yurt, the smoky aroma of brick tea mingled with the scent of burning dried dung. He could almost hear the heavy, rhythmic bubbling in the cast-iron cauldron. That first sip—scalding, oily, and enveloping—used to grant him strength for the long day ahead. He almost felt the salty depth of the drink on his tongue, the warmth spreading through his chest, and a quiet, long-forgotten sense of home.

But now, only emptiness remained on his palate, and between his fingers, a plastic cup of coffee surrogate. Sanal set it down on the table, struggling to hide the tremor in his hands.

Heavy thoughts, leaden and suffocating, swirled in his mind: he had enough money for a couple of days. Maybe a week, if he scrimped on every morsel. And then? Only homeless shelters remained—cramped, freezing places filled with endless humiliations and the desperate, brutal struggle for a corner to sleep in.

This was not the life he had envisioned when he chose to leave Russia. Back then, it had felt like a clean slate—a golden ticket to freedom, safety, and a prosperous future. Now, there was only Riga: a smoke-filled hostel crawling with bedbugs, the sidelong, judging glances of passersby, and the cold, clinging terror of ending up on the street.

Sanal stared gloomily out the window, where the gray facades of Riga merged into the equally dismal sky. Like a broken record, the calculations that had once seemed so logical played over and over in his head. He had been so certain that everything in Russia would collapse—that sanctions and isolation would bring the economy to its knees, that the borders would slam shut forever. "That," he had thought, "will be the moment for those who got out in time. For those brave and farsighted enough to take the risk."

But it had turned out quite differently.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened social media. A different life stared back at him. Badma and his family were on a beach in Turkey: tanned, serene, and happy. Saglara, an old classmate, had posted a photo of a brand-new car gleaming under the bright Moscow sun. Even Aldar, who had always whined about being broke, was now flaunting his new life: designer renovations, the cold luster of marble floors, and panoramic windows framing a world of success.

Sanal gripped the phone until his knuckles ached. Back in Russia, they were living large—taking vacations, acquiring property, building ambitious business plans. And here he was, in damp, miserable Riga, counting copper coins, wondering if he could afford breakfast, and dreading the looming reality of a shelter. The irony was a punch to the gut: he had fled a catastrophe only to find himself at its epicenter—lonely, an alien, with empty pockets and shattered hopes. The very people he had deemed doomed and buried in his mind hadn't even noticed a collapse.

The money from the sale of his apartment and car had evaporated with terrifying speed. At first, there had been cozy apartments with canal views, endless cups of coffee in trendy cafes, expensive taxi rides, and impulsive purchases that now stood as monuments to his own stupidity: a designer jacket, a set of expensive pens "for inspiration," shoes that had never even touched the pavement and were eventually sold for pennies. Sanal had been convinced he would be welcomed and supported. He was a "man of principle," a fighter, an oppositionist. He had publicly denounced the regime, declared his support for Ukraine, and broadcast his hatred for Putin, expecting acclaim. Instead, his posts sank into the void, gathering only perfunctory likes from other wandering exiles. His old friends had turned their backs almost immediately; before blocking him, they had showered him with vitriol, promising to break his legs if he ever dared to return to his native steppes.

Once, he had seen Riga as a mere waystation on the path to the European dream, a place where he—Sanal—would be met with open arms. In his imagination, he was already giving interviews to European media, explaining the "truth" about the aggressor nation with its imperial delusions, appearing on progressive podcasts, and collecting grants for his "uncompromising stance." He had believed that once he added a donation link to his profile, the money would flow like a river, securing a life of comfort and significance.

The reality was far more prosaic and ruthless. Over many months, only about twenty euros had trickled into his account—donations from a compassionate old lady in Canada and a couple of gays from Prague "for a cup of coffee." His videos, heavy with righteous indignation, barely scraped five views. Most likely, one was his own, another was an auto-play glitch, and the rest were mere algorithmic accidents. Sanal would refresh the stats every hour, then every five minutes, until he finally just sat frozen, staring into the cold screen, realizing with terrifying clarity: he was of no interest to anyone. At all. Europe had not been waiting for him with a triumph. Riga had not been a springboard; it had become a dead end—a gray, indifferent city where he was left alone, without a cent, without a plan, and without the imaginary audience for whom he had staged this entire charade.

Sanal heaved a heavy sigh, and a dull, deep-seated resentment stirred in his chest—that familiar ache that never truly faded, merely lurking in the shadows of his soul. It could have been so different. His grandfather, the silver-haired guardian of the Kirtya Gakha[1] clan’s traditions, used to stroke his hair when he was a child, whispering, "You have a special gift, grandson. The blood of our great ancestors flows in your veins; with it will come strength, wealth, and power. All the doors of the world will swing wide for you."

Sanal recalled these words with a bitter, hollow smirk. Where was this promised magic? Where was the wealth? Where were those open doors? His youth had flickered out, and his life was slipping away, leaving behind nothing but ruins, the suffocating grip of fear, a panicked flight from mobilization, and the humiliating poverty of an exile.

"Old fool," Sanal muttered to himself, his thoughts turning to his family’s history. His grandfather had actually been the lucky one: during the war, he had found himself on the other side of the front lines and managed to retreat into Europe with the Germans. There, far from the native steppes, he had a real chance to start a happy life with a clean slate. But no, some devil had possessed him to return home in the 1960s, voluntarily yoking himself back to a burden that, half a century later, had finally crushed his grandson.

Sanal sighed again and pushed away the plastic cup holding the dregs of his lukewarm coffee, the very thought of it turning his stomach. His gaze drifted involuntarily to the window; beyond the murky, rain-streaked glass lay a gray street where passersby trudged along, huddled miserably under their umbrellas.

"It could have been different," he thought with a sharp, piercing bitterness. "If only my grandfather hadn't made that fatal mistake, hadn't returned to the Soviet Union... Had he stayed in Germany like the others, life would have flowed down a different channel. I would have been born there, in a land of pristine cobblestones, tidy houses, and cozy beer gardens. I would be living somewhere in Munich or Düsseldorf right now."

He closed his eyes, trying to sketch out this ghostly biography: school, university, a measured, orderly life where weekends weren't spent with this cheap swill, but with authentic German beer topped with thick, creamy foam. Vacations spent on the azure coasts of Italy or Spain, a luxury car, an apartment in an elite district, and, most importantly, that unshakable confidence in tomorrow—the one thing he lacked so desperately in this cold, alien present.

He tried to smile, but it came out twisted and painful. Unbidden, images from the old German postcards his grandfather used to show him surfaced in his mind: cobbled lanes, low-slung timber-framed houses, steaming mugs on heavy wooden tables, and the ringing laughter echoing over long benches. Now, it all felt like a fairy tale—a parallel reality he might have inhabited, had it not been for his grandfather’s fateful decision to return.

The moment Sanal opened his news feed, a dull, furious rage began to boil within him. Before his eyes flashed the faces of the "chosen"—the heirs to those whose hands were stained to the elbows in blood.

Take Blake Umertwelli, for instance—the granddaughter of the infamous Ukrainian "Butcher" who once served the Reich with fanatical devotion. Now, she stands at the helm of British intelligence, a woman in a sharp, tailored suit with the icy, clinical gaze of a professional bloodhound, shaking hands with ministers. Beside her is Annabella, a former bronze medalist in European trampoline jumping, now the Foreign Minister of Germany, beaming into the cameras with the smug air of someone who owns the world. Oluf and Fritz, whose grandfathers once donned the uniforms of the Wehrmacht, take turns from the high pedestal of the Chancellery to lecture the masses on "democratic values" and "global security." The Polish Prime Minister is a direct descendant of the Trusk clan, the very architects of concentration camps. And the great-granddaughter of Kall, an executioner who liquidated Jews in Estonia—a woman with the grin of a psychopath and, as her colleagues acidly note, the intellect of a forest rodent—now dictates the diplomacy of the entire European Union.

Sanal’s knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists, a surge of agony tightening his chest. He could have been part of this elite club of "successful heirs." A glittering career awaited him in Brussels or Berlin, built upon the foundation of hatred for Russia: a high-ranking post, an impeccable suit, a hefty bank account, status, and influence. If only his grandfather had stayed in Germany.

The old man rarely spoke of the past; even fleeting memories were too dangerous to harbor. He had finally revealed the truth years ago, when Sanal was in his final years of school. They had been camping in the vast, open steppe, far from prying ears, when his grandfather decided to pull back the veil of secrecy. It turned out that during the war, he had voluntarily defected to the Germans. They had valued him not merely for his linguistic skills or his ability to track the hidden paths of the steppe—they knew of his lineage, of the ancient Kirtya Gakha clan and the dark magic passed down through generations, magic that had served the Lords of the Eternal Eclipse with grim, unwavering loyalty.

"Adolf himself came to me," his grandfather had whispered, glancing nervously over his shoulder as if the shadows of the past were listening. "He believed in the secret knowledge of the steppe peoples. He saw our magic not as mere superstition, but as a formidable instrument, a weapon that could tilt the scales of fate in his favor."

His grandfather recounted how the Germans sought his counsel on matters beyond their cold logic, begging him to interpret the omens of the sky and the earth. He would read the constellations on the eve of an operation, track the flight of birds over a battlefield, and decipher the intricate patterns of cracks in the parched steppe soil. Once, he had led an enemy unit into a trap by misdirecting them, reading the natural signs accessible only to an initiate of the Kirtya Gakha. Another time, he had saved them from certain death, having sensed an ambush in the restless flickering of a candle flame and a sudden, unnatural shift in the wind near a ravine.

For this, he enjoyed privileges: the best rations, a private tent, and freedom of movement in the rear. The Germans treated him with superstitious reverence—not as a common collaborator, but as a sage, an advisor, and a keeper of archaic secrets. "You see what is hidden from the eyes of others," they told him. "Your gift is worth more than any scout."

Yet, his grandfather’s dream of uniting all Kalmyk lands under his rule, as promised by his dark patrons, was never to be realized: the clan of the Blue Wolves had stood in his way.

The old man sat by the campfire, pensively stirring the embers with a long branch. The flames flickered, casting jagged, dancing shadows against the tent walls, and in that chaotic dance, Sanal caught a glimpse of ghostly silhouettes—the riders of a distant, half-forgotten era. His grandfather looked up, and his gaze, usually sharp and commanding, seemed dimmed, as if veiled by the gray ash of the years he had endured.

"Ah, Sanal," he exhaled, the sound heavy with the crushing weight of centuries. "For how many ages has our clan, the Kirtya Gakha, guarded the sacred signs, passing power from father to son, protecting the covenants of the great steppe... And for just as long, we have been hunted by them—the accursed Blue Wolves."

He fell silent for a long time, as if weighing every word on invisible scales.

"Why the Blue Wolves? Did they actually have wolves that were blue?" Sanal asked, his lips curling in a skeptical smirk. Privately, he thought the old man had finally lost his mind if he expected him to swallow such tall tales.

His grandfather looked up at the sky, his eyes heavy with the burden of his years. He cupped his hands together, as if cradling an unseen force, and spoke in a low, raspy whisper:

"They did. And they were named so not merely for the color of their battle banners or the cold glint of their blades at dawn. They were 'blue' because they were favored by the heavens themselves. Their path lay under the unblinking gaze of the Dragon Lu."

He paused, letting his words settle into the thickening air, and continued, oblivious to his grandson’s cynical grin:

"The ancients knew: blue is the color of the sky, the color of eternity, the color of the supreme will poured out from the zenith. The warriors of the Blue Wolves believed that the Dragon Lu himself, the guardian of celestial paths, led them. His breath is the wind that whispers the true direction; his eyes are the stars that point the way; his scales are the clouds that shroud them from the eyes of their enemies."

The grandfather traced a fluid motion in the air, sketching an ancient, nearly forgotten image:

"Before battle, they would mark their foreheads with blue—smears of deep azure. This was no mere paint, Sanal. It was a sacred rite: a drop of the sky upon the skin, so that the warrior might become part of the celestial design. They believed that in that moment, the Dragon Lu breathed his power into them: the speed of the wind, the keenness of the eagle, and the relentless fury of a celestial storm."

The old man leaned forward, his voice dropping to a hollow, vibrating murmur:

"And it was whispered that under a full moon, when the sky turns a deep, bruised indigo, the leader of the pack gains the ability to hear the Dragon’s voice. Not in words—no. In the roar of the wind, in the crackle of the campfire, in the mournful howl of living wolves. In those moments, he knew everything: where to turn, where to strike, when to retreat. That is why they inspired such terror—they were not merely dangerous warriors; they were living conduits of a divine will. The Blue Wolves wore their patron like armor, and that pride was their strength."

The grandfather straightened up, and a flicker of his former iron resolve returned to his eyes. He tossed a pinch of dried herbs into the hearth. The smoke surged in a perfect, vertical column, briefly coalescing into the shape of something gargantuan and winged, wreathed in shades of slate and sapphire, before dissolving into the night air without a trace.

"And what of us?" Sanal asked softly. "Do we have a patron?"

"Do you really think, grandson, that only the Blue Wolves knew how to secure the support of higher powers?" The old man chuckled, his voice suddenly shifting, sounding heavy, almost ritualistic. "Our clan, the Kirtya Gakha, has patrons, too. Only they do not dwell in the heavens, nor among the stars or the shifting winds. They come from beneath the earth. From the very depths of the Underworld."

He lowered his voice even further, as if fearing that the wind itself might eavesdrop on his words:

"They do not appear in blinding radiance, nor do they speak with the echo of thunder. Their call is heard in the dull thrum of a heartbeat, in the creaking of centennial roots, in the sharp, heady scent of damp clay after a storm. The ancient spirits of the Underworld—the keepers of the depths, the guardians of forgotten paths—are those who remember the world before the first men walked upon it. They do not bestow easy power, like the Dragon Lu. No. Their gift is something else entirely. It is persistence, tenacity, the ability to stand firm where others would crumble to dust. It is the art of clinging to life when the entire world has turned against you. Just as it was back in 1945..."

The old man leaned closer, and in the dim light, his eyes flashed with a strange, unkind luster:

"When our ancestors accepted the epithet 'Dirty Swine,' they were not humbling themselves. They were embracing power. Remember this, Sanal: mud is not a disgrace. It is the earth itself—fertile, living, the very thing that feeds the roots and offers firm footing beneath your feet. The swine digs; it senses what is hidden from prying eyes, it unearths the concealed, and it is not afraid to get dirty. So it is with us: we do not seek the fleeting glory that the wind carries away. We dig deep. We know that true power always dwells in the darkness, hidden far below, where the sunlight never reaches."

He straightened up and tapped his gnarled finger against his pipe—a dull, rhythmic sound, as if signaling someone deep within the earth's crust:

"The patrons of the Underworld do not boast of themselves. But when you find yourself at the very edge, when it seems that all is lost—listen. You will hear their whisper rising from the depths. They will not let you fall. They will murmur, 'Hold on.' They will place strength into your hands so that you may claw your way back to the surface. And then you will understand: the mud on your hooves is not a weakness. It is the mark of one who has passed through the abyss and endured."

The grandfather fell silent. A heavy, thick stillness descended—it felt as if the earth itself were holding its breath, listening to his words.

"But what made the Blue Wolves so terrifying?" Sanal broke the silence.

"The warriors of the Blue Wolf clan were an elite pack, the personal guard of Khan Ayuka himself," the old man replied, his gaze drifting into the distance. "Fast as a gust of wind, merciless as a winter blizzard. They knew the steppe better than the lines of their own palms: they could track prey by the faintest of traces, descend upon an enemy from nowhere, and dissolve into the mist as if they had never existed. The Khan valued them above all others—they were his eyes, his fangs, and his punishing will."

The old man leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush:

"And then came the year when Ayuka Khan decided to forge an alliance with the distant Tsar, Peter the Great. As a sign of his highest favor, he sent the sovereign a priceless gift: the 'Wolf Hundred'—a detachment of the clan's finest warriors. These were men forged in countless battles, loyal to the Khan until their final breath. They were sent to serve the new sovereign not as servants, but as a living symbol of an unbreakable bond. And even there, in that foreign land, their hearts did not cool—they continued to harbor that same ancient, deep-seated hatred for us, the kin of Kirtya Gakha."

The old man let out a heavy sigh, a sound that seemed to carry the bitter echo of centuries long passed.

"They hounded us, thwarting our service to the Lords of the Eternal Eclipse. Wherever we set our feet, we would stumble upon their trail: they intercepted our messengers, spooked our grazing herds, and sent spies to sow seeds of discord among our kin. No sooner would we begin to restore the ancient rites than they would appear to turn our sanctuaries to ash. No sooner would we reach out to potential allies than the Wolves were there waiting, offering their own terms and luring away those who still wavered. They knew our secrets, they understood our weaknesses—and they struck with ruthless precision exactly where we were most vulnerable."

The grandfather straightened his back, and for a fleeting moment, his gaze flashed with the same predatory intensity that had defined his youth. Then, he let out a sharp, ringing laugh.

"Listen well, grandson. In the nineteenth century, our clan, the Kirtya Gakha, achieved what fate itself deemed impossible: we stole the mired-burkhn—the primary ancestral talisman of the Blue Wolves. It was no mere trinket or bauble; it held a shard of that primordial power which bound their lineage to the Dragon Lu himself. They say that as long as the talisman remained in their possession, their arrows never missed, and their horses knew no fatigue. It held the blue fire of the heavens—a faint, ethereal shimmer that revealed itself to the eye only under the light of a full moon."

The old man slowly passed his palm over the campfire, as if trying to capture that spectral glow from the trembling air.

"We acted with cold calculation and audacity. In the height of the festivities, when the steppe thrummed with the thunder of horse races and guttural chants, and the vigilance of the Wolves had dulled, we swapped the relic for an exquisitely crafted replica. The true mirde-burkhn we buried deep among a pile of common refuse—old harnesses, copper pendants, and embroidered belts—and sold it as a piece of ordinary Kalmyk bric-a-brac to German travelers who were passing through our lands."

"German travelers?" Sanal asked, his voice laced with skepticism. "What on earth were they doing in Kalmykia?"

"Bah, what do they even teach you in those schools? You know nothing of your own history! Since the second half of the eighteenth century, the Herrnhuters—followers of a Protestant movement from the village of Herrnhut in Saxony—had been in constant contact with the Kalmyk nomads of the Lower Volga. Their mission was to study the language, religion, and customs of our people. Through these expeditions, the Germans amassed a unique collection of material and spiritual culture: sacred Buddhist artifacts—bells, vajras, tsangis, chovrun vessels; manuscripts in Tibetan, Kalmyk, and Mongolian; everyday nomadic relics. Among them was the mirde-burkhn of the Blue Wolves. They hadn't the faintest inkling of the treasure they were hauling off to their distant Europe. And so, the talisman left the steppe forever. In that very instant, the ancient feud took a turn: stripped of its heart, the clan of the Blue Wolves lost the magic that had shielded them from ruin for centuries."

He smirked, but there was not a drop of mirth in that expression—only the heavy, bitter imprint of a life weighed down by the years.

The old man fell silent. In the ensuing stillness, the dry crackle of the brushwood was sharp and distinct, and somewhere in the vast, nocturnal expanse, a steppe wolf let out a long, mournful howl—as if the steppe itself had found a voice to remind them that an ancient feud is never truly consigned to oblivion.

He began to speak of November 1942, the time when the forces of the Stalingrad Front launched their offensive, forcing the Germans into a desperate flight from Kalmykia. Even shorn of their mirde-burkhn and the ancient magic of their ancestors, the Blue Wolves proved that true valor has no need for enchantments or the patronage of the heavens. They fought as their forebears had for centuries: with lightning speed, ruthless intent, and terrifying precision. The Wolves severed vital paths, turning the narrow defiles near the Black Mound into death traps. They intercepted supply trains and weapons convoys, shattering enemy plans and turning the Germans' organized withdrawal into a chaotic, panicked rout.

Their tactics were akin to the elements themselves. They read the steppe like an open book, deciphering the slightest impressions on shifting sands and divining the enemy’s movements through near-invisible signs—the whims of the clouds, the subtle shifts of the wind. They mastered the shroud of night, emerging from the void where they were least expected. In those days, the clan’s discipline—honed through generations and tempered in the fires of ordeal—became more reliable than any lost magic. Every warrior knew his maneuver; every strike was calculated to the last detail; every command was executed without a flicker of hesitation. This invisible, iron-willed legacy of their ancestors guided them through the fire, forbidding them to falter.

The price of victory was monstrous. In the savage skirmishes at the Silk Wind Pass, on the approaches to the sacred waters of the Ulan-Gol, and in the nocturnal clashes by the abandoned burial mounds, the Blue Wolves lost more than eighty percent of their fighters. Elders fell, wise scouts perished, and young warriors who had only just stepped onto the path of honor were cut down. The blood-stained clearings bore the deep scars of hooves and the splintered remains of arrows for many moons, and the steppe birds circled the recent burial grounds for weeks. Yet, in aiding the Red Army, the Blue Wolves had fulfilled their duty to the end: the enemy’s plans were dismantled, the invaders' retreat devolved into a frantic flight, and the invaluable documents and spoils of war never left the borders of the Kalmyk lands. The survivors, having committed the bodies of their fallen brothers to the native earth according to ancient rites, vanished into the silent, desolate hollows, dissolving into the land they had bled to protect.

Then, Katlya and Bova entered the fray—two brothers from a specialized branch of the Blue Wolves, whose ancient calling, for centuries, had been to serve as the instruments through which the souls of the slain exacted their vengeance. With a cold, glacial resolve, they began their hunt for the traitors who had defected to the fascists—mostly renegades from the Kirtya Gakha clan who had been seduced by enemy promises and had desecrated their oath of loyalty to their native land. Katlya, whose mastery of stealth and tracking was unparalleled, unerringly mapped the escape routes, secret hideouts, and tangled webs of deception that the turncoats sought to conceal. Bova, an unmatched marksman and a connoisseur of poisons, delivered the verdict—swift, silent, and executed so that the echo of retribution would reverberate through the entire region.

The brothers hunted down nearly every one of their kin who had betrayed the Motherland. Only those who managed to flee with the occupiers or those taken prisoner survived—the latter would later face Soviet tribunals, sentenced to the firing squad or long years in the labor camps. Katlya and Bova followed the unwritten law of their forebears: blood for blood; betrayal demands a reckoning. Each death sentence was passed only after a meticulous investigation, conducted according to the stern tenets of the Blue Wolves: they gathered evidence, listened to the voices of witnesses, and communed with the memory of their ancestors. Yet, even when the war reached its end, their mission remained unfinished.

"We, the survivors of the Kirtya Gakha clan who fled to Europe from Stalin’s punitive hand, were certain we had found salvation. Across seas and borders, cloaked in false names, wealth, and influential connections, we felt secure. But Katlya and Bova were on our trail. We deluded ourselves with the fantasy that after the deportation of the Kalmyks in December 1943, the Blue Wolves would grow to despise Soviet power and, for the first time in history, become our allies. How tragically we were mistaken! For years, they combed through the cities of Germany, Austria, France, Switzerland, Argentina... They tracked down those hiding in the shadows, masquerading as refugees or 'political émigrés.' They staged no boisterous executions; their methods were as silent as the breath of the steppe wind: a chance encounter in a dim alleyway, a glass of poisoned wine in a crowded tavern, a fatal slip on a staircase... And every time their vengeance was complete, they left their mark—a tiny blue wolf’s fang, left on a doorstep or slipped into a victim’s pocket. It was a message to the living and a silent reminder to the dead: the retribution of the Blue Wolves knows neither statute of limitations nor borders. And so it continued, until I alone remained."

[1] Kirtya Gakha in Kalmyk means Dirty Pigs.