Baasan grabbed the man's sleeve, begging for water. As he did, he slid his thumb across the blue wax seal on the nearest bundle. The wax crumbled. Fake. Real seals had a hairline of red thread baked inside.
The wind over the Khyilung steppe did not howl. It sang — a low, mournful vibration that made the grass bow like a congregation in prayer. In the shadow of a rock outcropping, five riders sat motionless on their stocky horses. They were the Shuudan — the Mongolian quick-response unit. Their mission: assess the "ilgeemj" (the delivery/consignment) before the winter solstice. mongol shuudan ilgeemj shalgah
They mounted in silence. The wind changed direction, bringing the first smell of snow. The Mongol Shuudan had done their duty — but the winter, and the true enemy, was still coming. Baasan grabbed the man's sleeve, begging for water
From above, Batzorig watched the hands. The caravan master's right hand never left his belt. That was where a small knife would be — or a signal horn. It sang — a low, mournful vibration that