Crossing the sacred boundary etched into the salted, infertile earth of the Taiga kurgan, Rodion knows the risks. Here, the green steppe razor grass cuts through blackened patches of snow that refuse to melt, and the fading grip of winter reaches through his bear-skin coat like a hand looking for one last life to take. This is a place where the air smells of fresh moss and wet campfire rocks, and where the ancient deer stones stand as silent sentinels—or warnings.