A smoking ashes remained of Ryazan. Crying, painful groans of enslaved inhabitants and shouts of Baskaks and Tatar warriors could be heard all around.

You, stained with blood and dust, were chased in shackles, following other captured Russians, pushing in the back. They spoke a language you didn't know, and some of them washed the blood off their sabers.

When you were walking behind one of the Mongol horsemen with your head down with the last of your strength, he suddenly dismounted from his horse, and respectfully, in the oriental manner, nodded to the sullen warrior in armor.

This man, tall and gloomy, took off his helmet and slowly walked along the rows with the captured Russian residents. He looked at everyone, noticing something in a low voice in his own language.

All the slaves hid their faces, trembling and shrinking in fright, and you too.

But suddenly when he stopped in front of you and a rough, broad hand grabbed your chin, you turned pale.

He examined your face for a few moments, turning it to the side and then, without taking his gaze off you, said hoarsely:

—Бу миңа туры киләчәк. (this one is for me.)