Chapter Fifteen: "Rituals of Blood and Fire"
Yusuf walked along the wall for hours, no longer counting them. Darkness had fallen completely, the sky hidden behind dense branches, leaving him with nothing but blackness occasionally pierced by faint light from a moon that would not show itself.
The wall stretched beside him like an endless black mountain, moving with him step by step, constantly reminding him that he was still outside, far away, alone.
Exhaustion had reached his bones. The iron armor weighed on his shoulders, the sword struck his thigh with each step with a faint metallic clink, and the smell of blood had not left his nose for hours, mixing with the scent of damp moss and the cold stone emanating from the wall. He thought of stopping, of sitting for a moment, of closing his eyes even for minutes.
But something inside him pushed him forward. That strange stillness he had discovered within himself after the fracture remained there, whispering to him to continue, not to stop, because something was waiting for him.
Then he saw the light.
It was not moonlight. It was human light, orange-red, seeping through the trees a few steps ahead. Faint at first, then growing clearer as he advanced. Flickering, moving, as if an unsteady fire hid behind the branches. Then he heard the sounds.
Not the forest sounds he had grown accustomed to. No animal cries, no rustling leaves, no gurgling water. They were human sounds—many, loud, mixed. Laughter, murmurs, fragmented words he could not understand. The sound came from one place, concentrated, as if a crowd had gathered in a large clearing behind the trees.
Yusuf stopped and crouched behind a thick tree trunk, pressing his back against the rough bark, turning his ear toward the sounds. His heart beat fast, but his body was calm. His eyes moved slowly, searching among the branches for the source of this gathering in the middle of the night.
People… many of them. Not just soldiers. Different voices, different accents. A large gathering. At this hour?
He looked at the sky. Completely dark, night roughly halfway through. Who gathered in the middle of the forest at this time? And why?
He hesitated. He knew approaching any human gathering was dangerous, that his torn clothes, stolen armor, and heavy sword might make him a target. But he also knew he could not stay alone forever. Could not return to the forest. Could not wander aimlessly.
He decided to advance.
He moved slowly, step by step, moving from shadow to shadow. He placed his feet carefully, avoiding dry branches and loose stones. His body bent low, leaving the sword tied to his back, his hands free. He wanted to see first, to know, to understand.
The trees parted. The light and the sounds grew clearer.
Then he saw them.
---
In a large clearing before the wall, a massive gathering. He had not expected this number. Dozens of people, perhaps a hundred, or more. They stood in a wide circle around a large wooden platform, their hands raised, their eyes fixed on something in the center of the platform.
Their clothes were strange. Yusuf had never seen anything like them. They resembled ancient costumes from films: thick fabrics, leather belts, head coverings, long robes.
But the diversity was shocking. Some wore clean, neat clothes as if new, standing in the front rows, their faces calm and their hands clasped before them. Others wore worn, torn, dirty clothes, standing at the back, their faces tired and their eyes not rising from the ground.
Even the faces were different: some smooth, some rough, some pale, some dark, some appearing rich, some appearing poor. The entire crowd was a tapestry of contradictions gathered here in this place in the middle of the night.
In the center of the clearing stood a large wooden platform, not very high but high enough for all to see. It was made of thick dark wood, decorated with strange carvings along its edges. And in the center of the platform stood a tall, slender pillar that glinted in the torchlight as if made of a metal Yusuf did not recognize.
It rose high, taller than any human, ending in a sharp point like a spear.
The crowd stood in silent anticipation. They did not speak much. Some whispered to their neighbors, some looked at the ground, some raised their heads toward the platform like those waiting for something that had not yet come.
Yusuf advanced further, still behind the last rows, concealed among the tree shadows. His heart pounded fiercely, but he could not look away. Something about this scene seized his attention, something he did not understand but could not take his eyes from.
Then he turned to the other side.
He saw the gate.
It was not like the first gate he had seen. Smaller, less massive, but wide open. Through it, he could see a narrow passage leading inside the fortress, and high stone walls topped with wooden towers. No large defenses around it, only four soldiers stationed on either side, standing steadily, their hands on their swords. They glanced at the crowd from time to time but did not seem concerned.
Yusuf watched the gate, thinking. This was his way in. If he could pass through here, he would be inside the fortress, among people, in a place where he could find water, food, and perhaps shelter. But how could he pass among all these people and soldiers without drawing attention?
As he thought, he heard a commotion from the direction of the gate. He turned and saw a group of soldiers emerging from the narrow passage. Six or seven, walking slowly, their hands carrying something heavy.
A coffin.
Large, made of gleaming black wood, decorated with golden ornaments along its edges. The soldiers carried it on their shoulders, their steps heavy and measured, as if carrying something sacred.
And before the soldiers walked a woman.
Yusuf stopped breathing for a moment.
Beautiful. Beautiful in a way he had never seen before. A strange, ethereal beauty, as if she were not of this world. Her face was oval, soft, glowing in the torchlight as if made of faint light. Her eyes were large, dark, gleaming as if about to weep but the tears would not fall. Her hair was long, black, flowing over her shoulders like a curtain of silk.
She wore a simple long white robe that seemed precious. Over her face, a transparent veil of thin fabric covered the lower half of her face like a funereal mask. The veil did not hide her beauty; it only added mystery and sorrow.
She walked slowly toward the platform, the soldiers behind her carrying the coffin. She did not raise her eyes from the ground. Her hands were clasped before her, her fingers trembling slightly. The crowd fell silent suddenly, even the whispers stopped. All eyes were on the woman and the coffin.
The soldiers climbed the platform and placed the coffin in its center beneath the tall metal pillar, then stepped back and stood on either side as guards.
The woman climbed after them. She stood beside the coffin, placing her hand on it gently. She touched the black wood as if it were a living body, as if bidding it farewell before it departed.
Then another man climbed up.
An elderly, heavy man, dragging his steps with difficulty up the wooden platform stairs. He wore a long black robe, a large turban on his head hiding half his face. His face was red from exertion, his breath labored. Two soldiers followed him, helping him climb, then left him standing alone beside the woman and the coffin.
The old man stood there for a moment, catching his breath, placing his hand on his chest. Then he raised his hands to the sky and opened his mouth.
His voice was loud, powerful, incongruous with his heavy body, filling the entire clearing, echoing off the wall and the trees, as if coming from everywhere.
— "O gathered ones from the city of Forsen and its outskirts, freemen and slaves, rich and poor, soldiers and civilians—we have gathered tonight to bid farewell to the greatest man this city has known in a hundred years."
A deeper silence fell. The entire crowd looked at the old man, and the old man looked at the coffin.
— "The late Doctor Elian Forsen"—his voice trembled slightly—"the city's physician, healer of the poor before the rich, the man who saved more lives than any human in the history of these walls."
He paused and looked at the crowd. Some wept silently, some stared at the ground, some raised their hands as if praying.
— "Who among you has not been touched by his grace?" His voice rose. "Who among you has not been treated by him or treated a member of their family? Who among you has not found his door open in the middle of the night? Who among you has not heard his kind words before he administered the medicine?"
Silence. Then someone from the crowd whispered: No one. The whisper echoed everywhere: No one… no one…
The old man raised his hand, and everyone fell silent.
— "Elian Forsen"—he said—"was not only a physician. He was the backbone of this city. A man who dedicated his life to others. And when the incurable disease came, and he knew his days were numbered, what did he do? Did he sit in his house waiting for the end? Did he gather his wealth and distribute it to his family?"
He shook his head.
— "No. He continued to heal until his last day. He continued to open his door until his last night. He continued to smile in the faces of the sick even as he knew death was in his bones."
He turned his face toward the woman standing beside the coffin, her hand still on the black wood.
— "And he left behind his only daughter, Seren. Who stood by him every day of his illness. Who carried what men could not bear. Who never left his side for a single moment until he closed his eyes."
The woman—Seren—raised her head for a moment. She looked at the crowd with her large, tearful eyes, then lowered her lids and returned to staring at the ground.
The old man approached her and placed his hand gently on her shoulder.
— "My daughter"—his voice became paternal, warm—"speak to those who love you. Speak to those who loved your father. Speak to those who await your voice."
Seren hesitated for a moment. Her hands trembled, her lips trembled. She took a deep breath, then raised her head and opened her mouth.
Her voice was different from the old man's. Not strong or loud, but soft, delicate, as if emerging from a wounded chest. Yet it reached everywhere, and the crowd listened as if hearing a melody that would never repeat.
— "My father"—her voice broke at first—"was not only a physician. He was a friend. He was a support. He was everything."
She stopped, biting her lip. Tears fell, seeping from beneath the transparent veil, falling onto her white robe.
— "He taught me. He wiped my tears. He always told me: Seren, people are not just bodies to treat. People are souls that are afraid. Begin with their fear, and you will find the illness."
She gasped. She raised her hand to her face, wiping her tears, then continued:
— "On his last day, he could not speak. He was breathing with difficulty. But he took my hand and squeezed it. I looked at him and saw his eyes. They were saying something. I did not understand it then. But I understood after he was gone."
She raised her head and looked at the sky.
— "He was saying: Don't cry. I will be fine. Just be strong."
A long silence fell. The entire crowd did not move, even the wind stopped blowing. And Yusuf, from his place behind the trees, felt his chest tighten. He wanted to walk away, to hear no more. But he could not. Her voice bound him to the place.
He thought of his mother. Of the last time he saw her face. Of the words he never said. Of the farewell that never happened. He remembered a funeral he did not attend, tears he did not wipe, a hand he did not hold.
The old man raised his hand again. He approached the coffin and placed his hand on it beside Seren's.
— "The time has come"—he said—"to honor those worthy of honor. To offer respect to the one who taught us the meaning of giving."
He looked at the crowd.
— "Come. Step forward. Each of you carries a memory of him in your heart. Come and bid him farewell as he deserves."
The crowd began to move. They advanced toward the platform slowly, row by row. They bowed before the coffin, placed their hands on their hearts, whispered words no one could hear. Some wept, some touched the coffin as if touching a living body, some stood there motionless for moments then stepped back to their places.
Yusuf kept watching. The heavy old man, the beautiful woman, the black coffin, the weeping crowd. He thought: these people have a city. They have a physician. They have rituals. They have a life. And here he stood, outside all of this, wondering if he would ever enter.
---
Then he heard a strange sound.
Faint, distant, mixed with many other sounds, but different. Not weeping, not whispering, but a short, staccato scream that stopped suddenly.
Yusuf stiffened. He turned his head slowly toward the sound. It came from behind him, from among the trees where he had hidden.
He looked. At first he saw nothing, only darkness, trees, and the distant wall.
Then he saw movement.
Far away, a few steps from him. A soldier—or what remained of him—collapsing to the ground. Above him, a massive gray shape moved. Tearing. Tearing the soldier's body in silence, without a sound.
Yusuf shuddered. His heart leaped in his chest. He knew what he was seeing. The wolf. One of the wolves he had seen hours earlier. Here. At the gathering. Preying.
He gripped the hilt of the sword behind his back. He wanted to scream, to warn them. But his voice did not come out. And something else was happening.
From among the trees, another wolf emerged. Larger than the first, its eyes glowing in the darkness like two embers. It advanced slowly toward another soldier standing at the edge of the gathering. The soldier did not see the wolf; he was looking at the platform, at the rituals, at the crowd.
The wolf approached. A few steps away. Then it pounced.
The soldier screamed. A sharp, long scream that pierced the night's silence like an arrow. The crowd turned toward the sound. They saw the wolf covering the soldier, saw blood spurting, saw the body fall.
Then they heard other screams. From the other side. From behind. From everywhere.
The wolves were many. Not just four. More. Emerging from among the trees as if born from darkness. Their yellow eyes glowed everywhere. Their gray bodies moved among the people with lightning speed, distinguishing nothing, hesitating at nothing, showing no mercy.
Chaos began.
The crowd screamed, ran in every direction, pushed each other, fell, trampled one another. Mothers screamed searching for their children. Men pushed women to the ground to make a path for themselves. Bodies piled up at the gate, soldiers trying to organize entry but pushing and falling as well.
The wolves preyed. They distinguished no one—rich or poor, soldier or civilian, man, woman, or child. They pounced on any nearby body, opened their mouths, sank their fangs into necks, arms, and legs, dragged victims to the ground, tore them apart like cloth dolls.
Yusuf heard a woman scream. He turned and saw a wolf gripping a small child by the arm, dragging him toward the forest. The mother ran behind him screaming, trying to snatch her child from between the fangs. But the wolf was faster. It disappeared into the darkness, and the screaming stopped suddenly.
Nausea gripped his throat. He wanted to close his eyes, to not see. But they remained open. He saw everything: blood on the ground, torn bodies, severed hands, faces turning into nothing.
The soldiers resisted. They struck with their swords, stabbed with their spears. But their numbers were too few. Only four at the gate, and a few in the crowd. They killed one wolf, and two appeared in its place. They shouted, they sacrificed themselves, but their lines collapsed.
Most of the people fled toward the gate. They crowded into the narrow entrance, pushing, screaming, falling. It was impossible for everyone to enter at once. The gate was small, swallowing people very slowly.
Yusuf stood there, not moving. His mind worked quickly, his heart calm. He analyzed, calculated.
I can't go back to the forest. The wolves are there. I can't stay here. The wolves will come. I can't wait. The gate is crowded. I won't make it in time.
He looked around. A narrow path to the left of the gate, empty of people and wolves. It passed between the wall and a massive tree, leading to the gate from the side. A little far, but safe—at least for now.
He decided quickly. And began to run.
---
His body moved with a speed he had not known in days. The armor weighed him down, the sword struck his back, but he ran. His feet struck the ground hard, his heart pounded like drums. He looked only ahead. Toward the path. Toward the gate. Toward survival.
He reached the narrow path. Dark, narrow, barely fitting his body. He moved through it quickly, hearing the screams behind him, the pounding of feet, the roaring of wolves. Close. Almost there.
Then he stumbled.
His foot struck a stone he did not see. His body flew into the air, then crashed to the ground hard. The armor slammed into his ribs, the sword flew from his back and rolled away. He gasped. He tried to rise.
He raised his head. A few steps from the gate. He saw people running, soldiers fighting, blood flowing. He was about to get up when he saw two yellow eyes glowing before him.
A wolf. A few meters away, standing there, looking at him. Saliva dripped from its open mouth, its long fangs gleaming in the distant torchlight.
Yusuf froze. On the ground, without his sword, without protection. He knew it was over. That this was the end.
He muttered inwardly, his voice faint, trembling:
"After all this… after everything that happened… now? Here? Like this?"
He knew. He knew that nothing in this life went as he wished. That his bad luck had never left him. That every time he thought he had survived, something new came to tell him: no. Not yet.
The wolf moved. Stepping closer, step by step. Yusuf saw every detail: the rough gray fur, the muscles moving beneath the skin, the unblinking yellow eyes. Time passed very slowly, as if each second stretched into eternity.
Then something he did not expect happened.
He heard a sound like thunder. Something massive struck the wolf from the side, sending it flying through the air meters before crashing to the ground. Yusuf looked in astonishment. A huge soldier, wearing heavy armor, carrying a large shield as big as his body. He had struck the wolf with the shield and thrown it away as if it were an insect.
The huge soldier turned toward Yusuf. His face was covered by a helmet, nothing visible but two sharp blue eyes. He looked at Yusuf, then at the sword lying on the ground, then at his armor.
He said in a hoarse, hurried voice that left no time for questions:
— "Are you a soldier?"
Yusuf hesitated. He did not know what to say. He wanted to say: no, I'm not a soldier. I'm just a survivor. I don't belong here. But he saw the soldier's eyes. He saw that they were not asking for the truth. They were asking: can you help?
He looked at the gate. People crowded. Wolves approached. A woman stood there alone, two soldiers guarding her. One had a severed arm, the other was bleeding heavily. The woman—Seren—stood there, afraid, trembling.
The huge soldier pointed toward her.
— "There. Go. Carry her. Take her inside the fortress. I'll protect you."
Yusuf looked at Seren. She was trembling. Her white robe was stained with blood—not her blood. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. The two soldiers around her were on the verge of collapse.
Yusuf thought quickly. He was not a hero. Not a soldier. Not anything. Just an ordinary man, hungry, exhausted, afraid. But he was there. And she was there. And the wolves were approaching.
He said to himself:
"Why? Why me? I am no one. I can't."
But he knew the answer. He knew he could not say no. He knew that what had happened to him, everything he had seen, everything he had suffered—if he said no now, he would never forgive himself.
He rose. His body ached, his knees trembled. But he rose. He picked up the sword from the ground. Heavy, weighing on his arm. But he held it.
Then he ran toward Seren.
---
The distance was short, but it seemed long. He heard the wolves growling behind him, the screaming of people, the pounding of his heart. But he reached her.
When he approached, one of the soldiers turned with supernatural speed. His face was covered in blood, his eyes wide with exhaustion. He raised his sword toward Yusuf, thinking he was a wolf. But he stopped at the last moment. He looked at Yusuf, at his armor, at his face.
He said in a tired voice without preamble:
— "Are you from the support squad?"
Yusuf did not answer. He did not know what to say. But the soldier did not wait for an answer.
— "Carry her"—he pointed at Seren—"take her inside. My friend and I will accompany you."
Yusuf looked at Seren. She looked at him with her large eyes. She said nothing. She was trembling. Her face was pale as death.
He drew his sword from its sheath and raised it with his trembling hand. Then he lifted her from under her arms and carried her over his shoulder. She was light, lighter than he expected. Trembling, but not resisting.
They ran.
The soldier with the severed arm led the way. He ran with a speed that belied his wound. Blood streamed from his severed shoulder, dripping to the ground, leaving a trail. The other soldier guarded the rear, defending with his trembling sword.
Yusuf was in the middle, carrying Seren. His body groaned, his muscles burned, his arms were about to give out. But he continued. He heard the wolves behind him. Heard the rear soldier shouting, striking, fighting. Heard the sound of battle drawing closer.
Then he heard a scream from ahead.
He raised his head and saw a wolf charging at them from the side. Very fast. Heading straight for Yusuf.
The one-armed soldier did not hesitate. He leaped toward the wolf, his sword in his only hand. He struck. Missed. The wolf dodged with lightning speed and lunged toward Yusuf.
Yusuf saw only the yellow eyes. Approaching fast. A few steps away. Looking at him. Looking at Seren.
He had no time to think, no time to be afraid. Something inside him—instinctive, deep—made him turn. He turned his back to the wolf, making his body a shield for Seren.
Then he felt the pain before he heard anything.
The wolf's claws pierced his back. He felt them tear his skin, pierce his muscles, search for his bones. Indescribable, immense pain. He screamed. A scream he did not know he possessed. It burst from his chest, tore through his throat, filled the place.
Seren fell from his arms. He fell to his knees. His mouth filled with the taste of blood. His back burned. His shoulder—where the wolf's fangs had sunk after its claws—was tearing apart.
He saw a red haze. He heard distant screams. He felt his body sinking.
In the last moment before losing consciousness, he saw soldiers pouring from the gate. He saw swords gleaming. He saw the wolf retreating. And he saw the huge soldier who had saved him moments before standing before him, his shield raised, his sword in his other hand.
He heard his voice shouting:
— "Take her! Get her inside! I'll deal with this beast!"
Then he saw Seren's face. She was looking at him. Her eyes wide, her tears falling on his face. She whispered something he could not hear.
He wanted to say something. He wanted to say: I am not a soldier. I am not a hero. I am just an ordinary man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But his voice did not come out.
Darkness enveloped him. The pain faded. Everything receded.
And the last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was a single question echoing in his head, like an endless refrain:
"Why? Why is it always me?"
Then nothing.
---
End of Chapter Fifteen