Loyalty is not weighed in words, but proven through deeds. Just as for some, life itself is bound to their word, so too did Paleș keep his promise to Nira—without hesitation.
The first drop of rain struck the window of the room where Nira, her heart heavy, was preparing to open an old wound. It was as if the sky itself wept for what was about to be spoken. The entire land seemed wrapped in an air of regret and resignation, and the rain fell heavily, with large drops—heavy as tears—the same that slid down her cheeks in silence.
The air in the room had grown dense, oppressive, as if every word Nira spoke cut away at the breath of the world. Ioh stood unmoving, a statue of silence, yet in his eyes a fire began to kindle, demanding the truth.
Nira's voice repeated the same sentence over and over—the sentence that was the beginning of a tragedy:
"Why didn't they give him an easy death...
I had said it so many times it became part of me. And each time, the truth pushed closer to the surface.
The last time I said it was when I began to speak—when I could no longer hold inside all that I carried.
— Five months had passed since we had left the manor. Everything seemed calm… almost normal. Paleș and I had crossed into Eastern Wallachia, and through the Central Point we had barely made it into Transylvania. We were driven by the thought that perhaps we would find a trace, even the smallest piece of information, about that book...
The journey through Transylvania, however, showed us that the calm was only an illusion. A civil war had just ended. People lived in terror, hidden in attics, cellars, barns—any space that could save their lives. They were frightened, broken, hollow inside.
We were lucky. We entered a region ruled by Morg the Eternal, an Eastern dampir lord, called by the locals "Protector of the Weak." He guarded the area under an ancient law—the Law of the Great Pact. Under his rule, people lived… perhaps not in peace, but at least without being hunted.
Still, not everyone agreed with this law. It was said that King Vlah himself contested it fiercely. And that meant only one thing: the fragile balance could break at any moment.
We tried to learn more. We asked a dampir guarding the village if he knew anything about our book, but… he wasn't of much help. The only thing he said, almost in a whisper, was that, in Moldova, rumors spoke of the Seraphs of Silence being sent to recover a stolen book from the Church of Saint Corvin—none other than Credo Prohibitum, the church's oldest scripture.
Paleș, with his usual skill, drew closer to him like a seasoned scout, digging deeper into his words. He asked if he knew anyone—any shadow or name—that might know more about the book.
But we never got an answer.
A boy from the village—too young to understand what he was getting into, yet too curious to hold back—had approached silently. His eyes burned—not only with fear, but with a morbid fascination, as if he carried within him a forbidden truth. He spoke loudly enough to freeze the blood in our veins:
— The Book must be silent.
I froze. His words were like a wound suddenly ripped open. I felt the air tighten, shadows stretching, growing heavier.
I didn't know how he knew. Or what he knew. But his voice… it wasn't only his. It was as if the darkness itself had used the child's mouth to speak to us. As if an unseen hand had touched the back of my neck—cold and heavy as an omen.
— Repeat it, Paleș said, his tone low, almost pleading.
The boy blinked, stepped back, but then, as if falling into a trance, he spoke again:
— The legend of the Great Dampir Hor…
Then again.
— The legend of the Great Dampir Hor…
And once more, with an intensity almost prophetic:
— The legend of the Great Dampir Hor…
Paleș approached him with calm steps, extending his hand.
— Tell me. I'm listening.
The dampir guard, who until then had stood silently in the shadows, flinched at the sound of that name. I saw his eyes narrow, as if an old, unwanted memory had just slipped back into his mind.
The boy, his voice trembling yet clear, began:
— Do you know who the first dampir was? The Great Hor. He was the first who could resist the thirst for blood. The first who protected humans. And the first who was betrayed by them...
I swallowed hard. This wasn't just a legend. There was something mysterious in his words.
— They say his wisdom knows no bounds. That he was the first to look "Sin" in the eyes and say: I know you. That he knows even what hides in the belly of evil… because time… time speaks through him.
I stared at the boy, fascinated and terrified.
— The legend was lost to time, he went on, but all who have heard it… have never forgotten one thing.
He stopped.
— What is it? I asked, almost whispering.
But he didn't answer. The dampir guard did, his voice deep and low, as if pronouncing his own sentence:
— If he still lives… then he is Vlah's prey.
I felt the ground sway beneath me. As if all our efforts until now, all our hopes, shattered at this one sentence. Paleș frowned. I lowered my gaze. Everything was crumbling again.
The guard suggested we leave. Said it was safer to return to the Central Point. So we did. The road was long… too long. The silence wasn't peace—it was a rope tightening around our necks.
When we reached the border with Eastern Wallachia… something changed. I felt… a scent in the air. A shiver along my spine. Someone's presence.
I slowed my pace. Paleș tensed beside me.
— We're not alone, I said.
— I know. We never were, he murmured.
And then I saw the silhouette. Waiting. Motionless. Breathless. In the shadows. And my instinct never lied…
The valley opened in silence once you crossed the border. There, a small host stood motionless, as if waiting for something. Or someone. In the middle of them, a voivode stared into the distance, boiling in anger and wounded pride.
Paleș and I tried to slip quietly along the roadside. But our silence wasn't enough. In an instant, the voivode's guard seized us, bound our hands and feet with coarse ropes, and dragged us through the mud to the throne.
Everything was ruined. A sick, chilling atmosphere wrapped around us. The air reeked of old blood and fresh death. Bodies lay scattered, forming a macabre map of despair.
Then we reached him. The throne—if it could be called that—was made of bones, arranged with morbid care, and the voivode sat upon it like a trophy won in hell. He looked down at us as if we were insects that had stumbled into his path by mistake.
— More rats who came to see my preparations?
His voice had a crack in it, as if fury had burst from the inside.
I swallowed and tried to speak as calmly as I could:
— We are only travelers. We seek no trouble. We mean no harm. We only ask for our freedom.
The voivode burst out, nearly throwing the words at us:
— I am Voivode Sor the Silent! I decide who leaves and who does not. Who lives… and who dies!
His words pierced my mind, and without meaning to, I thought of Dacus. My last hope now clung to something divine… to a miracle. I was caught between despair and helplessness.
But Paleș… he seemed neither shaken nor afraid. No. His gaze was sharp, yet controlled. In his eyes, a dangerous glint—not of fear, but of an idea.
He was thinking. Calculating. And then suddenly, he stepped forward, his voice slicing through the heavy air like a thin blade:
— I propose a game, voivode. If we win, you will set us free.
Sor the Silent leaned slightly on his throne, like a great, bored beast that suddenly catches the scent of blood. In his eyes, a cruel, hungry interest.
— A game? he asked. What kind of game?
— A game of fate. Three slaves. Three shots. Fired by your best archer—blindfolded. We will guess: live or die. If we have more points than you… we walk free.
A sigh escaped my chest. The game was dangerous. Ridiculous. Impossible.
But then… I looked at Paleș more closely. He wasn't gambling aimlessly. This wasn't a foolish whim born of desperation. This was… trust. And only then did I understand. It was trust in me. And in my shadows.
Because Paleș knew—that I could see them. Every time death drew near, those cold shadows thickened, revealing its presence. Paleș had a plan. And I was the key.
We didn't speak it aloud. We didn't need to. In that moment… I knew.
For a moment, silence fell. Then the voivode laughed. Not a joyful laugh—but a hollow one, echoing with death.
— I accept. But with three conditions.
Paleș tilted his head slightly, listening.
— First: not animals. You will guess the fate of slaves. Second: each plays for themselves. Third: if I and either of you are tied… no one leaves here alive.
I felt the blood chill in my veins. I looked at their shadows—and what I saw froze me.
The voivode's shadow… was not red. He was not stalked by death. Paleș's shadow, however… was soaked in red. I knew a spy always lived with death close by, but now… I could feel it. Too close. A premonition.
The game began.
Slaves, brought one by one, trembled under our gaze. Each hoped not to be the target. Each prayed, in desperate whispers, to live one more day—even in chains. Death in a game was the lowest form of ending.
The voivode made a short gesture with his hand. An archer stepped from the shadows—tall, strong-armed, stone-faced, eyes empty. Without a word, he tied a black scarf over his eyes. His movements were precise, mechanical—like those of a trained beast. He positioned himself before the first target.
— First vote! Sor the Silent thundered, like a crack of lightning.
— Dies, I said, my voice hollow, though my hands trembled.
— Dies, Paleș said, with calm pain in his tone.
— Lives, the voivode concluded, his wide smile disgusting.
The bow drew. A whistle. A sharp sound. The arrow flew. Target: a woman. She screamed—a high, guttural cry—as the iron tore through her thigh. She fell sideways, blood spurting into the cracks between stones.
The voivode chuckled, almost in delight:
— One point for me…
Next came a child. He trembled. His wide, wet eyes were open—holding all the terror of a cruel world. A single glimmer of hope: maybe… maybe someone…
— Dies, I said again, feeling my heart break, but knowing I had no choice. The shadow of death was redder than ever—death certain.
— Dies, Paleș said, calm, as if reciting his own sentence.
— Lives, the voivode said, smiling broadly, playing with us like a cat with her mice.
The archer did not hesitate. The sound of the arrow was followed by brief silence. Then—crack!—the child's skull gave way. Fallen in an instant. No sound.
Then came the screams. A chorus of wails, a wave of despair, a cry from the sky itself.
— One point to you. But I still have the advantage… Sor the Silent said.
Final round. The air grew heavy. Almost unbearable. Every second stretched into eternity. Even the light seemed to retreat, yielding to shadow.
The voivode spoke first:
— Dies, he said, and the echo of that word shattered into a thousand shards inside me.
Paleș had to vote the same as me. That was the plan. That was our salvation. But I knew… I had seen his eyes. He only wanted to save me.
I gathered my strength and said, my voice barely holding:
— Lives…
In my heart, a small hope—the shadow of death lacked its deep color; the slave would survive.
Paleș looked straight ahead. Then, with chilling calm, he said:
— Dies.
The bow drew. Even the wind seemed to stop. Everything went silent. Time stretched. The arrow was about to fly… But then—a sharp whistle. Like a call from the voivode. A sign.
The arrow veered. The target was missed. The archer stopped.
The voivode rose sharply to his feet. The smile faded from his face.
— Tie game, he said firmly.
Then, his voice like ice:
— No one leaves here alive!
When I heard his words, I felt something cold and sharp drive into my chest. The air was torn from my lungs. My gaze froze, and the blood drained from my cheeks, leaving me pale as a shadow. The whole world stopped. Nothing moved. Not the wind, not time. Only the echo of those words, ringing in me like a sentence.
Sor the Silent… He did not want death. Death was banal. Too kind. He loved suffering. Agony was his music. The longer someone writhed in pain, the longer they clung to life under unimaginable torment, the wider his smile grew. He fed on pain, on tearing, on muffled screams. His laughter… was not human. It was a sound born of something broken and sick, a cackle that seemed to come from a mouth full of blood and darkness. And we were next.
With the game over, they prepared us for torture. Paleș's gaze was the first thing that held me in place. There was no fear in his eyes—only a silent tension, a mind still fighting. He bit his lip slightly, searching desperately for a way out.
Then he lifted his chin and, with a clear, almost solemn voice, said:
— I propose a bargain… man to man. Between honor and pain. If I endure any torture from sunrise to sunset… you let her go free.
Everyone fell silent. Even the wind seemed to stop.
Sor the Silent rose slowly from his throne of bones. He looked at Paleș as if he were a rare piece in a collection of horrors.
— And the price? he asked, half-cruel, half-fascinated.
— The price is… everything I am, Paleș said.
The voivode was silent for a few seconds. Then he inclined his head, like a judge before a final sentence.
— So be it. But the woman… must watch. To the end.
The sun had barely touched the horizon's line. In that valley, cold as death, Paleș was stripped. His shirt torn away, the bear pelt tossed aside like a worthless thing. They bound him to thick stakes driven deep into the hardened earth, under everyone's eyes.
My breath was cut short. I trembled—not from cold, but from helplessness. I was condemned to a spectacle of pain, where I could do nothing but watch.
The first executioner stepped forward. He held a heavy bull-hide whip, with small metal hooks hidden among the strips. He raised his arm and—CRRRACK!
Paleș's flesh split open, as if releasing the pain from within. The second blow came at once. The third, the fourth… blood sprayed, staining the stones.
— No… no…! I whispered, as tears slid down my cheeks. But I was not allowed to make a sound.
Paleș did not groan. Did not scream. Not even a whimper. Only his eyes… always searching for mine, like two torches in a moonless night.
The second executioner approached with clinical precision. He took Paleș's arms and began peeling the skin from his forearms, layer by layer, like the rind of a fruit. Blood dripped slowly, as if time itself wept.
— Keep your eyes on me… his eyes told me.
By noon, when shadows had vanished beneath the men, they brought the wheel. They tied him there, like an animal. Then… the sledgehammer fell. Once. Then again. Thud! Thud! Thud!
— Enough! I wanted to scream, but my voice drowned in my throat.
From his throne of bones, Sor the Silent laughed. Not loudly, but slowly, sickly—like a knife scraping bone.
Paleș could no longer meet my gaze. His eyes were half-open, but his soul… his soul still fought.
Toward evening, when the sky turned purple, they took him from the wheel. They dragged him over burning coals and laid him directly atop them.
A silent scream tore through my chest. His flesh sizzled like burning parchment. Smoke rose, thick, carrying with it pain, shame, sacrifice.
I fell to my knees and vomited. I trembled in every joint, my fists clenched. Tears streamed down my face, but they were not enough. No ocean could wash away that horror.
And he… still lived. He endured. Until sunset.
When the last ray of sun touched the earth and faded into shadow, Sor the Silent rose, his gaze sharp, and said:
— He survived. The girl is free.
I ran to him. My knees buckled when I touched his body. He was all one open wound—burned, crushed, torn. But he was alive. Still alive.
I held him in my arms, cupping his face in my hands. His skin was cracked, his lips bloodied, but he whispered…
— I told you… I wouldn't leave you… Go and… save Dacus…
Then I understood.
True loyalty… is not about oaths. It is about pain. About dying—moment by moment—so the other can live one day more.
I left that valley with my body torn and my heart empty. But when I looked back, I saw it. Paleș's shadow had not yet"