Evening crept up quietly, like old fatigue. I sank onto the grass at the edge of one of those villages scattered around the world like forgotten prayers.
The air smelled of wild flowers and damp foliage—sweet and bitter at once, like childhood memories. Fields stretched to the horizon, bathed in the crimson of sunset. I spread my cloak, lay on my back, gazing at the sky where clouds wove their eternal patterns.
Barely settled, I heard footsteps. From the twilight appeared an old man—short, hunched, with a face furrowed by wrinkles like a map of all the roads he had traveled. But the eyes... eyes young, alive, caught the reflection of the fading light.
"Good evening, traveler," he said hoarsely but firmly. "Monalian accent, is it? Haven't heard that melody in a while."
I nodded, and the old man chuckled, wrinkles gathering in a cunning net around his eyes.
"If Monalian—no good sleeping on damp ground. Wolves roam here, and the cold pierces to the bones. Come to my place—there's hot porridge, the roof doesn't leak."
Something stirred inside. The cold detachment that had become my second skin retreated, giving way to... How to call it? Gratitude? Surprise? Humanity?
"Hadji-Murat is my name," the old man introduced himself, extending a calloused hand. "And how shall I call you?"
"Scholn," I answered, not giving my surname. Here "de Lorens" would sound like a mockery of fate.
His house turned out to be a small hut with a low ceiling and faded tapestries on the walls. Shelves bent under the weight of books—surprising wealth for a simple peasant. In the corner by the hearth stood a spinning wheel with unfinished flax.
"My wife spun," noticing my gaze, said Hadji-Murat. "Rest her soul. Hands never got around to putting it away..." He fell silent, then added quieter: "She used to say: 'A guest without bread—a host without honor.' So I live by her word."
I sat at the table, polished by countless dinners. The flame in the hearth danced, casting shadows on the walls, and in them faces appeared—those I left behind, those I couldn't save, those I'd never see again.
Hadji-Murat bustled by the tandoor and suddenly asked without turning:
"Far is your path?"
"To the marshal," I answered after a pause. "Bringing news... Monalia has fallen."