The fortress rises like a mountain hand?carved by giants—black, angular, bristling with massive towers and buttresses sheathed in spikes, as though it itself meant to bite the sky. But it isn’t the heart of the stronghold that hypnotizes me… it’s everything around it.

  A tangle of defensive works, chaotic yet deliberate, sprawls out like a twisted labyrinth: trenches reinforced with sharpened stakes, forward bastions hewn from blocks of dark stone, half?buried redoubts where armored figures bustle at their posts. Some of these fortifications seem almost organic, grafted onto the earth like metallic warts or stony goiters. Pre?forts whose age, purpose, or even human authorship I cannot guess, so naturally are they embedded in the landscape. It is a true network of little keeps—hills, really—that guard the mountain, that is, the fortress.

  And then there are the cannons.

  My mind tries to classify them as weapons, but that’s too narrow. They are colossal cast?iron beasts, some as long as entire houses, their barrels engraved with flaming runes that glow with each discharge. A few ride on semi?buried rails; steam?powered dampers hiss and billow to absorb recoil—and surely to pivot the barrels, too. The ground trembles with every blast. A gout of flame erupts from one monster, followed by the high?pitched keening of white?hot metal writhing under the force of an ancient spell. The very air vibrates. These cannons do not merely fire projectiles: they spew raw wrath, and that wrath whines in my eardrums.

  The noise shreds my skull; the tremor knifes through my bones. I feel the heat even here, in this jolting cart. The soldiers around me murmur prayers; some fall to their knees before the blazing muzzles. It is no false piety—these guns are holy, or thought so. I almost understand why they cloak them in mysticism: even in my state, after all I’ve endured, I cannot help but marvel at such engineering.

  But that is not all. Before the vast doors of Koblor—towering like a cathedral, banded with black iron, emblazoned with divine symbols—a human tide surges. Civilians, the wounded, routed soldiers. Monks in coarse habits, women with burned faces, silent children ash?caked from head to toe. All seek entrance. All crave refuge. And the gates open only a crack at a time, filtering, selecting.

  On the walls, along the ramparts and down in a narrow pit concealed behind wicker screens, hundreds of corpses are arrayed like trophies: some hanging, some impaled on spikes. A few bear iron masks and penitential garb. Is this the fate reserved for heretics?! Will I end up skewered butt?first, my head exiting my mouth, merely as a warning to peasants who dare don too flamboyant an outfit?

  Commands snap through the air. Soldiers in black armor marked with a solar emblem—no doubt the badge of their realm or lord, a golden circle crossed by thorns—keep the crowd at bay, sometimes clubbing those who push too far. Cries and sobs erupt; no breach of order is tolerated. Authority reigns, cold and merciless.

  Our cart draws nearer, weaving around the throng by virtue of the seals worn by the corporal’s men. I am jolted and battered, my face still swollen with pain. But my eyes are wide open. I have never beheld a place so charged with power, symbolism… and menace.

  For this fortress is no sanctuary. It is a war shrine, a forge of flesh and steel. An altar erected to the God of Order—or whatever name they give Him. This place stands as a wall between light and darkness—or perhaps only between them and that which they loathe, and alas, they seem to despise me…

  —?Prepare your papers and orders of mission, growls a lead soldier. The portal guards, clad in armor almost as formidable as that of the squad who warned us, seem not to joke.

  The corporal nods. Behind him, another man jerks his chin toward my bound form:

  —?And him? Do we declare him at the gate?

  The corporal chuckles without mirth.

  —?“Heresy cargo, to be delivered.” That’ll do. The Inquisition loves surprises—perhaps they’ll reward us for bringing this specimen in alive.

  A shiver runs through me.

  I fix my gaze on the looming gates. And despite their overwhelming size, their majesty, their martial splendor… I have never been more terrified to enter anywhere.

  The carts edge forward, threading through the gathering that has already stirred despite the stubborn night. Other men—maybe from other fronts—arrive in their own wagons, swelling the ranks. They look as worn as the soldiers here; no one speaks, all of them stare into one another’s eyes, as if anticipating a miraculous revelation.

  At last our cart moves on; perhaps I might be granted a seat more comfortable than lashed and bound at the back of this ragged vehicle. Though they possess cannons, the concept of suspension must be foreign to them—or else this is but another trick to amplify my suffering…

  Suddenly my face slams against the cart’s planks with a heavy thud. Protruding nails, filth caked on the wood, the stench of stale sweat, damp leather, dried blood—all blend with the ceaseless ache pulsing through my jaw and ribs. A gauntleted hand has pinned me mercilessly, forcing my face into the board as the wheels creak over a smooth, weighty surface—no doubt black stone slabs. I feel we have entered.

  I strain to lift my head, but the grip on my nape drives me harder into the wood.

  —?Stay there, filth, growls a voice above me.

  I am not permitted to see. Not allowed to understand. Denied even this fragment of truth. The fortress’s interior remains a secret—whatever transpires within these walls, they do not wish a stranger, least of all one they label heretic, to witness it.

  Around me voices intersect: authoritative, terse, sometimes as sharp as drawn blades.

  —?Corporal Joliu’s regiment, Brigade 142 of Arkeos, Southern sector.

  —?Figures?

  —?Three critically wounded, four contaminated, one captive.

  —?Identity of the captive?

  —?Unidentified. Suspicious presence on the theater. Presumed possession or contact corruption. Look at his strange clothes; you get the picture.

  The word “contamination” wrings another shiver from me. I fall silent, afraid to breathe too deeply lest they hear provocation. A figure leans over the cart’s edge, but I cannot see—my face remains pressed to the floor.

  A long silence follows, marked only by the clatter of chains, armor, and measured footsteps on the stone. Then a different voice, deeper, calmer—but icy—responds:

  —?Transfer him to the sorting cellars. The Inquisition will pass before nightfall.

  I do not know exactly what “sorting cellars” means, but the word “sorting” summons grim images: wounded beasts divided between those to be healed and those to be slain.

  A soldier cracks his knuckles, and the order falls like an axe blow:

  —?Unload him.

  And without ceremony, without so much as a glance, they hurl me from the cart.

  I crash to the ground like a sack of rot, a rasping gasp escaping me as my knees strike stone. My cheek scrapes through stagnant water or piss—I cannot say. The cobbles are wet, sticky, icy cold. Pain numbs my limbs. I try to rise, but a boot crushes my shoulder.

  —?Move again and I’ll rip out your spine, hisses another.

  I remain motionless, gasping. I see only fragments: steel boots, studded tunic hems, a glowing ember of discarded tobacco on a slab. In the distance, cries—prayers, pleas, perhaps both. The air here is denser, heavier. It reeks of ash and hot iron.

  They seize my arms and drag me. My knees scrape the stone. I sense steps downward, then a cloth or sack is drawn over my head—I see nothing. Yet I feel stair after stair, corridors. The walls grow colder, damper. A torch flickers before my eyes, then another. The rhythm is slow, methodical.

  At last, a screech. A door swings open, followed by a blow to my side. Brutal; habit begins to set into my body’s reflexive tensing.

  Despite it, I fall into darkness upon a cold, slick floor.

  And the door shuts.

  No light. No voices. Nothing but my own broken, gasping breath.

  I am alone.

  Discarded like refuse. Small spasms of pain seize me—it is inhuman how I have been treated, what I have suffered these hours; never did I imagine living this.

  “Crimes against humanity,” I whisper in tears, fetal on the cold cobbles.

  “What have I done to deserve this suffering?” I continue, sobbing—it’s so unfair, but I have no energy left for anger; I am spent, empty.

  I do not recall the moment I drifted into oblivion. Perhaps it was just after that final blow. Perhaps when the cold seeped to my bones. Perhaps my body finally shut down to shield itself. I know nothing; nothing seems unreal anymore—in fact, the whole ordeal is so improbable, so outrageous, I ceased trying to comprehend it.

  I awaken in a half?breath, panting as though resurfacing from drowning. My heart hammers unnaturally; I realize I am frozen stiff, my filthy clothes stuck to my skin. Pain returns in waves—burning, irregular—jaw, ribs, wrists, temples. Even my eyelids ache under the gentle touch of my fingers.

  It is dark, though not completely: a torch—or some unknown light source—flickers beyond the door. I hear metallic sounds, measured footsteps echoing like a funeral knell on stone.

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  Then the door swings open.

  The screech is terrible, as though it hadn’t moved in ages. Cold, raw light spills in. It warms nothing.

  I blink against the glare. A figure stands in the threshold—tall, still, hooded. A long, almost monastic cloak hangs heavily from rigid shoulders. No visible weapon, but a presence—oppressive, almost supernatural. Behind the figure, I think I glimpse two more forms, helmed and fully armored. Guardians. Executioners. I do not know; perhaps this is my salvation, the end of my suffering, of my life?

  The central figure steps forward—just one foot. Then halts.

  Silence.

  And a voice, soft… too soft, like a surgeon addressing his patient while already holding the scalpel:

  —?You are awake. Good. That spares us the rough means of making you speak.

  I attempt movement, but pain pins me. My throat is parched as if cinders were poured into it. I want to speak, but only a cough emerges. The figure advances another pace. A polished metal mask hides their face—smooth, with no visible openings save for the eyes, but I cannot even discern their pupils.

  —?You are not from here, they say calmly. You match no archive, no known genetic code, no trace in the records. A perfect unknown.

  They pause.

  —?Fascinating.

  A shiver runs through me. They do not speak like a soldier, nor like a fanatic shrieking “heresy.” It is worse. They speak like one dismantling an object to understand its workings. The others merely wanted to accuse me, to make me the ideal scapegoat for their violent, corrupt frustrations. This one seems infinitely more cunning, more calculating. More dangerous.

  They make a gesture. Behind them, one armored guard steps forward, withdrawing a long hook—or some sort of forceps; the threshold light obscures it. I recoil instinctively but slam against the wall.

  —?Do not fear. You will answer my questions. And if you cannot… we shall find another means to hear you.

  They kneel before me, their gleaming mask inches from my swollen face.

  —?Let us begin simply. Your name. Your nature. Your origin.

  Their tone remains unchanged, but I know… I feel… that if I say nothing, if I give nothing, this place will become a slaughterhouse. Fear grips me again—I sense it has never left since I was dragged into this hell.

  I cannot think clearly. My breath is ragged, uneven; words slip away like sand between my cracked teeth. My swollen tongue catches on my bruised jaw. My body is aflame and frozen at once. I want to speak—truly—but it is no longer that simple. It is as though my throat refuses to obey.

  —?I…I… I d?don’t k?know…

  A spasm cuts me off. My lips tremble; my vision throbs. I feel myself curl in on instinct, like a wounded beast beneath a hand too gentle to be honest.

  The masked figure says nothing at first. They watch me—or so I imagine. They barely turn their head, yet their entire bearing exudes measured patience.

  Then they settle. Gently. They do not seize me. They sit—on the filthy floor—beside me, as if keeping company to a dying friend. The fabric of their cloak whispers against the stone in an almost delicate rustle.

  I shrink back reflexively, but my back is already against the wall. Bound arms, numbed body, I have nowhere to go.

  —?Water, they order abruptly, dryly, without lifting their voice.

  One guard steps out of my sight. The other remains, motionless—a statue.

  —?You are in panic, they say, their tone cutting through their previous severity. That is not a crime.

  They pause.

  —?But it slows us down. And we allow no delay here. Do you understand?

  They tilt their head toward me; their mirror?smooth mask reflects the corridor’s cold light. Their scent is strange: not a man’s, but a place’s—an antiseptic, hospital smell. Something sterile, like an operating theater.

  —?You will drink. You will breathe. And then you will speak to me. And if you have nothing to say… then you will allow me to explore.

  No threat—just fact. A neutral statement, as if explaining a lever’s function or the sun’s descent.

  The guard returns, holding a blackened iron cup. Water sloshes inside.

  The mask takes it, then turns again to me. Slowly, they extend the vessel, cradling its base in their palm, offering it as if it were a sacred gift.

  —?Drink. Now.

  I have no choice. My throat is too parched. My skull drums pain. I approach slowly, painfully. My lips brush the rim; the water tastes metallic, yet it is so refreshing that my body gulps it with pathetic greed.

  When I finish—or when they deem I’ve had enough—they withdraw the cup.

  —?Now. Your name. Begin with that.

  The silence is dreadful; I am unsure I can speak—but fear drives me, and then I do.

  —?Damien. Damien Boli.

  My voice is hoarse, ragged, but the words come. Just that, and already it feels as though a lock has turned. I seem to breathe for the first time in… centuries? Minutes? Everything is blurred—but I speak. I become once more an entity, a living thing with a name, no longer a lost soul in a foreign world.

  I lift my eyes toward them, slowly, driven by the question that has haunted me since I fell into this nightmare. They know. They said my genes match no one, no registry records me. But how? How can they know? And above all… what does it mean?

  I begin to speak, hesitantly yet more solidly than before:

  —?H?how… how do you know that? My genes, the… the registers—what is this story…

  —?Silence.

  The word falls like a marble slab upon flesh.

  Sharp. Unyielding as an oak branch but devoid of aggression.

  I freeze. My breath hangs trapped. The space between us thickens, laden with icy tension; I feel their body recoil though they make no move. They do not look at me; their mask seems fixed on the stone wall. They sit unmoving, hands clasped on their knees like a monk in prayer.

  With a single word they have woven a prison of silence; every scrap of humanity I had hoped to reclaim is siphoned away by the mere absence of dialogue.

  In that absence I realize it may not even originate with them—the almost mathematical exchanges with the guards upon my arrival, the imprisonment as a form of quarantine. It is procedure. A higher command, unquestionable.

  In their eyes I am likely an object—just look at how they treat me, how they deny me speech. An anomaly to catalogue, not a person to comprehend.

  At last they rise—slowly, gracefully. Each movement seems measured, ritualistic. They turn their back to me and address the two guards:

  —?Prepare chamber three. Isolated. This individual merits thorough exploration; he piques my curiosity.

  They pause just before departing. Their voice slices the space like a sharpened blade:

  —?Most curious. Handle with care.

  Then they leave without looking back, leaving me alone once more. Well, not quite alone, for the two silhouettes remain.

  They lift me—without brutality or insult, in a gentleness that unsettles me. Only precise, technical, almost mechanical gestures. They do not speak, nor meet my eyes. One straps a belt around my waist to support me without aggravating my injuries; the other checks whether my wrists can be moved without risking additional fractures.

  It is almost worse than violence.

  I am handled with care, like an anomaly too precious to damage before study.

  My body dangles between their arms, rigid with pain. My clothes cling to my skin, soaked in sweat, blood, and that shameful liquid that ran down my legs. The odor is unbearable. My dignity died somewhere between the shrieks of the crawling creature, the visceral horror of its exposed entrails, and the jolt of my face against the cart’s boards.

  And yet I still live. I find myself resenting that. I hate what has happened to me, I hate what they are doing to me as if I were a child who fell into a mire. Except they are the ones who threw me in, who have rendered me helpless.

  I think back to the creature with the bloodshot eyes and putrid grin—it looked at me amid the charnel pit as though wanting to devour me, to hollow me out, to consign me to an utterly horrific death. But at least it would not have pretended to be human; and even if it had spoken, at least I would not have understood it. It would not have feigned courtesy, listening, or adherence to procedure. It would have ripped my throat out and ended it.

  It would not have been dignified, no—but at least it would have been over.

  I clench my teeth, unable to defend myself against these thoughts—they are a poison more insidious than any physical agony. At what point did I begin rationalizing my own death?

  Frustration surges as I am led out of the cell through which the man entered. Of course that bastard knew—no magic, no science needed. A mere glance at my clothes, my accent, my reactions sufficed. Empty pockets, devoid of coin or holy talisman that these peasants carry. I am a blot on their tapestry. A dissonance with no place in a field of slaughter.

  And I, like a fool, believed for a moment in his tales of genes, of spiritual codes, of divine archives. A comforting fiction to mask the obvious: I am a stranger, an animal lost in a cage of fanatics. I ache for my office—though not my favorite place—yet my thoughts drift, and I struggle to focus on my life, my memories.

  They drag me through subterranean corridors, doors following one another like an infinity of cells, and I wonder if others like me exist, lost, desperate. I quickly conclude yes—and, knowing what I’ve seen of this atrocity?ridden world, everyone must be more or less.

  Another door swings open; now I stand in a large chamber. Here too that antiseptic, hospital scent lingers. Men—and surely women—in near?surgical garb give orders to the two guards.

  —?Lay him down, one says.

  They set me upon a cold stone slab in a white room of seamless walls, unmarked, almost glasslike.

  These people are not like the soldiers, not like the Inquisitor.

  They wear robes of strange fabric, without bright color. Attire somewhere between medical and ritual garb, likely designed as much for protection as to satisfy cultural or faith requirements. There are several of them. I do not know how many. They move almost without speech, without eye contact, as though driven by a single communal mind.

  One of them snips away the remnants of my clothing with round?tipped scissors; I dare not move though I risk no cut. It is not brutal, but surgical. The blade glides through the fabric as if slicing silk. My garments fall away, rendered to rags, my fine suit reduced to a rag. They toss the scraps into a metal container that snaps shut with a muffled clang.

  I am naked. And I no longer even feel shame. Only a sense of absence, like those accounts of people feeling outside their bodies during near?death experiences.

  Gloved hands manipulate me. I am washed with warm water and damp cloths soaked in an acrid-scented liquid. I feel hands scrubbing my chest, arms, crotch, without pause or modesty. I am cleansed like an object, as though they prepare to operate. They wipe away my sweat, the blood that seeped through my clothes only to dry between my pores, my urine—my humanity.

  The scene feels unreal. Their silence. The forced gestures. The stark lights. The total absence of judgment or compassion.

  My mind retreats, curling backward into a remote corner of my skull. The body is here—laid out, exposed—but I no longer feel it as my own. I am split, fragmented; I believe the violence, the trauma have shattered me.

  A soft voice finally breaks the silence. A woman, perhaps. I am no longer sure. I cannot see her features.

  —?Pre?cleaning complete. Phase Two authorized.

  Cold words. Sterile. Yet laden with immense weight. Phase Two. It is not the end. It is a beginning—but of what?!

  Then their voices rise again, this time like a psalm, an incantation learned in childhood, recited without passion but with mechanical precision:

  —?May the Goddess bless and purify us, and may this creature, if she harbors vice, not contaminate the world with her corruption.

  They do not say “man.” They do not say “Damien.” They say “creature.”

  Then they depart. In silence, as always. I remain there, naked, drenched, in this white, sterile room. Cleansed. Purified. Desecrated.

  The two guards—those clad in a blend of armor and embroidered silk like templars of another age—take charge once more. One offers me a simple, coarse robe—of a scratchy fabric that bites my bare skin, surely hemp or equivalent. I slip it on without thought; the cloth clings to my sore ribs. Then they push me—gently, yet firmly—into a new corridor.

  No more aseptic whiteness, no more unearthly lights or glacial silence; the walls revert to stone. Dampness seeps between the slabs. A return to the medieval, to the world glimpsed through soldiers, ruins, and cannons.

  We stop before a heavy black oak door bound with iron, marked by religious symbols I do not recognize—how could I? One guard raps three times. A shutter swings open. Eyes peer through a metal grille—one left eye blind and milky, the right dark as pitch, creating an eerie contrast. I realize those are the eyes of the Inquisitor.