The great hall was dim, lit only by narrow slits in the stone walls. Mold and damp clung to the air. Benches rotted, the altar stripped of its crucifix, replaced by Arabic script reading Allah. Persian carpets covered the floor, where the warlord and his men knelt to pray toward Mecca.

  "So, you're the leader of the Moors?"

  the boy asked, stepping forward, eyes gleaming with bloodlust.

  "Wh... who are you?"

  Al-Mansur stammered in Galician, collapsing in fear.

  His elite guards rushed forward, but in a flash their heads flew, tumbling around their master.

  "Exorcise him! Exorcise him!"

  Almanzor shrieked, but the women were paralyzed with terror.

  "Who am I? You ask who I am?"

  the boy laughed, his voice trembling with wrath.

  "In hell you won't need to know, son of a whore!"

  He vanished, and Al-Mansur knew his end had come.

  Yet, when the youth's blade cut through the warlord's neck—it passed through harmlessly, as if striking light itself. The boy tried again and again, but to no effect.

  Almanzor and the exorcists seemed frozen, as if painted in a still image. Colors around the hall dulled into a bluish-gray. Drops of blood and even falling stones hung motionless in the air.

  "What is this? What trick have those witches done?"

  the boy raged, backing away in confusion.

  Then a woman's voice came from behind him.

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  "What are you doing? Which god ordered you to take these men's lives? Answer me!"

  He turned to see a woman with amber eyes, a reddish curl falling across her brow, her face veiled, nails like fiery claws.

  (Image created with Gemini AI for illustrative purposes only.)

  She was tanned-skinned, her face partly veiled beneath a bluish-green hooded cloak, like a Berber woman. Only her striking amber eyes showed, burning with intensity, and a reddish curl slipped across her forehead. Beneath the cloak she wore a bluish blouse, a violet skirt, green zaragüelles, and red slippers. She stood framed by the broken doorway the boy had smashed open.

  "Answer me! Who are you? What is your rank? Do you not know this region is under my jurisdiction?"

  she demanded impatiently, her gaze sharp.

  "I came to kill these men because they murdered my mother and my friends. Don't get in my way, witch. End your spell,"

  the boy snarled.

  "I don't strike women, so I won't harm you—just undo your magic."

  "Your mother? What are you talking about?"

  the woman asked, incredulous.

  "Take your personal affairs out of the human world, boy. If you don't move, I'll have to fight you and get my answers."

  The youth sneered with bitter sarcasm.

  "No one has ever drawn a drop of blood from me. Do you think a mere girl can? Even if you are a powerful witch."

  She smirked faintly.

  "So confident in yourself, little one. But your divine level is low—you don't stand a chance against me."

  As she lifted her hand, her nails grew long and sharp like a feline's, glowing as if made of fire. The boy stiffened in uncertainty.

  "This is your last warning. Tell me who sent you and who you are, or I'll ask your body instead,"

  she said, advancing slowly, her fiery claws raised.

  "I told you already—I don't want trouble with a girl,"

  he growled.

  Before he could finish speaking, he realized his right arm was gone. The woman stood behind him, her claw still raised. Then she retracted her nails. The boy's vision blurred, and within moments, he collapsed unconsciously.