Darkness descended upon the forest like a living entity, a thick and oppressive veil swallowing the world in a shadowed embrace. No spark of light dared challenge its dominion; not even the moon, lofty in its silvery glow, could pierce the tangle of branches and leaves that sealed off the sky and transformed the woodland into something closed and suffocating. Beneath that dense canopy, darkness reigned supreme. And yet, the absence of light was only the most superficial layer of the horror. There was something else—a diffuse sensation, an invisible presence that distorted the very essence of nature itself. The forest seemed restless, disturbed by a force foreign to it. Its inhabitants stirred, groaning and hissing, as if all of them, from the birds to the lowliest insects, shared the same dreadful foreboding.

  At the heart of that calamity, a clearing opened like a festering wound carved directly into the body of the woods. Across its span, lanterns hung from the lower branches, suspended by rusted chains that creaked softly in the wind. Arranged in circles, they formed a small ring of flames. Their yellowish light pulsed, casting twisted shadows across the ground. At the center of that circle stood the figure of Sigmund, motionless and serene.

  His garments, immaculate white, were richly adorned with golden threads that caught the fire’s wavering glow and returned it in blurred reflections. His sharp eyes, black as a bottomless abyss, darted from one face to another among the five young women arranged around him. They were women of plain features and modest clothing, marked by the simple lives they led. There was no greatness or glory in their faces, only the traces of humble existence, untouched by any extraordinary destiny.

  Sigmund was the prince of a proud and prosperous kingdom, the youngest of six brothers. He had grown up in the shadow of rigid traditions and inflexible expectations, shaped from his earliest days by the severe dogmas of the Church. He had been harshly taught to bow before the sacred before he could even understand the world around him. Any impulse toward rebellion was to be crushed beneath the crushing weight of faith and obedience. But behind all those gestures of reverence, something else was growing within him: an acidic, slimy, persistent disturbance that gnawed at his soul.

  As he grew, his doubts and frustrations grew with him. What began as small acts of defiance soon became outright dissent, and little by little, his obedience turned into bitter resentment. From that resentment, a silent hatred was born—a black cloud spreading slowly through his thoughts like an insidious disease, hidden as it gathered strength, waiting to erupt into the deepest aversion.

  The promises of salvation began to sound hollow—like cracked bells incapable of ringing true. His faith, perhaps once genuine, crumbled away and gave rise to an uncontrollable hunger for the occult, for the forbidden, for everything the Church condemned with fervor.

  The longing for the profane and his blasphemous ideas invaded his thoughts with obsessive insistence, draining away any interest in worldly matters. Studying them and imagining them became his sole purpose—a kind of relief before the abyss he himself was digging into his soul.

  Soon, imagination alone was no longer enough. He wanted more, praying for the moment when he would be able to carry such things out with his own hands. He yearned to cross the boundaries of desire with growing determination, and he prepared himself for it. The urge pulsed alive in his chest like an independent organism, corroding what little remained of his already fragile morality.

  His transgression began discreetly, taking root in secret like a poisonous flower blooming in the shadows of the castle. His first tributes were small and defenseless creatures—mostly cats and rodents—captured during his solitary walks through the gardens. Lives some would have deemed irrelevant. Perfect victims for his growing hunger.

  Insignificant though those creatures were, it was through their sacrifice that he first tasted the essence of his disturbing fascination. Watching them as life abandoned their small bodies enchanted him. To him, that moment of transition between the warmth of life and the cold of death was beautiful—an experience that offered him a new flavor, intense and dangerously intoxicating.

  Even with that delicious taste in his mouth, Sigmund could not be satisfied. He began to incorporate rites of invocation into his “sessions,” as he called them. But whenever he performed them, they seemed to be nothing more than empty theater. No presence answered the call; no sign manifested. Sigmund, however, did not allow himself to be discouraged. The absence of results did not drive him away; it only deepened his obsession.

  So he increased both the number and frequency of his practices, pushing his rituals even further in search of an answer. His prayers were no longer acts of devotion, but of desperation. He begged and pleaded relentlessly, promising and offering more, demanding a sign—any sign at all. Even the slightest change in the wind would have sufficed, but none ever came.

  In time, his resources began to dwindle. The palace gardens grew strangely silent. Cats that had once wandered the streets and courtyards, dogs abandoned in the fields, rodents that infested the pantries—none of them could be found so easily anymore. Even the birds, usually so talkative along the rooftops, seemed to avoid the sky above the fortress.

  Where once there had been small bodies to feed his acts, now only shadows remained, along with a growing suspicion. It did not take long before continuing became impossible—not without raising troubling questions. The land around the palace had been nearly emptied of life. And that absence infuriated him. The hunger driving his purpose grew sharper with every passing night. His sacrifices were no longer enough, and even if they had been, there was nothing left to offer.

  With no alternatives left, cornered by his own frustration, Sigmund withdrew more and more into his chambers. He locked himself away and vanished for entire days. Hours blurred into sleepless nights lit by candles melting slowly as he rifled through scrolls, books, notes—anything he could find. Trapped by the failure of his own faith, he began to suspect that his new devotion was just as false and meaningless as the one he had abandoned: another empty promise. Disillusionment was a slow poison, and he drank from it every day.

  This change, however, did not go unnoticed. His parents and brothers saw his growing isolation, his constant absence from dinners, his ever-distant gaze, his closed-off demeanor. Before long, whispers began to circulate through the castle corridors. He came to be watched from afar, every movement measured with caution.

  That scrutiny unsettled him. The feeling of being surrounded, of standing at the center of everyone’s attention, forced him to restrain himself. The rituals ceased. The nights of murmuring came to an end. For months, Sigmund made no progress. He merely watched, hiding behind gentle gestures and carefully measured words, waiting for an opportunity. His hunger was compressed, to the point of nearly being forgotten.

  But during that long period of stillness, chance—or fate—opened a new door for him. During his comings and goings through distant lands, his hands came upon a volume he had never seen before. It was an old, heavy book, bound in leather and covered in letters and symbols that belonged to none of the languages spoken in those lands. At first glance, those markings seemed indecipherable, hostile to his eyes. And yet, the moment he touched it, a shiver ran through his arms.

  As he turned its yellowed pages, Sigmund realized that behind those strange signs, the text was, for the most part, written in a language familiar to him. An ancient, rigid, ceremonial tongue he had been forced to learn during the long and tedious lessons imposed by his tutors. Slowly, the contents began to reveal themselves—and more than that, to be understood.

  With every paragraph, the faith he had thought dead rekindled. The book spoke not in vague conjectures or evasive metaphors; it described complete, precise rites. Every gesture, every word, every necessary requirement was laid out without ambiguity. Faced with that revelation, Sigmund saw his own foolishness clearly: his previous sacrifices had been nothing but childish acts, his offerings petty, his prayers devoid of truth. Small lives and timid supplications would never attract the attention of the entities dwelling beyond the veil.

  The book revealed his mistakes to him, the true price to be paid, the kind of devotion required. For the first time, he did not feel deceived or abandoned. At last, he knew what the next step had to be—and he was determined to take it.

  So he waited. Patient and attentive, watching for an opportunity. It did not matter how long it took. Now that he knew which path to follow, he was in no hurry. Years passed before that moment arrived.

  On the eve of his twenty-third birthday, as though gifted by cruel chance, a plague struck one of the provinces near the castle gates and, tragically, spread through its halls, infecting the king and queen. Panic quickly filled the corridors and chambers, consuming the attention of nobles, advisers, and servants alike. The entire court turned itself exclusively toward the suffering of its sovereigns—and in that, Sigmund finally glimpsed the opportunity he had awaited for so long.

  Absorbed in matters of state and in managing the crisis creeping through the kingdom, his brothers had no time to concern themselves with the youngest sibling. What had once been constant surveillance dissolved into convenient neglect, and his habits, once observed with suspicion, came to be ignored. Without their realizing it, Sigmund now possessed what he needed most: freedom. No questions, no distrustful glances, no shadows following his steps. In such circumstances, his impulses were once again able to run free.

  Before making any great advance, Sigmund allowed himself to quench his thirst, resuming his old habits in a reverent manner—just enough to still the craving in his spirit and reaffirm his conviction that he was on the right path.

  As soon as he felt satisfied, he withdrew completely, locking himself in his chambers one last time. For days and nights, he read and reread every map and scroll he possessed, drawing routes and paths of his own. He studied every passage of the tome compulsively. His mind worked without rest, revolving around that single objective. He examined possibilities, reviewing every detail, every risk, only to begin again from the start. The details were dissected to exhaustion; the idea of error was repulsive to him. Everything had to be perfect, exactly as he envisioned it.

  Knowing he could not dare act within the royal domains, nor among the common folk around the castle—where faces were more numerous, yet still recognizable—Sigmund was forced to cast his gaze farther outward, toward distant lands. He needed victims whose absences would not be promptly noticed—or, if they were, would be attributed to the hazards of the road. Names that would never echo through the halls of the castle. Stories that would never become entangled with the blood that sat upon the throne.

  And so his plan took shape, carefully carved over countless hours—a construction born of obsession and fortified by fanaticism.

  For the next stage, he summoned his only allies: a small circle of members of the royal guard. Men who could be bought, whose oaths of loyalty were nothing more than weightless, worthless words. Soldiers who, for the right price, would be loyal only to him. To them he could give any order—no matter how twisted—and they would continue to obey without hesitation.

  To the others, to the court and to his brothers, he offered some convenient justification: he declared that he would depart on a journey of rest and retreat, to remote regions where he might ease his spirit from the tensions of the palace and escape the pestilent air infesting its walls. The explanation was accepted without question. And so, with no further ceremony to perform and no more excuses to offer, he departed, taking with him a carriage and two of his guards.

  The journey stretched on for weeks, guided by the routes Sigmund had traced in advance. The destination was a remote village, lost among arid, desolate hills, far from the centers of trade. To reach it, he made a point of avoiding every known road, steering clear of the busier paths so often used by merchants and travelers. He chose the most winding trails, little-used passages, and regions neglected by their lords and magistrates, always pressing forward through lands where human presence was rare.

  The journey was exhausting. Few opportunities arose to rest in a proper bed, and everything only worsened the farther they moved from his homeland. But as they neared the end of their travels, the road decided to show them kindness. Along that small stretch they had chosen to take, the fields were clear of trees, and the sun shone high in the sky, lighting the entire road ahead. On the right side of the road stood a large inn of ancient appearance, visible even from a great distance. Isolated, yet imposing. A refuge for travelers who, like him, sought rest.

  Sigmund considered pressing onward without interrupting the journey, but exhaustion whispered in his ears, and the burden of the road made itself felt. Convincing himself that the inn, located hours away from any civilized place, would be empty or occupied only by some lost traveler, he allowed himself that pause.

  “A brief detour,” he thought, “enough to recover my strength before resuming the path toward my true destination.”

  When the carriage finally stopped before the place, the creaking of wheels and the clatter of hooves broke the monotony of the surroundings. Inside the inn, heads lifted and turned toward the windows.

  Sigmund and his men stepped down, assuming the guise they had rehearsed from the beginning. He was dressed as a merchant, escorted by his faithful guards. Their dark green cloaks hung heavily from their shoulders. The fine fabric moved with stately grace at every step, coldly contrasting with the roughness of the place. At their waists hung leather pouches stuffed to their limits, clinking softly—a discreet melody, yet enough to betray their prosperity.

  As he pushed open the door and entered the common room, Sigmund was caught off guard. The place was not empty. On the contrary, it was moderately full: tables occupied by travelers, a few small merchants, men of the road, all warmed by fire and drink. The atmosphere, noisy only moments before, broke at once with the group’s arrival. Conversations faded, dwindling into scattered murmurs; even the clinking of cups seemed to lose its force. Gradually, everyone present turned their attention toward them.

  Sigmund kept his expression neutral, though inwardly he recalculated in silence. That concentration of attention unsettled him. Even so, he continued forward with steady steps.

  The innkeeper—a small man with graying hair and busy hands—set aside the cloth with which he had been wiping down the counter and hurried over with a practiced smile. His gestures tried to convey hospitality, but his eyes did not hide the interest stirred by such promising customers.

  “Your most heartfelt and warmest welcome to my humble house, noble sirs!” he exclaimed. “It is an honor to receive you! What may I offer you gentlemen? Please, sit down—I shall bring something to satisfy your hunger.”

  “I appreciate the hospitality, but at the moment we want nothing. We only need to rest a little. Our stay will be brief.”

  “In that case, perhaps something to wet your throat?” he suggested, persistent. “Our ale is the best in these parts. Or perhaps you gentlemen wish to stay the night? Our accommodations are the cleanest and most comfortable you will find anywhere around here.”

  “We will not remain long,” Sigmund replied in a courteous tone. “But I appreciate your determination.”

  The man made a cordial gesture, stepping aside so they could pass, ready to lead them to one of the tables.

  “Sir, I ask that you take us to a table farther away, if possible,” Sigmund said, his tone polite and controlled.

  The innkeeper nodded at once, offering an understanding smile. “Of course, no trouble at all. Not everyone cares for crowded places such as this.”

  He led them to a more secluded corner of the room: a table set against one of the walls, partially veiled in shadow and far from the noisy center. As soon as they sat down, the man gave a brief bow.

  “Gentlemen, if you change your minds, just call. One of my girls will attend to you. Now, if you will excuse me, I have much work to do.”

  Sigmund thanked him with a slight nod. While his men settled in, he leaned back a little and let his eyes drift across the inside of the inn. He assessed the movement of the customers, the tone of their conversations, but his attention soon fixed on the women moving among the tables, and he watched them with interest, attentive to their every gesture.

  They came and went with trays in their arms, laughing softly among themselves whenever they found a rare moment of rest. They quickly noticed the persistent gaze of the newcomer, and their reactions varied. Two of them, a little more self-assured, held his gaze before returning slight smiles. Another, younger, turned her face away at once. A blush rose to her cheeks before she hurried to feign busyness at another table. The last two shot furtive glances back at him, quick and cautious, as though afraid of being caught, yet unable to hide their interest.

  The variety in these responses amused him. Sigmund took pleasure in noticing how a simple measure of attention was enough to alter their rhythm, to provoke them and draw them out of their ordinary composure.

  Enchanted, he let the moment stretch on. The rigid plan he had drawn with such care was beginning to show small cracks in his mind. There was no need to hurry—not in the face of such new and unexpected possibilities. Remaining for a few more hours seemed less like a risk and more like an opportunity.

  As the day gave way to evening, Sigmund noticed the movement in the hall beginning to thin. Groups rose, paid their accounts, and went their separate ways: some passed through the door toward the road, while others climbed the creaking staircase leading to the rooms above. Little by little, the inn lost the bustle that had once filled it. That dispersal struck him as providential. There was no longer any need to resume the journey; the scene before him was shaping itself perfectly well.

  He then leaned discreetly toward his men, keeping his voice controlled. “You two. We are changing our plans. We will not go on to that godforsaken end of the world,” he said, his eyes still sweeping the room around them. “We will do everything here instead—depending on the answer we receive.”

  The guards exchanged a brief glance, but asked no questions. They merely nodded, attentive.

  Satisfied, Sigmund straightened in his chair and raised a hand in a calm gesture, seeking attention. One of the young women wiping down the tables noticed and approached, a sweet smile on her face.

  “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

  “Good afternoon, my dear,” he replied cordially. “Could you tell me your name?”

  “Anne,” she said. “At your service.”

  “A lovely name, Anne,” he answered, smiling back at her. “My dear, could you call the owner over for me? Please.”

  “Of course. One moment,” the young woman replied, already turning toward the counter.

  The innkeeper, who had been arranging freshly washed mugs and setting aside the day’s profits, noticed the girl approaching and did not hesitate to move. He wiped his hands on his apron and left the counter, making his way promptly to the table.

  “Good afternoon, my good man! I would like a word with you.”

  “Certainly, I’m coming at once,” the man replied as he hurried over. His face was lit with hungry expectation. “So, have you finally made a decision? Would you like something? Do you have a request to make?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Sigmund began, his voice smooth, “we would only like to clear up a small doubt that has arisen. These diligent young women who work here, such modest and well-mannered girls... are they, by any chance, your daughters?”

  The innkeeper hesitated for a moment, as though trying to guess the intent behind the question. “What... what exactly is the purpose of that question, my lord?”

  “Nothing but curiosity,” he replied at once. “I noticed the way you look at them, but I wished to confirm it.”

  “They are, yes, my lord,” he finally confirmed, adjusting his apron. “But... forgive my boldness... has there been some problem? Has one of them been rude or failed in her service?”

  “No, not at all,” Sigmund said, letting a slight smile show. “Quite the opposite—they have made a fine impression. Sir... what is your name? I do not believe I had the pleasure of learning it.”

  “Paul, sir,” he replied, lowering his head deferentially. “You may call me Paul.”

  “Oh! A solid, honest name. Paul, I ask that you do not misinterpret the question I am about to ask you, which I ask with all due consideration and respect.” He paused briefly. “I would like to know whether your daughters, so graceful and charming, might be available for certain... services, let us say.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. A crease of suspicion formed between his brows. “Additional services? What exactly are you talking about, my lord?”

  “I have no wish whatsoever to stain your honor, or theirs,” Sigmund continued. His voice took on a smooth, enveloping, almost silky tone. “The truth is quite simple: our journey has been long and arduous, and it has left us rather exhausted, inside and out. What we seek is a bit of comfort and relief, a night of... delight. And allow me to be frank—your young daughters are the most beautiful creatures to have crossed our path in many miles. It would be a gift to us... a comfort to our souls, to enjoy their company over the course of this night.”

  A wave of discomfort crossed Paul’s face. “Forgive my frankness, sir, but they do not... that is, this is not the sort of...”

  Sigmund cut him off with a theatrical motion. He drew his hand from within his cloak and slowly opened it, revealing a small stack of gold coins. The metal caught the smoky candlelight, casting its gleam across Paul’s astonished face. The sum was enough for months, perhaps even an entire year of profit for the establishment.

  “I understand your doubts, naturally,” he declared, his voice firmer now, though still wrapped in seductive promise. “And for that very reason, I am willing to compensate you properly for the discomfort and risk you imagine I represent. A generous payment, which I assure you is more than fair. And I guarantee you, on my word—if that means anything to you—that your daughters will be treated with all the respect and courtesy they deserve.”

  The man’s eyes, fixed on the hypnotic gleam of the gold, waged a battle between duty and need. His conscience protested, creaking like wood about to split, but the call of the coins spoke louder.

  “Well...” he faltered. “Since you are being so... so magnanimous in your offer, and seem to be a man of evident good faith... I suppose there is no reason to refuse such an... opportunity.”

  “Perfect!” Sigmund said, bringing his free hand down on the table. “And, to demonstrate my good will, I shall add to the payment compensation for the work they will miss—both for tonight and for tomorrow. So I ask only that you dismiss them from their duties and bring them to me as soon as possible.” He gave the man’s shoulder a light pat.

  “Would you and your friends not prefer to wait until after dark?” Paul suggested, still somewhat hesitant. “I could prepare a special room for each of you.”

  “I appreciate the courtesy, but it will not be necessary,” Sigmund replied. “We intend to enjoy even the last threads of daylight. And when night falls, we will take the young women with us in our carriage for a private outing... provided that causes you no inconvenience.”

  “No, no... no problem at all,” Paul murmured. “But I do not know where you would go, my lord. There are not many places to go around here.”

  “You need not concern yourself with that. It will only be a little outing. That way we shall have a bit more privacy.”

  “Very well... enjoy yourselves, then. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall go speak with the girls...”

  As soon as the man left the table and moved away, Sigmund leaned in toward his men once more, resuming the earlier conversation.

  “Pay attention. Go back the way we came until you reach that oak grove halfway along the road,” he instructed. “I want everything prepared there. Just as we arranged. I left my book inside the carriage. The symbols I need are marked. Use it precisely. Everything must be done perfectly, do you understand?”

  No questions came from them. The two merely nodded and left the inn at once.

  Minutes later, after being instructed by their father, the five young women approached the table. They did not do so fearfully, but with lively curiosity. All the attention that had been lavished on them earlier, the vain glances and shared smiles, had awakened in them a desire to know that mysterious figure better. Added to this was the unmistakable gleam of wealth: the generous coins left upon the table, the fine fabric of his clothes, the confident bearing he displayed.

  The girls seemed close in age to one another. The youngest had only just left adolescence behind, while the eldest appeared to be somewhere in the middle of her youth. All possessed a simple, unpretentious beauty—soft features, faces still untouched by time, hair hurriedly tied back for work yet still full of life. They approached smiling, the younger ones blushing as they realized they were now being observed exclusively. Before them, Sigmund seemed like a gift sent from heaven—a comfort to their eyes and a remedy to any lingering doubt or suspicion.

  He seemed made for that role. His appearance embodied nobility in every detail: harmonious features and elegant, balanced lines; long, dark, well-kept hair; clean, delicate hands far removed from rough labor. He spoke with gentle, captivating politeness, choosing each word carefully, moving between courtesy and charm with ease. To them, he was not merely some passing traveler—he was the promise of something better.

  And so the hours stretched on without haste. The hall emptied further still, until only they remained. Sigmund stayed alone with them for a long while, guiding the conversation patiently. Shy laughter surfaced here and there, cups were refilled, and trivial stories filled the space between one flirtation and the next.

  But that tranquility was a fragile illusion. While the girls allowed themselves to be swept up in the moment—by the attention, the wine, the promises—Sigmund weighed and waited. The scene was nearly ready, the parts already assigned. All that remained was to lead them onto the stage and carry out the final act.

  By the time night had fully settled, shortly before the tenth hour, Sigmund’s men returned. Their boots bore traces of dark mud, and their clothes betrayed recent contact with earth and brush. Their presence alone—but above all, the state they were in—was enough to alter the mood of the young women. They exchanged uneasy glances before turning back to Sigmund with whispered questions—where had they been, and why did they look like that?

  He, however, soothed them with his gentle words. He told them there was no cause for concern, that the night belonged entirely to them, and that, when the right moment came, it would be only them, far from anyone else. The promise, delivered with charm, was enough to bury the discomfort beginning to stir within them.

  The wine began to flow again with even greater fervor. Cups were refilled before they were even emptied, and the laughter grew looser. Time passed in step with intoxication, until, around midnight, the young women could scarcely hold themselves upright, their senses dulled by drink.

  It was then that Sigmund gave the order to leave. The girls accepted at once, following him of their own free will. They walked unsteadily behind Sigmund’s figure, like moths drawn to light. With the soldiers’ constant support, they reached the carriage waiting for them on the dark road. The vehicle set off soon after. Its wheels creaked as it moved away from the inn, taking the path that led toward the grove.

  To Sigmund, the interior of the carriage soon became a suffocating prison. The minutes dragged on throughout the journey as the vehicle lurched over the uneven road, and with time the discomfort only worsened. Shoulders pressed together without cease, knees knocked against one another at every jolt, and the air grew thick, laden with the sweet smell of wine, with sweat, and with the heat of so many bodies confined together. The sense of enclosure deepened with every stretch of road, as though the journey would never end.

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  Worsening his torment still further, the girls, though drunk, remained restless. The constant swaying, far from lulling them to sleep, seemed only to keep them more alert. Laughter rose and died in the same instant, growing ever louder, replaced by disconnected remarks, whispers, and repeated phrases tossed out at random.

  “This road...” one of them murmured, struggling to pull back the curtain and peer through the gap. “I... I think I’ve been here before. I came with my father...! There’s a grove ahead! I’m sure of it...”

  Sigmund remained motionless between two of the girls, his face impassive, his expression closed. Inside, the smell and the incessant chatter were corroding him, but he strove not to let any of it show. He endured it in silence, counting the seconds until the end of that endless crossing.

  Long minutes passed before the rhythm of the carriage finally changed. The creaking of the wheels diminished, the jolting ceased, until the vehicle slowed completely and came to a stop.

  “My dear... are we there already...?” another asked, her voice thick, confused by time and drink.

  Before they could receive an answer, they heard the groaning of wood above them. The silhouettes of the men climbed down from the driver’s seat, and their heavy footsteps could be heard moving around the carriage. Then the door was opened, letting in the cold night air.

  There was no time for any other question. The men surged forward all at once, invading and filling the narrow space. Rough cloths, soaked in a harsh, penetrating smell, were pressed against the young women’s faces. There was a pitiful attempt at resistance, but all they managed to do was delay the inevitable. The drink they had consumed in excess had dulled their senses, weakening any real chance of reaction. And so the effect was swift, almost immediate. One by one, they lost their strength and gave way.

  Sigmund merely watched in silence as the women were dragged into the grove. Between the dense trees, the clearing awaited them, prepared for that moment. There, the five were arranged and positioned according to the requirements of his plan. Once everything was in order, Sigmund raised his hand in a brief gesture, ordering his men to withdraw. Understanding the command, they disappeared into the forest, making their way back toward the carriage.

  Now entirely alone, he lowered himself and sat upon the ground, resigning himself to wait. He remained there, motionless, watching them with the attention and patience of a collector before rare pieces too precious to be touched at once. His eyes traveled over every detail, every sign of breath, as he waited. There he remained until the stupor began, little by little, to dissipate, returning fragments of consciousness to the women.

  The first sign of lucidity did not take long to reach him: a low, almost imperceptible moan, born of confusion. A fragile sound, but enough. Though they were still clearly trapped in a state of numbness, with dulled senses and scattered thoughts, that noise was exactly the stimulus he had been waiting for.

  Calmly, he rose. He approached the source of the sound without haste, attentive to the uncertain reactions that began to emerge as they came back to themselves.

  For the girl, reality returned in fragments, as though she were rising from a dark lake. First came the sensation of cold against her skin. Then the uncomfortable weight on her shoulders, followed by a throbbing that spread through her arms. She tried to move, but the motion only intensified the pressure on her wrists. Something was holding her suspended. Only then did she perceive the tension, the roughness of rope against her skin, stretching her arms above her head. Fear began to take shape.

  She opened her eyes for an instant, only to close them again, overcome by vertigo. When she tried once more, her vision came blurred. Patches of light and shadow slowly arranged themselves, revealing tall trunks around her, a ground covered in dry leaves, and silhouettes scattered nearby. Other forms spread in a small circle, bound to the trees just as she was. A cold knot formed in her stomach.

  Little by little, her sight regained its sharpness, opening onto the horror taking shape before her. Understanding came in slow waves, growing stronger as reality imposed itself upon her.

  A chill ran down her spine when she noticed the figure standing out before her, only a few steps away, watching her in absolute silence. Her chest tightened, and a feeling of terror crushed her body.

  The words failed as they tried to leave her mouth. All that remained to her was to stammer fragments of prayers—ones she scarcely remembered—broken by uncontrollable sobs that shook her whole body. Tears began to fall, running freely down her dirty face, tracing thin lines through the dust upon her skin.

  The figure moved, and her prayers only grew more desperate. Her vision wavered again, blurred by the tears now pouring even more heavily. But she did not need to see clearly to understand the threat before her. The whole of her being recognized in it a primitive evil, something older than any name.

  With a careful gesture, Sigmund placed a hand at the back of the girl’s neck. His fingers slid through her hair before tightening firmly. He tilted her head back, forcing her to raise her face into the weak light of the lanterns, and then he began to examine her.

  Her dark hair was long and fell in disordered waves over her shoulders. A scattering of freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and spread across her cheeks like tiny marks on porcelain. Her eyes, still filled with tears, were a vivid green, like the first leaves budding in spring.

  The smell of wine still clung to her clothes and her breath. Sigmund’s expression tightened faintly, irritated. That vulgar fragrance clashed with the care he had devoted to every stage of his ritual, tarnishing—however slightly—the scene he had intended to be perfect.

  Her eyes, now fully lucid, met his. And in that instant, all hope ceased to exist. With a pull, he forced her head back even farther, exposing her neck, almost obscene in its fragility. The arch of her throat—pale and delicate—gleamed beneath the pallid light. A perfect invitation.

  He contemplated her with quiet excitement, admiring the shades of horror widening in her eyes, as though imprinting every detail of her expression into his memory. That moment demanded no haste; it was something to be savored slowly. Then, suddenly, he broke the spell of contemplation. In a brutal, bestial movement, he lunged at her and sank his teeth into the soft, warm, delicate skin of her neck, tearing and mangling her flesh in an act of animal violence.

  The young woman’s body reacted by reflex, struggling against the deep pain. Her muscles tensed, her shoulders jerked, her hands twisted against the bonds, while a shudder ran through her chest. But it was a battle doomed to the swiftest and most final of endings. Her strength drained away quickly, together with the blood pouring from her in torrents. The racing rhythm of her heart faltered, slowing until it nearly stopped altogether. The resistance lasted less than a minute, and soon it was over.

  At last Sigmund pulled away, his face stained, his breathing heavy, carrying in his mouth a piece of the girl’s flesh, which he spat out a moment later. The blood continued to spurt in arcs, and he received the hot rain like a blessing. The final spasms of life shook the girl’s body—brief, erratic motions that ceased as quickly as they had begun. All that remained was the gurgling of blood flowing endlessly from the open wound.

  The sight, the sound, the smell, and above all the taste awakened in him an entirely new emotion. Something beyond satisfaction and triumph. A revelation to his senses. A dizziness that overtook him, paralyzing him for a moment. His muscles relaxed, his thoughts dissolved, as though swept away by the wind. He surrendered himself to the delirium of his pleasure, an ecstasy vibrating through the whole structure of his being.

  That was the culmination of all his dark and unspeakable desires, the key that unlocked a realm of sensations he had never even suspected existed.

  When the torrent of sensations began to subside and diminish, turning into a slow, addictive pulse coursing through his veins, Sigmund rose. A new vigor filled him. He was far from sated; he felt ready to continue, to explore even further the new frontier that had opened before him.

  With solemn gestures, he undid the bonds that still held the body’s arms suspended. The young woman, now nothing more than an inert and hollow weight, collapsed onto the ground. Sigmund followed her fall with an intense gleam in his eyes, fascinated. He watched the blood slide in ever thinner streams, mingling with the earth beneath his feet.

  Only when the blood ceased to flow, clotting into a thick pool, did Sigmund emerge from his trance. He brought the back of his hand to his lips, wiping away the red that stained them. His gaze seemed fixed on some distant point beyond the clearing as he murmured a brief, archaic prayer—words drawn from one of his forbidden texts, an act of thanks and consecration for what he had done.

  Only then did he turn his attention to the next one. She was even younger than the one before her, with gentle and delicate features. Her hair rested in large curls over her shoulders, pale as faded gold, while her fair skin made her seem almost otherworldly. The substances dulling her senses had already begun to release their hold, but the terror caused by the agonized sounds of her sister hastened the process, completely dispelling the haze that had numbed her.

  When Sigmund’s figure loomed over her, drenched in blood, a shudder ran through her body. The tremor soon became an uncontrollable shaking that seized her whole frame, making the ropes at her arms quiver and creak with her movements.

  Sigmund advanced slowly toward her, observing every spasm, every breath that shook her slender body. Step by step, her helplessness became ever clearer to him. Her limbs hung limp, her posture was ruined, and from her body came a sour odor born of fear. Soon he stood before her, contemplating her beauty.

  A sudden, irrational fury washed over him, replacing his cruel anticipation with raw, distorted indignation. To Sigmund, this took on an intolerable meaning. That simple act of weakness seemed to him an explicit sign of submission, an unworthy surrender that defiled his ritual.

  Unable to restrain his impulses, he threw himself at the girl, abandoning all ceremony. His hands closed like steel chains around her neck, crushing her throat with excessive force. Beneath his fingers he felt the disordered pulse, life itself reacting in desperation. Color began to rise in her face, first a diffuse flush, then a deeper, heavier shade.

  At the sight of that change—the delicate features being deformed by suffocation—Sigmund felt part of his impulse lose its force. In a quick flash of awareness, he tried to resist; to contain his wrath, at least enough to feel the soft, velvety texture of her skin beneath his fingertips. He loosened his grip by the slightest degree, as though trying to preserve what still remained.

  He managed to struggle against himself for a brief moment. He wanted to restrain the final act, to keep control of the situation. But the memory, the smell, the image of that humiliation seethed in his mind, rekindling his disgust.

  His desire for dominance was consumed by contempt. The vulnerability of that woman, laid bare before him in so crude a form, was intolerable.

  She felt the pressure of his hands intensify, crushing her neck and stealing the air from her lungs. Her vision narrowed, converging directly on Sigmund’s face—the last image she was able to cling to. Her feet flailed in a pathetic, desperate effort. He, however, remained relentless. He continued to squeeze until the last breath of life had entirely left that body.

  When he finally let her go, he could feel streams of sweat running down his body, the result of the effort and the emotions that had overtaken him. He stared at the lifeless body with an expression of disappointment, as though the outcome had been unproductive—too quick and too clean, depriving him of the satisfaction he had expected. There had been no pleasure, only anger, and that left him with a bitterness difficult to bear. Without any celebration, he turned his back on her and moved on toward the third.

  This one, having witnessed the scenes of horror, understood that man’s true intentions. At first she begged for mercy. Her words were a tangle of promises, appeals to heaven, pleas directed both to him and to the angels. But they quickly turned into screams. In the excess of her desperation, gathering the last remnants of dignity she still possessed, she began to spit toward her tormentor. The gesture, small as it was, rekindled something within him. His tense face opened into a broad smile, a grin devoid of even a trace of joy.

  Controlling his excitement, he continued to approach. On the way, his gaze fell upon a jagged stone, large enough that it had to be lifted with both hands. He altered his course, bent down, and picked it up, feeling its weight and the silent promise it carried. Then he stood before the woman, who was now screaming until her voice failed her. Gripping the stone firmly, he raised it above his head and, like a thunderbolt, brought it down in a single merciless blow.

  The impact was brutal, enough to split her skull with horrifying efficiency, cutting off her screams at once. Entranced, Sigmund watched, utterly hypnotized, as blood poured from the fresh fissure.

  But one blow was not enough. An insatiable need took hold of him. He repeated the motion again, and again still, driven by a will he did not understand and scarcely tried to restrain, smashing with force what remained until the contents of her skull spread out in a macabre and shapeless mosaic against the tree trunk behind her. Only then did he stop, contemplating the result of his work.

  With deliberate slowness, he wiped the viscous matter clinging to his fingers and palms, rubbing his hands against his own clothing. Then he made his way toward one of the lanterns hanging nearby, loosening it and taking it down from its chains. The flame, now free, danced close to his face. At once he walked to the center of the clearing, where a clay vessel awaited him. Inside was a dense, viscous liquid prepared especially for that moment. Taking up the vessel, he approached the second-to-last of his victims. The young woman, conscious yet shattered in spirit, could scarcely think; her eyes reflected the lantern flames like two great lakes of despair.

  In complete silence, Sigmund removed the lid from the vessel and tilted it over her, pouring the contents over her head. The liquid streamed down in a single heavy, gleaming flow, soaking her hair and clothing until she was entirely drenched.

  With a slow movement, Sigmund hurled the lit lantern at her feet. The fire engulfed her in the next instant. The flames surged upward with astonishing voracity, enveloping her in their incandescent embrace. Her screams tore through the entire grove—a sound so shrill and devastating that it seemed to split the night itself, echoing through the trees and ripping through the very heart of the darkness. The blaze, a vivid orange, devoured everything it touched with rapid, insatiable hunger, crackling and snapping as it spread.

  Sigmund watched the dance of the flames, spellbound by the hell before him. His eyes followed their swaying, bewitched by the choreography of death.

  The last of them, witness to the entire slaughter committed against her sisters, had fallen into an irreversible state of apathy. Her mind, unable to absorb the succession of horrors, had shut down completely, leaving behind only an empty body stripped of all spirit and will. She did not react when he approached. Then, without haste, Sigmund loosened her bonds, allowing her to fall to the earth.

  From his waist, he drew a short blade of dark metal, and with one precise movement he opened her chest, ending her life in a single stroke. He then plunged his hand into that opening and withdrew her heart. The sensation of the organ still beating in his hand was ecstatic. The final breath of life it still possessed washed over him once more like a tide, sweeping his thoughts far away and making him forget the purpose that had brought him there. Trembling with emotion, he had to draw a deep breath to regain himself.

  Using the tip of the blade, he carved a sequence of signs into the corpse, scoring them from her belly down to her thighs. From one of his pockets he withdrew a small leather pouch of ancient appearance and placed it in the shallow cavity from which he had taken the heart. Then, from the fold of another pocket, he drew a piece of dark linen adorned with golden symbols.

  With a solemn gesture, he veiled the body’s eyes with the cloth and dragged it toward a tree set a little farther apart, whose trunk had been completely carved with glyphs and inscriptions. Using a rope lying discarded at the foot of the tree, he stretched the woman’s body out once more, suspending it by the arms and setting it in place as the final piece of his composition.

  He returned to the heart of the clearing. The air had become almost unbreathable, a heavy mixture that clung to both throat and mind: the rotten smell of blood, entrails, and burned flesh. The earth, once soft, had been churned up and darkened, transformed by the amalgam of all the blood that had been spilled. His garments, once white and elegant, were now stiffened, dyed in a dull crimson that reflected no light at all.

  Sigmund raised his arms toward the shrouded sky, fingers spread like claws in supplication. He lifted his voice, intoning an ancient chant, pronouncing it with absolute solemnity.

  Audite me, o angeli inferni,

  custodes ignis atque tenebrarum.

  Per sanguinem effusum, precibus meis respondete.

  Descendite, innominati,

  et reserate portas mundorum.

  Quod exposco, offero;

  quod invoco, vobis trado.

  Venite… venite ad me.

  Exurgite e sepulcris vestris,

  et obtemperate famulo vestro.

  Domini noctis aeternae,

  supplex vos invoco:

  venite ad me.

  As the chant echoed through the clearing, the world around him began to react. The sounds of the forest suddenly fell silent, plunging the night into a complete, thick, almost tangible hush.

  The shadows stretched long across the ground, consuming it as though they were hungry. The darkness itself seemed to gain substance, closing in around the clearing and smothering what little light the flames still gave.

  As soon as the final syllable left his lips and vanished into the dark, nothing happened. The world remained motionless, as though it had not even noticed his presence. Sigmund felt a discomfort growing in his chest. The air did not stir; even the branches did not creak. It lasted only a few moments—a few short seconds—but to him they stretched like endless hours.

  His jaw tightened. A cold sweat ran down the back of his neck. The emptiness seemed to mock him, swallowing his prayer as though it had never been spoken.

  Then, without warning, the silence broke.

  A cutting gust of wind tore through the clearing, violent and sudden, snuffing out the scattered flames and sending the lanterns swaying in desperation. The night itself shuddered. And from beyond the trees there came a sound that did not belong to that world: the heavy, distinct, threatening beat of hooves—the long-awaited answer to his call.

  “At last!”

  The triumphant thought echoed through his mind. A broad smile strained to spread across his lips.

  And yet that first exultation proved a fragile flower, withering as quickly as it had bloomed. With each impact against the earth, the very atmosphere seemed to change its nature. The air around him began to thin, turning dense and sharp, as though the night were driving out every trace of warmth. The cold advanced—not as a mere discomfort, but as an intrusion, piercing through his clothes and lodging itself in his bones.

  The cold quickly became more excruciating, more penetrating—a needle that pierced the skin with every breath and slashed at his face with every gust, slowing his movements and clouding his thoughts, biting at the extremities of his body until they went numb. The world seemed to be crystallizing, as though even sound itself might splinter in the frozen air.

  The hoofbeats grew louder with every second. The ground trembled beneath impacts that came ever nearer and ever heavier. The sound filled everything, smothering even his own thoughts. His joy drained from him like water through his fingers, giving way to a creeping dread that climbed his spine and made his legs tremble.

  Then, abruptly, a thunderous crash shook the very foundations of the forest—a sound that seemed to rise from the entrails of the earth itself. The vibration made even the highest branches and the strongest trunks shudder. The gallop, which only moments before had been clear and distinct, ceased, followed at once by a succession of cracking sounds—ropes snapping under a brutal force. The noise reverberated through the clearing, echoing across its entire breadth. Soon after came the sound of staggering footsteps advancing in his direction.

  Sigmund heard everything, and even so he remained motionless.

  It was not fear that kept him there, rooted to the ground. It was emptiness. A simple, total absence of reaction, as though his body had been seized. Faced with those sounds, he merely stood still and waited, unable either to advance or retreat.

  He felt every hair on his body rise when an enormous presence, something his mind could not define, came to stand behind him. A warm breath, heavy with the smell of sulfur, passed over the back of his neck, sending such violent chills through him that they bordered on pain. He crossed his arms over his chest and fixed his eyes on the ground, holding himself firm against the urge to look back.

  A pair of hands—cold as blocks of ice, yet heavy as though made of stone—settled upon his back. They moved with unbearable slowness, sliding along his spine in a gesture of appraisal, examining each vertebra, each fiber of his posture, every slightest hesitation he tried to conceal.

  “Are you afraid?” The voice that rose behind him was of an almost indecent softness, a velvety murmur utterly at odds with the violence of its arrival. The breath that had once carried a putrid stench now exhaled a strangely sweet, floral fragrance, cloying in its sweetness.

  The hands settled over his abdomen with the weight of a block of metal, as though laying intimate claim to him. Sigmund kept his lips firmly sealed.

  “Answer me,” whispered the entity. The softness remained in its voice, but now it was threaded through with a line of authority.

  “No. I am not afraid,” he managed, his throat dry as sand.

  The presence let out a brief, shrill laugh, a sound devoid of any warmth. “Are you certain of that, Sigmund? That is not what I see in you...”

  He hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “I called you here to... propose an agreement,” he said, forcing the words out.

  “A pact,” it repeated, drawing out the word with a mixture of interest and mockery. “And what would be the nature of your request? What do you demand of me, and what do you have to offer in return?”

  “Immortality,” he said.

  The word hung between them like a great poisonous cloud. The presence’s response did not take long. The hands resting on his abdomen plunged inward—tearing through his skin, passing through his flesh as though it were a slab of butter. A monstrous pressure took hold within him, stirring his entrails with slow, agonizing movements. An indescribable nausea flooded him.

  Then, like burning iron, a voice pierced directly into his thoughts. “To live forever? Is that what your miserable flesh longs for? Is that your great desire?”

  He shuddered from head to foot. Though low and gentle, the voice carried with it a palpable aversion, an immense contempt for what he had said.

  “STO—” he tried to cry out, no longer able to endure the pain.

  But before the sound could fully form, the creature clamped one hand over his mouth, silencing him. “You would do better to keep quiet. If you scream, I will tear you in half.”

  Then it plunged its hand back inside him. Its fingers, buried deep within, trembled and pushed farther in, twisting his insides as though they were wet cloth. Sigmund’s head throbbed with excruciating pain, pulsing as though someone were hammering against the walls of his skull.

  “The very least I require is clarity, my sweet prince,” it continued. “Tell me, once and for all, what you want, and what you offer. It becomes difficult to decipher your desires when you insist on keeping your mouth shut.”

  An intangible fire seemed to set his core ablaze, spreading through every corner of his being. It was like being consumed, devoured continuously from the inside out. His senses were squeezed, crushed, compressed. A warm, salty current burst forth from every opening: blood spilling from everywhere, running from his nose, sliding from the corners of his eyes, flooding into his mouth.

  “Im... immortality...” he gasped. Each syllable burst against his lips in tiny bubbles of blood. “The... the five women... I offered them to you... their souls... they are yours...”

  “Oh, dear, do not be pathetic. Did you truly think something like that would suffice? Do you imagine the lives of those five cover the price of your request? We require equivalence in our transaction. Our bargain demands balance. On both sides.”

  A stab of surprise went through him, driving him into desperation as he searched for something he could offer. “My kingdom!” he panted next. “Its whole extent shall be yours. All its lands, its houses... all who dwell in them... all my people... I give them all to you!”

  “Your na?veté irritates me,” the entity sighed with false tenderness, pushing even deeper inside him. “I do not covet what belongs to others. All of that belongs to your honorable father, does it not? You offer me a treasure that is not yours. You will need to try a little harder, boy.”

  “Take me!” Sigmund begged.

  The entity did not even answer at first, stunned by what he had said. A silence settled between them, broken only by his heavy breathing.

  The response came in the form of laughter. A laugh of disbelief. A broad sound that echoed through the night, making the air vibrate and the shadows writhe at the edges of sight. The trees groaned, and the earth itself seemed to tremble in agreement.

  The entity laughed for a long while, rasping as it lost its breath.

  “Take you...?” the voice came, broken by laughter and laden with scorn. “Oh, little one... do you truly believe you are coin enough? A desperate man,” it continued. “Fragile, hollow. What could you possibly offer besides weakness?”

  Sigmund swallowed hard. The laughter still reverberated in his bones when he gathered what little courage he had left. “I give you my soul! I will make myself your servant!” he went on desperately. “I shall walk in your name. Wherever there is life, I will bring death. By my hands, countless multitudes of souls shall be delivered to you. Command, and I will obey!”

  “Let me be your instrument! I will raise altars upon the ashes,” Sigmund continued. “Kingdoms shall fall in your name. I will be your blade, your voice, your herald.”

  A small smile formed on the entity’s face. “Now that, indeed, begins to entice me,” it purred. For the first time, there was a flicker of genuine interest in its voice.

  The pressure inside his body eased slightly, as though it had withdrawn. The hands piercing his interior pulled back, stained red. The act was followed by a torrent of blood pouring from the hollows left in his abdomen. The prince collapsed to his knees, gasping, drenched in sweat and blood.

  The presence stepped forward, circling him and coming to stand before him with effortless elegance. “Come now, look at me... let me see that beautiful face of yours. Perfect...”

  With effort, Sigmund raised his eyes. There, supported on all fours like an animal, was the woman whose heart he had torn out. Her face held an inhuman emptiness. The opening in her chest poured forth black, unceasing blood. The runes carved into her flesh burned with a sickly glow, bleeding as well. Before him stood the last of his victims—raised again, transformed into the profane vessel inhabited by that entity.

  “So tell me, then...” the voice resounded, dancing between threat and seduction. “What is it that you desire from me?”

  Sigmund stared into the abyss, feeling smaller than a fly. “I want... I want to become your servant... forever.”

  An obscene, disproportionate smile stretched across the girl’s pale mouth, pulling her lips farther than any human face should have been able to bear.

  “Will you kill in my name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you eat, sleep, and breathe in my honor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you satisfy my every will and desire?”

  “Yes...” he murmured, lowering his head in submission. “I beg you... make me your instrument... your sword...”

  Her smile widened even further, becoming a monstrous gash of satisfaction. “You shall serve me until the seas run dry and the stars shatter. Until the entrails of the world close up and all creation falls silent. Your life belongs to me. You are mine. Forever.”

  “Please...” Sigmund’s voice was now no more than a breath, a thread so weak it could scarcely be heard. “Grant me the privilege of serving you...”

  Silence reigned again, so absolute that it seemed to press weight upon the air.

  “Then, if your devotion is true and your surrender genuine,” it hissed, “offer me your blood.”

  Without a trace of hesitation, Sigmund clenched his fists with grim determination. His right hand slid to his sheath and drew the dagger kept there. The blade was still damp, carrying the remnants of his last sacrifice. With a resolute motion, he cut a deep gash across the palm of his left hand. The pain shot up his arm like a flare. Blood streamed in thick threads, dripping directly onto the ground. The earth—as though it were a living, thirsty creature—drank it eagerly, absorbing every drop with ravenous hunger.

  The entity moved, taking hold of Sigmund’s face with an illusory gentleness that suddenly transformed into crushing force. Its fingers pressed into his cheeks, leaving deep marks. It pulled him toward itself, erasing the distance between them, until its cold lips pressed against his.

  The moment their lips met, he felt something entering him. It was neither liquid nor gas, nor anything that could be named. It was a sensation, pure and contemptuous of the body’s boundaries. An uncontrollable, insatiable hunger seeped directly into his spirit, tearing through him as though burrowing a nest there.

  An abyssal emptiness opened in his chest, so vast and oppressive that it stopped his heart. For an instant, he felt that he would cease to exist.

  His heart resumed beating a fraction of a second later with a painful thud, but it no longer beat in the same way. Each pulse was now slower, burdened with a dark frequency—like a drum echoing from within a cavern without end.

  The entity broke into laughter. A sound that did not come from a single being, but from a multitude of voices, a chorus that spread like a gale. The laughter endured for long seconds, until the presence began to fade, taking the cold and darkness with it and leaving Sigmund completely alone.

  His mind, unable to withstand what had entered it, finally gave way. His strength drained from him, and the ground received him. Sigmund sank into a heavy unconsciousness, without dreams or forms.

  As the darkness slowly unraveled, yielding its dominion to the persistence of dawn, it revealed a sky of clear, flawless blue, without a single cloud—ironically pure.

  The first ray of sunlight pierced through the leaves and fell upon Sigmund’s damp face. The gentle warmth spread across his skin, calling him back to reality. He drew a deep breath, and only then did his eyelids lift, heavy as iron gates. The movement was painful, as though his eyes had remained sealed for centuries, trapped in a trance from which they were struggling to escape.

  First came the pain, spread through every muscle as though his body had been stretched, twisted, and hurled back onto the earth. A crushing weight inhabited his chest, and every breath demanded great effort. A persistent throbbing hammered at his skull, as though something inside were trying to get out. Sigmund groaned as he tried to move. The mere act of flexing his fingers sent a shiver through him, and his joints answered with creaking protest. For a moment, he could not tell where he was—only that he had survived something he should not have.

  With great difficulty, he rolled onto his side, feeling the earth cling to the palms of his hands. The world spun, forcing him to stop. He waited. Breathed. Counted the beats of his own heart until the vertigo receded enough. He braced one knee on the ground and then the other, assuming a posture of reverence, head bowed and shoulders hunched. Every movement came with a sharp stab of pain. The throbbing in his forehead intensified, pulling a restrained hiss from between his clenched teeth.

  Bracing himself on his knees, he began to rise, inch by inch. His legs trembled, unsteady, but they held him. When at last he stood, still bent and breathing with difficulty, he had the distinct sensation that something was different. He closed his eyes, letting the pain settle. Sweat ran down his torso, cold as spring water.

  His first and most urgent action was to search the surroundings. To look for evidence of what had happened the previous night. He searched desperately for something he could see or touch, any proof that might rescue him from the suffocating thought taking shape in his mind—that everything had been nothing more than a fevered delusion. A feeling of despair settled within him: that it had all been a fantasy, manufactured by sleepless nights, by exhaustion, and by his growing obsession.

  The scene around him was terrifying. The landscape appeared inexplicably clean, as did his garments, immaculate as though they had just come off the loom. Not a single stain, spatter, or mark could be found upon them.

  There were no bodies. There was no blood, not even a single dark pool upon the ground. Not even the ropes, nor the faintest trace of ash or bone, could be found. There was nothing.

  The place where the bodies had been left now displayed a lush carpet of low-growing vegetation. Thick leaves of dark green covered the ground like a living blanket, as though the earth itself had been commanded to conceal—or perhaps to accept and digest—the abominable sin committed there. Sigmund felt his stomach turn. He staggered forward a few steps, dragging his feet, while a torrent of questions churned through his mind.

  Faced with the absence of any outward proof, he turned his attention inward, to the only territory left for him to examine. With his fingers, he began to inspect every inch of his skin, searching for a mark, a scar, or any other sign that might attest to the truth of what he had done.

  He began with his abdomen. The blurred memory of the previous night told him that something there ought to have been torn open. He pulled aside his tunic and pressed his fingers against the skin. Nothing—no hollow, no rupture. The surface was whole, intact. He furrowed his brow in confusion and passed his hand over it once more, as though the error lay in his touch rather than in reality.

  Dissatisfied, he continued. He moved upward across his chest, along his sides, over his ribs, feeling himself with almost surgical attention. He twisted his body, searching beneath his arms, at his neck, at the base of his nape. No wound. It was as though his body had been spared.

  Then his eyes fell upon his own hand. Sigmund raised it before his face, still trembling, so that he might be certain. A cut crossed his palm, opening in one long, deep line. Its edges were raw and reddened—far too fresh. There was no scab, no sign of healing, as though a blade had only just touched him.

  The wound did not burn. It did not throb. Nor did it bleed. The cut remained open, like a symbol engraved into his flesh. Sigmund passed the thumb of his other hand over it, pressing lightly. Still nothing. No reaction at all.

  A chill ran down his spine. That mark was not a mere remnant of the night. It was a confirmation. A seal left there deliberately to remind him. Sigmund slowly closed his fingers, hiding the cut within his palm, while understanding settled heavily in his chest.

  With steady steps, he made his way along the narrow path that led back to the main road. Everything his eyes touched seemed more beautiful—the leaves drenched in dew, the roots stretching across the earth. In the distance, sheltered beneath the generous canopy of a great oak, his carriage stood waiting, exactly where he had left it the night before.

  The guards—two impassive figures, still as iron statues—remained fixed at their posts, awaiting their master. When they noticed his approach, alone and with his clothes in disarray, they offered only a restrained nod, a greeting that carried a tacit understanding. They refrained from any question, avoiding both words and direct glances.

  Sigmund, for his part, scarcely paid them any mind. His thoughts moved in another realm, far beyond that place. He climbed into the carriage and let himself sink into the softness of its cushions, closing his eyes with a sigh.

  The horses were guided forward with care, and the carriage began to move. At that moment, a smile curved across his lips. The wound in his hand and the images reverberating through his memory aligned themselves as the unmistakable signs of his baptism.

  He understood that he had not merely crossed a boundary, but destroyed it completely. He no longer walked beside other men—he stood above them. The frailty that defined mortals had become laughable. There was no longer any doubt: he had been chosen, shaped. And now, invested with purpose, Sigmund felt whole for the first time. Serene. Certain. Superior.