I turned around slowly, my knees cracking under the effort, my breath still short from the adrenaline that was starting to fade. I expected to see a soldier, a guard, or maybe just emptiness.
But what awaited me was far more unsettling.
Before me stood a figure of silent authority. He was an older man, his face crossed by a complex network of deep wrinkles, like the bed of a river dried up by decades of knowledge and worry. Yet despite the marks of time, his complexion was clear, almost waxy, clashing with the grime and soot covering the other inhabitants of the citadel. His hair, iron-gray, was cut short, maintained with military or monastic precision.
He wore a long dark monk's robe, a habit of thick fabric that seemed to absorb the light around him. Unlike the blood-stained healers running everywhere, he was spotless. He stood straight, hands folded in his wide sleeves, motionless amid the chaos.
His gaze pierced through me. It wasn't a look of curiosity, but of dissection. He observed me like an entomologist observes a rare insect he's just pinned to a cork board. He analyzed each of my movements, each of my micro-expressions, weighing the weight of my soul without saying a word.
The wind suddenly rose, lifting swirls of ochre dust that came to whip my bare legs, but the man didn't flinch. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, only disturbed by the crackling of fire in the old metal barrel and the distant moans of the wounded. I was petrified, surprised and intimidated by this aura of quiet power.
Then his thin lips finally parted. His voice was calm, measured, but it carried a resonance that silenced the murmurs around us.
"Nice work."
He took a step toward the wounded man I had just saved, inspecting the knot of torn fabric with an approving nod.
"The method of using clothing as a tourniquet... that was really quite clever," he continued, his eyes returning to lock onto mine. "How did you know to tie the cloth precisely at that spot, just above the femoral artery, to stop the bleeding without condemning the leg?"
He pulled a thin hand from his sleeve and placed it on his clean-shaven chin, rubbing his skin in a thoughtful gesture, as if trying to solve a complex equation where I was the unknown variable.
I remained silent, my throat dry. How had I known? The truth was that my hands had known before my brain. But how could I explain that to this man who seemed to demand rational answers?
His face suddenly lit up with false revelation. He snapped his fingers softly.
"Ah, I know!"
He stepped closer, his shadow stretching to my feet.
"You must be an emissary sent by the neighboring kingdom. Yes, that must be it. The technique, the speed of execution... it bears the mark of their school."
Even more surprised, I looked at him with wide eyes, unable to form a single word. The neighboring kingdom? Was I a foreigner here? A spy? An ally? Questions swirled in my foggy mind, making me dizzy.
The man, seeing my silence persist, tilted his head slightly to the side.
"Have you no tongue, young man? Or has the journey exhausted you too much to deign to answer a superior?"
He began to circle around me. Floc... Floc... The sound of his sandals on the packed earth echoed like the countdown of a bomb. He inspected me from every angle, noting my tattered clothes, my bruises, my hunched posture. I felt like a circus animal, or worse, like a suspect during an interrogation. Around us, the soldiers and other healers had frozen, watching the scene with amazement. Seeing this high dignitary take interest in a vagabond emerged from a cave was an anomaly in their brutal daily life.
After a complete circle, he came back to stand in front of me. His expression had changed. Doubt had crept in.
"Strange," he murmured, loud enough for me to hear. "You don't wear the insignia of the neighboring kingdom... Your clothes are those of a beggar, not a diplomat. So you're not really among the fifty doctors the king ordered sent to us to help heal our war wounded."
Terror began to seep into my veins, cold and paralyzing. This old man, who seemed to oscillate between madness and genius, seemed to hold the power of life or death here. If he decided I was an impostor or an enemy spy, what would happen to me?
He took another step, invading my personal space. I could smell the scent of ancient ink and medicinal herbs emanating from his robe. He plunged his gaze into mine, seeking to pierce the very mystery of my existence, to read my most buried secrets.
"Who can you be, young man?" he asked in a voice that admitted no lies.
The pressure was unbearable. My heart pounded wildly against my ribs, boom-boom, boom-boom, as if it wanted to escape from my chest. My hands were clammy, slippery. I wiped them nervously against what remained of my dirty pants, seeking composure.
I took a trembling breath and, with all the desperate honesty I was capable of, I let out:
"I'd like to know that myself, sir."
The answer floated in the air for a moment.
The man's eyes widened, then an unreadable smile stretched his thin lips. He looked left, right, taking witnesses to task, before laughing with a dry, joyless laugh.
"Know? What do you mean? So you're telling me I've stumbled upon not only an unknown doctor with prodigious talent, but on top of that, he doesn't even know his own name? That's priceless!"
His amusement evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. His face hardened, becoming as cold as the cave stone. He stared at me again, and this time there was a palpable threat in his gray pupils.
"For the last time, young man, tell me who you are. This is no time for riddles."
Now I really had my tongue suspended. Words remained stuck in my throat, strangled by fear. I felt I was preparing to live through a nightmare that had no name. I already saw guards taking me away, imagined myself thrown into a dark cell for interrogation. The air around me became heavy, electric. This man overloaded me, his aura crushed me.
I had no answer. I only had my inner emptiness.
Desperate, I closed my eyes. I squeezed them tight, very tight, like a child who hopes to make the monster disappear by refusing to see it. I waited for the blow. I waited for the sentence. I accepted the future punishment he would inflict on me at that moment.
But the blow didn't come.
Instead, a voice rose, breaking the tension like glass. A breathless but firm voice that was approaching quickly.
"Hey! Leave that young man alone!"
My eyes opened abruptly.
The voice had addressed my inquisitor with surprising familiarity, almost a reproach. I saw a silhouette detach from the group of healers and run toward us. It was another doctor, younger, features drawn by fatigue but animated by protective urgency. He seemed to know the man I had operated on; he was surely one of his patients he must have left unsupervised.
This stranger had just interposed himself between me and the old monk. He was already judging me in advance without knowing me, but this newcomer was taking my defense.
Then I was overwhelmed by a wave of relief so powerful it almost made me fall to my knees. For the first time since waking up in that cursed cave, I was truly very satisfied. Even if it was a face I didn't know, even if I was still lost in the middle of nowhere, I was no longer alone facing judgment. I had an ally.
The man who had just interrupted my ordeal approached.
If the old monk was a statue of cold stone, this newcomer was a blade of gleaming silver. He advanced with natural majesty, each of his steps seeming to measure and conquer the ground he walked on. He exuded absolute confidence, an aura of seriousness and power that swept everything in its path.
I devoured him with my eyes, fascinated. He wore noble attire, a superior quality fabric that had no business in the mud of this camp. His jacket, cut from dark, rich cloth, hugged his build perfectly, and his polished leather boots reflected the flames without bearing the slightest trace of dust. He was of imperial class.
In my foggy and desperate mind, I immediately began to fantasize about him. I idealized him. From his gait, from his proud bearing, I understood he must be one of the most educated men in this region. He embodied civilization against barbarism. He couldn't have that antisocial and inquisitorial behavior his colleague in monk's robes displayed. He was my hero. My chic savior.
He arrived at my height, stopping just close enough for me to smell a subtle scent of expensive soap and old leather, contrasting with the stench of blood and sweat.
He looked me over slowly, from head to toe, as if I were an exotic creature, a rare gorilla escaped from its cage.
"Fascinating," he murmured, the word rolling on his tongue with intellectual curiosity. "Truly fascinating."
He paused, a half-smile stretching his lips.
"So my niece wasn't lying about you."
I remained stunned, lost in a new mental labyrinth.
His niece? Who was that? The girl I'd seen in my flash being captured? Or someone else? And what did he mean, "she wasn't lying"? What did they know about me that I didn't know myself? A thousand questions crowded behind my sealed lips, but my courage, already severely tested by the old monk, abandoned me. I didn't dare ask. Not in my situation as a vagabond on borrowed time.
He continued his inspection, nodding his head.
"Really, it's really very fascinating."
He took one more step, invading my personal space with an authority that called for no resistance. He plunged his eyes into mine.
"Tell me, young man, do you at least know who you are?"
The question struck me like an unpleasant echo. I had already heard it in the cave, facing Kenis. It was the cursed refrain of my existence. Looking intrigued, I lowered my head slightly.
"No, not really, sir. Sorry."
Far from disappointed, the man looked at me with redoubled fascination, as if my ignorance was the missing piece of a complex puzzle.
"No matter," he said lightly. "Welcome to life."
This phrase resonated strangely, both like a promise and a threat. He looked away from my face to observe my hands—these hands that had just sewn flesh—then my bare and battered feet.
"Hmm. It's really a shame to see such a fascinating boy dressed like this," he said with a grimace of disdain for my rags.
He then turned to the old monk who, to my great surprise, had lost all his arrogance. The terrifying inquisitor now stood with his head down, docile. The nobleman placed a hand on his colleague's shoulder, a gesture that looked like friendship but mainly marked total domination.
"Isn't it?" he asked, nodding twice.
"Yes, yes, yes, sir," the monk stammered, almost bowing.
I immediately understood the hierarchy. This elegant man was the superior, the master of the game. His salary, his attitude, the respect he inspired... everything proved he was at the top of the food chain.
He continued, speaking more to himself than to us:
"The Captain wasn't wrong then... Good."
His tone changed abruptly. Analysis was over, time for action. He clapped his hands once.
"OK. Enough chatter. Follow me."
He turned on his heel in a rustle of fabric and began to walk.
I remained planted there, frozen. The air suddenly seemed to weigh tons around me. Follow him? Where? To a prison? To a palace? I asked myself a thousand and one questions. I didn't know what he meant, or what fate awaited me at the end of his steps.
Seeing that I wasn't moving, the man turned around halfway, impatience marking his aristocratic features. He glared at me.
"Are you deaf or what? I asked you to follow me."
The situation was a two-jawed trap. I had the choice between staying here with the hostile old monk who surely dreamed of finishing his interrogation, or following this enigmatic "savior" who had just offered me a golden bait.
I chose the unknown.
I began to follow him, my bare feet slapping on the hardened ground, trying to match my rhythm to his. We left the medical area to plunge into the bowels of the citadel.
We crossed the forge district.
Clang! Pschhhh! Clang!
The heat was suffocating, the air vibrating with the fusion of metal. On each side of the alley, blacksmiths with arms as thick as tree trunks hammered glowing swords, making showers of sparks fly that died at our feet. None of them raised their heads to observe our passage. They remained bent over their work, ignorant or terrified by the man I was following. We cut through the crowd and noise without a glance, like specters crossing an industrious hell.
Finally, we arrived before an imposing structure. The place was saturated with noise, a dull rumor full of suspense escaping from the walls. A palpable tension floated in the air.
The man stopped abruptly at the entrance. He pivoted toward me, his face grave, stripped of his fascinated smile. He grabbed my arm, his grip firm but not brutal.
"Listen to me carefully, kid," he said, his voice covering the crash of the forges. "From now on, things are going to get very intense."
He released me and pointed to the door.
"So take my hand. And don't let go."
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