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The Lord of the North listened to Father Tuk attentively, but a different plan was already forming in the depths of his mind. The Hodegetria… yes, it was undoubtedly a great holy object, a symbol. But it belonged to this Empire, steeped in its dust and fading glory. Father Tuk, for all his greatness, thought like a clergyman, seeing only the symbols that already existed in this world. The Lord's vision extended further.
He slowly shook his head, and a faint shadow crossed his face.
"No, Father Tuk," he said, his voice calm but filled with unshakeable confidence. "The Hodegetria is merely a symbol of the Emperor's power, his faded shadow. It is too… mundane."
The Lord stood, walked to the fireplace where the fire crackled steadily, and turned to the Archbishop.
"We don't just need an icon that symbolizes someone's past dominion. We need a relic whose power is impervious to time and human intrigue. A relic that transcends all earthly disputes and dogmas. Not just a symbol of their faith, but its very essence. And such a relic exists."
His gaze met Father Tuk’s.
"We need the Girdle of the Theotokos."
Father Tuk's eyes widened. Even for him, a pragmatic clergyman, this sounded like something from legend, almost unattainable. The Girdle of the Theotokos... it was not just a holy object, but one of the greatest relics in the entire Christian world, a symbol of purity, intercession, and incomprehensible Divine grace. It was believed to be kept in one of the most ancient and impregnable monasteries of the East, under vigilant guard and far from the bustle of the world.
"The Girdle of the Theotokos..." he whispered, his voice filled with awe and disbelief. "But, my Lord… This... this is a different kind of goal. This is not just a challenge to the Emperor. This... this is a challenge to the world itself. No one has seen it for centuries. It lies far away, in inaccessible lands."
"Precisely, Father Tuk," the Lord replied calmly. His eyes shone with cold calculation. "If the Emperor loses the Hodegetria, it will be a humiliation. But if we obtain the Girdle of the Theotokos… it will be more than a humiliation. It will be a verdict. It will show the entire world that God has turned away from their decrepit empires and turned His face toward true faith, true prosperity, the true center of power. Toward the Honey Mug."
The Lord continued, considering every aspect. "The Hodegetria would only weaken them, but the Girdle of the Theotokos... it will elevate us to an unreachable height. It will make our Cathedral not just magnificent, but sacred, and our power—divine. And its very inaccessibility will make it a true relic, proving that we are the chosen ones. This is a goal worthy of the Honey Mug and its Lord."
Father Tuk remained silent, processing what he had heard. His pragmatism warred with a deep sense of reverence. He understood that this was not mere ambition; it was strategic genius capable of changing the entire spiritual landscape of the world.
"How... how can we achieve this, my Lord?" he finally asked. His voice held not only anxiety but also unconcealed admiration. "This will require incredible effort and resources."
The Lord smiled. His gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance, beyond the walls of the Honey Mug, beyond the Empire. "For that, we have our resources, Father Tuk. Our agents. Our gold. And our luck. Especially our luck." He thought of Hasan and his "Uroboros's Blade of Chance." "This will be the greatest of our adventures."
He unrolled an old, yellowed map, pointing to the misty, unmarked regions.
"These lands… they are difficult to access. They are inhabited by wild tribes and ancient orders that jealously guard their secrets. The roads to Khaptar, if they exist at all, are known to only a few. Legends speak of impassable gorges, of mountain passes where the glacier itself breathes, and of fogs that hide the path even from an experienced guide. And the monastery... it is described as a fortress carved into the rock, protected not only by walls but by a faith that has accumulated over centuries."
"To get there unnoticed is a feat. To take it by force... is practically impossible without a huge army, which we could not move through these lands undetected. It is guarded not only by monks but, according to legend, by certain orders of warrior-monks who have dedicated their lives to protecting holy relics. And those who have dared to approach without a blessing have vanished without a trace."
Tuk sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Many have tried to obtain it over the centuries. Kings, emperors, crusaders… none have succeeded. Some claim that the Girdle chooses its own place and cannot be taken by force. But those, of course, are just conjectures and legends, meant to frighten away those who would dare."
While Archbishop Tuk delved into the legends, Green, the Lord's brilliant advisor, was already laying out his maps, pencils, and parchments. His gaze was focused. He listened to Father Tuk, but his mind was already processing the information, turning legends into potential routes and obstacles.
"Khaptar Monastery, then," Green muttered, circling a vague spot on the map somewhere beyond the eastern trade routes. "Inaccessibility is always both an advantage and a disadvantage. Wild tribes… ancient orders… this means that traditional methods of infiltration will not work. We will need something different."
He began to sketch a diagram, his hand moving quickly. "The eastern trade routes, on which we now conduct duty-free trade, can be a starting point. We can use them for the covert movement of agents and resources. Hasan, with his unpredictable luck, could be useful in the initial stage, penetrating where others would not dare. But the power of his dagger against a monastery…" Green grunted disapprovingly.
"A monastery in the rock," Green continued, as if talking to himself. "This means a storm is impossible. Infiltration must come from within. We need information: the size of the garrison, the location of secret passages, the changing of the guards, the nature of the warrior-monks. Do they have vulnerabilities? Underground passages? Dependence on external supplies?"
He looked at the Lord. "My Lord, this will be the most difficult operation we have ever undertaken. It will require maximum stealth, precise planning, and possibly the use of all our unique resources. But if we succeed... the spiritual dominance of the Honey Mug will become indisputable. We will become the guardians not just of a faith, but of the most sacred symbol in Christianity. The Emperor will be brought down not only economically, but spiritually."
The Lord listened to them both, imagining the grand scale of the task ahead. The Girdle of the Theotokos. This was not just a conquest; it was a sacred descent that would raise the Honey Mug to the pinnacle of the world. And he, the Lord of the North, was ready to begin this journey.
His question was direct, and he asked it with the same calm calculation with which he usually planned military campaigns. "So, in Khaptar Monastery?" he asked, fixing the target in his mind. "Can we go there disguised as pilgrims?"
Father Tuk, who had just finished describing the monastery's impregnability, froze for a moment. A spark flashed in his eyes, as if the Lord had hit the nail on the head. Green, who was still poring over the maps, raised his head, his gaze sharpening.
"As pilgrims… That is a bold move, my Lord. Very bold. And... brilliant."
Green, always thinking tactically, immediately engaged: "The advantages are obvious, my Lord. Any military incursion into these lands will attract attention. Khaptar Monastery, according to the Archbishop, is guarded not only by warrior-monks but is also in a very hostile environment. Open conflict means huge losses and almost certain failure. But pilgrims…"
Father Tuk picked up Green's thought, his face brightening. "Pilgrims do not arouse suspicion. Monasteries, even the most secluded ones, always receive the faithful. Perhaps not all of them, and with caution, but they cannot refuse those who come with pure faith and humility. Especially at a shrine like Khaptar Monastery, where every pilgrim is a confirmation of their own greatness."
"We could use this flow," Green continued, his eyes lighting up with anticipation. "A few of our people, well-disguised as pilgrims. They could get inside, gather information. Perhaps even establish contact with someone on the inside. Father Tuk, your archiepiscopal rank and the reputation of your Cathedral could serve as excellent cover. Who would dare refuse entry to envoys from the Archbishop of the North, who has erected such a magnificent Cathedral?"
"Yes," Father Tuk nodded, his crosier seemingly nodding in approval from the corner. "Their faith in the sanctity of the relic could be their weakness. Monks dedicated to its protection may be less vigilant towards those who come in prayer. Besides, my Lord, I could prepare our people myself. I know how pilgrims think, how they behave. How to blend in with the crowd without raising suspicion. My sermons and my reputation could give them a legend that will be believed."
"But the risks are still enormous," Green warned. "Even if they get inside, the monastery is a fortress. To carry the Girdle out from under the noses of warrior-monks... that will require surgical precision and, possibly, a diversion. Or something completely unexpected."
The Lord nodded. The idea was bold, but its potential was immense. Covert infiltration under the guise of a pilgrimage. It was not the blow of a sword, but the delicate thrust of a rapier, and then, perhaps, the decisive shot from a heavy pistol that would settle everything. This was his style—strategic genius, tactical mastery, and cold calculation.
"Then we shall proceed," he said, rising from the table. "Green, begin preparing the infiltration plan. All the details. Father Tuk, you will handle the preparation of our 'pilgrims.' They must be indistinguishable from the real ones. And I... I will find the one who can carry out that 'something completely unexpected.'" His gaze fell upon the scroll bearing Hasan's name.
The foresight and readiness for personal risk that distinguished the Lord of the North from any other military leader in the Empire were now on full display. The idea of infiltrating as pilgrims was already audacious, but now he took it a step further. He looked at Father Tuk and Green, who were still discussing the plan's details, and said with a perfectly calm expression:
"Or perhaps, we ourselves could go under the guise of pilgrims to carry out the reconnaissance."
Silence fell in the study. Green froze, his pencil hovering over the map. Father Tuk, who usually maintained his composure, narrowed his eyes, a look of mild shock mixed with admiration on his face.
"My Lord!" Green breathed, the first to recover from his surprise. "That... that is incredibly risky! You, the Lord of the North, exposing yourself to such danger? If you are recognized… it would jeopardize everything!"
"That is precisely why they will not expect it," he answered calmly, his gaze firm. "Who would look for the Lord of the North among humble pilgrims? The most daring moves are often the safest because no one dares to anticipate them. And being there in person will allow me to gather intelligence no agent ever could."
Father Tuk, however, did not object. His pragmatic nature quickly assessed the advantages. "Brilliant, my Lord," he said, his voice deep. "Your power lies not only in your army and your gold but in your ability to take risks when necessary. Your presence… it will inspire our people, and no one will doubt the purity of their intentions if the Lord of the North himself walks with them, even under cover."
He paused, thinking. "I could prepare us to be indistinguishable from true pilgrims. I know how they move, how they speak, how they carry themselves. We will know every prayer, every ritual. My reputation as the Archbishop of the North and the story of our Cathedral will serve as our cover. Who could refuse entry to believers arriving from such a great and holy place, even if they look a little… sturdier than the average pilgrim?" He even allowed himself a slight, knowing smile.
Green, though still concerned, began to see the tactical sense in it. "If my Lord is willing to take such a risk, then it certainly opens up possibilities unavailable to others. You will be able to assess the situation from the inside, make decisions on the spot. I will prepare all the necessary escape routes, communication points, and backup plans. Hasan… his unpredictable luck could be key to creating a diversion while we are inside."
The Lord nodded. The idea was audacious, but its potential was immense. Covert infiltration under the guise of a pilgrimage. It was not the strike of a broadsword but the precise thrust of a rapier, followed perhaps by the decisive shot of a heavy pistol that would put everything in its place. This was his style—strategic genius, tactical mastery, and cold calculation.
"This will not be just a mission, Father Tuk," he said. "It will be another pilgrimage. A pilgrimage to true power."
Father Tuk’s face took on a serious expression. "Yes, my Lord. A pilgrimage. And we will walk this path together. To the Girdle of the Theotokos."
Once the decision was made, Father Tuk, the Archbishop of the North, with his characteristic pragmatism and deep knowledge of common life, immediately began the preparations. This was not just training, but an immersion into a new role that demanded flawless disguise—for at stake was not only the acquisition of the relic but the Lord's personal safety. Green, despite his skepticism about the Lord's personal involvement, recognized the necessity of such preparation and followed Tuk's instructions without question.
The training took place in a remote, secluded part of the Honey Mug, far from prying eyes. First, Tuk provided the Lord, Green, and himself with simple, rough clothing of thick wool, worn and patched in the right places—the kind worn by ordinary pilgrims. The Lord's weapons, even his personal blade, were carefully concealed under his robes or replaced with inconspicuous travel knives. His heavy pistol was disassembled and hidden in specially sewn bags. All luxury, any jewelry, was removed. His hands, accustomed to weapons and parchment, were rubbed with a special mixture to make them look rougher and more weathered. For Green and the Lord, Tuk even prepared special herbal infusions to give their skin a duller, more tired appearance.
Tuk trimmed their hair in the style common among wandering monks or pilgrims—simple and functional. Beards, if they had them, were trimmed to look more modest. The most difficult part was learning to move and carry themselves like pilgrims. Tuk taught them a humble gait, a slightly stooped back from long journeys, and downcast eyes that avoided direct gazes. They practiced movements devoid of their usual commanding posture. Green, always so neat and calculating, learned to look a bit more disheveled and weary. The Lord of the North mastered the art of appearing like a commoner, which was especially difficult for a man of his power and status.
Archbishop Tuk spent hours telling them stories from the lives of ordinary believers, their worries, their hopes, so they could understand their mindset. He taught them the simple expressions, laments, and blessings that pilgrims exchanged on the road. Despite his own faith and knowledge of church rites, Tuk put them through an intensive course on pilgrimage rituals. They memorized prayers, hymns, and chants popular among traveling believers. They practiced the correct way to bow, make the sign of the cross, and behave in temples.
Special attention was paid to their cover story. Tuk developed a legend for them: two humble scribes/novices from the Cathedral of the North who, inspired by grace, had embarked on a great pilgrimage to Khaptar Monastery to venerate the ancient shrines and bring news of the flourishing faith in the North. It was a plausible story, supported by the fame of their Cathedral.
Tuk, despite his age, personally led the Lord and Green on long hikes along snowy mountain trails, simulating the hardships of the pilgrimage route. This not only built their endurance but also taught them to endure cold and fatigue without revealing their true nature. Father Tuk was strict but fair. "Any mistake, my Lord, any wrong glance could cost us not only the Girdle but our lives," he would say. "Your usual stature, your commanding words—all must be hidden deep inside. You are a pilgrim. Only a pilgrim. Until the time comes to be something else."
The Lord accepted this training with the utmost seriousness, understanding its critical importance. This was not just acting; it was an immersion into a new identity, necessary for completing the most ambitious mission of his life.
While the Lord and Green underwent the harsh "young pilgrim course" under the watchful eye of Archbishop Tuk, his genius and pragmatism were on full display. He did not limit himself to their personal training. In parallel, from the pulpit of the Cathedral of the North, he actively recruited real pilgrims for a journey to the East.
This was a multi-layered and extremely effective move. Nothing would camouflage the Lord and Green better than the presence of a real, numerous stream of believers. Their small, perfectly trained group, disguised as "novices from the Cathedral of the North," would easily get lost among hundreds or even thousands of sincere pilgrims heading east. Who would suspect two modest scribes when they were surrounded by genuine religious fervor?
Father Tuk, with his incredible charisma, delivered inspiring sermons about the need for "spiritual purification through distant wanderings," the "search for ancient truths," and the "importance of believers uniting with the shrines of the East." He skillfully stoked interest in the little-known eastern monasteries, without, of course, mentioning Khaptar directly, but creating a general backdrop for a pilgrimage to that region. He even hinted that "good news of our Cathedral of the North has reached those lands, and so one should not be surprised if their shrines respond to the call of true faith."
The presence of such a massive, voluntary pilgrimage created powerful informational noise. If imperial spies or local rulers in the eastern lands heard about a movement of "pilgrims from the Honey Mug," they would most likely perceive it as a natural phenomenon caused by the growing influence of the Cathedral of the North, not as a carefully planned operation to seize a relic. Their attention would be scattered.
The reputation of Father Tuk and his Cathedral as a place with no church tithes and where true faith reigned contributed to the influx of people wanting to make the pilgrimage. People believed that a journey blessed by such an Archbishop would be safe and pleasing to God. Moreover, these real pilgrims, as they traveled, carried provisions and funds, and sometimes set up temporary camps. They could unconsciously facilitate the logistics for the Lord's group, providing natural cover for overnight stays, information exchange, and resupply.
Thus, while the Lord and Green learned to walk like pilgrims, pray like pilgrims, and think like pilgrims, Father Tuk created the perfect backdrop for them—a living, breathing stream of believers. It was a symphony of deception, where every element played its part, ensuring the maximum chance of success in the daring expedition for the Girdle of the Theotokos.
The day the Lord had long awaited finally arrived. Led by Archbishop Tuk, who now looked like a true shepherd guiding his flock, thousands of pilgrims moved east. It was not just a caravan, but a living river of faith, rushing towards distant shrines, and the Lord and Green were part of it. The morning was frosty, but the bright northern sun illuminated the snowy peaks, seemingly blessing their path.
Their modest pilgrim clothes concealed their true status and intentions. The Lord of the North moved among the crowd, his figure slightly stooped, his gaze humble, his hands, calloused from training, gripping a staff. Beside him walked Green, his usually sharp eyes downcast, his keen mind focused on maintaining their legend. No one, absolutely no one, paid them any special attention. They were two ordinary pilgrims, distinguished only by their sturdy build and slightly harsher features, which could easily be explained by the harsh conditions of the North.
Their carefully crafted legend—"two warriors seeking the Lord after many years of battle, wishing to know His design and be purified before the shrines of the East"—fit perfectly into the overall fabric of the pilgrimage. Many of the pilgrims were themselves former soldiers or merchants seeking redemption or spiritual enlightenment, and their story only elicited sympathy and approval.
Hundreds, and then thousands, of pilgrims created the perfect cover. The noise, the chatter, the chiming of bells on staffs, the constant movement—all of it dissolved the Lord's group, making them indistinguishable in the vast stream. Any spies or observers, had there been any, would never have guessed their true status.
Archbishop Tuk walked at the front, his voice, amplified by the echo of the mountain gorges, leading the pilgrims. He guided them, comforted them, blessed them, and conducted short services during stops. His presence gave the entire procession the feeling of a true spiritual enterprise, distracting attention from any inconsistencies. His pragmatic nature and knowledge of survival on the road were invaluable. The reputation of the Cathedral of the North and Father Tuk preceded them, opening doors and hearts. Local residents, even in the most remote settlements, treated the pilgrims from the Honey Mug with respect, offering help and shelter. This created a favorable atmosphere for their covert infiltration.
While the Lord was outwardly a humble pilgrim, his sharp mind and the gaze of the Lord of the North continuously analyzed the surroundings. He noted details of the route, local customs, potential dangers, and ways to circumvent them, discreetly gathering information that could be useful when approaching Khaptar Monastery. Green, in turn, silently recorded all this data, cross-referencing it with existing maps and adding new information.
The journey to the East became a true trial, in which the Lord and Green, his faithful advisor, completely dissolved into the crowd. Day after day, week after week, they walked among thousands of pilgrims, becoming part of this living stream. And this was exactly what the plan required—complete, flawless immersion in their roles.
Their communication with Archbishop Tuk, who walked at the vanguard leading the main body, was minimal. Only rare, barely perceptible nods or glances exchanged during stops served as confirmation that they were still part of the same team. Father Tuk, for his part, acted as if he did not know them, only occasionally glancing in their direction to check how well they were holding up.
They slept just like the common folk. In fields under the open sky, by campfires when the weather permitted, or in cramped, overcrowded inns where pilgrims slept side-by-side on straw pallets. Frosty nights, biting wind, dampness—all became their daily reality. The Lord felt every bruise, every ache in his legs, every shiver from the cold, just like the thousands of others.
They ate the same meager food: hardtack, a little dried meat, porridge cooked over campfires. The feasts of the Honey Mug, the fine wines, and delicate dishes were forgotten. Now, their lot was hard bread and cold water, which nonetheless seemed divine after a long day's journey. This austerity was part of the Lord's disguise. Unpretentiousness, endurance, a willingness to bear hardship—all were characteristic of true pilgrims. Not a single gesture, not a single habit betrayed him or Green as the Lord of the North or his high-ranking advisor. They moved, spoke, ate, and slept as one of them.
This pilgrimage, this experience of living side-by-side with common people, gave the Lord an invaluable understanding of their lives. He heard their conversations, their hopes, their fears. He saw their unshakeable faith that drove them forward despite the hardships. It strengthened his understanding of how to lead them, how to inspire them, and how deeply rooted the influence of Father Tuk's Church had become.
Green, a refined man accustomed to comfort, initially suffered more than the Lord. But his discipline and sharp mind allowed him to adapt quickly. He learned to observe discreetly, to analyze his surroundings without attracting attention. His hands, though not used to physical labor, now looked the part, and his gait became less refined.
This pilgrimage was not just a disguise, but a profound transformation. It tempered the spirit, honed observation, and strengthened the Lord's resolve. Every kilometer traveled, every hardship endured, confirmed that he was ready to do whatever it took for his great goal—to obtain the Girdle of the Theotokos and definitively raise the Honey Mug to the pinnacle of the world.
The long weeks of exhausting travel, cold nights, and meager food were behind them. The vast crowd of pilgrims, exhausted but uplifted by faith, finally reached their destination. Led by Archbishop Tuk, whose figure remained strong and imposing despite the rigors of the road, they stood before the gates of the legendary Khaptar Monastery in the East.
The monastery lived up to all the legends. It did not rise on a peak like an impregnable castle but was rather part of the mountain itself. Carved directly into the rock, its ancient walls, darkened by time and covered with lichen, merged with the mountain massif, making it almost invisible from a distance. Only a narrow, winding path led to the single, massive entrance, cut into the stone and fortified with heavy iron gates. The air here was thin, filled with the echo of the wind howling through the gorges and the scent of ancient stone. It seemed as if time itself had stopped here, guarding age-old secrets. Despite the enormous number of arrivals, a special, almost unearthly silence reigned around the monastery, broken only by the whispered prayers of the pilgrims and the creak of their staffs.
The Lord's group, carefully disguised as "warriors discovering the Lord," blended in with the crowd. The Lord and Green, their faces weary but focused, carefully studied every stone, every shadow. None of the pilgrims, now gazing in awe at the ancient walls, suspected their true mission.
Archbishop Tuk, standing at the head of the procession, raised his hand, halting the flow. His gaze was fixed on the gates, which seemed to be locked forever. However, after a few moments, a dull grinding sound was heard, and one of the massive gate doors slowly opened, revealing only a narrow slit. A figure appeared in it: a tall, stern monk in a simple but thick cassock, his face hidden by a deep hood, holding a long staff in his hands.
"What brings you to the gates of Khaptar?" his voice boomed, low and passionless, like an echo of the ages.
Father Tuk stepped forward. His figure was majestic despite his modest attire. He held his staff, not his archiepiscopal crozier. "Peace be to this house," he said, his voice confident and deep. "We are pilgrims from the distant North, from the Cathedral of Archbishop Tuk. We have come to venerate your shrines and partake of the grace that, according to legend, dwells within these sacred walls. We bring blessings and humility."
The monk from the monastery remained silent, his gaze seeming to pierce the very soul. The Lord felt every nerve tense. This was the moment of truth. In this moment, it would be decided whether the gates of legend would open or remain impregnable. The tension hung in the air as the hooded monk studied Father Tuk with his piercing gaze. An eternity seemed to pass, though in reality, it was only a few long minutes.
Finally, after this silent assessment, the figure in the cassock slowly nodded. A long creak echoed through the gorge, like the sigh of ancient stones. The second half of the massive, iron-bound gates of Khaptar Monastery slowly, laboriously, moved aside, opening a passage wide enough to enter. A cool draft wafted from within, carrying the scent of old stone, incense, and something else, elusive, that could only be called the smell of antiquity.
"Welcome, pilgrims from the North," the monk said, his voice slightly softer but still dispassionate. "Enter. Peace within these walls is for those who seek it with a pure heart."
Father Tuk, without wasting a second, turned to the crowd of pilgrims. "The grace of the Lord is with us, brothers and sisters! The gates are open! Let us enter with humility and reverence!" His voice was full of triumph, and a sigh of relief swept through the ranks of the faithful, followed by the quiet murmur of prayers.
The pilgrims, like a stream, poured through the open gates. The Lord and Green moved with them, trying not to stand out. The Lord's gaze, however, was not directed downward like most of the faithful, but was carefully scanning everything around him, memorizing every detail.
They found themselves in a narrow, long corridor carved directly into the rock. The stone walls were damp to the touch, and light penetrated only through rare small openings high up near the ceiling, creating a semi-darkness. Niches with simple lamps, from which a weak, flickering flame emanated, lined the sides of the corridor. The air was cold and still. The monk who had been at the entrance gestured for them to move forward. His gaze seemed to slide over each entering pilgrim but did not linger on anyone. Other monks, in equally severe cassocks, stood silently along the walls, their faces hidden in the shadow of their hoods, creating a sense of vigilant but unobtrusive presence.
Green, walking beside the Lord, touched his arm almost imperceptibly, signaling that he too was alert. The Lord's eyes quickly assessed: where the guards were located, whether there were secret passages, the size of the inner space, how difficult it was to navigate. The stream of pilgrims slowly moved deeper into the monastery, led by the silent monks. They were inside. The heart of the legend had opened its gates to them. But now, the real mission began.
As soon as the stream of pilgrims poured into the narrow corridors of Khaptar Monastery, Father Tuk, the Lord's Archbishop, immediately got to work. His pragmatic nature did not allow for a single moment of idle contemplation. Accustomed to managing thousands during the construction of the Cathedral of the North, he quickly took control of the situation, organizing the arriving masses.
"Brothers and sisters, do not crowd!" his low but commanding voice echoed off the stone walls. "Follow the instructions of the holy fathers! Settle into the designated rooms! Remember humility and order! May grace be with you!"
With gestures and short, clear phrases, he directed the weary pilgrims, distributing them among spacious but ascetic halls and cells that the monks, though reservedly, indicated for the newcomers. Father Tuk seemed to be in his element—his experience in crowd management, gained during the construction of the Cathedral, was invaluable. The monastery's monks, seeing how skillfully and quickly the "shepherd from the North" organized his flock, merely nodded in approval, apparently pleased not to have to deal with chaos.
The Lord and Green did not get distracted by the organizational bustle. Their task was different and far more important. As two humble "warriors seeking the Lord," they used every second to study the monastery walls. Their eyes, accustomed to assessing fortress fortifications and tactical situations, scanned the stone surfaces, noting every detail: They assessed the monolithic nature of the rock from which the monastery was carved and the age of the masonry. In some places, the stone was smooth and polished by centuries; in others, there were traces of ancient chips or later reinforcements. They looked for seams in the masonry, unnatural protrusions, any signs indicating secret doors, hidden passages, or ventilation shafts. Their gaze caught details that an ordinary pilgrim or even an inexperienced warrior would never notice—a slightly different shade of stone, an uneven joint, a barely visible crack.
They analyzed the placement of windows, loopholes, and observation slits, assessing angles of fire and zones of control. They noted where posts of warrior-monks might be located, even if no one was there now, based on the logic of defense. Green, walking slightly behind the Lord, discreetly made mental notes, forming a map in his mind. He noted passages, staircases, potential dead ends, and possible routes for infiltration or retreat. He looked for signs of drains, sewage systems, or any other engineering communications that could serve as "mole" paths. While Tuk managed the stream of believers, the Lord and Green, remaining unnoticed, methodically gathered information that could lead them to their main goal—the Girdle of the Theotokos. This was not just a pilgrimage, but a deep reconnaissance penetration into the very heart of the ancient sanctuary.
The reconnaissance of the monastery walls continued while Father Tuk, demonstrating his organizational skills, settled the endless stream of pilgrims. And just as the last weary traveler found their place, a moment arrived that could be the key to deeper infiltration. The same hooded monk who had met them at the gates approached Archbishop Tuk, accompanied by two other, equally impassive figures. Their movements were silent, like shadows.
"Archbishop of the North," the monk said, his voice as calm as before. "Our Abbot wishes to honor your presence within our walls. We invite you to share a humble dinner with us in the monastery refectory. Our rules are strict, but for such a respected shepherd, we make an exception."
This was exactly what they had been waiting for. Father Tuk's personal contact with the monastery's leadership could provide invaluable information. He was their chief diplomat and the "face" of their spiritual authority. Father Tuk nodded, his face remaining humble, but a flicker of satisfaction shone in his eyes. "I am grateful for your hospitality, holy fathers. I will gladly accept your invitation. Peace to your house."
The monks led him down one of the narrow corridors, deeper into the monastery, where ordinary pilgrims were not allowed. The Lord and Green watched them go, understanding that Tuk was now in the heart of the fortress, where he could gather much more information than they could from the outside. Their task remained the same. While Tuk dined, they focused on observing the monk-guards who patrolled the corridors and watched over the pilgrims. They noted their routes, the frequency of their rounds, their vigilance, and their numbers. They tried to understand their internal hierarchy and discipline.
They continued their silent reconnaissance, moving among the pilgrims, memorizing the layout of cells, halls, and utility rooms, trying to guess where the monk might have taken Father Tuk. Every corner, every door, every dead end—all was recorded in their memory. Green, using his sharp intellect, continued to search for potential vulnerabilities in the monastery's defenses—weak points in the walls, abandoned passages, places where the guards' attention was lax. He even sniffed the air, trying to catch anything that might betray the location of secret rooms or storerooms. While Father Tuk played a delicate game at dinner, the Lord and Green were his eyes and ears in the pilgrim quarters, gathering every scrap of information that could lead them to the Girdle of the Theotokos. The mission was deepening, and each of them played an indispensable role.
When Khaptar Monastery sank into a deep silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of the wind outside the walls and the steady breathing of sleeping pilgrims, the time came for the Lord of the North. Under the cover of night, when most were lost in sleep, he and Green began their real work—detailed reconnaissance. The main objective was to find a path to the monastery's treasury, or wherever the Girdle of the Theotokos might be kept. Legends spoke of deep dungeons and hidden crypts. Their eyes searched for signs of descents, hidden hatches, or ventilation shafts leading down.
The night reconnaissance was slow, painstaking work, full of tension. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle seemed deafening. They moved in harmony, their interaction with Green flawless—words were unnecessary; a glance or a barely noticeable gesture was enough. The monastery, which seemed impregnable by day, now revealed its secrets to the shadows moving within its walls.
The night reconnaissance with Green was conducted with flawless precision and exhaustive thoroughness. The Lord of the North explored every accessible corner of the monastery, every corridor, every open and hidden door in the section available to pilgrims. His eyes, trained to discern the slightest architectural anomalies, scanned the stone, searching for clues. Green, with his phenomenal memory, recorded every detail, creating a complete map in his mind. However, as the first rays of dawn began to filter through the high openings of the monastery, heralding the end of their nocturnal foray, they were met with a disappointing result: the path to the Girdle had not been found. They returned to their "pilgrim" cells unnoticed, but with a sense of frustration. Khaptar Monastery was a true fortress carved into the rock, and its secrets were hidden deep.
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