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The first to react were the monk guards. Alarmed cries rang out, followed by the tolling of a bell, announcing a fire.
Shadows of monks flickered through the corridors leading to the source of the blaze, rushing to the scene. At first, there were only a few, but their numbers quickly grew.
The Lord and Green watched as the monks, usually stationed at the chapel entrance and its side chapels, began to show agitation. Their gazes darted between the chapel and the fire. Soon, on the order of a senior monk, they began to abandon their posts, hurrying to help extinguish the flames. One by one, they disappeared into the depths of the monastery, leaving the chapel virtually unattended.
This was their moment. The diversion had worked perfectly. The smoke and chaos created by Father Tuck had opened a path for them into the very heart of the mystery. The chapel, once impregnable, now beckoned with its open or poorly guarded doors.
As soon as the smoke began to spread and the alarm bell echoed through the monastery, Tuck did not rush to fight the fire as one would expect from an ordinary priest. Instead, using his powerful voice and authority, he began to actively "organize" the crowd.
"Brothers and sisters! Fire! Save yourselves! The monastery is burning! Seek shelter! Save your lives and your prayer books!" he shouted, his voice filled with feigned alarm and terror that instantly spread to the crowd.
The pilgrims, already weary and in an unfamiliar environment, fell into a panic. The tolling of the bell, the smell of smoke, the screams, and, most importantly, the calls of the esteemed Archbishop, who himself seemed desperate, turned them into an uncontrollable mob.
Tuck skillfully directed this panic. He pointed the pilgrims toward "safe" directions that actually led them further away from the chapel and distracted the monk guards.
"Don't just stand there! Move toward the exit! Or to the central courtyard!" his voice created an illusion of order in the chaos, directing the crowd where it could create the greatest obstruction for the monks.
Some pilgrims, following his instructions, began to rush through the corridors, blocking passages and colliding with each other, creating bottlenecks. Others tried to save their modest belongings, bumping into monks hurrying to the fire. All of this created a perfect "human shield" and a diversion. Tuck himself would periodically "stumble" and "fall" in the crowd, calling for help, or urge the "brother monks" to calm the people, forcing them to focus on controlling the panic rather than finding the cause of the fire or guarding key locations.
The monks, trying to deal with the fire, found themselves facing a dual task: extinguishing the blaze and controlling the crowd of terrified pilgrims who were scurrying about the monastery. Their attention was completely divided. Any thought of the Girdle of the Theotokos or of hidden guests faded into the background, replaced by the immediate threat and the need to maintain order.
The panic, skillfully fueled by Archbishop Tuck, reached its peak. The cries of the pilgrims, the smoke, the tolling bell, and the scurrying figures of monks rushing to the fire created the perfect cover. The vigilance of the guards at the chapel weakened to a critical minimum, and then they abandoned their posts altogether, rushing to help.
This was their moment. The Lord and Green, trained to perfection, moved silently and in sync. Their eyes, accustomed to the dim light, had long since identified the door that led to the most sacred part of the chapel—the one that was constantly under guard. It was massive, made of dark, blackened wood, with heavy metal plates and, apparently, a powerful bolt.
They approached it. Green, instantly assessing the type of lock, pulled a set of lock picks from beneath his modest clothing, carefully hidden. His fingers, despite the recent hardships of the journey, were nimble and precise. He worked quickly, his movements almost invisible in the dim light of the few lamps that shone from the central hall. Every click, every barely audible movement of the lock's mechanism, seemed deafening in the tense silence, broken only by the distant noise of the fire.
And then, after a few agonizing seconds, a soft but distinct click was heard. Green, without any unnecessary movement, carefully turned the handle. The door, with a quiet, almost imperceptible creak, gave way.
A smell of old incense, wax, and something else indescribable—the scent of holiness and ages—wafted from within. You cautiously pushed the door, opening only a narrow crack, and peered inside.
Before the Lord and Green lay a secret chapel. It was small, much smaller than the main hall, but far more ancient and atmospheric. Its walls were carved directly into the rock, in some places rough, in others adorned with faded but skillful frescoes depicting saints and angels. In the center, under a low, vaulted ceiling, stood a small but intricately carved altar. Lamps burned with a dim but steady flame, casting whimsical shadows. It was here, in this sacred and hidden place, that the Lord felt the Girdle of the Theotokos might truly be near. His mission was now entering its most crucial phase. He was inside.
The minutes dragged on. The Lord understood that the Girdle, if it was here, would not be lying in plain sight. Its keepers, who had guarded this secret for centuries, had surely hidden it with the utmost ingenuity. His task was to surpass that ingenuity.
The tension in the secret chapel grew with each passing minute. The Lord and Green methodically examined every inch of the room, their eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness, their fingers feeling the unevenness of the ancient stone. While the Lord studied the frescoes and niches, Green, as always, focused on the foundation, his sharp, analytical gaze sweeping across the floor tiles. He moved on all fours, close to the ground, his nose almost touching the cold stone, searching for the slightest irregularities or inconsistencies in the layout.
The Lord's heart stopped when he saw Green's movement slow. He stopped at one of the central tiles, his head bowed even lower. A soft, barely audible murmur came from Green, more like an internal dialogue. Then he froze, his breathing becoming ragged. The Lord saw him cautiously, almost invisibly, extend a finger and run it along the edge of the stone slab.
"My Lord," Green whispered, his voice so quiet that the Lord could barely hear him. It held a mixture of excitement and satisfaction, a sign that he had found something significant. "Here it is. The unnatural slab."
The Lord instantly dropped to the floor beside him. In the dim light of the lamps from the altar, he saw what Green was pointing at. One of the massive stone slabs, located closer to the altar, looked almost the same as all the others. However, upon closer inspection, a barely perceptible seam was visible. Along one edge of the slab, almost blending in with the overall texture of the stone, ran a very thin line that was not present on the neighboring slabs. It was a seam, indicating that the slab was not part of a monolithic floor. This was no accident. It was a carefully disguised door to the unknown. Green, with his obsession for detail, had found what had been hidden from sight for centuries. The heart of the Haptar Monastery probably lay right beneath this slab.
"Is there some kind of mechanism?" the Lord asked quietly, pointing at the slab.
Green carefully ran his fingers along the edge, then felt the surface. "Not a lever, my Lord," he whispered. "It seems to be a pressure mechanism, but a very subtle one. It probably requires a precise weight or pressure at a specific point."
The Lord nodded. This was typical of ancient monastic hiding places—they relied not on complex locks, but on stealth and knowledge of the secret. He understood that he needed to act with extreme caution. Any wrong move could make a noise or jam the mechanism. He carefully rose to his knees, and Green, extending his hand, pointed to the very center of the slab.
"Try pressing here, my Lord. It might require significant weight to trigger a hidden counterweight or latch."
The Lord took a deep breath, concentrating. Then, applying precise and measured pressure, he pressed down on the center of the slab with the full weight of his body.
A dull, barely audible click echoed in his ear. It was too quiet to be heard outside the chapel, but to the Lord, in the tense silence, it sounded like a thunderclap. Then, slowly, with a slight grinding of stone against stone, the unnatural slab began to descend, revealing a gaping darkness beneath.
A musty, cold air, which seemed to have been trapped in the stone for millennia, wafted from the opening. The smell was strange—a mixture of mold, dust, old incense, and something else, indescribable, that could only belong to a deeply hidden, forgotten place. Before the Lord was not just a cellar or a utility passage. It was a passage into the unknown, leading to the very heart of the Haptar Monastery's mystery. He and Green, two warriors disguised as pilgrims, stood on the threshold of the truth they had been seeking.
The passage that opened under the unnatural slab beckoned with its darkness and the promise of unraveling a centuries-old secret. The Lord and Green acted without delay.
"The lamps," the Lord whispered, pointing to the lights in the chapel.
Green moved silently, carefully taking two dimly burning lamps from the walls. Their soft, flickering light barely pierced the dense darkness, but it was enough.
The Lord was the first to step into the passage. The air below was cold and musty, with a heavy smell of dust and untouched antiquity, mixed with a faint, strange aroma that seemed to emanate from the earth itself. Before them began a spiral staircase, carved directly into the rock. The steps were wide but uneven, worn by time and, perhaps, the rare footsteps of those who guarded the secret here. Narrow niches were carved into the walls at regular intervals, probably for additional lamps, but they were now empty.
The Lord began to descend slowly, with Green following right behind him, lighting the way with the second lamp. Each of their steps echoed dully in the stone shaft, and the echo seemed to be swallowed by the darkness itself. Their eyes continuously scanned the walls, looking for any signs of traps, secret passages, or branches. The Lord noted every chip, every mark, trying to understand who had passed this way before them. Green, in turn, listened for every rustle, trying to catch sounds other than their own movement.
The staircase seemed endless. They descended deeper and deeper, losing all sense of time. The stone walls became rougher, revealing their pristine nature. The temperature dropped, becoming piercingly cold.
The deeper the Lord descended the spiral staircase into the depths of the Haptar Monastery, the damper and colder the air became. The musty smell of earth and ages grew stronger, and moisture condensed on the walls, making them slippery and shiny in the flickering light of the lamp. Each step seemed to take him further from the world of the living and into a world of ancient secrets.
The Lord and Green moved slowly, cautiously, their gazes fixed on the darkness ahead. The lamp in the Lord's hand seemed to struggle against the thick darkness, its light barely penetrating the veil of gloom. And then, as he took another step down, the trembling flame snatched something from the shadows that made him freeze.
On one of the rough stone walls, just below eye level, a familiar sign was carved. It was simple but deeply etched into the stone, darkened by time, yet unmistakably recognizable.
The Ouroboros.
The snake biting its own tail, a symbol of infinity, the cycle of rebirth and destruction, the unity of opposites. This sign was not just an ancient symbol; it was closely connected to the endeavors of the Lord of the North, to the "Blade of Ouroboros's Chance" that he had entrusted to Hassan, to the very philosophy of his invisible Empire.
The Lord's movements froze. His heart, which had been beating steadily, now quickened its pace. This was completely unexpected. The Ouroboros—a symbol he associated with the distant East and perhaps certain secret societies, but certainly not one he expected to find here, in the depths of this Christian monastery.
Green, following right behind him, bumped into his frozen figure. "What is it, my Lord?" he whispered, his voice full of concern.
The Lord did not answer immediately. His lamp illuminated the symbol. The Ouroboros. What did it mean? Was it just an ancient sign that coincidentally matched his knowledge? Or was it a symbol of a much deeper, unexpected connection? A connection that could explain the monastery's impregnability, its secrets, and even the location of the Girdle of the Theotokos. The presence of this sign here, in the very depths of Haptar, changed everything. It was not just a coincidence. It was a clue, but its meaning was still unclear.
The discovery of the Ouroboros in the depths of the Haptar Monastery was shocking and completely unexpected. The sign, which the Lord associated with his own invisible empire and the distant East, now appeared before him in the heart of an ancient Christian sanctuary. His momentary confusion was understandable.
He merely shrugged, looking at the symbol illuminated by the trembling light of the lamp. "Perhaps if Tuck were with us," he whispered to Green, "he could decipher this sign. He has a deep knowledge of ancient symbols and church traditions."
Green nodded, his expression just as bewildered. "Yes, my Lord. I also don't recall this symbol in the context of these lands or Christian architecture. My knowledge mainly concerns strategy, logistics, and imperial history, not ancient symbolism or theology."
They both recognized their limitations. Their skills were honed in matters of power, war, and intrigue, but not in deciphering mystical signs. Father Tuck, with his encyclopedic knowledge of religion and history, would have been invaluable in this situation. But now he was somewhere above, in another part of the monastery, distracting the monks with the fire.
This discovery only deepened the mystery. The Ouroboros was not a random image. It pointed to some deep, hidden connection, perhaps to a secret order, to ancient knowledge, or even to something that could be directly related to the Girdle of the Theotokos. But without a key, without an explanation, it was just a symbol, adding another layer of mystery to an already complex mission.
Nevertheless, stopping was not an option. They were here, deep inside enemy territory, and turning back without the relic was unacceptable. The Ouroboros sign, however mysterious, was now part of the mystery they had to solve.
The mysterious Ouroboros symbol was left behind, but its presence lingered in the air, adding another layer of mystery to their descent. The spiral staircase finally ended, and the Lord and Green stepped onto a level surface. The lamp in the Lord's hand, and then the one Green held, illuminated a long corridor before them, cut straight through the mountain. This was not just a passage, but a real tunnel, carved into the dense rock. Its walls were roughly hewn but straight enough to attest to purposeful work. There was none of the refined masonry found in the upper parts of the monastery—just pure, dark stone bearing the marks of ancient tools.
The air here was even damper and colder than on the staircase, and the smell of the earth mingled with a faint, metallic taste characteristic of deep caves. The corridor stretched into the darkness, its end lost beyond the light of their lamps. The sounds from the upper levels of the monastery—the cries of pilgrims and the noise of the fire—were now muffled by the thickness of the rock, and a complete, oppressive silence reigned here, broken only by their breathing and the rustle of their steps.
The stone walls of the corridor were covered with drops of moisture, glistening in places as if polished. Water trickled down in some spots, forming small puddles on the floor. This indicated that they were deep underground, where moisture seeped through the rock strata.
The Lord and Green paused for a moment to look around. This place had clearly been hidden from prying eyes for centuries. It was not part of the monastery's daily life but rather served as a secret passage to something very important that might lie in its depths. Before them lay an uncharted path, carved through the mountain itself, leading to a goal that was perhaps closer than ever. The mystery of the Ouroboros remained unsolved, but the need to move forward was paramount.
The Lord and Green, without a word, gave each other a silent command: caution above all else. In such places, deep underground, not only relics are hidden, but also deadly traps designed to protect them from uninvited guests.
They moved forward along the corridor carved into the rock. The light of their lamps flickered, illuminating only a few meters ahead, creating eerie shadows on the damp walls. Every step was measured, every nerve stretched to its limit. The Lord's eyes continuously scanned the floor and walls. He looked for subtle changes in the texture of the stone, irregularities that might betray pressure plates. Green, walking slightly behind, carefully examined the ceiling and walls for hidden arrows, projectile devices, or rockfalls.
They listened for every sound: their own footsteps, the quiet dripping of water from the ceiling, a faint scraping noise. Any unusual sound could be a sign of an activating mechanism. They checked every stone, every ledge. They carefully ran their hands along the walls, searching for tripwires, hidden levers, or any other signs of traps. Ancient defense systems were often simple but deadly.
The Lord carefully examined the walls for other symbols or inscriptions. The Ouroboros was just one sign; perhaps there were warnings, pointers, or prophecies elsewhere related to what lay at the end of the tunnel.
The air grew heavier, and the dampness became pervasive. The Lord felt the acoustics change, the echo becoming duller, as if he were delving into something vast and ancient. This corridor seemed to have been built not for people, but for eternity. Its silence and gloom, broken only by the light of their lamps, were oppressive, creating a sense of isolation from the rest of the world. But the Lord did not retreat. With each cautious step, he drew closer to the heart of the Haptar Monastery's mystery, to the Girdle of the Theotokos, if it was indeed waiting for him here in these silent depths.
The long, damp corridor, carved deep into the mountain, finally came to an end. The light of the lamps, breaking through the gloom, revealed an obstacle that inspired both hope and anxiety: a massive door.
It was unlike the ordinary doors of the monastery. Carved from a single piece of stone, or at least very skillfully fitted from several huge blocks, it tightly sealed the passage, as if the mountain itself had contracted to hide what lay behind it. There were no visible cracks, no keyholes, no handles or bolts. It looked like part of the rock, with only a faint seam around the edges betraying its true nature.
"There's no lock here," Green whispered, his voice tense as he carefully ran his hand over the cold surface. "It looks like the same mechanisms as the entrance slab. Pressure... or a trick."
The Lord nodded. His gaze was fixed on the center of the door, where faint scuff marks were visible, as if from many touches. "Let's push," he said, giving the command. If it was a pressure mechanism, it might require considerable effort, perhaps even the weight of two men. It could also be some kind of hidden balancing mechanism that was triggered by a certain amount of pressure.
The Lord and Green stood in front of the door, spread their feet, braced their shoulders against the cold stone, and, taking a deep breath, pushed with all their weight. A low, deep grinding sound was heard, which seemed to come from the very bowels of the mountain. The stone slowly, with incredible effort, gave way. The slab that formed the door began to slide smoothly, almost silently, to the side or down, opening the passage.
From behind it wafted an air that was different from the musty smell of the corridor. It was heavy, saturated with the aromas of incense, ancient dust, and something elusive, reverent. The light of their lamps streamed forward, piercing the veil of darkness. Before them opened something other than just a continuation of the corridor. It was a place completely different from anything they had seen so far in the Haptar Monastery.
The massive stone door slid silently aside, and the light of the lamps pierced the ancient darkness, revealing to the Lord and Green what they had been searching for. Beyond the door was not a huge cave or a labyrinth, but a small, perfectly round room carved into the rock. Its walls were smooth, polished, as if time had no power over them.
In the center of the room, illuminated by a faint, mystical light that seemed to emanate from the artifact itself, stood a simple stone pedestal. And on this pedestal, without any protection, without any visible traps, as if awaiting their arrival, lay the Girdle of the Theotokos.
It was thin, skillfully woven from a coarse but very durable linen, darkened with age. Its surface was covered with ancient, barely discernible embroideries, depicting what appeared to be stars, celestial bodies, and faint images of saints. A faint, almost imperceptible warmth and a delicate, very ancient fragrance, reminiscent of dried herbs and incense but utterly unique, emanated from the Girdle. It did not shine or emit a bright light, but in its simplicity, there was an incredible power and majesty that could only belong to an artifact of such significance.
There were no guards, no visible mechanisms, no traps around the pedestal. The room was empty, its absolute silence broken only by your ragged breathing and the faint whisper of the fire from the upper levels of the monastery. It seemed that the place itself guarded the Girdle, protecting it from the unworthy.
The Lord and Green froze on the threshold, their lamps trembling in their hands, illuminating this incredible sight. All the hardships of the journey, all the risks, the delicate game with the monks—all of it had been for this single moment. Before them lay the relic capable of changing the destiny of the Empire.
Green, usually imperturbable, slowly shifted his gaze from the Girdle to the Lord, a silent question in his eyes: "Is this it, my Lord?"
The Lord's heart filled with a mixture of triumph and deep reverence. The goal had been achieved.
The moment of truth had arrived. The Lord did not hesitate. With every step he took toward the pedestal, the air around the Girdle seemed to grow denser, as if space itself were guarding this holy object. Green followed him, his lamps lighting the way, his breath as ragged as the Lord's.
The Lord stopped before the pedestal. The Girdle of the Theotokos lay upon it, simple and majestic, exuding a subtle, faint fragrance. He reached out his hand, his fingers gently touching the ancient linen. It was cool, but beneath it, he could feel a faint, inner warmth. It was not heat; it was a sensation of life, of eternity, encapsulated in this thread.
With a reverence that might have surprised even himself, he carefully took the Girdle. It was weightless, yet its presence felt powerful and profound. No traps were sprung, no incantations were heard. Only silence, now broken by the gentle rustle of the fabric in his hands.
The Lord turned to Green, his eyes filled with triumph. The goal had been achieved. The relic, guarded for centuries, capable of changing the course of history, was now his.
"It's time to go back up," the Lord said, his voice firm and resolute. The commotion from the fire above, created by Tuck, could not last forever. The monks would eventually put out the fire, and their attention would return to the inner sanctuaries. They had to leave.
Green nodded, his face serious, but a shadow of elation played on it. He turned toward the exit, preparing for the return journey. The Lord carefully hid the Girdle under his clothes, feeling its faint warmth against his chest. Now his task was to discreetly leave this ancient repository, climb the damp spiral staircase, pass through the secret chapel, and emerge onto the monastery grounds, where Tuck was still creating a diversion. The way back could prove more difficult than the way in.
The Girdle of the Theotokos was with the Lord, its faint warmth felt against his chest, hidden under his clothing. Now came the most critical stage of the mission: the retreat. Time was against them. The fire started by Tuck could not burn forever, and sooner or later, the monks would return to their posts.
"Quickly, but carefully," the Lord whispered to Green, who nodded in response. His eyes were sharp as ever, his movements swift and silent.
They moved back along the corridor carved through the mountain. Now, each step echoed not so much with sound as with the sense of time slipping away. Their eyes quickly scanned the walls, noting familiar irregularities, no longer in search of traps, but for orientation. The cold and dampness seemed only to spur them on.
They quickly reached the beginning of the spiral staircase. The ascent was no less exhausting than the descent, but now physical fatigue was compounded by the tension of needing to act quickly. The Lord and Green climbed, step by step, their lamps casting dancing shadows on the stone walls as if trying to keep up with them. The Ouroboros on the wall flickered in the lamplight, now appearing not as a mysterious sign, but as a silent witness to their success.
Finally, after the last steps, the Lord and Green reached the level of the secret chapel. The exit slab they had opened was still lowered. They worked in concert: Green carefully raised the slab back into place, using some internal trick he had noticed when opening it. It settled back with a dull thud, once again blending in with the floor and concealing their path.
They were both now in the small secret chapel. Muffled sounds from outside could be heard—the echo of voices, footsteps, but no longer the panicked screams of a fire, but rather the noise of it being extinguished. This meant they had very little time left.
The Lord cautiously approached the door leading to the main chapel hall. Green pressed his ear against it, trying to gauge the situation outside. "It seems they are still busy, my Lord," he whispered. "But they will return soon."
The moment was critical. The sounds of the fire being extinguished grew louder, indicating that the monks would soon have the fire under control and would return to their duties. There was no time to delay. The Girdle of the Theotokos was with the Lord, and now they needed to reunite with Archbishop Tuck to leave the monastery.
The Lord and Green acted silently and in unison. Carefully, Green opened the door of the secret chapel, peering out. The corridors leading to the chapel were still empty. The monks were still distracted by the commotion.
"Now," Green whispered, and the Lord nodded.
They slipped out of the chapel, quickly and silently, like shadows. Their eyes instantly scanned the surrounding area, noting every turn, every niche. Their priority now was to find Tuck. He was not only an invaluable ally but also a master of diversion, and his presence at this moment was critical for a safe exit from the Haptar Monastery.
The corridors, which had been bustling with pilgrims during the day, were now almost empty, with only the occasional silhouette of a rushing monk. The Lord and Green stayed away from open spaces, using every available cover. The air grew thicker with smoke, and the acrid smell of burning irritated their nostrils, but this was also to their advantage—the smoke reduced visibility and masked their movements.
Finally, they approached the area where the fire was most active. There was real chaos there. Monks rushed about with buckets of water, trying to contain the flames, which, fortunately, had not spread to the main buildings but were still burning brightly. Amidst this confusion, the loud, commanding voice of Archbishop Tuck, full of feigned panic and orders, was clearly audible. He was there, in the center of the chaos, directing the "rescue" efforts and simultaneously diverting attention from them.
The Lord's task now was to discreetly reach Tuck in this turmoil without attracting undue attention and to prepare for the final stage of their escape from the monastery.
Amidst the smoke, commotion, and scurrying monks, the Lord and Green, like ghosts, made their way to Archbishop Tuck. He stood in the center of a small chaos, his voice still booming with orders, but his eyes were sharp, searching for them.
The Lord approached him, barely touching his shoulder. "We have the Girdle," he whispered, his voice almost inaudible over the noise, but Tuck, with his incredible intuition, understood him instantly.
Tuck gave a slight nod, his face remaining impassive, but a spark of triumph flashed in his eyes. He did not interrupt his "commands," continuing to direct the monks, diverting their attention while the Lord and Green blended into the crowd.
A few moments later, cries of relief were heard. The fire, which had flared up thanks to Tuck's careful choice of location and materials, was finally extinguished. The smoke still hung in a thick veil, but there were no more open flames.
The panic among the pilgrims gradually subsided, replaced by exhaustion and relief. The monks, weary from fighting the fire, slowly began to return to their usual duties, although their vigilance was still dulled. The air in the monastery was thick with the smell of burning and wet embers.
The mission to infiltrate and retrieve the relic was complete. The Girdle of the Theotokos, kept for centuries in the Haptar Monastery, was now in the Lord's possession. However, this was only half the battle. Now came the most dangerous part—to leave the monastery unnoticed, carrying the priceless relic with them. The monks were tired, but their attention could soon return to their regular patrols and checks.
The morning of the third day at Haptar Monastery was filled with the smell of damp embers and an atmosphere of fatigue. The monks, though they had extinguished the fire, looked exhausted, their usual composure broken. This was exactly what was needed.
Archbishop Tuck, who had likely spent the night planning every step, wasted no time. Early in the morning, as the pilgrims gathered for morning prayer, his powerful voice echoed through the monastery's inner courtyards, drawing everyone's attention.
"Brothers and sisters! Attention!" Tuck began, his voice loud and resonant, but with a touch of deep sorrow and humility. "By the grace of the Lord, the great fire that engulfed the monastery yesterday has been extinguished. However, the monastery has suffered considerable damage, and the holy fathers of Haptar need complete focus to restore their home and continue their sacred work."
He paused, allowing his words to sink into the minds of his listeners. The Lord and Green stood among the crowd, closely watching the monks' reaction. The Abbot, standing nearby, listened to Tuck with a stone-faced expression, but relief was visible in his eyes.
"Therefore," Tuck continued, his voice softer but still authoritative, "I have decided that we will leave these sacred walls today. We cannot be a burden to the holy fathers in this difficult time. Our presence, with all our reverence, only distracts them from restoring order and serving God. We will carry in our hearts the grace we have received here, and our prayers will be with them as they heal their wounds."
It was a brilliant move. Tuck was not "demanding" their departure but "offering help," lifting a burden from the monks. He appealed to their needs, to their desire to restore order and return to seclusion as quickly as possible. For the Abbot, who was likely tired of the influx of pilgrims and the fire incident, this offer was a godsend. It allowed him to get rid of a huge crowd that created constant distractions and potential problems, without losing face or violating the rules of hospitality.
The Lord saw the Abbot slowly nod, his gesture almost imperceptible but full of approval. He approached Tuck, his face serious. "Thank you, Archbishop, for your understanding and wisdom. May the Lord bless your journey. Our gates will always be open for you if you decide to return with new pilgrims."
The monks, weary and preoccupied with the restoration, did not show any extra vigilance. For them, the departure of the pilgrims was a logical outcome that allowed them to focus on the aftermath of the fire. Thus, the retreat was legitimized and even approved by the monastery's leadership. The Girdle of the Theotokos was safely hidden, and now the Lord, Tuck, and Green were preparing to leave Haptar, carrying with them not only a great relic but also the triumph of a brilliantly executed operation.
As the sun rose higher, the large crowd of pilgrims, led by Archbishop Tuck, began their journey back to the North. The monks of Haptar Monastery, weary from the fire and relieved by the departure of such a large group, saw them off without much ceremony, their attention focused on restoring the monastery.
The Lord, Green, and Tuck stayed together at the beginning of the journey, mingling with the main group. Outwardly, they remained humble pilgrims, but inside, each of them was filled with triumph and anticipation. The Girdle of the Theotokos, securely hidden, was with them.
The journey continued until the outlines of Haptar Monastery finally disappeared behind the jagged mountain ridges. As soon as the ancient monastery vanished from sight, it was time for the next step.
"It's time," the Lord said quietly to Green, who nodded. Tuck, walking slightly ahead, also gave a subtle signal.
The Lord and Green cautiously but confidently began to separate from the main group of pilgrims. Their disguise as two stern but devout warriors seeking enlightenment had served them well. No one paid them any attention. The people were engrossed in conversations about the fire, the sanctity of the monastery, and the difficulties of the return journey. Their gazes were fixed ahead, toward home, not on the two modest companions who had split off from the rear of the procession.
The Lord and Green headed toward the nearest small town, which they had seen on Green's maps and which was off the main pilgrim route. This was not just a decision but a necessary tactical measure. Traveling on foot with a crowd was too slow and dangerous, especially now that they had the Girdle. Horses would give them speed and independence.
The town was a small trading post where they could find everything they needed. They quickly found an inn that also had a stable. Without attracting attention, they bought two strong, sturdy horses. Green took care of provisions and water. The payment was made in gold, which did not raise questions in such a place.
As soon as the horses were ready, the Lord and Green mounted. Taking one last look in the direction where the slow-moving river of pilgrims was heading, they turned their horses and spurred them into a gallop, leaving behind the crowd, the mountain passes of the East, and the secrets of Haptar Monastery. Now their journey to the North promised to be much faster and more direct.
As the lights of the town disappeared behind the hills and the slowly trudging pilgrims were left behind, the Lord and Green felt the tension that had been building for days begin to dissipate. There was no longer any need to maintain their disguise. The goal had been achieved, and now speed and a show of strength were their main allies.
"Time to shed these rags," the Lord said, tearing off his modest pilgrim's robe. The rough fabric fell to the road, freeing him from the bonds of humility. Underneath was his usual travel attire—practical and sturdy, but without any ostentatious insignia, so as not to attract attention on the road.
Green, with a smirk, followed the Lord's example. The gray robe also fell from his shoulders. Then, from the depths of his travel bag, which he always carried with him, he pulled out something that instantly changed their appearance. It was the banner of the North—not a huge, flowing flag, but a compact piece of dense fabric on which their familiar symbol was embroidered in gold thread: the Honey Mug against the backdrop of the North Star. He unfurled it, and the small but proud banner fluttered in the wind. Green attached it to a staff, which he must have prepared discreetly, and mounted it on his saddle. It was a symbol of their triumph, a visible sign of who now possessed the Girdle of the Theotokos.
"There's no need to hide now," the Lord repeated, feeling a surge of strength and determination. Secrecy was necessary for infiltration, but now that they had the relic, it was time to make their presence known.
The Lord and Green dug their heels into their horses' sides. The horses, feeling the freedom and the will of their riders, broke into a trot, quickly gaining speed. Every mile they covered took them further from Haptar Monastery, from its secrets and its guardians. Behind them were mountains covered with forests and snowy peaks, and ahead stretched the open steppes leading to the Lord's domain. The Girdle of the Theotokos, a symbol of unprecedented power, was with him, and it was already beginning to change the course of history.
The banner of the Honey Mug against the North Star flew proudly in the wind, and this symbol, as the Lord had anticipated, could not go unnoticed. His swift progress on horseback, accompanied by such a clear declaration of his presence, was spotted.
Soon, the sounds of horns were heard in the distance—first one, then another, and a third. These were the signals of the patrols and lookouts stationed at the borders of his lands, heralding his return. The news that the Lord himself was returning was carried on the wind, passed from post to post.
In less than an hour, swift shadows emerged from behind the hills on both sides of the Lord. It was his "Black Squad"—the elite of his personal guard, clad in dark armor, their faces hidden by helmets, and their weapons ready for battle. They rode parallel to the Lord, their horses powerful and fast, their formation flawless. Their appearance was, as always, sudden and impressive.
Their commander rode out to meet them, his figure powerful and confident in the saddle. He raised his hand in greeting, and the squad instantly halted, their horses snorting, their armor clinking softly. Their movements bespoke discipline and boundless loyalty.
"My Lord!" his voice rang out, low and hoarse from the wind, but full of relief and respect. "Welcome home! We have been on duty, awaiting your return. Your banner is a great joy to us!"
Green, riding beside the Lord, nodded to the commander, his face calm. He knew that with the "Black Squad," they were completely safe. They were the Lord's shadow, his will embodied in iron and flesh. Now that he was once again surrounded by his loyal guard, the feeling of triumph became even sharper. He had returned, and not empty-handed. The Girdle of the Theotokos, hidden on his chest, was undeniable proof of his success.
Under the protection of the "Black Squad," the Lord and Green sped forward, leaving behind dusty roads and mountain passes. Soon, through the morning mist, the familiar outlines of the Mountain Trade Route appeared—a wide, well-trodden road winding between rocky slopes. This was the artery that connected his lands to the outside world, and its sight filled him with a sense of approaching home.
Caravans moved slowly along the Trade Route: laden carts, heavy-footed mules, and herders walking alongside. Their leisurely pace contrasted with the swiftness of the Lord and his squad. The "Black Squad," feeling familiar ground beneath their hooves, picked up the pace. The Lord and Green, not holding back their horses, spurred them into a full gallop. The powerful animals surged forward, their hooves thundering on the stones, raising clouds of dust.
They overtook the trade caravans one by one. The herders and merchants, seeing the approaching "Black Squad" and the fluttering banner of the North, hastily moved their carts to the side of the road, paying their respects. Surprise and perhaps a slight fear could be read in their eyes, but also an acknowledgment of the Lord's authority. They knew who he was, and that his appearance here, at such a pace, meant something important.
The wind whistled in their ears, blowing their clothes and the horses' manes. The Girdle of the Theotokos, hidden on the Lord's chest, seemed to vibrate in time with the furious rhythm of the gallop, as if it too anticipated its new destiny. Every moment brought him closer to the "Honey Mug," to his Cathedral, to the beginning of a new era for the North.
The thunder of the "Black Squad's" hooves announced the triumphant return of the Lord. The familiar outlines of the "Honey Mug"—the mighty fortress and the heart of his domains—finally appeared on the horizon. The high walls, the towers, the soaring spire of the Cathedral he had worked so hard on, appeared before him in all their majesty. A feeling of home, success, and fulfilled duty filled him.
His Leib Hussars, the loyal and brilliant part of his army, were already waiting at the gates, their armor gleaming in the sun, their horses prancing impatiently. Their faces expressed relief and readiness for action.
Before entering the fortress, the Lord gave his first orders, showing concern for those who had helped him in this difficult mission. "Immediately," the Lord said, addressing the commander of the Leib Hussars, who had ridden up to greet him. His voice was firm and clear, despite the fatigue of the long journey. "Send a detachment to reinforce Archbishop Tuck and his pilgrims. Ensure they reach the Cathedral safely. Provide them with protection, provisions, and everything they need until the very end of their journey."
The commander nodded, his hand touching his helmet in a sign of agreement. "It will be done, my Lord!" he replied, and immediately gave the order to his men. A detachment of Leib Hussars turned and galloped back down the road to meet and escort the weary pilgrims who were still trudging along the Mountain Trade Route.
It was a wise decision. Tuck and the pilgrims had fulfilled their part of the mission by creating the necessary cover. Now it was the Lord's turn to ensure their safety and comfort. Moreover, this action would strengthen his reputation as a caring and grateful leader, and it would also allow Tuck to return to the Cathedral with the full story of his "pilgrimage" without raising unnecessary questions.
While the Leib Hussars galloped away, the Lord, Green, and the rest of the "Black Squad" proceeded through the gates of the "Honey Mug." Now that the Girdle of the Theotokos was in his possession and all key figures were in their places, new, grandiose tasks lay before him.
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