The sun was swaying in the blood

Levan recoiled from her as if from a leper and began pacing the cramped room like a caged animal. “Revenge? A ritual? What ritual, Alma? You must remember! This could help us stop it!”

A new, frightening detail surfaced in Alma’s memory. She saw the women walking along a narrow mountain path, illuminated only by the dim light of the moon. They stopped at a half-ruined stone chapel on a hilltop, a place seemingly abandoned by God.

“They were going to the chapel… To the old Chapel of St. George… They were saying something terrible… About a sacrifice… That blood must be spilled for the sun to return… They said it was an ancient law…” Alma began to gasp for air, her body shaking.

“A sacrifice?! What the hell?!” Levan stopped dead in his tracks, his face contorted with horror and disgust. “They were going to perform a sacrifice? Who?”

A vision arose in Alma’s mind: one of the women held an ancient dagger. Its blade was thin and sharp as a razor, the hilt intricately carved with intertwining snakes. The dagger gleamed in the moonlight, foretelling imminent death.

“I saw a dagger… One of them was holding a dagger… They were going to kill someone… They said it was necessary… That it was the only way to protect Shatili from evil…” Alma was crying, unable to hold back the tears.

Levan dropped to his knees before Alma and took her hands, gripping them tightly. “Alma, listen to me. This is madness! It can’t be! But we need to know the truth. Please, remember, who was with them? Who shot them? You must tell me, Alma! This is more important than ever!”

Alma looked into Levan’s eyes, and at that moment, everything flashed back into her memory. She saw a tall man standing in the shadow of the trees, his face hidden by the hood of a black cloak. But she recognized him. She knew who he was. She had seen him before.

“He… He was there…” Alma whispered, her voice barely audible. “He shot… I saw him… He was standing in the shadows…”

“Who, Alma? Who?!” Levan shook her hands, his voice full of desperate hope. “Say his name!”

Alma opened her mouth to utter the killer’s name, to free herself from this terrible burden tormenting her soul. But at that very moment, the door to the room burst open with a crash, and a breathless policeman rushed in, his face twisted with fear.

“Levan! Trouble! Very serious trouble! They… They’ve escaped!”

Alma and Levan froze as if struck by lightning. Time stopped. Alma felt a cold horror seize her heart. Who had escaped? And what did it mean for her, for Levan, for all of Shatili? She knew this was only the beginning of a new, even more terrible chapter in their story.

Chapter 3

Escape into the Night

“They’ve escaped!” The cry of the young policeman who burst into the room hit Levan like a thunderclap. The words sounded like a sentence, robbing him of his senses. “Who? How? When? Speak!”

Levan jumped up from the chair, feeling everything turn upside down inside. All his efforts, all the interrogations, all his hopes of solving this case — everything was crumbling in an instant. He shot a quick glance at Alma, who lay motionless on the bed, pale as death, her eyes wide with horror, reflecting his own fear.

“Calm down, tell me everything in order, damn it!” Levan commanded, trying to keep a grip on himself. His voice, however, betrayed him with a tremble. He had to act fast, but first he needed to understand the scale of the catastrophe.

The breathless policeman began his chaotic story. The escapees had been bold and well-prepared. They had set an ambush, taking advantage of a moment when the guards had lost their vigilance. One guard was critically wounded, the other — killed. The police had been powerless to stop them.

Levan felt a cold horror pierce him to the bone. The escapees were free. The danger hanging over Alma now threatened every resident of Shatili. Who were they? What were they planning to do? What other terrible secrets were hidden in this mysterious place?

“Call for backup! Warn all residents! Block all exits from the village!” Levan gave the order, his voice seeming to regain some confidence. A hurricane of emotions raged inside him, but he had to keep it together for Alma’s sake, for the sake of the people of Shatili.

He turned to Alma, who continued to lie motionless on the bed, her breathing ragged. “Alma, you must stay here. In safety. I have to find them.”

Alma nodded, but her eyes showed doubt, distrust, and… fear. She understood that staying alone would make her even more vulnerable.

Levan leaned toward her, trying to speak calmly, convincingly. “I know you’re scared. But right now, your safety is the most important thing. When I find them, I’ll come back. I promise.”

Levan hurried out of the room, feeling adrenaline surging through him. He had to act quickly, before the criminals disappeared into the mountains. He headed for the police station to organize the search; every moment was precious.

As he ran out of the hospital, Levan immediately noticed a movement that had escaped the others. At the end of a narrow, cobblestone street, in the shadow of old stone houses, he saw him. A tall, thin silhouette, dressed all in black, just as Alma had described. He was heading toward the outskirts of the village, his gait quick and confident, as if he knew exactly where he was going.

Levan felt the blood freeze in his veins. It was him. The killer.

Without wasting a second, Levan drew his pistol from its holster and gave chase. His legs carried him forward on their own, obeying only an animal instinct — to catch, to stop, to seize. He had to stop him before he caused more harm.

Shatili was plunging into nocturnal darkness. Only the dim light of the moon illuminated the narrow streets and old stone towers. Levan raced through the deserted streets, his heart pounding wildly, beating a rhythm of fear and determination.

Passing the last houses, Levan ran out onto the mountain trail leading out of the village. He saw the black silhouette disappearing into the darkness. He was sure the criminal was heading for the abandoned Chapel of St. George, the very one Alma had mentioned.

Climbing higher and higher up the rocky path, Levan felt his strength leaving him. His breath was ragged, his legs burned with exertion. But he couldn’t stop. He had to catch him. He had to prevent him from finishing what he started. He had to save Alma.

Soon, rounding a bend in the trail, he saw a light. A light from the windows of the ancient chapel, shining in the night darkness like a beacon of hope and an omen of disaster. He knew he was close.

Levan cautiously approached the chapel, pressing himself against the cold stone wall. He drew his pistol, checked it was cocked, and prepared for a confrontation. He had to be careful; he didn’t know what awaited him inside. He only knew one thing: he had to go in.

Levan took a deep breath to calm his trembling hands and pushed the door. It creaked, piercing the silence of the night.

The door creaked, piercing the ringing silence, and Levan burst into the Chapel of St. George. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest, beating a wild rhythm of fear and resolve. Inside, it was dark and damp; only a few melted candles cast trembling shadows on the walls adorned with faded frescoes. The smell of incense, mixed with the scent of damp earth and ancient dust, pressed on his lungs.

Levan looked around, straining his eyes. In his hand, he tightly gripped his pistol, ready for anything. In the center of the chapel, before an old stone altar, he saw him.

A tall, gaunt man, dressed all in black, stood with his back to Levan, bent over something. His figure seemed unnaturally still, as if frozen for eternity. He was whispering something, his voice quiet and indistinct, like an ancient prayer or a curse.

“Stop! Police! Don’t move!” Levan shouted, and his voice echoed through the chapel vaults. He felt the adrenaline boiling in his blood, giving him strength and determination.

Slowly, as if obeying an invisible force, the man began to turn. Levan saw his face. Old, haggard, carved with deep wrinkles like a map of a life lived. But what struck Levan most were his eyes — cold, colorless, devoid of any humanity. Only a fanatical fire burned in them, consuming him from within.

“You don’t understand…” the old man whispered, his voice quiet but filled with unshakable certainty. “I am doing what I must. It is necessary to protect Shatili…”

“What are you going to do?” Levan asked, trying to remain calm, though a hurricane of emotions raged inside him. He knew that the lives of many people depended on his next words.

“I must complete the ritual…” the old man replied, and his gaze turned to the altar. “Blood must be spilled… The sun must return…”

Levan looked at the altar. On its cracked surface lay an open ancient book, bound in dark, worn leather. On one of the pages, Levan saw an image of a sun with bloody rays, as if crimson drops were dripping from the celestial body. The book Alma had spoken of.

Next to the book, on a piece of black velvet, lay a dagger. An ancient dagger with a carved hilt of darkened ivory, adorned with images of snakes and demons. Its blade was thin as a razor and gleamed in the candlelight, as if anticipating imminent death.

“Don’t do this!” Levan shouted, feeling despair seize him. “Don’t kill anyone! This is madness! You can’t decide who lives and who dies!”

The old man shook his head, his eyes burning with a mad fire. “You understand nothing, boy… This is not murder. It is a sacrifice. An ancient law we must observe to save Shatili from destruction…”

With these words, the old man grabbed the dagger and raised it above his head, ready to strike. Levan saw the determination and fanaticism in his eyes and knew there was no more time.

Without a second’s thought, Levan fired.

The sound of the shot echoed deafeningly through the chapel, shattering the silence. The bullet hit the old man, piercing his shoulder. The old man cried out in pain and fell to the floor, dropping the dagger. It hit the stone floor with a dull thud.

Levan ran to the old man, checking his pulse. He was alive but seriously wounded. Blood oozed from the wound, staining his black clothes crimson.

“Why… Why did you do that…?” the old man rasped, looking at Levan with hatred and incomprehension.

“I had to stop you…” Levan replied, his voice full of disgust and pity. “You were going to kill innocent people in the name of a mad ritual.”

“You understand nothing…” the old man repeated, his gaze full of contempt. “You have doomed Shatili… You have set evil free…”

Levan shook his head. “You are wrong… I saved it… I saved it from you.”

At that moment, the chapel door flew open, and other policemen rushed in, breathless and frightened. They ran to Levan and arrested the old man, putting handcuffs on him.

“What happened here, Levan?” one of the policemen asked, looking at him with anxiety and confusion.

“I’ll explain later…” Levan replied, feeling fatigue and emptiness overwhelm him. “Right now, we need to call an ambulance. He needs medical attention…”

The policemen carried the old man out of the chapel, leaving Levan alone in the gloom and silence. He looked around, examining the altar, the book, the dagger. He understood he had prevented something terrible, that he had saved lives. But he also felt that this was just the tip of the iceberg. That behind this story lay something much larger, something he still had to uncover.

Suddenly, he felt someone’s gaze on him. Levan turned sharply, pistol at the ready.

In the doorway of the chapel, pale and trembling, stood Alma.

Chapter 4

Shadows of the Past

Alma froze on the threshold of the Chapel of St. George, as if bound by an invisible thread. The semi-darkness reigning inside seemed thick and tangible, like velvet enveloping her from all sides. The cold, seeping through the stone walls, pierced to the bone, making not only her body but also her soul tremble. Fear and curiosity fought within her — the desire to know the truth and the urge to flee far from this cursed place.

Alma’s face, already pale, now seemed almost transparent in the dim moonlight filtering through the narrow windows. Her large brown eyes, usually full of life and curiosity, were now filled with anxiety and confusion. Her dark hair, disheveled by the wind, framed her face, accentuating her high cheekbones and thin, aristocratic nose. A small abrasion was visible on her chin — a reminder of the recent accident that had turned her life upside down.

Levan, sensing her confusion, stepped closer, trying to speak calmly and convincingly. He towered over her like a rock, exuding confidence and reliability. His face, usually open and friendly, was now serious and focused. His eyes, the color of a stormy sky, reflected anxiety and determination. A fresh scar was visible on his cheek — a memory of the struggle with Nana.

“Alma,” Levan said in a soft but firm voice, “you shouldn’t have come here. It’s not safe. You need to go back to the hospital. You need rest.” His voice, usually with a soft Georgian accent, now sounded particularly warm and soothing.

Alma shook her head, stubbornly lifting her chin. “No, Levan. I have to see this. I have to understand what happened here. Otherwise, I can’t move on. I can’t live in ignorance any longer.” Her voice held a steely determination, despite the fear gripping her soul.

Levan sighed, realizing it was useless to argue with her. Alma was determined to get to the truth, and he couldn’t stop her. He took her hand, feeling her fingers tremble. Her skin was cold and dry, like parchment.

“Alright,” Levan said. “Then let’s go together. I’ll show you everything I know. But be careful. It could be dangerous here.”

Levan led Alma inside the chapel. The smell of incense, mixed with the aroma of damp earth, old stone, and smoldering candles, hit her nose, transporting them to another time, an era of ancient rituals and forgotten gods. This smell, both calming and unsettling, evoked strange, vague images in Alma’s memory.

The Chapel of St. George was small but majestic. Built of rough gray stone, it towered over the village like a silent witness to history. The walls, adorned with faded frescoes, depicted scenes from the Bible and Georgian history. The faces of the saints, painted by ancient masters, looked at them with wisdom and sadness, as if warning of impending troubles.

Alma looked around, examining every detail as if trying to find answers to her questions. Her gaze slid over the dark corners, the cracked walls, the soot-blackened ceiling. She felt that this place held something important, something that could help her restore her memory and unravel the mystery of Shatili.

Her gaze stopped on the altar, where the open book lay. “It was here… It all happened here…” she whispered, and her voice trembled like a broken string.

Levan looked at Alma with sympathy, knowing these walls held terrible secrets. “Yes, Alma. This is where the old man was going to perform the sacrifice. He believed it was the only way to protect Shatili from evil. He was obsessed with this idea.” His voice held disgust for the fanaticism and madness.

“A sacrifice? Who was he going to kill?” Alma shifted her gaze from the altar to Levan, her eyes widening in horror. It became hard to breathe, as if someone were squeezing her chest.

“I don’t know, Alma. But I’m sure he was going to take an innocent life. Perhaps you… or someone else…” Levan squeezed her hand as if afraid to lose her. His touch gave Alma strength and confidence.

Alma approached the altar and picked up the book. It was heavy and old, bound in dark, worn leather. The cover was decorated with intricate patterns that seemed to form some kind of signs or symbols. A strange, mesmerizing smell emanated from the book — of old paper, smoldering incense, and something else, elusive and frightening. Alma felt a slight dizziness, as if the book was exerting some kind of mystical influence on her.

“What is this book, Levan? What’s written in it?” Alma asked, trying to hide the tremor in her voice.

Levan approached the altar and looked into the book. He peered at the lines written in ancient Georgian, which he had studied since childhood but which now seemed foreign and incomprehensible. “It’s… like a chronicle… An ancient history of Shatili… It tells of a clan… a covenant of the ancestors… It speaks of the sun… of blood…”

He began to read aloud, trying to translate the text into understandable language: “The Sun of Shatili… An ancient chronicle… The history of the clan… The covenant of the ancestors… Blood for blood… Life for life…” His voice sounded muffled and mysterious, as if he were reading an incantation.

Alma suddenly clutched her head as if from a sharp pain. Memories began to return to her, like shards of a broken mirror. “I remember… I saw this book… I read about it… It was a long time ago… I remember something about a ritual… About the sun… About blood…”

“What do you remember, Alma? Tell me! Please, any detail could be important,” Levan asked excitedly, feeling they were close to unraveling the secret.

Alma closed her eyes, trying to concentrate and find the elusive images in the depths of her memory. “I remember… I read about an ancient ritual performed in Shatili once every hundred years… To appease the ancient gods and protect the village from disasters… There was something about a sacrifice… about blood that must be shed for the sun to return… about people in black…”

Levan frowned, his gaze focused and intense. “What ritual? Who performs it? And who are these ‘people in black’? ” He felt he was approaching a terrible truth.

Alma shook her head, feeling the memories slip away again. “I don’t know… I can’t remember… But I feel it’s something very important… Something connected to Shatili… to its people… Something that could explain all these murders…” Her voice broke, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

Levan sighed, understanding that Alma only remembered fragments of information, but these fragments could be the key to solving the mystery. “We need to learn more about this book, Alma. We need to learn about this ritual, find out who performs it, and why it’s necessary.”

“But how, Levan? Who will help us? The people of Shatili don’t trust us. They’re afraid to tell the truth. I feel their hatred,” Alma said, looking around the dark walls of the chapel as if sensing the gaze of spirits. She felt surrounded by enemies.

Levan thoughtfully scratched his chin, his eyes darting around the chapel. He was looking for a way out of this difficult situation. “I know… We have one chance. One person who might know the truth. Elder Vazha… He is the keeper of ancient traditions, and he knows more about Shatili than anyone else. If anyone can help us, it’s him.”

“Vazha…” Alma repeated, as if tasting the name on her tongue. Its sound held strength and antiquity, like an echo of long-gone times. “Are you sure he’ll want to talk to us? After everything you’ve done?” she added reproachfully, hinting at the incident in the chapel. Her voice, despite her fatigue, sounded firm and uncompromising.

Levan sighed, running his hand over his face as if wiping away the burden of responsibility. “I don’t know, Alma. But we have to try. Vazha is not just an elder, not just the village head. He is the living history of Shatili, the keeper of its soul, a witness to all the joys and sorrows of this place. His eyes hold the wisdom of the ages, and his heart holds a love for his land that words cannot measure. If anyone can help us understand this madness, dispel this fog of lies and fear, it’s him.” Levan spoke with deep respect, and Alma felt that this Vazha was truly a significant figure for Shatili.

Alma crossed her arms over her chest, trying to stop the trembling. “Okay, let’s say. But why should he trust us? I’m a stranger who appeared out of nowhere, with amnesia and a bunch of questions. And you… you shot one of his men in his own chapel! I don’t think that’s the best way to gain trust.” Her words were sharp, but there was truth in them.

Levan frowned, his usually open face clouded with a shadow of guilt. “I know, I understand… I acted rashly, I was caught up in the moment. But I swear, I didn’t want to cause harm. I just wanted to stop him before he did something irreparable.” He fell silent, looking at Alma with pleading eyes. “Please, believe me. I’m on your side. I want to help.”

Alma studied his face, trying to see the truth. In Levan’s eyes, she saw not only remorse but also a sincere desire to help. Perhaps he really was who he claimed to be. Perhaps he was her only hope in this strange and dangerous place.

“Alright,” Alma finally said, softening. “I’m willing to go to this Vazha. But only if you promise me you’ll be honest with me. No secrets, no lies.”

“I promise,” Levan replied firmly, looking Alma straight in the eye. “I will be honest with you. I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Alma nodded, accepting his promise. “And what do we do next? How do we find Vazha? Where does he live?”

“Vazha’s house is on the very edge of the village, at the foot of the mountain,” Levan answered. “He lives there alone, in an old stone house built by his great-grandfather. It’s easy to recognize by the large yard surrounded by a high stone fence overgrown with wild grapes. And also… a banner of St. George hangs over the gate — a red flag with an image of the saint on a white horse.”

“And we just go there and knock on the door?” Alma asked sarcastically, imagining the elder meeting them with a rifle at the ready. “Do you think he’ll just let us in? We need some kind of plan.”

Levan thoughtfully scratched his chin, his gaze wandering around the chapel. “You’re right. Vazha is very cautious, especially after what happened to that old man in the chapel. It will be hard for him to believe that we want to help him. We need some kind of trump card, some way to prove to him that we’re not enemies.”

Suddenly Alma remembered something. “Levan, what about that police station? Shouldn’t there be some documents, some files on the locals there? Maybe there’s something about Vazha too?”

Levan looked at Alma with surprise, as if only now realizing the obvious. “You’re right! I completely forgot about the station. There might be some records of meetings with Vazha, some reports on his activities… This could help us establish contact with him.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Alma said, feeling hope ignite in her heart. “Let’s go to the station and see what’s there. This is our chance.”

“Alright,” Levan agreed, his eyes burning with determination. “But we must be careful. Someone might be watching us. We don’t know who to trust in this village.”

Levan went to the window, cautiously looking out into the street. The night tightly embraced Shatili like a shroud. Only the pale moonlight penetrated the narrow streets, highlighting the angular outlines of the stone houses. The wind howled in the mountains like a hungry beast, carrying whispers of ancient legends and traditions. Alma shivered, feeling fear grip her heart with an icy hand.

“Let’s go,” Levan said quietly, stepping away from the window. “We need to act quickly and unnoticed. Every minute of delay could cost us our lives.”

They moved towards the exit of the chapel, stepping cautiously, like thieves sneaking about. Levan walked ahead, holding his pistol ready to protect Alma at any moment. She followed, feeling defenseless and vulnerable. It seemed to her that they were being watched, that hostile eyes were hiding in the darkness.

Alma and Levan left the chapel, plunging into the embrace of the night. The coolness, filled with the smell of smoke from stoves, incense, and herbs brought by the mountain wind, instantly enveloped them. Alma wrapped herself tighter in her woolen shawl, feeling goosebumps run across her skin. This smell, both calming and ominous, had become the quintessence of Shatili for her — a place where the past intertwined with the present, and reality with mysticism.