The sun was swaying in the blood

Levan frowned, and in the moonlight his face seemed even more stern and determined. “I don’t know, Alma. Perhaps he’s already guessed that we found the diary. Perhaps he’s already preparing for our meeting. We must be ready for anything.”

“And what will we do if he wants to kill us?” Alma asked, and her voice betrayed fear she could no longer contain. “We can’t stand against him. He’s probably armed, and he has his people.”

Levan stopped and looked at Alma. His eyes, illuminated by the pale moonlight, showed firm determination. “We will defend ourselves, Alma. We won’t let him harm us. We must learn the truth, no matter the cost. For the sake of those innocent women who can no longer speak. For Lamia’s sake. For your sake and mine.”

Alma nodded, agreeing with his words. She felt a fire igniting inside her. Fear receded, giving way to a burning desire for justice and ruthless determination.

They continued on their way, delving deeper into the heart of the darkness. The road became steeper, and Alma felt fatigue gripping her body. But she didn’t give up. She knew she had to reach the end to learn the truth and stop the evil that had settled in this cursed place.

Finally, they reached Elder Vazha’s house. It was the oldest and largest house in Shatili, built of rough stone and surrounded by a high stone fence. The thick walls, overgrown with moss and entwined with wild grapes, made it look like an impregnable fortress. The gate, made of massive oak planks, was closed with a large iron lock.

Levan approached the gate and knocked loudly. The sound echoed through the surroundings, breaking the silence of the night. Several long seconds passed without anything happening. Alma held her breath, preparing for the worst.

Then a muffled, hoarse voice came from behind the gate: “Who disturbs my peace?”

“It’s Levan,” Levan replied, trying to make his voice sound firm and confident. “I want to talk to Vazha. I have important information.”

Silence fell behind the gate again. Alma felt her heart pounding wildly. It felt like an eternity had passed.

Finally, the sound of a key turning in the lock was heard, and the heavy gates slowly opened, revealing a dark opening.

Vazha stood in the gateway. Tall and thin as a reed, dressed all in black. His face, carved with deep wrinkles, seemed like a mask of an ancient and evil god. His eyes, like embers, burned with a cold fire that pierced right through. He was dressed in a black cherkeska, belted with a silver belt, and a tall black papakha. In his hands was a staff carved from black wood and adorned with silver inlay.

“What do you want, Levan?” Vazha asked, and his voice sounded like a clap of thunder. “What brings you to me in the middle of the night?”

“I want to talk to you,” Levan replied, looking Vazha straight in the eye. “I have information that might interest you.”

Vazha cast a contemptuous glance at Alma, who stood next to Levan clutching the rifle. “And who is this?” he asked with disdain in his voice. “I don’t know this woman. What is she doing here?”

“This is Alma,” Levan answered. “She’s helping me. She knows the truth.”

Vazha frowned, and his face became even more sinister. “I don’t like strangers,” he growled. “Especially those who stick their noses where they don’t belong. Why did you bring her here, Levan?”

“Vazha, please, listen to us,” Levan pleaded, feeling the situation was getting out of control. “This is very important. It concerns all of Shatili.”

Vazha was silent for several long seconds, as if weighing all the pros and cons. Then he sighed and waved his hand, letting them inside. “Alright,” he said. “Come in. I’ll hear you out. But remember, Levan: I don’t like being lied to. Lies are always punished.”

Alma and Levan crossed the threshold and found themselves in the courtyard of Vazha’s house. The night chill was especially sharp here, penetrating through their clothes and chilling them to the bone. It seemed the stone walls absorbed the remnants of warmth, turning this place into an icy desert. Gravel crunched underfoot, and the air was thick with the suffocating smell of damp earth, rotting leaves, and something else, elusive and disturbing, reminiscent of decay. In the far corner of the yard, like a ghost, loomed an old well with a crooked crane, evoking thoughts of abandonment and oblivion.

Vazha, without saying a word, walked ahead, leaning on his staff as if it were a third leg. Each of his steps echoed dully, as if counting down the last seconds of their lives. Alma and Levan followed, trying to keep up and maintain their distance. Alma felt extremely uncomfortable, as if they had been lured into a carefully set trap.

They approached the house. It was an old two-story building made of rough, untreated stone. Small, narrow windows, like loopholes, loomed ominously, not letting in a single ray of light. The door, made of thick boards blackened with time, seemed impregnable, and the small window above it was like a sinister eye watching their every move.

Without turning around, Vazha opened the door and silently gestured for them to enter. Alma and Levan, exchanging anxious glances, stepped over the threshold.

Inside the house, there was pitch darkness, broken only by the weak moonlight seeping through cracks in the walls. Alma felt the cold piercing her to the bone, and a sharp, suffocating smell of dampness, mold, and naphthalene hit her nose. She shivered, feeling a chill come over her.

Vazha silently lit a torch, and the weak, flickering light revealed a narrow corridor. The walls were hung with old, faded carpets with intricate patterns depicting hunting and battle scenes. Weapons hung along the walls – daggers, sabers, shashkas, rifles – all covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs. Alma involuntarily shuddered at this deadly splendor. It seemed to her that the blades were looking at her threateningly, as if anticipating bloodshed.

They walked down the corridor and found themselves in a large room that apparently served as both a living room and a dining room. In the center of the room stood a long, roughly hewn wooden table, surrounded by benches upholstered in old, worn leather. In the far corner of the room, a fireplace crackled, casting reflections of flame on the walls and ceiling. The warmth from the fire was barely felt, as if the fireplace couldn’t cope with the cold that reigned in the house.

Without a word, Vazha walked over to the table and heavily sat down on one of the benches. “Sit,” he finally said, pointing to the benches opposite. His voice sounded hollow and hoarse, as if he had been silent for a long time.

Alma and Levan, obeying his gesture, sat down at the table, trying to keep their composure. Alma, as if sensing danger, placed the rifle on her knees, ready to defend herself at any moment.