Бесплатный фрагмент - The sun was swaying in the blood

Author’s Foreword

Georgia has always inspired me with its unique culture and breathtaking landscapes. It was this inspiration that led me to write the thriller “The Sun Was Swaying in Blood.”

This book is a product of my imagination, a story unfolding in the harsh and beautiful Shatili. I hope that readers, both in Georgia and abroad, will find within its pages a gripping plot and food for thought. I have striven to treat local traditions with respect and to capture the atmosphere of this remarkable region.

In Shatili, there is always room for new stories.

Introduction

The cold seeped into her bones, despite the woolen blanket they had wrapped her in. Alma tried to move, but her body responded with a dull ache. Where was she? A black hole gaped in her mind, swallowing her most recent memories. Only fragments of vague images flickered before her mind’s eye: a blazing sun, a narrow road snaking between cliffs, and the piercing screech of brakes… And then — darkness.

She opened her eyes. White walls, dim light, the sharp smell of medicine. A hospital room. But not like the ones in Germany. Everything here seemed… outdated. In the corner, an old stove crackled softly, struggling to heat the room. Outside the window, the silhouettes of mountains shrouded in thick fog were visible. Mountains… She had never seen mountains like these.

A woman in a white coat entered the room. Her face was stern, but her eyes held kindness. “You’re awake, Alma? How do you feel?” Alma tried to answer, but only a rasp came from her throat. “Don’t worry, it’s alright. You were in an accident. They found you not far from Shatili… Do you remember anything?”

Shatili… The name echoed like a sound from a distant past. Alma tried to strain her memory, but it was useless. Shatili remained a blank spot on the map of her consciousness. The female doctor shook her head sadly. “That’s not surprising. You have a severe head injury. Memory loss is common in such cases. But don’t worry, it will come back. You just need time.”

But Alma felt it wasn’t just the memory loss. Something was wrong in Shatili. Something sinister and inexplicable hung in the air. She saw it in the sullen glances of the locals, heard it in the mournful songs of the wind whispering in an ancient tongue. And with each passing day, the sense of dread grew stronger, seeping into her very soul. Alma felt she was at the center of some terrible secret. A secret that could cost her her life.

Chapter 1

The Cold of Shatili

The cold seeped into her bones. Alma tried to pull the woolen blanket higher, but it was futile. The chill was not just in her body, but in her soul. She still didn’t understand where she was. The hospital room was like a frame from an old film: peeling paint on the walls, a creaky iron bed, a murky windowpane swirled with fog outside.

Yesterday’s conversation with the doctor had brought no clarity. Accident… Shatili… Memory loss… The words sounded empty. Alma remembered nothing. Not her arrival in Georgia, not the accident itself, not even her home in Germany. Her past had been erased, like chalk on a board that had been thoroughly wiped clean.

She sat up on the bed, feeling dizzy. Her head was splitting, as if squeezed in a vise. Alma lowered her feet onto the cold floor. There were no slippers. The room was empty, save for an old wooden chair in the corner. She felt abandoned and alone.

Steeling herself, Alma stood up and walked to the window. Beyond the murky glass, she could see the outlines of mountains shrouded in thick fog. Grey, impregnable peaks loomed over the village like stone sentinels guarding ancient secrets. Shatili… Alma tried to picture the place, but only vague images arose in her mind.

She opened the window, letting a stream of icy air into the room. The smell of smoke, damp earth, and unfamiliar herbs hit her nose. Alma froze, inhaling this strange, intoxicating aroma. It held a kind of wild, primal power.

Below, under the window, a narrow street wound its way between stone houses. The houses were old, built of rough stone, with small windows and flat roofs. They seemed abandoned and lifeless. Not a single person was in sight. Only a lone dog, skinny and dirty, wandered the street, rooting through garbage.

Alma felt a chill run down her spine. Something was wrong with this place. Something sinister and threatening. She didn’t know what, but she felt it in every cell of her body.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of footsteps. Someone was approaching the room. Alma froze, pressing herself against the wall. Her heart began to beat wildly in her chest. Who could it be? The doctor? Or someone else? Someone who might know the truth about what happened in Shatili?

The door creaked softly, and a woman entered. Not the doctor. A local woman, dressed in dark woolen clothes and rough leather boots. Her face was stern and wrinkled, as if carved from stone, but her eyes held a strange warmth. In her hands, she carried a wooden bowl filled with a steaming liquid.

“Gamarjoba, tsiskart,” the woman said in a quiet, hoarse voice. Alma didn’t understand a word. “I brought you some khashi,” the woman continued in broken Russian. “It’s a traditional Georgian soup. It will help you regain your strength.”

Alma looked warily at the bowl. The soup looked strange but smelled delicious. Its warm, spicy aroma filled the room, overpowering the smell of medicine. The woman noticed her hesitation and gave an encouraging smile. “Don’t be afraid, it’s good for you. Shatili is a harsh place. You need a lot of strength to survive here.”

Alma took the bowl and took a sip. The soup was very tasty. Thick, rich, with garlic and herbs. Warmth spread through her body like a small sun. Alma felt the tension ease slightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “My name is Alma.”

“I am Nana,” the woman replied. “I live here, in Shatili. I know it’s hard for you right now. You’ve lost your memory and don’t know where you’ve ended up. But don’t be afraid, you’re not alone. We will help you.”

Nana walked to the window and looked out at the mountains. “Shatili is a special place,” she said. “Strong, proud people live here. We have endured many hardships but preserved our culture and traditions. We love our land and are proud of it.”

Alma looked out the window. Now she saw Shatili with different eyes. Not just a gloomy and sinister place, but also a beautiful and majestic one. The stone towers stood like sentinels over the village, reminders of an ancient history and a strong spirit. The mountains, shrouded in fog, created a sense of mystery and seclusion.

But despite this beauty, Alma felt that something evil was hidden in Shatili. Something connected to her memory loss and the terrible premonition that hadn’t left her for a minute. And she knew she had to unravel this mystery to survive in this harsh and beautiful place.

Alma looked at Nana, trying to understand what lay behind her words. “What happened in Shatili?” she asked. “Why am I here?”

Nana sighed and looked away. “Things… happen here. Shatili is an old place, with a long history. And not all of that history has been bright.”

“But what happened to me?” Alma insisted. “Why can’t I remember my past?”

Nana was silent for a moment, as if weighing her words. “You’d better ask the doctor about that. I’m a simple woman; I don’t have answers to all the questions.” She put the bowl on the bedside table and headed for the door. “Rest. You need to regain your strength.”

“Wait!” Alma called out to her. “Do you know anything about murders? I… I think I saw something terrible.”

Nana stopped sharply at the door. Her face grew even sterner, her eyes as cold as the mountain peaks. “Don’t talk nonsense,” she snapped. “There are no murders in Shatili. It’s a quiet, peaceful place. You just need to rest and forget your nightmares.”

With those words, Nana left the room, leaving Alma alone in the cold, dark space. Alma felt fear grip her again. What was this woman hiding? Why had she reacted so sharply to the mention of murders? And what nightmares haunted her dreams?

Alma went back to the window and looked out at Shatili. Now it seemed the village was looking back at her. The stone towers watched her every move like eyes. The wind, whispering in an ancient tongue, seemed to warn her of danger.

She knew she couldn’t trust anyone. Not the doctor, not Nana, not any of these silent, stern people. She had to unravel the mystery of Shatili herself. She had to remember her past. She had to survive.

Suddenly, Alma noticed something in the window opposite. In one of the houses, directly across from her room, stood a figure. A person dressed all in black was watching her. Alma couldn’t make out the face, but she felt that gaze piercing right through her.

She froze in horror. Who was that? The killer? Or just a curious onlooker? Alma didn’t know, but she felt her life was in danger. The game had begun.

Instinctively, Alma recoiled from the window, pulling the curtain shut. Her heart was pounding like crazy. She felt that gaze, piercing and cold, penetrating her very soul. She needed to pull herself together. Panic was a bad advisor.

She looked around the room. The white walls felt oppressive in their sterility. The single door seemed like a trap. Alma knew she couldn’t stay here long. She needed to find out what was happening. She needed to remember what she had seen.

Alma walked over to the bedside table where Nana had left the bowl of khashi. The soup had cooled, but its warm aroma still hung in the air. Alma mechanically picked up the spoon and took a sip. The taste was rich, spicy, warming. For a moment, Alma thought she remembered something important. An image of a woman cooking khashi in a kitchen flashed in her memory, but then vanished.

Alma pushed the bowl away. She needed to act. She went to the door and listened. The corridor was quiet. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and peered out.

The corridor was empty and dimly lit. A window was visible at the end, fog swirling beyond it. Alma cautiously stepped out of the room and moved along the wall.

Passing one of the other rooms, she heard a muffled conversation. Alma pressed herself against the door and listened.

“…they say she saw…” one voice whispered.

“…can’t let her remember…” another replied.

Alma froze. Who were these people? Who were they talking about? And what had she seen?

“…Nana said she’d keep an eye on her…” the first voice continued.

“…Nana? She can’t be trusted… She’s too close to them…”

Alma felt a chill run down her spine. Nana! The very woman who had brought her khashi, the one who had seemed so kind and caring! Was she involved in something dark, too?

Alma slowly moved away from the door and continued down the corridor. She needed to run. She needed to hide. But where? And from whom?

Suddenly, she heard footsteps behind her. Alma turned and saw Nana. Her face was impassive.

“Where are you going?” Nana asked. Her voice was calm, but a flicker of anxiety showed in her eyes.

Alma felt fear paralyze her. She didn’t know what to say.

“I… I just wanted some fresh air,” she mumbled.

Nana stepped closer and looked at Alma intently. “You need to rest,” she said. “Come, I’ll take you back to your room.”

Alma knew she couldn’t resist. She knew Nana was lying. She knew her life was in danger. But she didn’t know what to do.

Nana took Alma by the hand and led her back to the room. Alma walked as if in a dream, feeling the noose tightening around her.

When they entered the room, Nana closed the door and turned to Alma. A knife glinted in her hands.

“Forgive me,” Nana whispered. “But this is necessary.”

Alma screamed.

Alma recoiled from Nana, pressing her back against the wall. In the woman’s hand glinted a knife — the kind used to cut cheese for khachapuri. Alma couldn’t believe her eyes. Did this kind, caring woman really want to kill her?

“What are you doing?” Alma whispered, trying to hide her fear. “Why?”

Nana’s face twisted in pain. “You shouldn’t have come to Shatili. You saw what you weren’t supposed to see.”

“What did I see? What is happening here?” Alma desperately tried to remember something, anything, but her mind was still empty.

“You saw them… You saw how they left,” Nana whispered, as if speaking to herself.

“Who are they? Who did I see?” Alma felt she was getting closer to the answer. But what answer? What terrible secret was Shatili hiding?

Suddenly, an image flashed in Alma’s mind. A dark night, a mountain road, three female figures walking along a path… And then — gunshots. Blood. Screams. Horror.

Alma clutched her head, trying to hold onto these fragmentary memories. “I… I remember… I saw women being killed!”

Nana’s face contorted even more. “Too late,” she whispered. “You’ve remembered too much.”

Nana lunged at Alma with the knife. Alma managed to dodge, and the knife only grazed her arm. Pain shot through her body, but Alma knew she had no time for self-pity.

She pushed Nana away and rushed for the door. But Nana was faster. She grabbed Alma by the hair and threw her to the floor.

Alma screamed, trying to break free. Nana was on top of her, pinning her down. A mad fire burned in her eyes.

“You will die,” Nana hissed. “And no one will ever know the truth.”

Alma felt the knife approaching her throat. Was this the end? Would she die in this cursed place without ever knowing what had happened?

Suddenly, the door to the room flew open, and a man entered. He was dressed in a black uniform. A policeman.

“What’s going on here?” he shouted, drawing his pistol.

Nana was distracted and turned. Alma used the moment to throw her off.

Nana tried to run, but the policeman fired a shot into the air. Nana froze.

“Hands up!” the policeman ordered.

Nana slowly raised her hands. Hatred and powerlessness were in her eyes.

The policeman approached her and put on handcuffs. “You are under arrest on suspicion of assaulting Alma Weiss and withholding information regarding the murder of three women.”

Alma lay on the floor, breathing heavily. She was saved. But she knew this was only the beginning. That behind this story lay something much larger than just a madwoman with a knife. And that she would have to learn the truth, no matter the cost.

Chapter 2

Through the Fog of Memory

A throbbing pain pulsed in her head, as if someone were methodically driving nails into her temples. Alma slowly opened her eyes, focusing on the familiar white ceiling. The room again. The hospital again. But something had changed. The atmosphere felt less oppressive, as if the fear had receded slightly, making room for a faint hope. Or perhaps she had just gotten used to it, like getting used to a constant toothache.

Sitting by the bed in an uncomfortable position was the policeman. Very young, barely twenty-five. Levan, as he had introduced himself yesterday. He had an open, honest face and kind, slightly tired eyes. He lacked the stern suspicion Alma had seen in the other residents of Shatili. He seemed sincere.

Levan started and stood up when he saw Alma was awake. A faint smile appeared on his face. “How are you feeling? Is your head hurting badly?”

Alma tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in her shoulder shot through her body. She groaned and fell back onto the pillow. “What about Nana? Where is she?”

Levan sighed and sat back down on the chair next to the bed. “Nana is under arrest. She’s been charged with assaulting you and withholding information about the murder of three women. She won’t harm you anymore, don’t worry.”

Alma felt relief, but not complete. She understood that Nana’s arrest was only a small part of the truth. Something much larger and more sinister lay behind this story, something that permeated the entire village. “Who killed those women?” she croaked, struggling to part her dry lips. “What is happening here? Why is everyone silent?”

Levan looked away, as if avoiding her direct question. “It’s complicated, Alma. Shatili is a special place. It has its own laws, its own traditions, its own secrets, carefully guarded from outsiders. What happened to those women… It’s a tragedy. A horrible tragedy. But we will figure it out. I promise.”

“I remember… I saw them,” Alma said, trying to hold onto the fragile shreds of memory. “But it’s all blurry… Like looking at the world through a foggy glass. I don’t understand what happened, why I’m here.”

Levan leaned forward, his gaze becoming more serious and focused. “Try to remember everything you can, Alma. Any little thing, any detail could be important. Even something that seems insignificant.” He handed her a glass of water. “Drink. It will help.”

Alma took the glass with trembling hands and took a few sips. The water was cold and refreshing, like a mountain stream. She felt the tension ease slightly, allowing her mind to clear. For a moment, she thought she remembered something important, but the thought slipped away like a caught butterfly escaping.

Closing her eyes, Alma tried to concentrate. She pictured that dark night, the mountain road, the three female figures walking along the path… And then — gunshots. Loud, deafening shots that shattered the night’s silence. Blood soaking the earth. Screams full of horror and despair.

“I saw them… They were walking on the road… It was dark… Very dark… Then I heard shots… I got scared and hid… I saw who was shooting…” Alma’s voice trembled, betraying her agitation.

“You saw the killer?” Levan asked, leaning even closer. Hope burned in his eyes. “Can you describe him?”

Alma shook her head. “No… I don’t remember his face… It’s all in a fog… I only saw a silhouette… Tall, thin… He was dressed all in black…”

“Try to remember something else,” Levan urged, not losing hope. “What happened then? Where did you go? What did you do? Any detail could help.”

Alma strained again, trying to pull anything useful from the depths of her memory. A new image surfaced. She was running through the forest, stumbling over roots and falling in the mud. Thorny branches scratched her face. She heard voices chasing her, like evil spirits. She was looking for shelter and found it in a dark, damp cave.

“I was running… I was running… I hid in a cave… It was dark and cold… Very cold… I was shaking with fear…” Alma began to cry, unable to hold back her emotions.

“What cave?” Levan asked, trying to remain calm. “Where is it? Can you describe it?”

Alma tried to remember. She saw the cave entrance, overgrown with wild blackberry bushes. She remembered the smell of damp earth, moss, and mold. She felt a chilling cold that went right to the bone. But where was it? Where was this cave?

“I don’t know… I don’t remember… I can’t remember,” Alma felt despair washing over her. “It’s all useless… I remember nothing… I’ll never remember!”

Levan took her hand, trying to calm her. “Don’t say that, Alma. Don’t give up. We will find that cave. We will find the killer. But you have to help us. You are the only one who can tell us what happened.”

Alma looked into Levan’s eyes. In them, she saw not only sincerity and hope but also desperation. She realized that Levan also wanted to know the truth. That he, too, was afraid of what was happening in Shatili. And that she was his last hope.

Gathering her strength, Alma wiped away her tears and looked at Levan with a firm gaze. “I will try,” she said. “I promise. I will remember everything.”

“I will try. I will remember everything,” Alma repeated, as if making a promise not only to Levan but to herself.

Levan nodded encouragingly. “Then let’s start. Tell me about that night. What were you doing in Shatili? Why were you on that road?”

Alma closed her eyes, trying to reconstruct the sequence of events. “I… I was traveling through Georgia… I wanted to see Shatili… I was told it was a beautiful and unusual place…”

“Were you alone?” Levan asked.

“Yes… I like to travel alone… It gives me freedom…” Alma faltered, feeling a new wave of pain pierce her head. “I don’t remember… I don’t remember how I got to Shatili… I don’t remember what I was doing that day…”

“Try to remember what happened before the accident,” Levan suggested. “What did you see? Who did you talk to? Where were you headed?”

Alma strained with all her might. Disjointed pictures floated into her head: a mountain landscape, a narrow road, a small cafe on the roadside, the smiling face of a waiter…

“I… I stopped at a cafe… I had coffee… I talked to the waiter… He was very kind…”

“Do you remember what you talked about?” Levan asked.

“He told me about Shatili… About its history… About its people… He said it was a place where time stood still…”

“Did he say anything about the murders?” Levan asked.

Alma frowned, trying to remember. “No… He didn’t say anything about murders… He only said that Shatili was a dangerous place… That harsh people lived there who didn’t like outsiders…”

“Did he say why it was dangerous?” Levan pressed.

“No… He just warned me… Told me to be careful…”

Alma fell silent, feeling her strength leaving her. The memories came and went like ghosts, leaving behind only a sense of pain and emptiness.

“Maybe you should rest?” Levan offered, seeing her condition. “We can continue tomorrow.”

Alma shook her head. “No… I have to remember… I have to know the truth… I can’t stop…”

“Alright,” Levan said. “Then tell me about the women. What do you remember about them?”

Alma closed her eyes and tried to picture those three women she had seen that night. She remembered their silhouettes, their dark clothes, their quiet voices. But she couldn’t remember their faces. She didn’t know who they were.

“I don’t know them… I’d never seen them before…” Alma whispered. “They were walking on the road… They were talking about something… Then I heard the shots…”

“Can you remember what they were talking about?” Levan asked.

Alma strained again. She tried to hear their voices, but there was only a cacophony of sounds in her head.

“They were talking… about something important… About something connected to Shatili… About some secret…”

“What secret?” Levan asked, holding his breath.

Alma shook her head. “I don’t know… I can’t remember… It’s all so far away… So blurry…”

Suddenly, a new image flashed in her mind. She saw an ancient book, bound in leather. On the cover was a symbol: a sun with bloody rays.

“A book!” Alma exclaimed. “They were talking about a book! Some ancient book with an image of the sun…”

“A book!” Alma exclaimed, her voice breaking, trembling with excitement and fear. “They were talking about a book! Some ancient book with an image of the sun… A sun with bloody rays…” The image of the book flared in her memory like a brand seared onto her retina.

Levan leaned forward sharply. His usually calm eyes now burned with an almost fanatical interest. “With an image of the sun? Are you absolutely sure, Alma? This is important!”

Alma nodded, barely feeling the pain in her shoulder. “Yes… Yes, I saw it… It was a very old book, large and heavy, with thick, yellowed pages… The binding seemed to be leather… They said it held some secret… Something very important that could change everything…”

“What secret, Alma? For God’s sake, remember!” Levan whispered, his voice quiet but filled with desperate tension. “What did they say about the secret?”

Alma concentrated; a storm of fragmented phrases, voices, and images raged in her head. She felt she was approaching the edge of an abyss, on the verge of understanding something terrible and irreversible.

“They were talking… about a tradition… About some ancient, cursed ritual… About revenge…” Each word was a struggle, as if she were pulling them from a viscous swamp. “They said it was necessary… To protect Shatili…”

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.

They moved along the narrow, winding streets of the village, trying to stay in the shadows. The stone houses looming over them seemed like gloomy guards watching their every move. In the rare windows, a dim light flickered, indicating that the residents of Shatili were not yet asleep. Alma felt their invisible gazes full of suspicion, dislike, and even hostility.

“Do you think Vazha will be waiting for us?” Alma whispered, breaking the oppressive silence of the night. Her voice, though quiet, still seemed too loud to her, as if it could give away their location.

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.

Vazha looked at them for a long time with his piercing eyes, as if trying to see into their souls. His gaze held no warmth or sympathy — only a cold, assessing look. “So, Levan,” Vazha finally spoke, breaking the prolonged silence. “What did you want to tell me? What important information do you have that made you dare to come to me in the middle of the night, and in the company of this…” He nodded contemptuously towards Alma.

Levan took a deep breath, gathering his courage, and looked at Alma. “Show him,” he said, and his voice sounded doomed.

Alma, feeling her hands tremble with tension, nodded and slowly took the diary out of her pocket. She placed it on the table in front of Vazha, as if offering him a deadly poison.

Vazha frowned, his face showing extreme displeasure. He picked up the diary and began to examine it carefully, as if trying to understand what it was and what danger it might pose.

“What is this?” Vazha asked, not taking his eyes off the diary and looking at Alma with obvious suspicion.

“It’s a diary,” Alma replied, trying to keep her voice even and confident. “The diary of one of the former policemen who worked in Shatili several years ago.”

Vazha opened the diary and began to read, slowly running his finger along the lines. Alma and Levan silently watched him, holding their breath.

With each page he read, Vazha’s face grew darker and angrier. The wrinkles on his face deepened, his lips tightened into a thin, angry line, and a fire of rage flashed in his eyes.

After reading only a few pages, Vazha forcefully slammed the diary shut and threw it on the table. The book bounced off the wooden surface with a dull thud. “What does this mean?” Vazha growled, turning to Levan and looking at him with undisguised hatred. “Do you think I’ll believe this filthy lie? Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe this madman’s nonsense?”

“Vazha, please, calm down!” Levan shouted, jumping up from the bench and taking a step forward, trying to stop the elder’s growing rage. “We don’t wish you harm! We just want to understand what’s happening here! We want to know the truth!”