Chapter Nine: "Between Ash and Blood"
Time passed.
It was not just exhaustion that gnawed at Yusuf's body. There was something else, deeper than hunger, more painful than the sting of the branches that had scratched his face and arms.
Fear.
That silent fear that woke with every breath, choking silently, crawling beneath the skin like a cold insect searching for a warm place to lay its eggs.
He sat near the dying fire, a few steps from the pot that had been boiling moments before.
His body was bent slightly forward, as if trying to occupy less space, to disappear into his own shadow. His eyes did not leave the three strangers sitting around the fire, but he was careful not to let his gaze linger, not to draw their attention.
He looked at them from beneath his brows, quick fleeting glances, like someone stealing something he did not want to be caught with.
He pretended to still be occupied with something, but his hand was beneath his robe, gripping the handle of the small knife he had found in the abandoned camp. His only weapon.
A small rusty knife, its blade not sharp, but it was better than nothing. He knew it was worthless against their long spears and short swords, but having it in his hand gave him a false sense of security. Like a child who thinks his blanket protects him from the monsters under the bed.
He was not weak. He knew that. His body was still solid, his muscles still carried the memory of the days when he had been strong. But exhaustion had stolen his strength. Hunger had weakened him until he felt his mind itself beginning to unravel.
Thoughts came incomplete, breaking off mid-way, disappearing before he could catch them. He thought of escape, but he knew his body could not withstand running. He thought of staying, but he knew staying might be a slower death.
If they attack me now, I will be crushed before I can raise my hand.
It was not a clever analysis, just a vague sensation at the back of his neck—a feeling he had known since childhood when he decided which fights to engage and which to leave.
He knew when an opponent was stronger. And these three were far stronger than him. Not only in weapons, but in experience, in the cruelty whose traces he saw on their faces, in the way they moved like people accustomed to violence.
The scarred man sat on the opposite side, a little away from the fire, rigid as a stone pillar.
He ran his spear blade over a small sharpening stone, producing a monotonous metallic sound, like a steady, unceasing pulse. The hand holding the spear was thick, covered with old scars that had turned into white lines on dark skin. With each movement of his hand, Yusuf felt that the spear was passing over his own neck, not the blade.
The slim young man was close to the fire, spinning his knife between his fingers in that way that had begun to fray Yusuf's nerves. He glanced at Yusuf from time to time, smiling a faint smile, like someone who knew something Yusuf did not. It was not a friendly smile, nor even a mocking one.
It was the smile of someone who took pleasure in watching something afraid—like a cat playing with a mouse before eating it.
As for the third man—short, with shifting eyes—he sat hunched into himself, whispering words no one could hear, his eyes constantly moving like someone seeing things others could not.
---
Then something happened that Yusuf did not expect.
An argument suddenly erupted among them, like fire fed with dry wood. He had not heard its beginnings—perhaps they had been speaking in low voices before—but the conflict burst to the surface in a flash.
The slim young man was the first to raise his voice. He jumped to his feet, his face suddenly red, the veins in his neck bulging. His knife stopped spinning, and his hand gripped it tightly, as if searching for a neck rather than a blade.
— "All because of you!" he shouted, his voice broken, trembling with anger. "You led us through the cursed valley! If you hadn't… we wouldn't have lost Jern!"
The name Jern was spat out like something bitter. The temperature in the clearing rose suddenly—even Yusuf felt it. He looked at the scarred man, but his face showed no change. He was still running the spear over the stone, at the same monotonous rhythm, as if the shouting did not concern him.
But the large, heavily bearded man exploded. He jumped to his feet, kicked the pot hard, and the stew spilled onto the earth with a hissing sound. Pieces of meat and dark roots scattered among the ash, thick steam rose for a moment, then faded.
— "And who told you to follow him, you fool?" His voice was hoarse, loud, filling the small clearing. "We all chose this path! All of us! Don't blame others to hide your weakness!"
He pointed his finger at the slim young man—a trembling finger. It was not trembling from fear, but from anger that had reached its limit.
The slim young man did not back down. He stepped toward the large man, his knife now in his hand rather than between his fingers. His eyes narrowed, and his voice suddenly turned cold:
— "My weakness? I saved your skin twice! Twice! In the Northern Forest! And in the Stone Pass! Tell me, how many times have you saved me? How many?"
The large man fell silent for a moment. His silence was an admission, but he quickly regained his anger:
— "That changes nothing! Jern knew the risks! We all knew!"
The third man—the short one with shifting eyes—suddenly intervened. He jumped from his spot as if stung by fire, his face, which had been calm moments before, now flushed with blood. His voice was louder than both of them combined:
— "Be quiet!" he shouted, his hands trembling at his sides. "Be quiet! We've been starving for days! And you're squabbling like children! If we hadn't run into that creature last night… everything would be different!"
Everyone fell silent for a moment. Yusuf saw how their faces changed at the mention of "that creature."
The slim young man loosened his grip on the knife slightly. The large man turned his face away. Even the scarred man stopped the movement of the spear for a moment—just one moment—then returned to sharpening.
Yusuf did not understand what they meant, but he understood the fear in their eyes. It was real fear, different from their fear of each other. It was deeper, older.
Then the scarred man spoke. He did not stand, did not raise his voice. He remained seated where he was, running the spear over the stone, but he spoke his words with deadly calm, and clear disdain:
— "Enough."
The three fell silent instantly. Even the slim young man, who had been on the verge of explosion, stopped and swallowed what he had been about to say.
The scarred man continued with the same calmness, like a teacher explaining a lesson to disobedient students:
— "If we perish, the cause is your weakness. Not the laws, not the Kingdom of Leinhart, nor anything else."
The name fell among them like a stone in still water. Leinhart. Yusuf heard it clearly, though the scarred man had said it with contempt, like spitting out something he did not want to swallow.
A heavy silence fell. No one spoke. The large man sat back down on the ground, an exhausted posture, placing his head in his hands.
The slim young man returned to his spot, but he no longer spun his knife. He held it in a white-knuckled grip, staring at the ground. The short man with shifting eyes whispered something inaudible, then sat hunched into himself again.
Yusuf sat silent. His heart beat fast, but he tried not to show anything. He kept looking at the spilled ash, at the scattered pieces of meat, pretending he did not hear. But he heard everything.
Leinhart. Kingdom. Laws. Exile. This was no ordinary forest. There was an organized world beyond it—a world with authority, prisons, people who were exiled. A world larger than this forest.
He wanted to know more, but he knew that asking now would be a sin. The time was not right.
---
While they were immersed in their argument, their voices rising and falling, intertwining like tangled branches, they were completely absorbed. Their eyes burned with anger, each blaming the other, paying attention to nothing but their fury. The slim young man spoke quickly, his words racing from his mouth. The large man responded harshly, his voice rising each time. The short man with shifting eyes tried to mediate, but his voice drowned in the shouting.
And the scarred man sat at their edge, not participating, watching.
Yusuf felt his heart leap in his chest. This was a chance. Perhaps the only chance.
He moved his hand very slowly, as if moving it through thick water. He shifted slightly from his spot, pretending to want to sit in a more comfortable place. No one noticed him. They were lost in their shouting.
He reached his hand toward the cold ash at the edge of the fire. The ash was cold, soft, like the dust that covered everything in this place. He grabbed a large handful. It was slightly warm from underneath, where a hidden ember still glowed. He felt it in his palm, but he did not retreat.
He looked at them one last moment. The slim young man gestured toward the large man. The large man stood on his feet. The short man with shifting eyes stood between them. The scarred man sat, but his eyes followed the argument.
Yusuf was not thinking. He was acting. He raised his hand, and in a fleeting moment, threw the ash with all his strength toward their faces.
A black cloud rose. Ash and glowing charcoal fragments burst into the air, falling into their eyes and mouths. He heard a faint hiss where hot charcoal touched skin. Their cries rose suddenly. The slim young man cried out and recoiled, rubbing his eyes with both hands. The large man coughed violently—ash had entered his throat and filled his mouth. The short man with shifting eyes let out a muffled scream and rolled on the ground.
Even the scarred man rose suddenly, for the first time moving quickly. But the ash got him too, and Yusuf heard him curse in a low voice as he wiped his face with his sleeve.
Yusuf did not wait. He sprang backward as if propelled, his body launching between the trees before they could clear their eyes.
Branches scratched his face and arms. Stones nearly tripped him at every step. He ran without seeing where he placed his feet, without caring. His feet stumbled among roots, his knees struck rocks protruding from the earth, but he kept going. The pain was faint compared to the fear driving him.
Behind him, he heard curses rising. He heard the large man's voice shouting: "Catch him!" and the slim young man cursing loudly. But he did not hear pursuing footsteps. The forest was dense, the darkness pitch black. Perhaps they decided not to chase him. Perhaps they lost him in the darkness. Perhaps they were still rubbing ash from their eyes.
But he kept running. He did not look back. He knew that looking back might slow him, and that could be the difference between life and death.
He ran until his chest could take no more. Gasping emerged from his mouth like knives, cutting his lungs each time the air entered. His legs suddenly trembled, and he lost control. He tumbled to the ground, falling on his back among dry leaves and broken branches, and lay there gasping like an exhausted animal.
He bent over on his knees, his hands on his knees, his head nearly bursting with dizziness. Sweat ran down his face mixed with the ash still clinging to his clothes. Hunger gripped his stomach with a fist he had never felt before—as if he had forgotten hunger while running, and now it returned to punish him for forgetting.
He sat on the ground, his back against a massive tree trunk. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to his heartbeats that were nearly bursting. The night was thick around him, darkness hiding everything.
I can't continue… my body is betraying me.
He knew that. He knew hunger had exhausted him to the point that he could not walk far, let alone run. He knew any chase would end with his capture quickly. He knew his luck in escaping was mere chance, and if they had decided to pursue him, they would have.
But they did not. He did not hear approaching footsteps. He did not see lights searching for him. He only heard the sounds of the night: insect chirping, the hoot of a distant owl, the rustle of wind in the branches. Everything whispered: You are alone. You are alone.
He sat there for long minutes, catching his breath. He was thinking. But the thoughts were not organized; they were fragmented. He thought of the phone he had left in the camp. He thought of his mother's photos that would be lost forever. He thought of the path he did not know, the forest that never ended, the hunger that would not die.
Then he remembered their faces. They passed through his mind one by one: the large, bearded man, who had seemed strong but was the first to break in the argument. The short man with shifting eyes, who whispered and seemed afraid the whole time. The scarred man, who was the quietest and most dangerous.
That scarred man… he is the real danger.
He did not know why he thought that. Perhaps because those who speak little are more dangerous than those who shout. Perhaps because his blue eyes had been cold even in moments of anger. Perhaps because the scars covering his face would not have been left except by many battles—and he had not lost them all.
But now, he was not able to face any of them. He could barely stand on his feet.
A long silence. Then he decided.
I will go back.
The decision was not logical. He knew that. Returning to the camp after escaping them was madness. If they returned and found him there, they would not let him escape again. Perhaps they would not give him a chance to escape. Perhaps they would kill him immediately.
But the phone was there. It was the only thing connecting him to his world. The photos of his mother that he might never see again. The messages from Fouad that he had read hundreds of times before the sea swallowed the ship. The only thing proving that he had been a human in another place before the waves swept him to this hell.
He rose. His body groaned from within, but he ignored the pain. He walked slowly, remembering the path he had come from. He placed his feet carefully, trying not to make a sound. He knew that if he encountered any of them on the way, he would not have the strength to flee again.
The forest was dark as a monster's mouth. The smell of mud and dew filled his nose, mixed with another smell—the smell of ancient rot, whose source he did not know. He walked among the trees like a ghost, each step calculated.
It was not long before he heard footsteps.
He stopped suddenly. His heart nearly leaped from his chest. He crouched behind a thick bush, squatting on the ground, holding his breath. He heard the footsteps approaching—fast, stumbling. Not confident steps. The steps of someone fleeing or faltering.
The short man with shifting eyes emerged from the shadows.
He was running without direction, the limp Yusuf had noticed from the beginning now more pronounced. He stumbled every two steps, grabbing a tree trunk to balance, then continued running. His eyes were lost, looking not ahead but everywhere, like someone searching for something he could not see.
He looked like someone fleeing from something unseen. Something still behind him.
Yusuf did not move. He crouched behind the bush, not breathing. He saw the short man pass a few steps from him, stumble, fall to his knees, rise quickly as if the earth burned beneath his feet, then disappear into the darkness.
Yusuf waited. He counted to twenty. Then thirty. Then fifty. Then he rose slowly and continued on his way.
---
But he did not walk far.
He saw the blood first. Small spots on dry leaves, glinting in the darkness like a faint red gleam. He took a step and saw more. Larger spots this time, staining the grass, staining a nearby tree trunk, staining a large rock.
He stopped. He felt fear creeping into his chest. Not fear of the unknown, but fear of something he knew he would see soon.
He advanced again. His feet moved on their own, as if they did not want to go but were compelled. Behind a large tree, behind a cracked rock, he found what he was looking for and what he dreaded.
The smell reached him before his eyes saw it.
The smell of iron. The smell of blood that he had known since childhood when he bled from a cut on his knee, but here it was ten times stronger, more concentrated, mixed with something else—a sickly sweet smell, like the smell of meat beginning to rot under a hot sun. The smell of torn intestines that had emptied their contents onto the cold earth.
Nausea rose in his throat before his eyes looked.
Then he looked.
Entrails scattered on the ground. They were grayish, tinged with blue in some places, shiny and wet as if freshly expelled. Some still writhed with small, horrifying movements, as if a remnant of life refused to leave them. They had spilled onto the dry leaves, mixed with thick blood that had begun to clot at the edges and turned into a jelly-like consistency.
For a moment, he thought they were animal entrails. But the hand—a human hand, severed at the wrist, placed beside the remains like a souvenir—ended his illusion.
Yusuf shuddered. He felt nausea rise from his empty stomach to his throat. The taste of bile filled his mouth, bitter and hot. He turned his face quickly and closed his eyes. He tried not to vomit, but his stomach was empty, and only a dry, painful cough emerged, tearing his throat and releasing a muffled gasp.
Oh God… this is not hunting… this is a human.
Then he saw the head.
It was placed on a low tree stump, as if someone had put it there waiting for something. The head belonged to the large, bearded man. His eyes had been removed, leaving two bloody voids in his face.
The skin around his eye sockets was torn unevenly, as if something had dug into them with fingers or claws. Remnants of frozen tears of dried blood traced two thin lines down his cheeks.
His mouth was open wide, frozen in an eternal scream. Yusuf could see inside his mouth—the tongue cut from its root, the dark, deep throat from which the last scream had emerged before being silenced forever.
The smell of the head was different. The smell of old sweat mixed with blood, and something slightly burnt at the edges where the skin had touched something hot. The hair was matted with clotted blood, and a small fly circled one of the empty eye sockets, searching for a place to land.
Yusuf stepped back. He felt his shoes stick to the ground—there was blood beneath his feet, sticky, still warm. Then three more steps. He felt his legs tremble, and he nearly fell. He grabbed a tree trunk behind him, feeling the rough bark scratch his palm, the damp smell of wood filling his nose, trying to drive out the other smell that had lodged in his nostrils.
He was alive moments ago… he was arguing with them… he was shouting… and now…
The ground spun beneath him. He closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath. He could not. The smell was too strong, entering his mouth and throat, he tasted blood on his tongue even though he had not touched it. He felt his skin contract from within, every hair on his body standing on end.
Not the strangers… something else killed him.
He knew that. He knew that what had done this was not human. Spears and swords do not leave such marks. Spears and swords kill, but they do not tear apart, do not scatter entrails like candy, do not leave heads on tree stumps as souvenirs.
What is in this forest?
He found no answer. But he remembered what the slim young man had said earlier: "If we hadn't run into that creature last night… everything would be different."
That creature. They knew. They knew there was something in this forest, something that did this. And they had come here despite themselves. Or were sent here.
But Yusuf was not with them. He knew nothing. And he did not want to know.
He rose. His body trembled, but he rose. He turned his face from the head, from the entrails, from the severed hand. He looked in the direction he had come from. The camp was close. He knew it from the smell of fire still reaching him, from the faint light he saw among the trees.
The phone. The phone was there.
He stood for a moment, hesitating. His mind said: Run. Get away. Do not go back. It is not worth it. But something else—something deeper—said: Do not leave it. If you leave it, you will have nothing left.
He closed his eyes. He remembered his mother's photo. That photo taken on the last holiday, where she stood in front of the house smiling, her hand raised to hide a white hair that had suddenly appeared. That photo was in the phone. The phone did not work, but the photo was there. Waiting for him to recharge it one day, to see it again.
He opened his eyes.
If something is to happen to me, let it be. But I will not abandon it.
This was not courage. It was not a calculated decision. It was simply clinging to something he did not want to lose. It was a reckless decision—perhaps the most reckless decision he had ever made. But it was his decision.
He advanced toward the camp.
---
He saw the firelight from afar. It was faint, flickering like a sick eye, but it was enough to see the small clearing among the trees.
He stopped at the edge and crept slowly through the grass. His entire body was on the ground, moving like a snake, each movement calculated. The grass was tall here, reaching his chest even when crawling, so it hid him well.
The camp seemed eerily quiet. The fire still burned, but it had consumed most of the wood and was about to go out. The bags were in place, scattered around where they had sat. The pot was overturned on the ground, the spilled stew a dark stain in the earth.
But no trace of the strangers. Not the slim young man, nor the short man with shifting eyes, nor the scarred man.
Yusuf waited. One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes. He watched, not moving. His eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, every movement. He heard nothing. He saw nothing.
He took a step. Then another. He walked like a cat, placing his feet where they would make no sound, moving between shadows.
He reached the spot where the bags were. His bag lay on the ground, open, its contents scattered around it. Blood had stained it—dark red patches on the fabric, some still fresh.
He knelt and began to search. His hands trembled, the objects slipping from him each time. He found his torn shirt. He found the food remnants he had gathered. He found the piece of cloth he used as a towel. Then he found the phone.
It was under the bag, covered in dirt and patches of dried blood. He took it, turning it over in his hands. The screen was still black, cracked at the corner. Nothing had changed. But it was there.
He pressed it to his chest for a moment. He felt the cold glass against his chest, the weight of the small object in his hand. It was like reclaiming something he had lost, like reclaiming a part of his soul.
He looked around. The other bags were open too. He saw clothes, utensils, some tools. But he touched nothing. He did not want to take anything that was not his. And the smell of blood was strong here, making him want to leave quickly.
He put the phone in his inner pocket, where it had always been. He felt it there—heavy, reassuring.
He rose. He was ready to leave. He would get away from this place, from these corpses, from this fear. He would walk until he found a safe place, until he found a way out of this forest.
But the ground shook.
It was not a strong tremor—it was light, like something heavy passing nearby. But it was enough to freeze Yusuf in place. He felt it in his feet first, then in his spine, then in his teeth, which involuntarily chattered together.
The trees around him trembled. Branches moved without wind, leaves fell as if afraid. The prevailing calm had turned into a heavy silence—a silence where nothing was heard but the pounding of his heart.
Then he heard the scream.
It was distant, but it was loud, very loud. A man's scream. Not a scream of fear alone. It was a scream of terror, a scream of despair, the scream of someone who knew he would not survive. It rose from among the trees, tearing through the night's stillness, then stopped suddenly, as if something had cut it off.
Yusuf felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He felt cold coursing through his veins—a cold not from the night, but from within. He stood there, rigid, unable to move. His eyes wide open, staring into the darkness where the scream had come from.
He raised his head slowly. His eyes searched among the branches, among the shadows, among everything and nothing. He waited to see something. He was afraid to see something.
But he saw nothing.
Only darkness. Only trees. Only the silence that had returned after the scream—a silence heavier than any silence before.
He stood there, not moving. The phone in his pocket, the blood around him, the head on the tree stump behind him, the silence strangling him.
What have I awakened?
He did not know. He did not want to know.
But he knew one thing: he was not alone in this forest. And what had been hunting these men was not finished yet.
He began to walk. Slowly at first, then faster. He no longer cared about the noise he made. He just wanted to get away, to be anywhere else but this place.
The forest around him seemed to expand and contract simultaneously. The trees moved as if watching him, the branches whispered as if speaking of him. And the darkness pursued him, never letting go, staying behind him like a second shadow that did not want to leave him.
He ran until the fire disappeared behind him. He ran until he could see nothing but darkness. He ran until he felt his lungs would burst.
But he did not stop.
He knew that stopping now meant that what was in the forest might reach him.
So he kept running.
---
End of Chapter Nine