Prologue
The rain had been pouring for hours.
The narrow forest paths had turned into rivers of mud, while beneath the dense canopy of trees, barely a trace of light could find its way through. The wind howled between the branches as though the forest itself were trying to swallow every sound the night had to offer.
The man ran.
He had no idea how long he had been fleeing. Perhaps an hour. Perhaps all day. It no longer mattered. He knew only one thing—if he stopped, he would die.
Blood streamed down his side. His cloak was soaked through, and with every step his boots sank deeper into the mud. One hand pressed against his wound while the other clutched a small iron-bound wooden chest so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
Ancient symbols, barely visible beneath the grime, were carved into its dark wood. The rain had washed away the mud, but nothing could erase the dried blood staining its lid.
The man glanced over his shoulder.
He saw no one in the darkness.
Yet he knew they were following him.
His pursuers did not shout. They had no need to. They were patient hunters. They knew that wounded prey always collapsed in the end.
His legs faltered.
For a heartbeat, the world blurred around him. He dropped to one knee but never loosened his grip on the chest. Trembling, he forced himself back to his feet and stumbled onward.
“Just a little farther...” he whispered hoarsely. “Just a little farther...”
They had told him that somewhere beyond this forest lived a young herbal healer. A girl the world had not yet broken. Someone who would help a stranger without even asking his name.
He did not know if the story was true.
But it was the only hope he had left.
When he finally saw the faint glow of a cottage between the trees, it felt as though dawn itself were waiting inside.
The little house was simple. Built of weathered timber, its roof was covered with thick moss. Warm candlelight spilled through the small window, and bunches of drying herbs swayed gently beside the door.
Summoning the last of his strength, the man staggered forward.
He lifted his hand to knock, but his fist barely touched the wood before the door opened.
A young woman stood before him.
She wore a long brown cloak over a plain linen dress. Thick red hair was woven into a heavy braid that rested across her shoulder. There was no fear on her face—only quiet surprise.
For several long seconds, the man simply stared at her.
So young?
This was the person they had entrusted with a secret buried for centuries?
“Help me...” he whispered.
The young woman did not hesitate for a single moment.
She rushed to his side, wrapped an arm around him, and slowly guided him into the cottage. His body was heavy, his clothes dripping wet, leaving crimson drops of blood across the wooden floor.
The air inside was filled with the scent of herbs, while a fire crackled softly in the hearth.
“Lie down,” she said gently.
The man obeyed.
Boróka quickly cut away his soaked shirt. The moment she saw the wound, her expression darkened.
It had not been made by a sword.
A strange black discoloration spread through the flesh around it, as though the wound itself were alive.
Carefully, Boróka wiped away the blood.
The man clenched his teeth against the pain.
“Who did this to you?”
He slowly shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
She looked up at him.
“Yes, it does.”
A faint smile crossed his face.
“The only thing that matters now... is that they never find it.”
With trembling hands, he lifted the wooden chest.
Only then did Boróka truly see it.
It was old.
Very old.
Strange symbols had been carved into the dark wood—symbols she had never seen before. The iron bands looked rusted with age, yet they gleamed in the firelight as though they had been forged only yesterday.
And there was the blood.
So much blood.
“What’s inside?” she asked quietly.
For a long moment, the man said nothing.
He simply stared at the chest.
“The truth.”
Boróka frowned in confusion.
“In a box?”
“Sometimes...” he whispered, “...the truth is smaller than you imagine.”
A violent cough shook his body.
Blood stained his lips.
Boróka quickly tightened a fresh bandage around the wound, but she could already feel his pulse growing weaker beneath her fingers.
“Don’t speak. I’ll save you.”
The man slowly shook his head.
“Not me...”
Tears filled Boróka’s eyes.
“Don’t say that.”
He let out a quiet laugh.
“You have a good heart.
That’s why we chose you.”
Boróka froze.
“We?”
“The ones... who still remember.”
At that moment, the muffled sound of hoofbeats echoed from outside.
Both of them fell silent.
Boróka barely dared to breathe.
Horsemen.
Not far away.
The man closed his eyes.
“They’re here.”
Instinctively, Boróka glanced toward the fireplace, then toward the back of the cottage where a hidden passage disappeared beneath the floor. She knew that once the riders arrived, she would have very little time.
“Listen to me,” the man whispered. “Don’t open the chest.”
“Why?”
“Because the moment you do... everyone will know... that it is with you.”
A chill ran through Boróka.
“Who?”
The man’s eyes met hers one last time.
“The King’s men.”
After several painful breaths, he continued.
“The Pasha’s soldiers.”
Silence settled over the room once again.
“And those... who serve neither.”
Boróka gently squeezed his hand.
“I promise.”
The pain slowly faded from the man’s face, replaced by a look of peace, as though he had finally found relief.
“Then... there is still hope.”
Those were his final words.
His hand slowly slipped from Boróka’s grasp.
Outside, the thunder of approaching horses drew ever closer.
Boróka closed her eyes for a single heartbeat.
Then she picked up the bloodstained wooden chest.
She did not yet know that, in doing so, she had accepted not only a dying stranger’s final wish, but also a war that had driven kings, pashas, and entire empires to hunt the very same secret.
A war that would change her life forever.
