EXT. SALEM VILLAGE – EVENING – JANUARY 26TH, 1692
That winter evening.....
A group of people—twenty, maybe thirty of them—walked slowly down the path, their boots crunching on the frozen ground. They were dressed in long black coats and thick wool cloaks tucked high around their necks to keep out the cold. Every breath they took puffed out a white cloud.
They were known as the Puritans or particularly referred to as 'The Umbral Synod'.
Their black horses snorted loudly, their hooves cracking the ice with every heavy step. Each rider held something in their hands: a heavy old bible, a worn wooden cross, or one of the torches that lit their way.
They chanted as they walked, their voices a low, serious rumble:
"In nomine Domini, eicite daemonia!"
"In nomine Domini, eicite daemonia!"
As they passed the edge of the village, the road thinned and grew narrow. It became a bumpy track under their horses' hooves, curving along a line of bare trees, until it opened up to a small, crooked cottage that sat alone by the woods.
The leader of the Puritans, Madame Ginevra riding at the front, was staring at the strange cottage for a while, before she gently pulled on the reins of her black horse.
She was a tall woman, her pale face drawn taut over high cheekbones. A tight black bonnet hid her hair, and her eyes were dark and slightly sunken. Her rigid black cloak seemed to hold the cold at bay, but her stern expression was colder still.
A Puritan riding beside her, looked at Madame Ginevra in confusion, his face half-hidden by a heavy beard, cleared his throat. "Are we sure of this, Madame?" he muttered, knowing all too well what she was up to—again. "The snow is quite thick. We could wait for the morning."
Ginevra didn't look at him to reply, her eyes were fixed on the cottage. "The Lord's work does not wait for the sun..." she said, her voice low before finally turning to face him. "What is to be done must be done now, before the devil's work spreads any further."
The Puritan fell silent. He just gripped his bible a little tighter.
Madame Ginevra's black horse let out a snort as it slowed its walk. The riders behind her, their dark cloaks heavy with snow, followed suit. Their own horses slowed, snorting and shifting, until the whole group came to a halt.
No one spoke.
Her eyes were fixed on the small cottage ahead. It did not look like the homes back in the village. Its walls were made of dark, rough wood, not cared for or painted with the blood of the lamb. The windows were shut tight. There was no light behind the glass, and no smoke rose from the chimney. The house just sat there, quiet and alone.
Ginevra didn't say a word. She just tilted her head slightly to one side, listening, her mouth a tight, thin line.
A few seconds passed.
Then—a faint rustling sound.
A man on a grey horse behind her stiffened, his hand going to the hilt of his short sword. Ginevra's gaze dropped quickly to the ground, reaching for hers.
From under a thorny bush near the clearing, a few small mice darted out. They scurried across the frozen dirt road as they disappeared into a patch of dead leaves.
That was all.
The man let out the breath he'd been holding and relaxed his hand. The other Puritans shifted in their saddles, their eyes glancing around the trees.
They were restless, but no one dared to question Madame Ginevra. They waited for her to speak, or to move, or to give some sign of what to do next. But Madame Ginevra just watched the empty road, still as a stone.
Only Thomas Wood, one of her most loyal riders, cleared his throat softly. His black-gloved hand reached down to adjust the leather strap on his saddle, more out of nerves than needed. He nudged his horse forward a few paces.
The animal let out a small snort.
Thomas wore a stark black coat with a high collar and a broad-brimmed hat, like the others. He looked up at Madame Ginevra, careful to keep his voice respectful.
"Madame?" he said. "Is something amiss?" His eyes followed hers to the cottage, but all he saw was a quiet, crooked building. To him, it looked old and simple—but harmless.
Ginevra didn't answer him right away.
Her dark eyes stayed on the windows, which were shut tight, their wooden slats warped by the wind and rain. She stared at them, as if trying to see through the glass, trying to understand what lay behind them.
She had seen too much in her time to trust what lay on the outside of things. Madame Ginevra turned her head toward him, her gaze finally meeting his. Her voice was still low.
"The Lord abideth not in this house, Thomas."
Thomas narrowed his eyes slightly, a fraction of confusion crossing his face.
Without another word, Madame Ginevra dismounted, her boots landing silently on the snow. The damp leaves beneath her feet, stuck with moss and frozen bark, clung to the hem of her long black coat.
Some of the other Puritans made uneasy glances at one another, but Ginevra didn't notice. She just kept walking, slow and calm, her eyes never leaving the house. She reached the small porch, lifted her hand, and was about to knock when—
Then came a voice.
"Madame...."
Every head slowly turned toward the edge of the dark forest. The Puritans stopped what they were doing, their eyes fixed on the line where the trees began. Even Ginevra, who rarely showed surprise, turned her gaze.
There was a moment of silence.
Then, from beneath the shadow of the trees, a figure began to appear. At first, it was hard to tell what it was, as it moved slowly, bit by bit. The figure stepped into the light, and everyone stood frozen, watching.
A tall horse stepped out—brown and white, its coat dusted with snow. It stood still for a moment. Its hooves made almost no sound on the frozen ground.
And upon it sat a man draped entirely in black.
He was tall, sitting proud on his horse. His coat was long and dark, buttoned tight to the throat. Snow clung to his shoulders and sleeves. His gloves were black and looked freshly oiled. His wide-brimmed hat dipped low, hiding most of his face—until he lifted his chin.
And revealed those grey eyes.
He pulled the reins gently and the horse began to move forward, slow and calm.
It was Sir Malevich of Catan II
Thomas eyes widened, a look of fear on his face. He's alive? Thomas thought. No one has seen him in over five years.
Malevich looked around at the group of Puritans in front of him. His eyes moved from one face to the next, like he was counting them. His mouth turned up in a small, tight smirk.
Then his gaze landed on one person—Madame Ginevra, who stood tall and still, her hands folded. She was just staring at him, not moving at all.
Malevich stopped. His horse stood still now. He leaned forward a little in the saddle.
Then, with his dry, rough voice, he spoke.
"It's almost dawn…and yet....no form of paper had been submitted to the church authorities..."
There was a moment of silence, before the same awkward puritan from earlier replied "And what gives you that same authority to question us....in the first place?"
Sir Malevich paused for a few seconds, before his eyes moving slowly over every face. A small, tight smile touched his lips completely ignoring the fellow. "I… suppose I must say, it's truly an honour to stand among such great ministers."
He gave a small, quiet laugh.
"It is something, isn't it? I've heard the stories—the fine, noble tales." His smile grew wider. "And yet… not one of them quite matched the truth of it."
He turned, his gaze settling on one face.
"Not even my old friend here," he said, his grey eyes locking with Thomas's. He let out a low chuckle. "Failed to mention that you're also quite the… 'laggard.' Never quite on time, are you?" He turned to Madame Ginevra.
A deep, heavy silence fell over the clearing.
Thomas moved his horse forward, placing himself between the rest of the Puritans and the rider in black. "How did you find us, Malevich?"
Malevich tilted his head, his smile growing into a wide, mocking grin. "Seek… and ye shall find, Thomas."
He let out a tiny laugh.
Meanwhile, the snow began to fall even faster. It landed on cloaks and bonnets, and clung to the leaves of the trees. Thomas stood completely still, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on Sir Malevich.
Behind him, the other Puritans began to feel uneasy. They did not speak aloud, but only whispered among themselves. A few looked at one another with wide, nervous eyes.
Thomas's gaze remained, before breaking to the side, just for a moment. He then faced Malevich again, his voice calm, but quite loud still. "Right now… there's a lot of good you could do for yourself, Malevich. Turn around. Take your cursed horse. Go back to whatever pit you dragged yourself out of."
Malevich didn't smile this time. He slowly folded his arms across his chest, then tilted his head, watching Thomas like a predator watches its prey before the strike.
Then, in a soft tone, he spoke.
"You see, Thomas…"
He leaned forward in the saddle. "I will not deny the fact that I'm quite delighted to see you stand so firm after all these years—how noble you look—surrounded by cloaks and scriptures."
He paused, his eyes scanning the frozen crowd behind Thomas. "But where was this voice… when Salem needed it the most… huh?"
He waited for a few seconds.
"Where was this courage… when children screamed behind barred doors? When mothers begged on their knees, clutching the bodies of their kin?"
His voice grew heavier. "Do you know how many names were carved into stone, Thomas? Only because you refused to listen to the prophecies that were given to you?"
Another pause, longer this time.
"And after all of it… after all the blood that was shed…"
He looked around again—at the faces of the Puritans. "This town has the guts to welcome you back as their own with open arms. You have their forgiveness, their trust, and their prayers." His tone was calm, but you could sense the deep, buried anger beneath it all.
Silence.
A few of the Puritans started to slowly turn toward Thomas. Their faces were drawn and tight. Surprisingly, some began to frown and squint, trying to make sense of what was being said. They did not speak aloud, but their glances carried unspoken doubts.
Thomas felt every single sense of doubt crawling across every single one of them.
And Malevich… he knew it too.
He gave his usual smirk and whispered.
"What's the matter, Thomas?"
He then raised his voice. "Didn't you tell your brothers and sisters in the Lord about your inner-Judas?"
Sir Malevich turned his gaze to the crowd.
"How all you did that night… was run and escape. Leave the people of Salem behind while you clung to survival. But let me tell you something quite valuable, Thomas. Sometimes in life, surviving could be the worst mistake a man could make, especially when his demons still chase him."
He paused again.
"I told you what I saw. I begged you to listen. The prophecies weren't just dreams… Thomas. Night after night, I shared them with you. The burning sky. The screams. The blood. But you brushed them off, didn't you? Like they were just the ramblings of an insane psychopath."
"And now…"
Malevich's tone got softer as his gaze drifted to the small gowns tied carefully on the side of his horse. They were quite faded and merely stitched together. "His OWN family," he whispered. "His OWN blood... is nothing more than dust beneath HIS feet."
He turned back toward the Puritans. "The very ground HE walks on remembers them better than HE—the one who swore to protect them."
A single tear slid down his cheek.
Then he lifted his eyes, his voice deep. "You think that faith has softened me?" he asked, and let out a small laugh.
"Absolutely not."
"Yes, I have found religion… but…."
His eyes locked on Thomas.
"Some debts… are far too deep for forgiveness."
Thomas said nothing. He simply stared at Malevich without an expression. Perhaps there was pity there… or perhaps it was nothing at all. Then, without a word, Malevich dismounted. His cloak followed him, rustling as his boots touched the frozen ground.
Thomas followed slower, stepping down from his horse and reached behind his back to draw his sword. The crowd backed away a few paces.
No one dared speak.
He held the blade steady, its point aimed at the ground. "This is your last chance, Malevich," Thomas said. "Back away or nothing shall remain of your bloodline."
Sir Malevich stared at Thomas for a few seconds, then slowly, deliberately, turned his head. His gaze fell upon Madame Ginevra, who stood a few paces away. Without taking his eyes off her, he spoke.
"Listen to me, Thomas… If I was here to spill your blood, I would not have waited five long years to make my move."
Thomas narrowed his eyes and raised his sword upwards. "Then what makes you stand in front of our path…?"
Malevich shook his head, and replied "The Church awaits your declaration ."
He turned now, facing the gathered Puritans once more. His cloak shifted slightly with the motion, revealing the insignia of the Temple etched into black leather. "While you all were absent for the Congregational Synod in Danvers—the church of Salem has suffered once again…."
Silence.
"And… why… so…?" The same puritan asked once, his voice shaking a little as he stepped forward from the fringe of the group.
Sir Malevich didn't even acknowledge him. Instead, he stood in silence for a long moment, before he continued with the same slow rhythm. "The Reverends of Salem are furious. And so is the Church itself… who grows impatient with each passing day."
He glanced back at Madame Ginevra.
"They call for you, Madame." His tone was louder now. "And for three days now, you've wandered these same woods with no explanation."
Silence followed as somewhere in the deep woods, a wolf howled.
Malevich took a deliberate step closer. "And now," he continued with a low voice, "you are hours from dawn… and still no declaration has been made."
Malevich's gaze hardened.
"If the sun rises, and your tongue remains still… then know this: the wrath that shall descend upon you will be a devastating one. It will pass through your entire bloodline. Your children's children will speak your names in curses for the plagues that shall befall them."
Silence followed once again.
No one moved at first, as if waiting for one person to start moving.
Then, one of the Puritans—an older man with a grizzled beard—shifted in his saddle and turned his horse around. Without a word, he began down the path, his horse's hooves crunching softly on the frozen ground.
Another followed. Then another.
One by one, they glanced at each other, their faces uncertain, but the choice was made. None of them dared argue with Sir Malevich, let alone wait to face the Church's wrath. They slowly walked their horses away, their black coats fading into the mist behind the trees.
Thomas stayed still, his hands were tight on the reins as he watched his fellow puritans move. He knew his power was quite limited when the church was involved. His gaze fell on Madame Ginevra, who was still staring at the wooden door.
He swallowed hard, then gave a single, slow nod to no one in particular. He kicked his horse gently and began to ride off. He did not look back at her. Sir Malevich remained where he was, still standing and watching as the Puritans passed him one by one, without a word.
Only Thomas remained now. His horse slowed as it neared Malevich. He pulled it to a stop just beside him and looked at him. Malevich stared back.
The two men said nothing.
Malevich let out a small sigh and slowly turned his head, his eyes falling once again on Ginevra, who was still staring at the door. Thomas let out a short breath, tightened his grip on the reins once again and rode off without another word.
After a few seconds, Malevich spoke once again:
"The evil spirit you sense will still be here tomorrow night…."
He paused, his grey eyes fixed on Ginevra.
"…but you won't be—if you're not present tonight."
He didn't wait for a reply because with a quick pull of the reins, he turned his horse and the animal reared slightly, then broke into a gallop, vanishing into the mist.
Madame Ginevra finally turned at last, and saw no one behind her, but after a few seconds, she looked back at the cottage for a long moment, then slowly walked back to her horse.
She mounted cleanly, as the hem of her coat slid neatly around her boots. She looked at the wooden cottage once again and without a word, she tapped her heels to the sides of the horse.
It moved.
And then it galloped.
Behind her, the old wooden cottage stood still in the quiet snowfall.