And suddenly, the silence broke.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Three knocks.
These weren't simple knocks on wood. In the heavy silence of the room, these three sharp sounds echoed like a death bell. They tore through the air, breaking the thin, fragile thread that had started to form between Marjorie and me. I'd forgotten the outside world existed. For one hanging moment, I'd forgotten that privacy is a dangerous luxury in a city that has no ear for suffering and no patience for healing. I'd forgotten I was just a stranger on borrowed time.
It was sad. It was frightening. It was a hard reminder that peace here was just a passing dream.
The mood in the room, which seconds before had been bathed in a golden light of hope and trust, suddenly turned dark. I felt like a wall of silence had just risen between the young woman and me — a cold, thick wall I couldn't cross. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees, cruelly reminding me I was only wearing a damp towel around my waist.
I didn't know what to do. I sat frozen on the couch, my hand still hanging in the air where hers had been a second before — the ghost of warmth already gone. In one instant, I left the comfort of human connection for a dizzying emotional fall, a dive into darkness even more thick and terrifying than my earlier fall in the cave. There, I'd feared wild animals. Here, I was starting to understand that the hunters wore human faces and polite smiles.
Marjorie had jumped to her feet like she was pushed by an invisible spring. She stepped back several paces, putting too much safety distance between us. She looked hard into my eyes, maybe searching for an answer I didn't have, but this was no longer the caring look of the woman who had promised to help me. I saw panic in her face. Her pupils shook, wide with fear. Her hands, which had seemed so gentle, now nervously smoothed her white apron, crushing the fabric with worried energy, as if she was trying to erase an invisible stain, damaging proof of her being here. She tried not to show her distress, to put back her mask of calm employee, but her jerky, whistling breath gave her away.
"Who is it?" she whispered, her voice choked, barely heard. "Who is it? Who is it?"
She repeated it one, two, three times, like a protective spell. Her voice was loaded with mixed emotions — raw fear, guilt, urgent need. I felt panic radiating from her in waves, filling the air of the room.
Me, foolish, I didn't understand. I looked at her, eyebrows pulled together, my mind foggy from this sudden change. Why was she acting like this? I saw no wrong in this situation. We were talking. She was comforting me. Where was the problem? My innocence, or maybe my memory loss that had erased the complex social codes of this twisted world, stopped me from imagining the darkness of the story being written. For me, maybe it was the noble coming back, or just room service. Why was she shaking like a leaf?
The knocks at the door came again, more insistent, heavier.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
This time, the door wood shook under the impact. This wasn't a request to enter. It was a demand.
I stood up slowly, my knees cracking under the tension, my bare feet pressing into the thick carpet. I checked with a nervous, modest gesture that my towel held tight, pulling it firmly around my waist, checking the knot twice. I didn't want misunderstanding. I didn't want to look improper in front of the stranger. I wanted to keep a bit of dignity despite my basic outfit. I walked toward the entrance, my mind heavy, thoughtful, each step costing me huge effort. I was still thinking about what had just happened, about the warmth of her hand, about the softness of her voice saying "You're not alone." And yet, this thought of Zarel City still filled my mind, blinking like a distant lighthouse in the storm, fighting not to be swallowed by the present chaos. Zarel... Zarel... Would this interruption stop me from finding my path?
This cold brass doorknob, which my hand was about to grab, looked like a bomb trigger. It was going to shatter the only moment of comfort I'd found while waiting for this quest toward the God — or the fate — from which I needed answers.
I took a shaky breath, filling my chest to give myself courage.
Click.
I turned the key. The lock played with a sharp metal sound.
I pulled the door toward me.
Suddenly, I saw a lady.
She filled the whole doorway, not because of her size, but because of her absolute authority. She was quite tall, imposing by her still presence. I prefer to say "a young lady" out of politeness, or maybe survival reflex, because she was about fifty, but she gave off vital energy that challenged her age. Her gray hair was pulled into a strict bun, perfectly styled, not one hair out of place, well-kept for a person living in this difficult neighborhood. She wore a dark dress, severe cut but made from rich fabric, maybe velvet, that whispered money and power with each movement. Around her neck, a string of pearls shone, standing out against the dirt of the hallways.
She didn't greet me. She didn't smile. She looked directly at me, her cold, calculating eyes, ink-black, scanning me from head to feet. She lingered with clear contempt on my light outfit, on my wet shoulders, on my bare feet. It was a humiliating inspection, like judging someone who'd broken an unspoken rule.
Then, after two seconds of this heavy silence, she avoided my eyes. She already didn't care about me. She tilted her head to look past me, over my bare shoulder, her hawk eyes searching the dim living room. She was looking for something. Or someone. She searched like there was a hidden suspect in this room, a guilty person only she knew and had come to hunt.
She kept looking, looking, endlessly, her nostrils moving slightly as if she was sniffing the air for a particular smell.
Then, without being invited, without a "pardon," without any politeness, she put one leather-booted foot inside. She almost pushed me with her shoulder, forcing me to step back to avoid contact, and entered the living room, invading my sanctuary with terrifying confidence.
Her voice snapped, dry, commanding, used to being obeyed:
"Where is she?"
I stood planted near the open door, my hand gripping the handle, totally overwhelmed by this invasion. I didn't understand what was happening right then. I was still shocked by her presence here, by her boldness, by this clear home violation. Who was she to enter guests' rooms like this?
I blinked, trying to gather my scattered thoughts that were running away like roaches from light.
"Who are you talking about?" I asked in a voice that badly lacked confidence, a boy's voice caught doing wrong when he'd done nothing.
She turned toward me, her skirts rustling on the carpet with a silky sound.
"My employee," she said, separating each syllable as if speaking to an idiot or a slow child.
"Ah, the cleaning woman!" I answered with foolish relief, thinking it was simply staff inspection. "She's here. She's just doing her job. She was talking with me about the service..."
I stopped. The lady already wasn't listening. She'd spotted Marjorie, who'd backed into the shadows near the bathroom, her eyes avoiding. The Matron — because that's clearly what she seemed to be — looked at me again. She looked at my white towel, damp, stuck to my thighs. She looked at my bare shoulders where a few water drops from the shower still sat. She looked at the invisible hour on her wrist.
A slow, satisfied smile stretched her lips painted blood-red. It was the smile of a trap closing.
She held out an open hand toward me, palm up, crooked fingers waiting for payment.
"That'll be 1500 silver coins."
Time stopped. The mental clock in my brain froze.
I looked at her, mouth half-open, eyes wide. The words floated in the air, absurd, impossible to understand, like a foreign language.
"What do you mean, 1500 silver coins?" I stammered, feeling a wave of heat rise to my cheeks. "What are you talking about?"
She didn't lower her hand. She stayed there, impatient.
"Here, we only accept silver coins," she cut in, ignoring my confusion, sweeping away my question with a wave of her hand. "No credit, no trade, no empty promises. Real money. Right now."
I felt cold sweat run down my spine. This was a waking nightmare. Had I gone crazy? Had I missed an episode?
I asked the question again, very surprised, my voice rising an octave, almost hysterical:
"What are you talking about? I don't owe you anything! I don't even know you! I'm the guest of..."
And then the lady had the courage, or supreme boldness, to cut me off and answer with terrifying calm, confidence that froze my blood:
"You didn't know?" she said, pretending surprise, raising her plucked eyebrows. "Here, our companion employees cost much more. This is a high-class place, my boy. But just for you, given your... rustic state and your lost look, I've decided to give a discount. That's why I said 1500 silver coins. It's a friendly price for special services."
The words hit me like a punch in the stomach, cutting off my breath.
Special services.
Not understanding what was happening, I was still in shock, stunned by the violence of the accusation. My mind refused to connect these dirty hints to the gentle young woman who'd held my hand moments before, who'd spoken of hope.
"Special services?" I choked, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "What do you mean? You're making a mistake! She's a cleaning woman! She was wearing an apron!"
The lady burst into a short, dry laugh, joyless, a sound of broken glass. She was very sure of herself, anchored in her made-up truth, as if I was already a product of their plot, a fly caught in a web spun long ago.
"But, my dear," she said, moving toward me, invading my space, "you received one of my best employees. Marjorie is very popular. Her company is... precious. And you took up her time, behind a closed door. Now you've used her presence, you must pay me. That's the house rule. You can't block staff without paying."
Very surprised by this, revolted by this sick twisting of reality, I stepped back, almost tripping on the carpet.
"But ma'am, what do you mean? That's false! Nothing improper happened!"
She answered by rolling her eyes, frustrated by my useless resistance.
"No, don't play innocent. You're all the same."
She turned on her heels, her skirts swirling, and went to sit on the velvet couch, settling comfortably as if I'd invited her for tea. She crossed her legs, smoothed her dress, taking on grand queen airs in my own living room. She took possession of the place.
"Here, everyone pays, no matter the situation. Whether you're a noble, a soldier, or a wandering man with no memory. Time is money."
I was still in shock, frozen in the middle of the room like a statue of salt. I thought to myself, my thoughts spinning faster until I felt sick: "So the one I was with... Marjorie... worked for her? How is this possible? She seemed so sincere, so pure... Was it all an act? Was her helping hand just a trick to keep me here longer?"
The lady, reading my trouble on my broken face like an open book, drove the point home with cruelty:
"Don't play saint with me. You men are all the same. Predictable. You spent more than thirty minutes in the bath, I heard the water running! Then here, locked up with a young woman! What do you think people will think? That you were just discussing philosophy? Knitting? Praying?"
She gave a scornful laugh that slapped my face.
"Who could believe that? A man in a towel and a 'servant' locked in? Come on, give me the money and let's finish this. I don't have all day, I have a business to run. Don't play this game, sir. That innocent air you have, that beaten dog look, doesn't really suit you. It doesn't work on me. I've seen all types of men, and you're like the others. A bad payer."
Very surprised to hear this, feeling the grip of injustice tighten around my throat, I said again, my voice shaking with held rage and helplessness:
"But ma'am, I'm not playing anything! I swear! Just explain to me what's wrong, I don't understand! I have no money! I didn't know!"
Right away, I started raising my voice, desperation taking over caution. I wanted answers. I wanted to break this absurd theater. I wanted Marjorie to step in, to tell the truth, to tell this harpy we'd just talked.
That's when I saw her.
I saw the servant come out of the shadows, coming from the bathroom direction where she'd hidden.
She walked slowly, head down, her steps muffled by the carpet.
The mood had totally changed. The room seemed emptied of all oxygen. I was completely frozen, blood stopped in my veins, but at the same time humiliated to have been fooled like this. Humiliated to have believed.
Yes, I took the courage to stay calm again, clenching my fists to not scream, my nails digging into my palms until they bled. I looked at the servant in the eyes. I searched for my ally. I searched for the one who'd told me "You can trust me."
But she'd completely changed her manner.
She was no longer this joyful, caring lady who'd wanted to help me. She'd become a perfect opposite of kindness itself. Her face was closed, hard, impossible to read. Her eyes were dry, calculating.
The atmosphere was really different. I felt the heaviness of the air press down on me ten times more, crushing my shoulders like a lead weight. But on her? On her, it pressed ten times less. She seemed to float, untouchable. She had a certain terrifying lightness in putting sadness on her face, like an experienced actress puts on a costume before entering the stage. I think that's even why I was victimized, to give in like this to reveal certain parts of my life. Her softness was poison, and I'd drunk it to the last drop.
But I quickly recovered by telling myself: "Luckily this woman finally cut me off in time with the knocks at the door, because I could have revealed something myself that I didn't know about this sect. I could have told her everything about Zarel... and who knows what she would have done with it?"
The Matron, seeing her employee arrive, stood up from the couch with false concern that made me sick. She held out her arms toward her like a protective mother.
"Oh Marjorie, my poor dear... I hope he's not too rough? I hope he wasn't too harsh?"
I was surprised, shocked, stunned. I said, my voice broken:
"Rough how? What are you talking about? I didn't touch her! I didn't even brush against her!"
Then I paid attention to the servant's face. She lifted her head toward the harsh light of the oil lamp, showing her profile to her boss.
I held back a gasp of shock.
There was a scratch mark, red, fresh, oozing slightly, just beside her lower lip. A mark. A clear mark.
A mark I'd never made.
It was precise. It was theatrical. As if she'd done it on purpose, in the shadows, with her own nail, just before coming out, to accuse me. To seal my fate.
But I had no proof. I only had my word as a man with no memory in light clothes against hers, that of a "poor victim."
I said, my voice white, shaking with horror:
"What did that to you? Marjorie... tell me what did that to you? You know it wasn't me!"
She didn't answer right away. She sniffled, playing the traumatized girl perfectly, biting her lip to make it redder.
I asked once, twice, insisting, almost begging, hoping there was still a bit of humanity in her.
And then she had the courage, or absolute cruelty, to lift her wet eyes toward me and say in a shaking voice, perfectly set to break any judge's heart:
"Oh no, sir... don't be cruel. Don't add lies to violence. Don't you remember those intense moments we spent together? You were so... strong. So carried away. It's your force that did this to me. You didn't control your strength. I was scared, you know..."
Surprised, destroyed by this lying statement, I felt the ground disappear under my feet. It was a knife in the back, turned and twisted with a sad smile.
I asked, almost shouting, forgetting my caution:
"What do you mean, my force did that to you? I beg you, Marjorie! Tell her the truth! Please, for the love of honesty, tell her the truth! Tell her I'm totally innocent of what they're accusing me of! Tell her I just held your hand! Tell her you offered to help me!"
I kept begging her like this, losing all dignity, waving my arms, looking crazy. I begged her to tell the truth, that nothing had happened between us, that I was just a lost man looking for comfort.
But her face didn't change. Instead, she closed her eyes and, miracle of acting, she started crying. Real tears, big and heavy, rolling down her cheeks to die on her red mark. Fake sad tears, crocodile tears.
For a person with a less careful eye, you'd say this was the symbol itself of sadness, the icon of the wronged victim. You'd say this lady had suffered all the world's evils, that she'd been broken by a monster, and that I was this monster. She was sacrificed innocence.
But for a very experienced person, for someone who could have seen the backstage of her soul at this moment, or for a mature observer, they'd understand the raw truth: this is simply the greatest of the greatest liars in the world. A high-level manipulator, an actress worthy of the greatest royal stages.
Sadly, I had no proof. Once again. No witnesses. No camera. No solid memories to support my defense. Just my basic outfit and my desperation facing two hunters. I had no way to prove my story.
I was really confused then, brain boiling, not knowing what to do. I turned in circles in the living room, my bare feet hitting the carpet, trying to explain to this iron lady sitting on my couch that I wasn't guilty of all the wrongs they accused me of.
"Ma'am, listen to me... this is insane! Look at me! I just came from the bath, I'm..."
"1500 coins," she repeated coldly, unmoved by my distress, checking her nails. "That's the price of silence. That's the price of the injury."
The more I opened my mouth, the worse it got. My words choked, lost their meaning. I looked more and more like a guilty person fighting back, a liar sinking deeper. I understood then, with icy clarity, that truth had no importance here. This wasn't a court of justice. It was extortion. A perfect trap. The only solution to get out of this dead end, to not end up in prison or worse, killed in a dark alley for "attacking an employee," was to give this money. Or pretend to.
I stopped turning. I dropped my shoulders, beaten by the system's weight.
Then I said, breath short, throat tight:
"OK. Fine. You won. I'll pay. I don't want a scandal here. I just want you to leave. For both of you to get out of my sight."
The Matron smiled. It wasn't a grateful smile, but one of triumph. The fisherman's smile pulling up a net heavy with fish. She'd won.
She said:
"Wise decision. Very wise. But... a small practical question... How will you pay? Because, as I said, we don't accept credit. And from what I see, in that towel, you don't have much on you. And I doubt the Noble will pay for your... mistakes."
I then begged the lady with my eyes, searching for a way out.
"Give me a little time. Please. I don't even remember who I am, how do you expect me to have money on me now? I'll find some. I'll work. I'll ask the noble who brought me here. Just... a little time to pay. One day. Two days."
The lady didn't believe me for a second about my ability to pay, I read it in her narrow eyes. She knew I had nothing. She knew I was a trapped rat, without a penny.
But she didn't stand up to leave. She stayed seated, tapping her chin with her manicured index finger, staring at me hard.
She said, her voice suddenly becoming sweet, dangerous, almost hypnotic:
"OK. I see. That's troublesome. Very troublesome. But I'm not a monster... I'm a reasonable businesswoman. I can make an exception for you..."
She made a theatrical pause, letting the silence weigh on my shoulders, letting hope return only to crush it better.
"I can make a brief exception for you on one condition. Just one."
I raised