“Once we reach the Meseta, we’ll be able to cover more ground with ease!” Tariq shouted over the howling wind. “The nights are bitterly cold and long, it is true, but the days are mild, and the flat terrain won’t pose much of a problem.”

Julien knew well what Tariq was doing - trying to lift their spirits by focusing on the promise of easier travel ahead - the harsh reality of their current situation, however, made it hard to find comfort in those words. They were only halfway up the Guadarrama Sierra, and already forced to lead their horses by hand along treacherous, narrow paths often slick with ice; the higher they climbed, the deeper the snow became, adding yet another obstacle.

Though they had avoided any major incidents so far, and the crossing hadn’t been as grueling as they feared, the icy gusts of wind seemed to cut through them like sharp knives, draining their strength with each blast. “The descent will be much shorter, quicker, and easier, everyone!” Tariq called out again, his voice barely reaching them through the relentless wind.

Urraca, too focused on conserving her energy, remained silent, dedicating herself to the arduous task of walking and breathing steadily. Julien wondered if she regretted leaving Toledo, considering the dangers they now faced. But whenever he looked at her, despite the signs of corruption on her face, she met his gaze with a reassuring smile; her eyes, though weary, held a quiet determination. She was fine – better than Julien himself.

The climb never grew steeper as they ascended, but the freezing winds intensified, and now snow and muddy paths further hindered their progress - Leading their horses by hand had become a necessity rather than a mere recommendation. Their warm clothing was beginning to fail against the biting cold, and even Tariq had fallen silent: He knew, as they all did, that if the conditions worsened even slightly, their journey could meet a sudden and disastrous end.

“This doesn’t make any sense…” Tariq suddenly yelled, frustration lacing his voice, “Winter has barely begun. How can the weather be so savage already?”

The wind howled through the trees as Julien and his companions reached the highest point of their trek through the Guadarrama Mountains. Snow fell thick and fast now, with a weak but unrelenting flurry partially obscuring their vision. Suddenly, Urraca halted in her tracks and, for the first time since they began crossing the mountains, spoke up: “There!” she shouted just loud enough to be heard over the wind, pointing at something, “can you see that?”

Through the swirling snow, by the now completely covered roadside, a figure emerged, dressed in tattered but clearly warm white-gray fur clothing; they held a torch in their right hand, the flame flickering defiantly against the gusts of cold wind. The small host couldn’t make out any other details of the mysterious figure amidst that icy white scenario, but soon they noticed a raised hand, beckoning them closer.

“It seems we’re not the only ones mad enough to cross the Guadarrama in this weather,” Tariq remarked, his tone partially tinged with wary amusement.

“Should we approach them?” Julien asked, his voice betraying more than clear reservations.

“Of course we should,” Urraca replied without hesitation, “they might need help. Even if they’re better prepared than we are in terms of clothing, they could be struggling with food, water, or other resources.”

Without further discussion, the Enochians agreed, and soon found themselves complying with the mysterious figure’s silent beckoning.

At a closer glance, they could now see that the figure was a woman, as pale as the snow surrounding them; her eyes were dark and hollow, as if void of life. Slowly, she removed the thick scarf covering her mouth, her lips clearly moving in speech, but her voice was just too weak to be heard – almost completely silent.

“What is she saying?” Julien wondered, his voice tight with unease as he turned to his companions. He noticed her pointing toward the path ahead, trying to communicate something, but he couldn’t make out any words. “I can’t hear a thing.”

“You can’t hear anything because no sound is coming from her mouth, Mazars,” Tariq replied, his expression hardened as he stared intently at the woman. Taking a deep breath, he slowly unsheathed his curved sword and, with a swift and violent motion, slashed through the woman’s neck. The well-honed blade cut through her like it was nothing - suspiciously nothing.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Urraca gasped in shock, while Julien stumbled back, utterly bewildered by the situation. Their confusion deepened when the expected thump of a body hitting the ground never came.

“What just happened?” Julien asked, baffled,“why did you attack that woman?”

“She was an apparition,” Tariq replied simply.

Julien's confusion deepened. “That’s impossible,” he protested. “I saw no iric energy emanating from her! I might not be a specialist in most Angelic Keys - heavens, I’m not even allowed into the realm of my own angel - but I’m confident in my Chazah at least!”

“Exhaustion dulls the senses, Mazars,” Tariq said gravely, “and even Enochians aren’t immune to that. Your Chazah is just another sense that you’ve awakened. It works most of the time, but it can and it will eventually fail, just like how you might mishear someone’s words or see illusions when you’re sleep-deprived. A good night’s rest is as crucial for an Enochian as sharing a meal or being welcomed by their angel.”

Julien paused, reflecting on the awful nights he’d been enduring as of late - staying up later than the others by the bonfire, barely able to keep his eyes shut once he finally retired to his tent. He glanced at Urraca and noticed no signs of corruption, and his attempt to control Robert resulted in blocky, startled movements. I must be dead tired, he thought to himself.

“Let’s find a windbreak – perhaps a rock or a dense cluster of trees - and set up camp,” the experienced Enochian ordered confidently, “even I took longer than I should have to recognize the presence of an Elioud right in front of us. Trying to force-march through the Guadarrama was clearly a horrendous idea.”

…

The descent promised to be much easier than the grueling ascent. Though the path ahead still appeared icy and windswept, it was clear that once they descended from the mountain, the flat expanse of the Meseta would be far more manageable, just as Tariq had assured them. For Julien, however, the night had been far from rejuvenating - wishful thinking wasn’t enough to bring true rest, who would have guessed? Even so, despite the harsh conditions, he felt noticeably better than he had the day before.

Not long into this leg of their journey, their progress came to an abrupt halt: Scattered along a narrow pass lay swords, pieces of armor, and a carriage still laden with goods; but what truly drew their attention was the gruesome sight of numerous corpses staining the snowy road red - some appeared to be guards, others bandits, alongside two dead horses that had once pulled the carriage.

A quick inspection of the scene confirmed what they already suspected: the corpses were still relatively ‘new’, the blood fresh, and the goods, mainly food, were untouched by the elements; the slaughter had taken place not long ago.

“And not a single survivor,” Urraca observed, kneeling to check the bodies for any signs of life, “perhaps they were already hald-dead by the cold.”

“Do you recognize this coat of arms, Urraca?” Julien asked, holding up a crest embroidered on one of the corpses’ shirts.

“Argent, two cauldrons sable, with serpents' heads and necks or, facing outward…” Urraca recited, her brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m certain I’ve seen this before, but the house it belongs to eludes me…”

“These bandits’ attire is highly unusual for this region, however,” Tariq remarked, gesturing toward their armor and finely crafted weapons, “in fact, they don’t look like common scoundrels at all - these are mercenaries, and Christian ones, judging by their gear and appearance.”

“Perhaps the North isn’t as safe as we’d hoped,” Urraca sighed, standing up and brushing off her hands, “with my sister currently hunting Rodrigo de Vivar, we should’ve known better than to believe King Alfonso had brought complete peace to the Christian lands… How naïve of us.”

As Tariq began to pile up the bodies, he turned to his companions, his tone noticeably more somber: “No king can ever bring complete peace to a realm,” his voice sounded heavy with melancholy, “they are just men, after all, often thirsty for power or inebriated by it.”

Understanding the grim task at hand, Julien almost immediately began to assist him, commanding Robert to do the same. Together, they worked in silence, the weight of Tariq’s words lingering in the cold air.

After some time, as Tariq dropped the last body onto the stack, his voice broke the silence again, even more gloomily: “Few are those who pay for their greed with their own lives...”

In the biting cold, setting the bodies alight proved to be a daunting task, but after much effort, a fiery blaze began to consume the dead, sending a dense pillar of smoke into the sky. As he watched the macabre but now usual scene, Julien couldn’t help but wonder if the Elioud they had seen earlier might have, at least unintentionally, saved them from a similar fate. Had we not seen that apparition, we would have kept marching onward - exhausted, too weak to fight, he thought, Heavens, maybe she was even trying to warn us of this.

They soon resumed their descent from the Sierra. Urraca and Tariq walked with heavy steps, as if the dark cloud of death weighed them down - yet, strangely enough, Julien felt something akin to relief. Perhaps he was the only one who fully understood how close they had come to death. Maybe Eliouds still belong to the realm of God’s creations, he pondered, casting a quick glance at Urraca, even if they have strayed so far from His path.