Chapter 4
The doors creaked open with a heavy groan. Giotto was shoved inside, his footsteps echoing against the polished marble floor—each reverberation a grim reminder of how close he was to death.
Two tall windows let in the pale light, casting long beams across a polished wooden desk framed by cold, gray stone walls. The room was austere, almost monastic. Just a few shelves loaded with books and trophies of war.
Eight heavily armed men surrounded him—two in each corner, sharp-eyed and still, watching for the slightest twitch.
The soldier escorting him struck the back of his knees, forcing him to kneel, and then bowed low before his lord.
"Leave us," Duke Oswald commanded from behind the desk.
His hair, black as his eyes, fell across a weathered face, marked by age and hardened further by a cold gaze utterly devoid of kindness. Beside him, Sir Eldric wore the same mask of constant displeasure Giotto had seen the day before.
The soldier gave a short nod and left the chamber.
Giotto steeled himself. He had two choices: convince the lord he was worth more alive, or try to escape—and likely die somewhere worse. He focused. Unlike the day before, gathering his will and preparing his power for a potential escape came more easily. The hard part, according to the Traveler's memories, was holding that state long enough to use it in an emergency. But he'd try.
Still kneeling, Giotto studied everyone in the room with care—memorizing features, postures, physical flaws, gestures… even the kinds of details no ordinary man should have noticed. He read them like a child reads a fairy tale—and all in a single glance.
Everyone waited for the duke to speak. No one dared breathe louder than necessary. Oswald, however, stared in silence, like a judge weighing the worth of his prey before passing sentence.
"Introduce yourself, sorcerer," Oswald ordered, his gaze piercing. "Give us the pleasure of hearing the name of the foolish servant of darkness who dared to step foot on my lands."
Giotto hesitated for a moment. Thanks to the Traveler's inherited gift, his mind leapt to his teenage years—those optional speech classes in high school, the old production of Hamlet his mother dragged him to in support of his sister Aurora (he'd fallen asleep before Act III), and those brief acting classes in college, taken solely to impress a girl.
"Oh great lord of these lands," Giotto began. His English was rough, but good enough for what he needed. "I stand before you as Giotto di Angelo. I am humbled that one of your noble lineage would grant audience to a lowly peasant like myself. But in my reckless impudence, I must object, my lord…"
He paused, gauging their reactions.
"I am no vile, loathsome warlock, my lord."
A ripple of disgust passed through the room. Sir Eldric, in particular, looked seconds away from drawing his blade.
"You dare defy your lord, wretched bastard!?" Eldric roared, eyes bloodshot with rage. "I saw you appear before me while I camped! Blasphemer!"
"Enough, Sir Eldric," Oswald said, without once looking away from Giotto. "I will not tolerate such outbursts in my presence. I'll allow this man to tell his story—and if he lies, he'll know the mercy of my dungeons."
Giotto swallowed hard. He remembered the images of the tortured man, and for a heartbeat, he considered giving up and triggering his power. But he held back. Maybe—just maybe—he could survive long enough to master his Travel ability and return home without gambling everything.
Oswald continued to study him, the silence heavy as iron. No one moved.
At last, the duke spoke.
"Tell us, stranger. Why do you claim you are no sorcerer, despite Sir Eldric's accusation?"
Giotto drew a deep, theatrical breath, grateful for those old acting classes.
He closed his eyes for a second, conjuring memories of going to town fairs with his grandfather and brother. He could almost hear his grandfather's whisper, spoken just after conning a man out of his horse:
«Remember, boy: never tell the truth if you mean to fool a man.»
"Well, my lord," Giotto began, trying to sound as submissive as possible, "I come from lands very far away…"
"Says he's from Rome, my lord," Sir Eldric interrupted with a mocking laugh.
Some muffled chuckles echoed through the room—except from Oswald, who remained still as stone.
"I come from a far-off place," Giotto continued, ignoring the jibe. "A place once known as Rome, before its fall."
"You say you hail from Rome?" Oswald echoed. "If that's true, how did you travel from the Lands of Eternal Darkness to here—appearing from thin air, as Sir Eldric claims?"
«The Lands of what? What the hell is he talking about?»
"Well, my lord, I belong to a wandering people. We go where our Lord God guides us."
"There! You see, my lord?" Eldric shouted. "He confesses his sin! Would the Almighty permit a blessed people to behave like sorcerers and devil-worshippers?"
Giotto's mind raced. He had to improvise.
"Exactly!" he cried, raising his voice to seize the momentum. "That, my lord, is the burden we bear—the stigma forced upon us… during the witch hunts."
He let the words hang in the air, though inside he cursed himself:
«What the hell am I saying? They're going to see through this…»
Oswald raised a hand, silencing the laughter beginning to bubble up. Giotto sucked in a breath; he had no saliva left to swallow.
"Raise your head," the duke commanded.
Giotto obeyed.
"Explain your words."
«Damn it… I don't even know what year this is. I need to say something fast.»
"My lord, since the days of Constantine, our people were entrusted with a sacred duty."
"And why have I never heard mention of your people until now?"
"That, my lord, is because we live in the shadows… fighting heretics."
A bead of sweat slid down his temple. The duke noticed.
"Very well," Oswald said. "Continue your tale, stranger. How did you come to be in these lands?"
"Yes, my lord," Giotto answered, bowing his head.
"It was a few moons ago…"
He lowered his voice, as though recounting something forbidden.
"My expedition took me far from our caravan to investigate some disappearances. Then, we found a village in flames… and there, a coven of witches."
Gasps of horror rippled through the chamber. Even Oswald's stone-hard face cracked—only for a moment. A shadow of fear crossed his eyes before he buried it again.
One of the men made the sign of the cross, gripping the hilt of his sword.
"Go on," Oswald said, voice colder now. "Don't keep us waiting. What did you see?"
"Bodies, my lord. The entire village—sacrificed in a pagan ritual. They sought to summon Belphegor, commander of legions."
"And what happened?"
Silence fell like a hammer.
"Fortunately, nothing, my lord. We stopped the ritual. Many good men perished. I was accused of sorcery and exiled… and that's when Sir Eldric found me—believing, understandably, that my soul belonged to the devil."
Giotto scanned their faces. Nothing escaped him.
The silence dragged on. Giotto knew it wasn't a victory. But it was a crack. And where there are cracks, men like his grandfather slip through like cockroaches.
And he had learned well from his grandfather.
"Take him back to his cell," Oswald said. "Later… I'll decide his fate."
One of the guards nodded and led Giotto out.
"Everyone else, save Sir Eldric, Sir Alexander, and Sir Benjamin… out."
The room emptied in seconds. Four remained. The air thickened. No one spoke.
Oswald sighed, pulled a handkerchief, and wiped his damp forehead. Then he poured himself a glass of aged Wessex wine and drank it in one swift motion.
"What do you make of our prisoner?"
Sir Eldric jumped in immediately.
"He's a liar, my lord. A swindler. Yesterday he nearly soiled himself when I threatened him with my sword. And his body… you didn't see it, but he was fatter than a pig. He uses dark magic."
Silence.
"My lord," said Sir Benjamin, the eldest among them, his face furrowed with time, "I mean no disrespect to Sir Eldric, but… what if he speaks the truth?"
"What are you implying?"
"As you well know, sorcery and ghosts run rampant through our forests. One of our villages has gone silent. Merchants whisper… they speak of creatures stalking the southern woods at night."
"And what do you propose?" Eldric barked.
"And you, Sir Alexander?" Oswald interjected. "What say you?"
The young man, golden-haired and blue-eyed, who had remained silent until now, spoke at last.
"My lord… what if we test his worth?"
"Explain," said Oswald, turning to him.
"If his tale holds any truth, this gypsy should be a warrior of some skill. We could find out."
A sharp-toothed grin spread across Eldric's face.
"I see," Oswald murmured, stroking his beard. "Your suggestion has merit."
"If he survives—and proves his ability—we'll know at least part of his story is genuine."
"And we might use him to find that coven," added Sir Benjamin.
"Very well. We shall follow Sir Alexander's counsel. Any objections?"
None answered.
"Sir Eldric, summon Rufus. He will be the one to test him."
"As you wish, my lord," Eldric said, leaving the chamber.
"The rest of you, back to your duties. I have much to consider."
The duke was left alone. Only then did he allow the sigh he'd been holding back to escape.
"For all our sakes… I hope that man is lying," he whispered, taking the letter from Baron Joseph, where the name Belphegor was written.
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Chapter reedited, not much was changed, just gave it more development. was not satisfied with how it was before. I hope you enjoy this re-edited one.
This chapter was particularly special for me to write. I've always been fascinated by those moments in stories where the protagonist is cornered, with everything against them, and must rely not on strength or magic… but on wit and cunning. Giotto, at his core, isn't a warrior or a hero — he's an ordinary person who happened upon extraordinary abilities and now has to find a way to survive as best he can. And sometimes, that's the greatest virtue one can possess.
Thank you for reading.
— The Author