Lately, the road along the fortress wall had been unpleasant. Manuel tried to avoid it. From the western tower, screams often carried through the air—sounds that made one’s skin crawl. The villagers said that a witch had committed a crime and was therefore being tortured. Manuel did not understand such matters, but it seemed wrong to him that a living creature should be subjected to such suffering. What prevented them from simply killing the criminal? Whenever he walked that road, his heart tightened with anxiety.

And yet it was convenient for him to pass that way when he went to visit his uncle, who had gone blind and needed help with the household.

That Saturday, no screams echoed from the tower. Manuel thought it was all over. He was glad. He clasped his hands and prayed for the soul of the lost woman, and for the tortures to cease. But in the castle lived people who wanted to rule and never accepted another’s opinion. Manuel, though still inexperienced in life, believed that no one had the right to impose themselves brutally upon others.

He paused in a small clearing to make sure that calm truly reigned in the castle. Only the clinking of the guards’ armor could be heard.

He walked on briskly. The weather was fine. Birds were singing, and the stream in the nearby hollow babbled cheerfully.

He had just passed the path along which the wild boars descended from the forest to drink water when a strange sound reached his ears. It resembled the whimpering of a puppy that had been stepped on. He turned his head and looked around. It seemed to him that something moved behind the bushes to the left. He tensed. He knew that boars could be very dangerous. He ought to slip away as quickly as possible. But curiosity prevailed.

Manuel pushed his way through the dense vegetation. He thought a little dog must be wandering there. He could not leave it on the path of the boars, who had long enjoyed feasting on meat.

On the path lay a woman—or rather, something that had once been a woman. Her dress had been torn to rags, and beneath dozens of holes could be seen pale skin covered with bruises and scratches.

She lay on her back, propped on one elbow, moaning. She had a pleasant face with soft features, and her hair was dark chestnut with a slight reddish tint. There were traces of tears on her delicate cheekbones. Her eyes slowly focused, fixing on Manuel, who stood frozen in shock. They were green, overall, but within them could be seen various shades of gray.

Manuel had never seen such eyes. All the local people, without exception, were dark-eyed.

“You must help me,” the woman said, staring at him intently, appraising him. “You cannot leave me here.”

Manuel was only beginning to grasp the situation. His heart pounded in his chest.

“Who are you?”

“Kaya. My name is Kaya. Your masters tortured me. And I have done nothing wrong. By their order I was thrown here as food for the pigs.” She did not take her eyes off him. Her green eyes did not seem to beg—they commanded.