Dmytro smoked the cigarette down to the filter, threw the butt on the ground, and carefully crushed it with the heel of his boot. The silence dragged on. The castle stood as a silent hulk. No sound, no movement. If not for the heat signature he had seen at night, he would have sworn no one was here. But he knew they were there.

  "Alright," he said loudly. "Played the silent game long enough."

  He took a deep breath, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, directing his voice towards the gate tower: "Hey! Hosts! Is anybody alive?!"

  His voice, amplified by the echo of the stone gate well, rolled over the moat. "...aliiiive... liiiive..." the walls answered.

  Dmytro waited. One second. Two. Three. Nothing. "Maybe they're deaf?" he muttered. "Or am I speaking the wrong dialect?" He tried universal international: "Hello! Is anybody home?! Help! I come in peace!"

  Silence again. Dmytro shrugged. "Bonjour? Guten Tag? Hola? Ni hao?"

  And at that moment, the stone came alive. On the wall, right above the gate arch, a figure rose from behind a battlement. Dmytro recognized him immediately. The one in the sheepskin coat he had seen in the thermal imager. Now, by daylight, he looked colorful. A young man with a pale, emaciated face. On his shoulders—a dirty sheepskin coat, clearly from someone else's shoulder. But underneath, a worn velvet doublet was visible. In his hand, he held a sword. A long, bastard sword with a simple crossguard. He looked down at Dmytro with a mixture of fear and desperate determination.

  Beside him, a second figure immediately appeared—an old man in something gray. He raised a weapon. Dmytro tensed. A crossbow. Old, wooden, cumbersome. It was aimed straight at Dmytro's chest.

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Dmytro slowly, demonstratively spread his arms to the sides, showing empty palms. "Easy, grandpa! No need to get nervous!"

  The man with the sword shouted something. The sound was sharp, guttural. It wasn't English, German, or Arabic. It was a language Dmytro had never heard. It resembled stones grinding against each other. "Gha'rrt! Takh'em zurr vorg!"

  Dmytro shook his head, keeping his hands raised. A smile—the most universal weapon of diplomacy—appeared on his face. Open, friendly, a bit guilty smile of a visitor who got lost. "I don't understand!" he shouted, poking a finger at his chest, then spreading his hands. "I am—friend! Friend! Amigo!"

  He slowly lowered one hand to his chest and patted himself with his palm. "Dmytro!" he pronounced clearly. "Dmy-tro." Then pointed at them. "You?"

  The Baron on the wall frowned. He clearly didn't expect such behavior from a "lord of demons." Demons usually demand sacrifices or destroy walls, not introduce themselves by name. He turned to the old man with the crossbow, said something quickly. The old man didn't lower the weapon, but took his finger off the trigger.

  Dmytro decided to consolidate success. Sign language. The oldest Esperanto. He pointed at himself again, then made a "walking" gesture, moving his fingers in the air. Then pointed to the horizon from where he came. Then cupped his hands and brought them to his mouth, imitating drinking. "Water!" he shouted. "Drink! And talk!"

  It was a lie—he had 800 liters of water. But a request for water is a sacred gesture in all cultures. To refuse a traveler water is to violate the laws of hospitality. If they are human, they will understand.

  The man with the sword (apparently the leader) leaned over the parapet. He shouted something back. The intonation changed. It became not threatening, but questioning. "Khess'u urr? Praa'sst?"

  Dmytro nodded, although he didn't understand a damn thing. "Yes-yes! Exactly! Prast! Super! Can I come in?" He pointed at the gate and made a rotating motion with his hand, as if opening a door.

  The Baron looked at him, then at the Ark standing nearby, then at Dmytro again. He said something to the old man. The latter reluctantly lowered the crossbow. Then the Baron disappeared behind the battlements.

  Dmytro remained standing before the closed gates, lowering his hands. His heart was pounding. "Well," he exhaled. "Contact established. We don't know the language, but they don't seem to be shooting. Already progress." He looked at the rotten drawbridge. "Wonder how they plan to let me in? If this bridge falls, it'll crumble into dust."

  A minute later, in the huge gates, in one of the leaves, a small postern door opened with a creak. Narrow, low, iron-bound door, the existence of which Dmytro hadn't suspected. Out of the darkness of the opening stepped that same old man (now without the crossbow) and gestured to enter. The gesture was dry, restrained, but unambiguous.

  Dmytro adjusted his jacket, checking if the pistol was visible. "Well, Godspeed," he said to himself. "Hope they aren't cannibals."

  He stepped onto the creaking planks of the bridge. The rotten wood bent under his weight, cracking threateningly. Below, a meter under his feet, the stinking sludge of the moat churned. Dmytro walked across the bridge like a tightrope walker, trying to step on the beams. And dived into the dark opening of the wicket, towards the unknown.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  As soon as Dmytro stepped over the high threshold of the door and found himself inside, the heavy, iron-bound door slammed shut behind him. Bam. The sound was dull, final. It cut off the way back to the clean, safe world of the Ark.

  Dmytro found himself in a stone sack. It was the inner courtyard, or cour d'honneur, as architects would say. But now this place looked more like an abandoned construction site forgotten a hundred years ago. A fine, tedious drizzle fell from above. It didn't wash away the dirt, but only diluted the slush. It squelched underfoot. The cobblestone pavement had almost disappeared under a layer of greasy, black earth and islands of weeds pushing through even the stone.

  But the first thing that hit Dmytro wasn't the sight. It was the Smell. Outside, in the wind, it wasn't felt so acutely. Here, in the enclosed space of the courtyard surrounded by high walls, the air was stagnant. It smelled of wet, moldy wool. It smelled of old smoke ingrained in the stone over centuries. It smelled of unwashed bodies, sour food, and a latrine. It was a thick, physically dense spirit of poverty and decay.

  Dmytro involuntarily held his breath, trying to breathe shallowly. After his sterile cabin smelling of fresh soap and ozone, this was like a slap in the face with a dirty rag.

  Opposite him, about five meters away, stood the "welcoming committee." Three men. In the center—that same young guy with the sword (the Baron). He wore that same stinking soldier's coat thrown over worn velvet. His hair was greasy, matted into strands. His face—gray, with dark hollows under his eyes. He was unshaven, not with designer stubble, but a patchy, untidy beard. To the right—the old man (Karl). Dry, straight as a stick, in a greasy frock coat that was once blue but now the color of dirt. To the left—another one (Hans), gripping a rusty spear as if it were his last hope. He was missing front teeth, and his mouth smelled so bad that Dmytro could smell it even from here.

  They looked at Dmytro with undisguised apprehension and distrust. For them, he was an alien. Clean. Shaved. His skin was a healthy, pink shade, not earthy-gray like theirs. His clothes—Softshell jacket, tactical pants—fit perfectly, not a stain, not a hole. Black glasses hid his eyes, making his face impenetrable.

  And he smelled. The wind blew into the courtyard, and a cloud of clean perfume aroma mixed with the smell of mint toothpaste and soap covered the locals. Dmytro saw the Baron twitch his nose and grimace slightly. For them, this smell—chemical, sharp, floral—was just as alien and unpleasant as their stench was for Dmytro. He didn't smell like a human. He smelled like a laboratory.

  The Baron took a step forward, but didn't remove his hand from the sword hilt. He didn't make an inviting "come in" gesture. He stood with his legs wide apart, blocking the way to the donjon.

  "Ghorr-ta!" he said (a harsh, guttural sound). The gesture was clear: you won't pass further than the gate. The courtyard is the border.

  Dmytro slowly nodded, showing he accepted the rules of the game. He remained standing by the wall, trying not to lean against the slimy stones with his jacket.

  The silence dragged on. Only the drizzle rustled on Dmytro's hood and on the baron's greasy hair. Something had to be done. A ritual. Dmytro again cupped his hands and gestured: "Drink."

  The Baron turned and nodded somewhere into the darkness of a side annex. A woman appeared from there. Martha. She was stout, in several layers of skirts that dragged in the mud. Her apron was once white, now gray with ash and grease. Her hands, red, roughened by ice water and hard work, clutched a clay mug. She walked towards Dmytro, lowering her eyes to the ground, afraid to look at the "sorcerer." She approached and, dipping in a clumsy curtsy, held out the mug.

  Dmytro took it. The clay was cold, rough, and sticky to the touch. The rim of the mug was chipped, and a crack smeared with something black was visible on the side. Dmytro looked inside. Water. If it could be called that. The liquid was cloudy, yellowish in hue. Some small specks floated in it. The water smelled of slime and an old barrel. This wasn't reverse osmosis water. This was water they drank every day. Water that would give a city dweller dysentery in an hour.

  He looked up at Martha. She looked at him with horror and hope. This was all they had. To refuse was to insult. To drink was to sign a death warrant.

  "Dyakuyu," he pronounced softly and with dignity.

  He brought the mug to his lips. At that moment, everyone was watching him. The Baron, Karl, Hans. It was a test. Does the demon eat human food? Does he drink water?

  Dmytro pressed the rim of the mug to his lower lip but didn't seal them tight. He tilted the vessel. The water touched his lips—cold, tasting of metal and earth. He pretended to take a big gulp. His Adam's apple bobbed (acting skills came in handy). In reality, he didn't let a drop into his mouth. Just wetted his lips. Then another "gulp." And another.

  "Oh," he exhaled, lowering the mug as if he had drunk the most delicious spring water. "Good." He handed the mug back to Martha, trying not to wipe his lips immediately, although his instinct for self-preservation screamed: "Spit! Rinse with alcohol!"

  Martha accepted the mug with trembling hands and backed away.

  The Baron watched this carefully. The fact that the stranger accepted their water defused the situation a little. The hand on the sword relaxed. He said something to Karl. The old servant nodded and stepped forward, standing next to his master. Now they stood closer. About two meters. Dmytro could examine their faces in detail. Premature wrinkles. Bad skin. Rotten teeth on the old man. Scars. These were people who were surviving, not living. And in their eyes, besides fear, Dmytro read another feeling that pricked his conscience. Hunger. Dull, hidden hunger. They looked at him not only as an outsider but as a well-fed human.

  Dmytro slowly unzipped his jacket. The Baron immediately tensed, Hans gripped the spear again. "Easy," Dmytro said, raising his hands. "No sudden movements."

  He reached into his inner pocket. Not for the pistol. He took out what he had brought as a "letter of credence." A chocolate bar. Swiss dark chocolate with sea salt. In this gray, dirty courtyard, the gold wrapper flashed like treasure.

  Dmytro carefully tore the packaging. Clicked the foil. Broke off a square. Put it in his mouth and demonstratively chewed. "Mmm... Food. Tasty." He held out the open bar to the Baron.

  "Help yourself," he said. "It's better than your water, believe me."

  Cohen looked at the outstretched hand. At the brown, shiny square. He had never seen chocolate. In their world, sweets looked different. He looked into Dmytro's face, trying to understand: is this a gift or poison?