The end of the tunnel came suddenly, the way truth does, without warning. The air changed at once. That suffocating cursed stench vanished, replaced by the open breath of the night. They stepped out. The night seemed to crash down upon them.
The sky here is open. Vast, deep, indifferent. Stars are scattered across the black emptiness. The sky hears no prayers, it only sees everything.
The skeletons come to a halt, their ferocity fading, as if they are no longer hunters, but witnesses. This place is no longer just a path of escape, it is a boundary.
The roar behind them, the screams of skeletons, the clash of metal, everything slowly falls silent. Guards, skeletons, cave, all of it remains below, buried under another layer of history. The night here is calm, but not innocent. Moonlight falls on the ground, creating long shadows, and within those shadows the future stands, unclear, yet unavoidable.
Ahead, a river flows. Its water is black, deep. The slippery stone landing feels like some ancient stage. The black water gently strikes against the pillars, each impact creating a sound. These pillars are made of black iron.
The air here is heavy with the smell of damp rot and cold iron. A smell that makes the head feel dizzy the moment it reaches the nose. A lonely boat sways in the darkness. Made of ancient wood.
The stairs finally throw the others toward Halem.
Halem stands by the riverbank. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his face soaked with sweat. In his eyes is a kind of desperate resolve, as if he is about to do something irreversible.
"You do not understand,"
he says while gasping, not looking at them, but into the darkness. There is a kind of despair and sorrow in his voice.
Mursalin, whose body is strong like a warrior's, has fire burning in his eyes. His face is now twisted with anger, the muscles of his jaw so tight they seem carved from stone.
This star-filled sky offers no assurance, no comfort. It only bears witness. A silent observer of everything that has happened, everything that will happen, for centuries upon centuries.
Mir's group and Halem face each other. As if emotions themselves are holding their breath.
The black river's water is unnaturally calm, yet deep within it, whirlpools gather. The boat sways slowly, without any hand touching it.
Mursalin quickly moves to grab Halem.
Halem steps forward. His boots slip on the moss-slick stones. The moss is unnaturally slippery. At that moment, someone's hand grips his clothes.
Mursalin's hand grabs Halem's clothes tightly.
Halem's body lunges forward, held back by Mursalin's powerful grip, and yet within this stillness, the real change happens.
As Halem is pulled, his clothes tear. They tear with a sound like silk ripping.
Unable to keep his balance, Halem falls. His spine slams into the landing with such force that a terrible sound erupts, a sound like bones breaking. That sound echoes. A scream bursts from Halem's mouth.
The map slips from his fist, as if it is trying to escape on its own. Its edges are still smoking. But this is no ordinary smoke. Its colour is deep purple, and within it tiny sparks of fire can be seen.
Mir quickly presses his boot down on the map. A bitter resolve appears on his face. His foot pins the map against the stone, making sure this crucial object does not slip away again. In his eyes is a cold determination.
Clouds are gathering in the distant sky. The moon is being covered, its light breaking into uneven lines.
Mursalin's voice shatters the cave's silence. His voice is like a roar, rough under the weight of heavy mountains.
"Speak,"
Mursalin roars, his voice rough under the weight of heavy mountains.
"Who sent you?"
Fire of anger now burns on his face.
The night air is cold, sharp. It carries no smell of blood, no weight of dust, yet it is filled with the pressure of the future.
Halem's face is ruined by sweat and fear. He now looks like a tortured prisoner. His eyes are red, wet with tears. His hair is dishevelled, stuck to his forehead with sweat. The skin around his lips is cracked. Dry and bloodied.
"A man. In the dark—"
A cough, wet, promising something worse.
"He threatened me with letters."
As he says these words, Halem's whole body trembles. His voice is broken, as if a painful memory is tormenting him. In his eyes is terror, as if he is still shaking in fear of that mysterious man.
Mir becomes completely still. His face hardens like stone.
A snarl in Mursalin's voice, fire of revenge burning in his eyes.
"Who?"
Mursalin asks.
Halem's eyes squeeze shut in pain. His face twists, as if he is trying to recall something unbearable. His hands begin to shake, his whole body drenched in sweat. His voice hollow.
"I do not know. He told me that if a single drop of blood was spilled, everything in the map chamber would be turned upside down. And the secret path revealed."
As these words are spoken, the air seems to grow heavier. A web. And they, flies. This realisation strikes everyone at once. They understand they were not victims of an accident, but caught in a carefully planned trap.
Mursalin's anger now reaches its peak. His body trembles with rage, his face twisted with savagery. His fist rises, ready to strike. There is no mercy left in his eyes, only thirst for revenge.
Mursalin's fist strikes Halem's jaw. Once. The blow is so powerful that Halem's head snaps backward. The second blow lands on his nose.
Halem's body suddenly begins to tremble. Pain curls him inward.
The moon is half covered, as if it too does not want to see everything. Its light falls on the museum and breaks apart. And in that broken light it becomes clear that the museum will not sleep again. Something deep within it has changed forever.
Mir tries to understand the situation. A deep mark of thought appears on his face. His fingers rest against his lips, his eyes fixed on some distant unseen point. Suddenly, a light of realisation appears on his face.
"Yusuf spoke about a group," Mir whispers. "But he did not know who they are."
As he says this, there is a deep concern in his voice. He understands that they are not facing an ordinary enemy, but someone whose plans are far deeper and more complex.
The sky remains silent. Stars flare and fade, in a rhythm of thousands of years. The people standing below realise that this night is not an end. It is a sign. A declaration, written not in words, but in existence.
The map is damaged, but fortunately it is not completely destroyed. Its edges have turned black, taking on the colour of burnt ash. Its centre is damaged by a deliberate tear. Still, the important lines remain.
Mursalin carefully lifts the map with his hand. There is now a look of caution on his face. There is no anger left in his eyes, only a cold resolve. There is no more time to waste. He says,
"Now move quickly from here."
As he says this, there is an absolute firmness in his voice.
Mir says,
"We will go by this boat."
Everyone agrees.
The museum remains behind. Covered in darkness. But its shadow reaches the sky. The vast, deep, star-filled sky itself seems to be adjusting anew to this theft. To this balance that has changed at the wrong time.
They move away by boat. Across that black water, toward their destination. The boat sways with every ripple. But the four young men sit steady, a light of courage burning in their hearts, a light no darkness can put out.
What Halem has done is not the result of greed, but a response to a threat.
In this suffocating moment, the night seems to hold its breath over the river, revealing itself.
Between the shadows of two ancient trees, the river stretches into the darkness, smooth like black glass. A thin mist clings to the surface of the water, drifting slowly, as if unsure whether to rise or sink. Above, the sky is deep and full of stars, a sky that makes the world feel vast and silently indifferent.
Far along the river, two boats drift, fleeing quickly. The lanterns on the boats keep a soft light burning. That warm light trembles as it reflects on the water, shivering with each slow wave. The light feels lonely, a small mark of human existence in the vastness of the night. From one lantern, faint smoke rises, blurring the light, as if the darkness itself is trying to swallow it.
The trees on both sides form a natural picture, their branches leaning inward like silent witnesses. The leaves whisper softly, moving in a wind that cannot be felt on the skin. Somewhere out of sight, water taps against wood, a patient, regular sound, keeping time more precisely than any clock.
This is a place where secrets grow heavy, where every thought echoes louder than it should. The river does not carry reflections alone, it carries stories, unspoken promises, and the silent pull of something about to happen. And in this still moment, where the lantern light is the only proof of life, the night waits.
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