The Wraiths Of The Calahorra

‘Solitude is indeed dangerous for a working intelligence. We need to have around us people who think and speak. When we are alone for a long time we people the void with phantoms.’—Guy de Maupassant

No man could ever survive terror and recount the ghastly tale I had witnessed, for it is too surreal to believe—such dire occurrences defy realism in their essential nature. It is my solemn duty as an Andalusian to avow that which pertains to the unusual and enigmatic history of my country.

As a man established in virtue and honour, I had always considered myself a person of supreme reason and intellect. Yet the images of the praeternatural beings that haunted the Tower of the Calahorra in Córdoba were those of imprisoned wraiths, manifesting as lingering forces from an ineffable realm of existence, indubitably trapped in time.

My name is Juan Carlos Talavera, a prisoner condemned to the tower of horror in the year 1815. I had been accused and convicted of a grievous crime, one of which I steadfastly professed my innocence. My charge was inciting suppressed voices to rise for independence from the Spanish monarchy and its disenthronement.

The country was recovering its identity after the incursion of Napoleon and the imposition of French dominion upon Spain. There were clamours for the formation of a republic and voices of dissent. Unfortunately, those bold enough to protest were arrested and subjected to a Rhadamanthine punishment, as I was.

The colonies, too, had begun to entertain revolt against the hypocrisy and privileges of the aristocracy within the Americas, seeking emancipation from Spanish control. The country’s uncertain future had caused many to leave in search of better fortunes beyond Europe.

It was my original intention to depart from the port of Cádiz, but my plans were thwarted by my forced apprehension. At the time, I had no wife or children to burden me with sorrow during my lengthy sentence. The dreaded prison to which I was consigned stood resolute before a venerable Roman Bridge, surrounded by the flowing currents of the Guadalquivir River. Once a fortress of antiquity, it was built in the twelfth century by the Almohad Caliphate.

The prison boasted three imposing square towers, medieval battlements, embrasures, and apertures from which artillery was once discharged upon those who dared to besiege the enclosure. A conspicuous coat of arms adorned its façade, vividly displaying the kingdoms of Castile and León. It was a stark reminder of the downfall of the Moors and the supremacy of the Reconquista by the Catholic monarchs, who had exiled the Moriscos with ruthless deracination.

My first day in captivity was spent watching from my dungeon cell as spry egrets waded in the river shallows near a watermill and listening to devout worshippers converse openly whilst laying sprigs of rosemary at the small shrine of San Rafael, patron saint of Córdoba.

I was condemned to an isolation that caused my mind to drift into ceaseless despair and murk. I had no notion of how many prisoners were confined there. Those adjacent to me were taciturn, occupied with their own solitude.

At times, an eerie silence prevailed; at others, maddening screams and cries of agony shattered the stillness. It was difficult to ignore the echoes of pleas and the uncertainty that amassed, borne from the unknown fates awaiting many prisoners—a testament to the cruel injustice we faced.

The prison’s interior comprised eight chambers across three storeys, constructed of adamantine wrought masonry. Guards rotated their strict vigilance ceaselessly. The screeching of gnawing rats and hissing roaches was pervasive. I was alone in my sombre cell, the walls heavy with the stench of mould, the floor cracked and stained with stammel blood.

The hour of my death was the most questionable moment. My sentence was imposed with finality, and freedom seemed unattainable. Night had fallen, and moonlight streamed through the recesses of my solitary cell’s window. It was often the gleaming eye that revealed the sinister deeds of the night, sending shivers down my spine as I fully grasped my grim new abode.

An unsettling moment came when I perceived the sable silhouette of my own shadow emerge. As the vague image materialised, I discerned a second shadow beside it—an inconclusive form. All I could perceive in the veil of darkness was a shade that was either human or something else entirely—some spectral entity treading the sublunary ground at will.

This was the first of many encounters with inscrutable images that would haunt me with wrath and dread. I had never known vengeance until I met the imprisoned wraiths exiled to the Tower of the Calahorra.

Rumours of unrelenting cruelty inflicted upon prisoners in centuries past had reached my ears, yet I could never have imagined the severity of the tower’s true horror until experiencing it myself.

For the rest of the night, I pondered the origin of the shadowy figure, listening to the grating of rusty hinges on iron bars as they resounded through the silence. Was I dreaming, or had I truly glimpsed an apparition?

Sleep was elusive, disturbed by fluttering pigeons outside and the nocturnal revelry of locals carousing with prostitutes along the riverbank beneath the Roman Bridge. Life as a prisoner at the Calahorra was unbearable torment—many had perished, departing in loneliness within wooden coffins.

Would that be my ultimate fate? A man without family, though I had not forgotten my beloved wife Sofia. Time, however, would separate us irreversibly—this I believed.

The first rays of sunlight caressing the pallid features of my face came the following morning. It was a surreal reminder of my predicament. I had awakened many times before to the soothing auburn sun as a traveller, but now the dullness of imprisonment rendered me unable to appreciate sunlight or moonlight anew.

Since my arrival, both had become bitter reflections of my fate. I swiftly realised my days of happiness were tainted by the oppressive shadow of solitude and tremulous silence.

I was soon to succumb to the bane of insanity, though I fought the notion resolutely. My days were filled with menial toil—maintaining the tower during daylight, confined to my cell at night. None of this was by choice; such routines marked my life with a grievous burden.

Life in the prison was a slow death for many, or prolonged suffering for others. Neither was a blessing. This was the stark reality each prisoner faced within the Calahorra’s walls. I was a middle-aged man of medium build and height.

Any misery that befell me was attributable to the harsh punishment imposed. The prison concealed untold secrets and unresolved enigmas, remaining elusive as ever. We were fed scraps of bread and meat, treated no better than the mongrels guarding the outer walls by night—intimidating enforcers preventing escape.

Their incessant barking and howling echoed through the nocturnal eeriness, shrouded in mist as carriages’ horses trod past. A gradual gloom accompanied nightfall, preceding twilight’s fainting light. Bohemian Gypsies sang, their flamenco guitars resonating with fervent passion.

Not a night passed without the cruelty of confinement weighing upon me. The irony was evident in the prisoners’ faces across from my cell—faces devoid of animation. We were deemed dissolute, discarded by society.

One day, whilst cleaning a corridor, I glimpsed a figure in one of the upper towers. A tall shadow emerged from the blurry opacity, eventually materialising as a man clad in the robes of an inquisitor from days long past.

He did not move or act, merely gazing into my eyes with a strange fixation before vanishing. Another spectre wandering the Calahorra?

The more I contemplated this, the more I considered the stories of ghosts haunting the prison might be true. If not, then what else could explain these abnormalities?

The large towers were covered in thick slime of fungus and ivy. The insoluble mystery of their past was forever linked to the nature of the inquisitors who had doomed men and women to their abandoned isolation. I could smell the earthy moss exuding, like a seeping scent fading with the passage of time.

The Andalusian nights were haunted by the presence of spectral shapes of tenebrosity. From one of the chambers beside me, I could hear the plangent wails of a faceless and nameless woman. I did not know why the woman was brought to the prison, nor what her ultimate fate was.

Whatever it was, it was certainly not one full of felicity and mirth. History would relate the horrors of the abominable acts of the inquisitions, inscribed in records secretly kept from the masses of the general public. Few inquisitors would pay for the injustices imposed upon the prisoners of the Calahorra.

As the weeks transpired, I began to fear that rationality would cause me to lapse into profound episodes of apprehension and consternation. These weeks felt like a ponderance of years and had lost the urgency to mark the passing of my captivity. I thought mostly about the past rather than the present or future, because the present was just as opaque and direful as my future.

It was in the past where I cherished mainly my life. The hours were inescapable, as were the redounding sounds vociferated by those whose redoubtable valour had been broken and defeated. I took notice of the men around me. Their unhealthy and haggard guises reflected the uncouth nature of their condemnation.

Amongst the prisoners, there were not only men of nobility, but also thieves, heathens, and political prisoners such as myself. One night, the cimmerian shadow of the apparition reappeared to me in my deplorable cell within an ebon hue. Its materialisation was much more evident than on the previous occasion. It was apparent that it was a ghostly figure emerging from the harrowing shadows of the restless nights of the Calahorra. Had it come to torment me or seek revenge?

I slowly rose to my feet as it stood over me towering, holding a candle nervously in my hand. I was hesitant to react, unsure of what was occurring before my eyes. If it was an actual revenant whose spirit had returned to the world of mortals, then how many others were still lurking in the drear shadows of the Calahorra unannounced?

My first impression was one of sheer fright, but this was replaced by the immediate urge to discover the truth. I would have to wait until another meeting. The ghost suddenly disappeared into thin air. However, before he did, he had scribbled clearly on the wall his name and surname: Ismael Medina. A wisp of smoke rose from the candle for several minutes after I blew it out.

When the next morning arrived, I asked myself who this Ismael Medina was, and why he was tormenting me. At the time, I suspected he had been a prisoner at the Calahorra and had perished inside its fortified structure.

This was of little consolation to me. I needed to know more about him if I was to understand the authenticity of his story. The only thing I could relate to possibly was the ordeal of his imprisonment, which I imagined was as heinous as my own, or perhaps worse.

Regrettably, there were no living survivors from his time period who could offer any credible testimony. I would have to wait to see if the apparition would eventually speak to me in pronounced words that I could fully interpret. My time imprisoned gave me thoughts to contemplate, and it was difficult to spend them wisely when confronted by the veracity of my situation.

I often allowed the sounds outside my cell to distract me when possible, but the metallic clang of the cathedral bells nearby announcing vespers, and the zephyrs of whispers, were an irrepressible reminder of my confinement.

Hitherto, my world was nothing more than the unpleasant isolation that surrounded me daily. How much could any reasonable man endure before the unwavering strength of his mind was overcome by destructive bouts of surreality?

Within the span of two months at the Calahorra, I saw things no man should witness or listen to—the countless cries and pleas of men rapidly losing their grip on reality and fading into their whirlpool of madness.

The indiscernible origin of the ghost continued to linger in my thoughts, and the trammels of gloom penetrated like a sharp dagger. The poor quality of food served was ripping away my incisive bones, and the shreds of garments we were issued were rags of cloth that tore at the seams.

It was a graduation of death, unavoidable and intentional. My time as a prisoner did not break my resolve and conviction, though those who imprisoned me were determined to exact their punishment. Verily, my trial was unfair, and I was never given the opportunity to defend myself before the tenacious judges who condemned me to the four walls of my solitary cell. On account of that injustice, I was sent to serve my sentence at the prison of the Calahorra without delay.

The dull and dusky shades of the cell walls sometimes cast a crude reflection of the sun or the moon. This was a sobering sign that despite my captivity, I still dwelt amongst mortals. After all, I was human in my natural constitution. However, there were distressing moments when I was treated like an untamed beast unnecessarily. I made few acquaintances at the prison, but confided my intimate secrets to none.

Prison was no place for convivial gatherings; it was a harsh environment to tolerate and accept unwillingly. Death was an everyday occurrence. I had no solemn occasions to remember the names of those who died. As soon as one man's body was taken from the Calahorra, another entered, destined for inevitable misery.

One day I was assigned to clean the towers of the Calahorra, and once more, I saw the dreadful image of the inquisitor. This time, he manifested plainly before me. I did not see him until I felt his immediate presence. A cold draught blew, and I sensed something odd as I turned around to look. Naturally, my expression was one of utter disbelief. I called on him, asking him to reveal his name, but he made no disclosure.

Instead, he uttered the words: "Repent of thy sins, before thou art sent to purgatory!"

It was a direct warning, given vividly. I tried to make sense of the words he ejaculated and the occurrence, but they were incomprehensible and too ambiguous to decipher. Thus, the mystery prolonged, along with the innumerable revenants. I received a letter from Sofia. We were given few privileges, yet the one I cherished was receiving letters. No one from my immediate family, whose surname I bore, had written before.

Sofia was the only one. In the letter, she expressed regret for not believing in me and for not standing by my side during the trial. Her reason was more out of fear and retaliation from her family. I forgave her and wrote back, demonstrating my genuine intention. I was content to read her words of admission and, more importantly, her declared devotion. I had not stopped loving her despite the tribulations I endured.

Her affection was the only thing that inspired me to live when the drowning voices of suicide were always near. One autumn morning, I was visited again in my cell by the terrible spectre roaming the Calahorra’s halls, with heavy shackles rattling, accompanied by other uninvited phantoms.

He appeared as before, but was more apparent in his appearance. I could make out his attire, but not his countenance. He wore eccentric garments from the 17th century. This time, I was less frightened and more fascinated by the encounter.

I wanted to know about him, his story, his plight, his time as a prisoner. I knew only his name and surname but not how to address him personally. I began to speak to him as Señor, hoping he would utter words of lucidity I could understand.

He remained mute and aloof in his manner. He did not seek to intimidate. Instead, he wished to communicate through words he scribbled on the walls. I was extremely attentive and patient as he wrote words tangible enough to be read. In the end, he wrote: "I have come to you, so that you may know of me and who I was in the world I once belonged to. Beware the eyes of the others who roam the prison with ire and evil."

That was all he wrote. There was urgency in him, as if someone followed him. He quickly disappeared into the prison confines, but before leaving, he released a phantasmagoric shriek that deafened my ears. Thereafter, a haunting and concitent expression settled on me, as if my mind absorbed the disturbing perils of death.

Winter arrived, bringing a new prisoner to share my once solitary cell. The poor soul was named Don Pedro. He was frail and a devout monk who had revolted against the Catholic Church hierarchy in Córdoba. Nothing more was known, nor did I care to enquire.

His fragility was obvious; he would not live long under the harsh confinement. Our conversations centred on political views and our passion for the just cause of liberty. He asked how long I had been imprisoned. I answered candidly—too long.

I tried to animate his gaunt face, for his pallor was more transparent than mine. I respected him greatly, not because I practised his faith, but for his conviction and struggle. The prison guards were no more lenient to him and others fragile like him. He was expected to toil in the arduous labours imposed on us all.

Many of us had endured Napoleon’s invasion and his legion with resistance and valour when summoned to defend the homeland. Not even Napoleon could eradicate corruption within Spain’s government. For centuries the country had stolen enormous riches from the Americas, only to have them seized by the French afterwards. How quickly my fortune reversed, and I suffered under the wrath of my own rulers, who usurped the opulence of the noble classes and devilishly imposed taxes on the lower classes.

The monk spent many hours praying in the evening while I devised the mystery of the Morisco ghost. Perceiving my distraction, he asked what was troubling me. I addressed him as Don Pedro.

‘What is on your mind, my friend?’

‘Where do I begin to tell you?’

‘From the beginning’.

‘Do you believe in phantasms, Don Pedro?’

‘That all depends. As a man of fate, I believe that the souls of those who have perished are in a state of purgatory’.

‘Do you mean in a state of nowhere?’ I asked.

‘Not exactly, for it is indicative of a place where Judgement Day shall be imposed’.

‘Imposed? Where?’

‘Here on the earth’.

‘If I told you that I have been visited by a certain ghost, would you believe me? Or would you think that I was insane?’

‘I myself have not seen one, but there is always the possibility of one appearing before our eyes’.

‘Well…I tell you, Don Pedro, that I have been visited by one, and his name is Ismael Molina’.

‘Are you certain about that?’

‘Yes, indeed!’

As we were talking, the recurrent revenant returned. His ebony shadow emerged from the adamantine walls of the cell. Immediately, I knew it was him. The monk was so startled by the apparition that he, unfortunately, suffered a heart attack and would have died then and there. I tried to revive him, but to no avail. The ghost had come to warn me in a message about an ominous presence.

Once more, he started to scribble on the walls sporadically. The words I read were as follows: “Beware of the inquisitor, for he is approaching nigh. Quick, prepare yourself, for he will not be kind to you. He is evil—the Devil incarnate.”

That was the extent of his admonition. Where could I find refuge from a praeternatural being that roamed the halls of the Calahorra, whom I had seen on two occasions? I took seriously the warning of the Morisco ghost, even though the daemonic one he had forewarned had not yet materialised to me. Who was I to doubt such a terrifying being of insidious nature after encountering him?

Amidst the impenetrable darkness that pervaded the structure of the towers, there were plenty of imperceptible phantoms haunting the area. I had begun to have vivid nightmares about the evil one mentioned to me, which were indicative of impending doom. There was nothing I could do to prevent the materialisation of this abominable entity.

Thus, I could only prepare myself for the inevitability of this encounter, should it prove true. The world that was my palpable reality had long since vanished when I entered the prison that would condemn me. New prisoners were brought in, whilst others were taken away in bags that I believed were destined for the graveyard to be buried—until I later learned that this was not the case.

Everything I thought rational about humanity was no longer conducive to the realm of reality I was surrounded by, with its constant horrors. It was impossible not to be affected by these horrors when one was confined to such a limited space as my cell and the structure of the towers.

This medieval fortification was never intended to be a prison. I was reduced to being more savage than man, and my health gradually deteriorated more with each passing day. It was only a matter of time before I would completely yield to the unbearable exploitation of my physical strength. This I pondered in my deliberations day and night.

For the remainder of my time at the Calahorra, I did not share the cell with another prisoner. Due to the winter, I could feel the bitter and grim effects of its cold. There were no hearths or fireplaces to warm one’s shivering body. There was a furnace added in one of the chambers to burn the dead to brands and ashes. This had become the norm—abhorrent in its usage and practice.

Was this my ultimate fate? We were given extra blankets, but not even these cloths were sufficient to warm oneself during the cold nights. The prison guards had the refuge of their homes to return to. We prisoners, on the other hand, were not so fortunate in our accommodations.

Our sentence had deprived us of that possibility. There were times when I assumed death more likely than freedom. I do not know whether these were actual delusions concocted or symptoms of my depleting mental faculties. I waited in anticipation for the phantom of the Morisco to reappear. However, weeks passed and there was no visit from him. Was he suddenly vanquished to the abode of the immortals from whence he originated? Or was there something more sinister awaiting me that I was unaware of?

I tried not to think about the bad things conjured in my mind. How could I avoid something that was not of this world—the living world? Something concealed deeply within the mysterious realm of the unnatural. I had grown up hearing about ghosts all my life. It is not a question of whether they exist in our world or where they come from solely; instead, why do they haunt us, the living? I suppose only time could eventually reveal that secret.

I received another letter from Sofia. It came at a moment when I was sinking into the deep sorrows of the sullen solitude of my hollow cell. What she wrote invigorated my senses. She had again declared her love for me. I was not certain that what I was reading was true, but in the end, it was enough for me to cling to a convincing measure of hope.

Even when that hope appeared dismal in its aspiration, it was a temporary response to my gnawing solicitude. I decided to write her back a special letter, emphasising my token of appreciation and acceptance of her affection. Sadly, it was the only thing that could occupy my pleasant dreams, for they were rare. Most of the time, they were too depressing and miserable to be considered relevant.

After waiting and waiting for the Morisco apparition for months, I began to doubt that he would ever come back. The apparent decline in my health returned, and I was unable to concentrate on reasonable thoughts I struggled to keep during lonely nights of mundane despair.

To describe the sensation was analogous to the vaguery of the presentiment that torments a prisoner with a vengeance. I could hear from my cell the continual dew drops of the morning rain. Were the pluvial pools a precursor to the abatement of my obnubilated nightmares or the nature of my fate? Had my mind reached the impassable point of no return?

Whatever is to be explained of the succession of events thereafter, know that I can bear witness only to those of which I had part in its concurrence, as the quantifiable truth. It was upon the last day of winter when I managed to regain my vigour afresh for a brief period—enough to allow me to write a final letter to Sofia.

I knew my limitations, but I did not know how long I could continue to resist with my ailing health. Every minute was as precious as the last. I could feel the air of my breath like a vapour of steam that caressed my cheeks.

When I finished writing, I remained seated on my bed reflecting on the possibility of my death. The recurrent theme of insanity seized my fears and consternation. It was an intense battle between rationality and hysteria that would pursue me to the utmost limits of reality. I believed my sanity was intact, and the utility of my knowledge was vital to my perception.

During that time of contemplation, a creeping phantasm appeared before me—it was exactly the one forewarned by the Morisco: the inquisitor. The precarious nature of my ordeal was superseded by the presence of this dreaded spectre, who appeared unannounced.

His towering, dark shadow was threatening and intimidating, without a doubt. Had he come for my soul? Had he sought revenge? I looked on with absolute amazement as he stood before me.

He uttered the words: 'Repent of thy sins or be cast into hell!' He forced forth a stridulous noise that was deafening to my ears. I fell to the ground immediately, and silence followed.

It was interrupted by the realisation that I was still alive. I had survived the wicked presence of the puissant inquisitor. This admission enlivened my spirits and made me ponder the impermanence of human existence.

In the morning, I awoke to violent stirrings outside caused by a tumultuous revolt, unbeknownst to me. People had entered to liberate the prisoners from their unjust condemnation. My cell was opened by a stranger who did not identify himself. He was just an anonymous man who had responded to the clamour of injustice evoked. Along the way, I saw the dead faces of some guards lying on the ground of the first storey. The others had escaped through a secret passage. I happened to see them flee. No one saw me enter this passage.

Once inside, I discovered chests of treasure, gold in substance and abundance. I was astonished by this discovery. I opened one of the chests and grabbed as much as I could with a goblet that was inside.

I put the pieces of gold coins and jewellery encrusted with gems inside my garments and then exited the prison stealthily. The Morisco ghost reappeared one last time. It was as if he knew about the treasure. He looked at me, then vanished, never to be seen again. Some say the antagonistic ghost that haunts the towers and appeared to me as the infamous inquisitor was none other than Gonzalo Jiménez de Cisneros—the irremissible villain.

There was so much commotion that no one who had entered the prison dared to check on the passage. The revolt was ultimately quelled, and some prisoners who had escaped were apprehended anew.

As for me, I eluded capture. Before I left, I was told that the Moors had hidden priceless treasures in the Calahorra, amassed during the glorious reign of Al-Andalus, Islamic Spain. I had a headstone erected in a cemetery, engraved with the proud name of Ismael Medina.

This was done in his honour and memory. The Calahorra no longer served as a prison and was converted into a fortification once more. I never returned to Córdoba, but my memories of my homeland remained deeply embedded in my thoughts.

My health slowly improved, but the scars—mental and physical—from my imprisonment haunted me afterwards. I did not forget the valiant men who perished in that horrific prison for the sake of posterity. Nor the shadowy souls who roamed the days and nights of the Calahorra.

The cold dawn air bit sharply at my skin as I stumbled from the shadowed walls onto the dusty path leading away from the Calahorra. Behind me, the fortress crouched like a dark beast, its jagged towers silhouetted against the fading night sky, an ominous reminder of the nightmare I had escaped but that would never quite let me go. The heavy stones, worn smooth by centuries of cruelty, seemed to pulse with a silent menace, as if they still reached out with grasping fingers to reclaim what had slipped through their grasp.

I sank to my knees on the parched earth, the dry soil gritty beneath my palms, and gasped for breath. The first weak rays of sunlight filtered through the canopy, washing the world in pale gold, but the warmth did not reach me. Instead, the cold lingered inside—a hollow echo where hope should have been. Freedom—such a simple word, yet so foreign to my tongue. The taste of it was bitter and sweet, laced with an ache I could not name.

Around me, the forest stirred quietly. A tentative breeze rustled the brittle leaves overhead, their trembling shadows flickering on the ground like fragile ghosts. Birds trilled hesitantly, their songs fragile against the weight of silence that clung to my soul. Every rustle of leaf and snap of twig seemed unnervingly loud after months spent imprisoned in stone and shadow, where silence had been a shackle heavier than iron.

I lifted my trembling hands and stared at them. These hands had been shackled, bruised, and broken beneath the Calahorra’s merciless grip. Now, they were mine once more—free to build or to create. The terrible power of choice pressed down upon me, heavier than any chain. The skin was raw in places, scars still tender from old wounds, yet they bore the promise of renewal, a testament to survival.

But freedom was not peace. Not yet.

Memories surged like a flood—dark corridors slick with dampness, whispers of torment echoing in my ears, the cold gaze of the inquisitor burning like fire into my mind, and the ghostly figure of the Morisco whose warnings had saved my life. His sorrowful eyes haunted me still, a silent call to remember, to resist, to never forget. I could still hear the faint echo of his voice carried by the wind, a fragile thread tying me back to the past even as I pressed forward.

I rose unsteadily, legs weak beneath me, and began walking. Each step stirred the dry earth, sending up tiny clouds of dust that drifted lazily in the rising sun. Each breath was a fragile victory, shallow and uneven, as if my lungs were relearning the art of freedom. The path ahead stretched winding and uncertain, lined by ancient oaks and whispering pines whose branches intertwined like fingers raised in silent warning.

The road was lonely, but not empty. Small signs of life appeared here and there—a cluster of wildflowers nodding in the breeze, the fresh tracks of a deer in the soft earth, the distant bleating of sheep. Life pulsed vibrantly here—so different from the cold, dead stones of the Calahorra. The scent of wildflowers and fresh bread drifted faintly on the breeze, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp leaves and warm soil.

Beneath this bright veneer, I sensed a fragile thread holding the world’s peace—a thread as tenuous as a spider’s web, glistening in the morning light and trembling with every gust. One wrong move, one careless step, and it would shatter.

I stopped at a narrow brook, its clear water gurgling softly over smooth stones. Kneeling, I cupped my hands and drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing my cracked lips and parched throat. Reflected in the water’s surface, my face stared back—pale and gaunt, framed by tangled hair and haunted eyes. The image flickered and shifted, a ghost fading in the shifting light.

Rising again, I followed the brook as it twisted deeper into the forest. Shafts of sunlight pierced the canopy, casting dappled patterns on moss-covered rocks and fallen branches. Somewhere nearby, the buzz of insects filled the air, a steady hum that wove itself into the quiet symphony of the morning.

As the sun climbed higher, the landscape unfurled in a tapestry of green and gold. Fields stretched toward distant hills, a patchwork of tilled earth and wild grass. Villages dotted the valleys like scattered jewels, smoke curling from chimneys in lazy spirals. The world was waking, vibrant and alive, and yet I moved through it as a shadow, caught between past and future.

At a crossroads, I paused. From my pack, I drew a rough map—edges frayed, ink faded—but it was all I had. My eyes traced the lines toward the mountains beyond, where old legends spoke of hidden sanctuaries and forgotten paths. It was there I would seek refuge, a place untouched by the cruelty I had fled. A place where perhaps the light could grow stronger.

But first, I allowed myself a moment to grieve. I knelt once more, pressing my palms to the earth, and closed my eyes. For the friends left behind, for the innocence shattered by fire and fear, for the part of me that had been lost in darkness. A single tear traced a slow path down my cheek, falling quietly into the soil.

The forest seemed to hold its breath with me, the birds falling silent, the wind stilling. In that fragile moment, the world and I were one—broken, wounded, but unyielding.

I whispered a vow to the wind, though no words formed: I would carry the light through the shadows, even if it cost me everything.

Behind me, the Calahorra faded into the horizon, its shadow stretching long and dark across the land. But it no longer held me. Its chains were broken, its walls behind me. And though its shadow lingered in my heart—a constant reminder that freedom was only the beginning—the road ahead was mine to walk.

Step by step, breath by breath, I moved ahead into the uncertain dawn.

I left the city of Córdoba and headed towards Portugal, whereupon I took a ship departing for South America—in particular, Brazil—with Sofia on a new adventure. I left with the gold I had discovered.

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