It had been only a few days since Abdulhayy Mahmud Hata'i had arrived at the quiet Portuguese town of Sintra. Unable to keep his old strength thanks to his age, and rather unwilling to stay around large communities, Hata'i needed a place to rest after escaping from Spanish militia forces. Despite the fact that he had tricked the Spaniards at Salamanca, by putting a decoy made of pillows and straw on his horse and sending him in an opposite direction, he did not want to risk anything. Plus, he had all the time in the world, and Portugal, despite the heat, seemed like quite a nice place to Hata'i. While he did not enjoy Catholic culture, the simplicity of the villages he'd passed through gave him a warm feeling. He had enough warmness in his life, however, thanks to the Mediterranean climate, and did not enjoy sweating. His feather ornamented hat, which he had to wear over his cap, was causing even more heat on his scalp, and removing them both at the same time was somewhat hard, thanks to the wide brim. Thankfully, by ordering the innkeeper to prepare his room in the cold, deep basement carved into rock, he was able to get some relief from the heat. His carbine was leaned against the wall next to his bunk bed, possibly made for the servants of the old owners of this inn, whoever they might have been. The place was illuminated by an oil lantern hanging from one of the walls, which was more than enough for the small basement. There were a few boxes filled with fruit stacked on each other on the opposite of the room, along with a few empty baskets, and a metal bucket filled with stale water. Next to the bunk was a table, with a stool placed underneath it. On this table was Hata'i's bag, a large canteen, and a few books. Lately, he had been feeling rather distant towards reading - he hoped that here, he'd be able to get used to it once more. 

After settling down and changing his clothing for what he deemed local attire, and wearing his leather buffcoat on top of it all, he looked down and checked his clothing. He preferred his normal attire, but considering how in these lands you could get killed for being simply from a different sect, merely looking like a Muslim would mean a shortcut to the stake. You needed to look and play the part of a Catholic. It wasn't hard for Hata'i. He was used to it, having been changing identities for almost a decade and a half. He thought that he could be a good actor. But he did not like theaters, having visited them once or twice during his life in the Netherlands. He wasn't used to the music here, either - while the violin reminded him of the solemn cries of the ney, he found that the music here lacked the energy one could feel emanating from the rhythmic repetition of the dhikr. Still, it would be unfair for Hata'i to say that Eastern music was superior to Western music - it was just that while Hata'i was a man of the West when it came to the mindset, he was still a man of the East at heart. 'Everything has its own place,' Hata'i thought. 

He removed his hat, scratched his balding head a bit and then decided that it was enough time in the basement. He believed himself to be a man of the underground, yet he was unable to stop himself from acting, moving. 'Such is God's degree,' he said to himself. Humming to himself a hymn in the Sofyan melodic tone, he slowly made his way up the stairs and took a deep breath. The sour smell of wine was mixed with the soft and sweet smell of chicken. He found himself a vacant table and sat down, observing the people around him. The only one that attracted his attention was a one-eyed German. As he hit the wooden table with his fingers, trying to make some crude melody, a young, attractive woman came around, asking whether he had something to order or not. ''I'd like some beans, my dear,'' Hata'i said, ''And some bread.'' The woman disappeared just as fast as she appeared, leaving Hata'i by himself once more. 'Quiet folk,' he murmured to himself.

-

One bowl of well cooked beans and a few slices of bread later, Hata'i quietly retreated to his room, removed his hat, got rid of his uncomfortable Western clothes, stripped to his underpants and then decided to sleep. Then, realizing that there was no blanket or a proper pillow on the bunk, he put on his padded robe and cap and lay down the bed. After realizing he had forgotten to extinguish the oil lantern, he got up, somewhat frustrated, snuffed out the fire and, after accidentally hitting his foot on the stool under the table, went back to his bed. Slowly breathing in and out to slow his heartbeat, he recited the Ayat Al-Kursi and the Al-Nas in order to ward off any evil in the area and keep himself safe, and went to sleep, feeling secure.

-

He could smell roasted flesh. The smell was familiar to him even still, despite the last time him sensing such a thing was two decades ago. It was not a good memory. The Cossacks he had convinced to come with him to fight 'a beast, a creature of the devil' were young men, nearly all of them in their twenties, some so young that they lacked the trademark mustache of the Cossack people. Yet in a flash, their lives were taken away with a blast of lightning, turned to ash in an instant. The few men that had decided to keep shooting from afar had survived for a few seconds with their skin torn apart like fabric and their eyes leaking out like molten butter, and Hata'i could remember watching them expire, unable to do anything but moan. He could feel it again - he heard screams, he smelled fire, and he felt that unnerving presence once more, giving him a close and intense but unwanted feeling. He woke up from a pool of cold sweat and sighed, thanking God for ending this nightmare. And it was only then when he realized that it was not a nightmare. He could hear screams, trembling, and occasionally inhuman roars. The smell of roasted flesh was very real, much to his chagrin. Coming to his senses, he jumped from his spot, hastily put on his leather boots and ran for the door. Opening the door, he suddenly found the inn blazing down around him. The woman that had served him beans was rolling on the ground, her clothing and her hair on fire, screaming for help. As he attempted to give her a helping hand, he saw something looking through where the window was supposed to be. Then, a sudden blast of flame soared through the window and filled the inn, and Hata'i threw himself back into the basement, rolling down the stairs as the basement entrance burnt down. Hata'i could feel pieces of the shattered door on him. In the basement, he hastily put on his clothing, grabbed his equipment and started pouring water on his face from the canteen on the table. It was refreshing, and given the circumstances, that was a good thing. As he grabbed the bucket of water, planning to pour the water in it on himself and run through the flames, he felt trembling. Looking down, Hata'i saw some dust in the water. Looking up, he saw the 'roof' of the basement cracking. The small crack grew larger and larger. Moments later, the roof came crashing down on Hata'i.

-

When he came to his senses, he found himself looking up at a dark skinned man in a morion. Hata'i opened his mouth and gasped for air, and almost immediately started coughing. ''We have a live one here!'' The man shouted out, and soon after, they were pulling debris off Hata'i's body. In about 15 minutes, he was free, miraculously free of any major injury. ''Thank Christ,'' Hata'i said to the men that saved him, ''And thank you, as well.'' He was lucky to be conscious about where he was. With the guidance of the guards, he was taken to a group of monks and doctors somewhere in the Palace and fed some stew. While he normally avoided red meat in these lands, out of the possibility that it could be pork, he was not in a position to refuse, and he did not want to attract any unwanted attention. He was not in a condition to fight, or escape. ''Our Lord has spared you from His wrath,'' one of the monks said, ''You must be an auspicious individual, to come out alive and unhurt from inside that house of sin.'' Hata'i raised his head towards the monk. The man was probably younger than he was. ''I am merely a servant of the Way of Christ,'' he replied. ''Ah, humility! Such a rare virtue these days. That explains it.'' The monk seemed quite sincere in his demeanor. After a small chat with the monk, Hata'i, feeling significantly better, left the place with the monks' approval. The stairways led upwards to the Palace courtyard, where he found himself amongst a group of men. Observing his surroundings, he deduced that there was going to be a speech of some sort. ''God only knows the Truth,'' Hata'i thought to himself. ''God is the Truth.''