Alicia, now accustomed to awkward situations and unwanted attention, tried to ignore the strange discomfort this strange man had caused her. It wouldn't be the first time. After all, even in her life as an apprentice, with her simple robes and bare face, her beauty still attracted glances that lingered longer than politeness allowed.

  But that white-haired beggar was just the beginning. As the weeks passed, other men began to appear, each different in appearance, but all awakening in Alice the same unsettling feeling of familiarity.

  At one of the weekly public sermons, Alice felt a gaze fixed on her. In the crowd, she spotted a well-dressed merchant with blond hair and a trimmed beard. His appearance was impeccable, and his attention was not on the priest's words or the ancient writings, but on her. Alice tried to concentrate on the sermon, but every time she looked away, she found him staring at her. Only when she caught him head-on did the man abruptly turn his head away, feigning indifference.

  The pattern repeated itself days later. During a funeral procession, while she was helping with the prayers and burial arrangements, Alicia felt it again: that pressure, that gaze. Searching through the crowd, she found him. It was another man, this time with brown hair, a thick mustache, and dark clothes. He didn't say a word, didn't approach... he just stared at her, as if he wanted to tear something from inside her.

  Soon another came. A redhead with somewhat dark skin, at the entrance to the market. Then, a young man with long blond hair in a square. Then, a dark-haired man who followed her with his gaze throughout a community service tour.

  All different and unrecognizable. But all with the same gaze, the same feeling, as if they were one under different masks.

  Alicia began to lose her calm. The repetition was so strange, so impossible, that she couldn't help but wonder if she was falling prey to madness. Perhaps they were hallucinations, a product of the fatigue and apathy that had already marked her days. Perhaps her mind, fed up with the monotony of the Church, was inventing ghosts that no one else could see. Nothing made sense. And the more she tried to ignore them, the more present they seemed.

  But everything took a much more disturbing turn when a wealthy merchant offered a generous donation to the Church, requesting that a relief group be sent to a remote village struck by a fever outbreak. It wasn't unusual for the Church to respond to these emergencies, as it was part of its community work, but what was unusual was the condition the merchant imposed: that it be the exact group of apprentices to which Alice belonged.

  Some priests frowned, suspicious of the request, but the sum offered was too substantial to raise any objections. The matter was dismissed as a mere whim of a wealthy benefactor.

  Alice didn't give it much thought. For her, relief trips were routine, and over time she had learned not to question orders. However, on the day of departure, upon meeting the merchant for the first time, she felt the ground slip from under her feet.

  The man was elegantly dressed: fine fabrics, warm colors, discreet jewelry that betrayed wealth without ostentation. His brown hair fell in waves to his shoulders, and a long beard gave him a solemn air. But that wasn't what froze Alice. It was his eyes.

  For an instant, barely a few seconds, those eyes fixed on her with the same intensity as those of all the men before. It was the same gaze, the same strange, impossible-to-define recognition. Alice froze, unable to look away.

  And yet it only lasted an instant. The merchant never looked at her again. He limited himself to giving logistical instructions, conversing with the priests, as if nothing had happened.

  But for Alice, that split second had been enough. That feeling of impossible familiarity blossomed again in her chest, stronger than ever.

  The departing group consisted of over a hundred people: twenty apprentices, sixty assistants, and an escort detachment led by a Level 4 combat cleric. Overall command was held by a Level 3 priest, who was tasked with overseeing the mission. At first glance, this seemed like a disproportionate deployment for a simple fever outbreak; but it was standard practice when the Church had to mobilize to remote regions. And in this case, protection was not only directed at the personnel, but also at the enigmatic merchant, a kind man and generous with his donations.

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  The twelve carriages that made up the caravan were among the largest and most sturdy, the type only the Church and Imperial forces were allowed to use. They were pulled by large, four-legged beasts, very similar to bears, with backs covered in rough fur and muscles reminiscent of tree trunks. They were much more resilient than horses and could advance without rest for days on end.

  In addition to transporting people, the carriages were filled with supplies: barrels of water and food, trunks of clean clothes, crates filled with potions, medicines, and even huge bolts of cloth and iron stakes for erecting quarantine tents. All of this was paid for by the merchant, which sparked even more enthusiasm among several priests. After all, much of this material would end up in the possession of the Church once the emergency was over.

  Alicia traveled in one of the carriages near the rear, far from the first vehicle carrying the merchant and the highest-ranking clergy. She remained silent, watching through the window the unchanging swaying of the forest that accompanied them on their journey. And yet, time and again, she couldn't help turning her face toward the front of the column, as if her eyes were searching for the invisible silhouette of the benefactor.

  That feeling of familiarity, sharp and inescapable, remained stuck in her mind. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't dispel it. It was as if this man, whom she had only seen for a few seconds, carried with him a part of her own past that she couldn't recall.

  The caravan stopped in several villages along the way. As was customary, only the highest-ranking personnel were allowed to occupy the available rooms in the local inns, while apprentices and assistants were forced to sleep in makeshift camps next to the stables.

  Alice, already accustomed to the discomfort of the cold ground and the scarcity of food, was surprised when, on the first night, the merchant had arranged for everyone to receive dinner directly from the inn. It wasn't the usual watery stew served on long voyages, but a thick stew, with plenty of tender, well-seasoned meat, accompanied by freshly baked bread and, to complete the feast, a mug of light ale per person, permitted under the supervision of the head priest.

  The taste completely disarmed her. The spices—intense, aromatic, with a warm, spicy note—awakened memories she thought she'd forgotten: gala dinners at her father's castle, banquets filled with music and laughter. It was so delicious that even the simplicity of the ingredients was transformed into a delicacy worthy of nobility.

  The reason soon became known: the merchant was involved in the spice trade and had given generous quantities to the inn's cooks to use in their meals. This turned ordinary meals into memorable experiences.

  Not only were the apprentices delighted. Even the highest-ranking priests began to rave about the ale the merchant shared from his personal stash: a smooth, fruity drink with almost no alcohol content, yet with such a refined flavor that more than one claimed it was worthy of being served at a royal table.

  With each passing night, the merchant won the hearts of all the members of the caravan. Amid laughter, satisfied stomachs, and the relief of a less rough journey than usual, any doubts began to dissipate.

  Even Alice, despite all her resistance, began to let her guard down. And, without realizing it, she began to eagerly await the arrival of each new dinner, out of curiosity to see him and for the food itself.

  Soon, the caravan entered the final stretch of the journey, where the villages grew increasingly distant. This forced the group to spend the night camping along the road, with no shelter but the stars and no comfort in inns. Many resigned themselves with disappointment, convinced that the days of lavish dinners were behind them.

  But once again, the merchant surprised them all. With a calm smile, he personally delivered a small chest of spices to those in charge of preparing the evening meal. He also distributed his own bread among the apprentices and poured jugs of beer from his supply, making sure that no one was left without a taste. No one refused his generosity, not even the clerics in charge of the escort or the lead priest, who under other circumstances would have displayed a more reserved attitude.

  The soup, though much simpler than those prepared in the inn kitchens, acquired a surprising flavor thanks to the spices: warm, comforting, with a touch of sweetness that contrasted with the harshness of the night. The bread, though several days old, was delicious, and the beer… the beer was sublime. Light, somewhat dark, and with a fruity aftertaste that left a freshness on the lips that was hard to describe.

  After the first sip, Alice knew it was one of the most delicious drinks she had ever tasted. Such perfection in the middle of a dusty, cold camp felt almost miraculous. And the most disturbing thing was that when she looked toward the merchant, she found him watching them from his seat, content, with a serenity that seemed to hide something else.

  It didn't take long for Alice to notice that something wasn't right. An unusual tiredness began to weigh on her arms and legs, as if every movement drained all her energy. It wasn't just her: several of her companions were murmuring sleepily, their eyelids heavy, stumbling as they tried to stand. The attendants were the first to succumb, collapsing on the wet grass without even reaching their tents.

  Panic struck her immediately. Her instinct screamed that this wasn't normal, that something terrible was happening. She tried to speak, to warn, but her voice barely managed a broken whisper. One by one, the apprentices around her fell, including Marta, her closest friend, who collapsed like a lifeless doll, her breathing deep and heavy. Alicia's heart pounded like a drum, fighting the drowsiness that dragged her hopelessly down.

  Then she saw him, the merchant. He wasn't where he'd been sitting before, smiling and affable, but behind the leader of the clerics, the level 4 mage. He was holding him by the back in a strange sort of embrace, pressing his head forward, preventing him from using his arms. The cleric's face twisted in horror, but in a second, his eyes went completely white, and his body went limp, then he collapsed like everyone else.

  The last thing she managed to make out before darkness swallowed her was the merchant's gaze fixed on her. Immutable and direct. As if it had all been destined for that moment, to see her fall while his lips formed a barely perceptible smile.