Dark Knight

Middle Ages, Balkans

Once upon a time, in a land where legends were born, a wise warrior named Medhar took a young boy under his wing. Touran was only twelve when Medhar saw the fire in his eyes and chose him not just as an apprentice, but as a son in spirit. He trained him in the art of war, shaping him into a knight unlike any other.

Years passed, and Touran grew into a warrior whose name echoed across the Balkans. No foe could stand against him, no battle could break him. To honor his unmatched skill, Medhar commissioned a suit of armor as dark as the night itself. Upon his helmet, crimson plumes swayed—symbols of triumph and glory.

After each victorious campaign, Touran would return to the hill near their home. There, under the fading light of dusk, he would dismount, kneel, and bow his head toward the window where Medhar stood waiting.

It was a silent tribute, a "victory salute."

Medhar would respond to him by playing his son's favorite melody on the flute.

One of the sacred codes of knighthood was unwavering love and loyalty to a single woman. For Touran, that woman was Meyra. Their wedding was the stuff of legends, a grand celebration spoken of for years to come.

But happiness is a fleeting thing. In the second month of their marriage, tragedy struck. While returning from a visit to her family, Meyra’s traveling party was ambushed on the forest road—attacked by the mysterious creature that had long haunted whispers and rumors. Despite the presence of seasoned guards, none survived.

When Touran and his fellow knights set out in search of the missing, they stumbled upon the remains deep in the heart of the forest. Every body, except Meyra’s, was covered in the strange, unearthly substance described in the old tales. Of Meyra herself, only faint traces remained—just enough to confirm she had been there, caught in the massacre.

Touran’s anguished cries shattered the silence of the woods. In that moment, his grief turned to fury. He swore an unbreakable oath—to find the creature and take vengeance for Meyra.

Despite Medhar’s desperate pleas, Touran refused to wait. At dawn the very next day, he donned his custom-made, jet-black armor, set his crimson-plumed helmet upon his head, and rode straight into the depths of the forest.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Touran never returned.

Grief-stricken, Medhar spent years searching the woods, never giving up hope. Sometimes, he thought he caught a glimpse of Touran in the distance—a shadow moving between the trees. But whenever he tried to get closer, the figure would vanish like mist.

Then, that fateful day arrived: two riders clad in jet-black armor appeared among the trees. This time, instead of approaching, Medhar leaned against a tree and began to play on his flute the melody that Touran loved. The distant figures dismounted where they stood, approached Medhar, knelt before him, and bowed their heads in salute.

The crimson plumes on their helmets gleamed in the sunlight—a symbol of victory.

After Touran’s disappearance, the rumors about the creature had vanished, and no new attacks had been reported. Among the people, it was said that the mysterious creature in the forest had been replaced by two equally enigmatic black knights, who, unlike the creature, had brought peace to the woods. The second rider had to be Meyra.

Medhar’s heart pounded with emotion. He closed his eyes and etched the moment into his memory.

As they mounted their horses once more, Medhar closed his tear-filled eyes again—this time, with pride.

When he opened them, they were gone.

Silently, he turned and walked home. From that day on, whenever he sat by his window and closed his eyes, he would see that moment—the two knights kneeling in salute—and a gentle smile would cross his face.

Present Day – İğneada Flooded Forests

The photographer had spent years chasing shadows, yet the elusive Black Knight remained just that—a shadow. Sometimes, he thought he saw it soaring high above the treetops; other times, it was merely a vague silhouette moving through the dark, untouched corners of the forest. But after so many fruitless attempts, he was ready to give up.

That day, after capturing a few songbirds with his camera, he set up his folding chair where the forest embraced Mert Lake. With a handful of hazelnuts and a cold beer in hand, he leaned back, savoring the moment. His eyes wandered toward the dense woodland, the very place where he had spent years chasing legends. Lost in thought, he let his mind drift.

Then, a sound—distant yet familiar—pulled him back from his daydreams. The voice of the Black Knight? Impossible. He lifted his binoculars toward the lake, expecting nothing more than another illusion.

And yet, there it was. The Black Knight, soaring toward him over the water.

Something felt off. He blinked, focused, then squinted again. A single beer couldn’t be enough to cause double vision, could it? But there they were—two Black Knights flying side by side.

He glanced at his beer can suspiciously, then checked his binoculars. Nothing out of the ordinary. "Alcohol content: 7.5%." His gear was fine, his mind clear. Yet the sight before him remained unchanged.

The dark figures grew closer, their forms gliding through the air before perching on a tree some thirty, maybe forty meters ahead. As always, they had chosen a spot deep in the shadows, just beyond his reach.

This time, the photographer didn’t rush after them. Instead, he did something different. Slowly, he rose from his chair, pressed his back against a nearby tree, and simply waited. With his free hand, he picked up a small branch and began tapping it lightly against the tree trunk at steady intervals.

The rhythmic sound piqued the interest of the Black Knights. Curious, they abandoned their perch and moved closer, landing on a sunlit tree just a few meters away.

With their jet-black forms and crimson-plumed heads—the unmistakable mark of victory—they bowed before him.

The photographer raised his camera to his eye, his heart pounding.

And in that fleeting, fateful moment, he captured that moment—the moment of legends—forever etching it into his memory card.

When he lifted his head again, they were gone.

The branches where they had perched swayed gently in the wind, as if whispering the last traces of their presence. The forest was silent once more, save for the distant rustling of leaves and the rhythmic lapping of the lake against the shore.

The photographer let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He lowered his camera, staring at the empty space where the Black Knights had been just moments ago. Had he really seen them? Or had the forest, with all its myths and mysteries, simply played another trick on him?

He fumbled with his camera, his fingers trembling slightly as he scrolled through the images. And there it was—clear as day. Two magnificent black figures, their crimson crests burning like embers against the pale bark of the tree.

A slow smile spread across his face. The legend was real.

As he packed up his things, a deep sense of fulfillment settled over him. He had spent years chasing ghosts, but now, for the first time, he felt as though the ghosts had come to him.

And maybe, just maybe, somewhere in the depths of the forest, the Black Knights were watching, satisfied that their story would not be forgotten.