The Wolf’s Silence

After Tarmo leaves, the room is louder—his absence thickens the air, the old mosaic and high ceilings seeming to absorb and amplify every unspoken word. On the side table, pastries glint under the lamplight: pistachio shine, sheets of syrup stiffening with neglect. Mint tea, untouched, sends up a last drift of steam, perfume as promise, or warning.

I lock the door, ear pressed briefly to wood while footsteps retreat down the carpeted hall. I expect Karim’s silent return, a familiar form in the corridor. But there’s nothing—no shadow at the threshold, no comfort at my door.

It jars. Karim never yields his watch. Not by order, not for Tarmo.

I remember Romania—his silhouette slicing the moonlight, a sentinel at my flank for days and nights. Asdar saw it too: how loyalty runs on instinct, not command. That’s when the truth settles, as quietly as the city on the far side of the glass.

Karim didn’t “let” Tarmo pass. He yielded, not for a hunter, but for a predator. If he’s not here, he’s elsewhere. Where his skills matter.

It’s what Asdar always does—runs the edges, following scent, cutting danger off before it circles back to me. If Sandi matters to me, she matters to him. And I know what that means: somewhere, in the city’s deep night, he’s running her trail.

I picture him on rain-dark stones, hair pushed back by sea wind, shirt collar open, eyes scanning—listening where ears don’t serve, reading tension in the bones of the street. A wolf does not defend with noise or show: he removes the trouble before it arrives at the den.

There’s comfort in that, and unease: another hunt, another calculus I can’t control. My own search method, his is pure animal: a different kind of love—the kind that circles, silent and untamed, acting first, trusting I’ll follow if needed.

Istanbul whispers through the glass. The Bosphorus gleams sharp as a razor under the moon, making every reflection—on tea, on metal, in my own eyes—a question.

I lie in darkness, mind tangled in old fear and fresh devotion. Tarmo’s law and legend, Asdar’s wild guard, Karim’s vigilant absence—the city’s dangers run in parallel, but tonight only some are mine to sense.

The sweets cool, the tea dulls. For once, I let myself rest—if only to honour the hunt I can’t see and the wisdom of wolves who prowl for love, not orders.

In my mind, the hunt unspools like this:

Night glazes the cobblestones in Karaköy, rain slicking the stones beneath the thrumming glare of fish market lights. He moves like rain is nothing: face lost in the crowd, another shadow among dockworkers and traders. No one notices unless he wishes it.

In my mind, that’s how it would be if he were here: slipping through scents of salt and diesel, catching a whispered “the foreign girl” with the trained patience of a wolf hunting for kin.

I visualise his ears pricking at danger, his steps two bends behind suspicion, following clues—never too close, always reading the city’s pulse. I can almost see him threading past neon bars and shuttered stalls, reading fear in the air where someone is being held against her will.

I stare at the ceiling’s washed shapes, pulse steady but uncertain. Is Asdar in this city now?

I want to believe it, imagine his silent hunt, every sense honed to my worries, circling unseen, just out of reach. That’s what wolves do, if legend is to be believed: they keep the fire’s perimeter safe, never close unless threat or need demands.

If he’s truly here, he’ll come when he’s sure, a quiet shadow at my door, a map of the city’s secrets flickering in his eyes.

I let my mind conjure:

Two men smoking in an alley, their low voices stitched with a Black Sea accent. “Room with no windows,” the tall one says, “near the docks.”

I see Asdar’s form sliding by, not hesitating, clocking threats, assembling his plan with animal clarity: if these hints have reached him at all.

So I will play my role: boots on wet stones, CYcrds discipline, field notes swelling by the hour. Am I waiting for contact, or conjuring safety from memory and myth? Maybe both.

All I know: if the hunt ever brings him to my door—if the wolf is truly loose in Istanbul—may the gods help whoever stands between us, and Sandi.

I.Ph.