The Water and the Soul of the Stone

The Promise Under Iron and Cold Gothic

The blizzard no longer whispered; it howled, biting into the cold buttresses of Hunyadi Castle. In the heart of the Gothic fortress, in the inner courtyard shrouded in the shadows of the 15th century, the echo had a harsh timbre, like untamed stone. Here, where the Neboisa Tower thrust its sharp peak into the Transylvanian sky, stood the well. It was not just a well; it was a circular wound in the pavement, a testimony inscribed in the depths of the earth.

Iancu de Hunedoara, the undisputed master of the castle, whose voivode shadow fell heavily over Transylvania, desired it with a fervor worthy of a monarch. Water. In case of a prolonged siege, it was the ultimate promise of invincibility.Iancu, pragmatic and unforgiving, had captured three Ottoman prisoners during the battle of Varna. They were not mere soldiers, but men of knowledge, with a refined understanding of geometry and the movement of the earth. Men with pride and a great desire to return to their sunlit homes.

Iancu brought them to the castle courtyard, amidst the sharp clang of blacksmiths hammering swords.— My name is Iancu, he told them, his deep voice cutting through the wind. I see you are craftsmen, not just fighters. I give you a choice. Die now, quickly, as simple prisoners, or work for me.Ahmed, the wisest among them, spoke, his gaze fixed on the voivode's steel eyes: — What kind of work, Master?— You are craftsmen, Iancu repeated, pointing to the arid spot. Here, under the pavement, is dry rock. Dig. Dig until you find a spring. If water flows from this cursed stone, you will receive the gold of freedom and return to your homes. Fail, and you will be buried by the very earth you disturbed. I give you a year.Ahmed offered a faint smile, a weary gesture of resignation. A year, facing this solid rock. Iancu corrected him: — Or... however long it takes. Only time separates us from the fulfillment of the promise.And so, the three – Ahmed (the practical soul, the engineer), Hassan (the muscular one, the blind force), and Mustafa (the quiet poet, the dreamer) – began. They descended into the darkness of the well, transformed overnight into Sisyphuses of hope. They were given a rope, a few old chisels, and the untouchable promise of freedom.The first month was a physical hell. Days were measured in buckets of shattered stone brought to the surface. Nights were measured in dry nightmares, where the clear waters of the Bosphorus, or the fountain in their mosque courtyard, appeared, yet remained forever out of reach.From above, the life of the castle flowed on indifferently. Soldiers watched over them, tossing down pieces of bread and water from the surface with condescending pity.— Two years have passed, Hassan whispered once, tired, crushing a piece of sandstone with his pickaxe. I feel like we are turning into stones ourselves.— No, Hassan, Ahmed replied, wiping his sweat. We are the ones shaping the stone. As long as we dig, we are the masters of our own time. They did not give us freedom; they gave us a mission. And the mission is our life now.Mustafa didn't speak much. He spent long hours carving verses on the fragments of stone brought to light with a small nail. He wrote lost verses about a lover, about an orange grove, about the solitude that was not of the dungeon, but of the absence of hope beyond this project.

II. The Metamorphosis of Time and Prisoners

Time in the depths did not flow linearly. Whole years evaporated into the monotonous sound of chisels hitting the rock. Iancu de Hunedoara continued to build the castle above them.In the hall above, later known as the Knights' Hall, people danced and held lavish banquets. They heard the muffled echoes of music, the laughter of women, and the clanging of tankards. It was as if they lived beneath a thick rug, at a party to which they were not invited, but which they financed with their sweat and years.The Fifth Year. Mustafa was on the verge of collapse. Fever. His lungs were scraped by coughing. Ahmed had to use all his engineering knowledge to care for him, turning their meager healing supplies into remedies. It was then that Mustafa uttered the words that would change their perspective:— We cannot return home. We are no longer the same men. Even if we find the water, what will we do with our dried-up freedom?

Ahmed did not answer immediately. He picked up a piece of stone and carved into it: “He who digs, finds himself again.”That day marked a turning point. Their mission was no longer about freedom. It was about dignity. They dug to prove to the world above that man could survive and achieve the impossible, even in the face of cruelty.

They began to discover new geological layers: sandstone, marble, quartz strata. Ahmed, the engineer, became a passionate geologist. Hassan, the brute force, became a dancer of the pickaxe, moving with astonishing precision.During this time, Iancu descended to them only once, holding a torch. He looked at their faces, burnt by dust and fatigue, their shoulders stooped, and smiled approvingly.

— How much longer do you have, prisoners?

— We will have it when we have it, Master, Ahmed replied. We are not digging for time; we are digging for the truth.

Iancu turned back. He liked the answer. Truth. It was a rare commodity in politics and war.

The Tenth Year. The news of Iancu de Hunedoara's death reached them in the depths, like a faint, distant roar. The castle went into mourning. For the three men, Iancu was not just the master; he was the guarantor of the promise. With his death, the promise dissolved.

They kept digging. It was no longer about freedom. It was about finishing the work.

III. The Water Springs, the Soul Closes

In the twelfth year, as winter sifted its cold over the rooftops, a muffled but triumphant shout was heard from the depths.

— Water! Hassan cried.

It was not just dampness; it was a thin thread, then a clean, cold stream that burst from the final stone. It was the water of life, the water of freedom. The three men climbed out of the well, their eyes scorched by the daylight, older, weaker, but dignified.Above, Elisabeta Szilágyi, Iancu's wife, a woman of cold beauty and practical cruelty, awaited them. She listened to their story with royal indifference, admiring the clear water that was finally rising to the surface.

— You have found the water, she said, her voice as sharp as the blizzard. My husband promised you freedom.

Mustafa, the poet, now mere skin and bones, stood up, trembling: — And we shall return to our homes?

Elisabeta smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes.

— You are now part of the Castle. You have given the castle water, the most precious thing. If I were to let you leave, you would become a living legend, a symbol that Turkish promises can be rewarded. A voivode cannot afford such weaknesses, even posthumously. Besides, you have become experts in digging. You may be useful elsewhere.

Time, which they had conquered, now defeated them.

Ahmed understood immediately. They had not been slaves of the earth, but slaves of the promise. And the promise had died with Iancu. Before the guards could take them and throw them into another dungeon in the Neboisa Tower, Mustafa knelt beside the well. With the last nail he had kept from his years of digging, he desperately scratched the stone ring of the well. It was an act of silent rebellion, the final cry for dignity.Ahmed and Hassan watched, not intervening, knowing that Mustafa's act was the only thing they had left.Once the inscription was complete, Mustafa looked up at Elisabeta, gave her a bitter smile, and walked alone, untouched by the guards, toward the entrance of the Neboisa Tower.

IV. The Cold Epilogue and the Scrawled Truth

Mustafa's body succumbed shortly thereafter, in the cold dungeon, from exhaustion. Ahmed and Hassan were transferred and died in anonymity, far from Hunedoara.

But their silent curse remained.

Years later, when Hunyadi Castle became a pilgrimage site for nobles, an erudite monk visiting the fortress noticed the faint inscription on the edge of the well. As was assumed at the time (or as it was desired to be believed, to increase the mystery of the legend), the inscription was in Arabic.The monk deciphered it, and the words remained as an eternal seal upon the castle, a testament to a useless sacrifice:

You have water, but you have no soul.

This phrase, scratched by a condemned poet, forever stained the splendor of the castle. It was not an accusation against the stone or the place, but against the soul of those who ruled, of those who could promise freedom, but who chose, instead, utility and cruelty.Today, when you lean over the deep well in the inner courtyard of Corvin Castle, you see the reflection of the Neboisa Tower. You are not alone. You are in the company of the bitter echo of Mustafa, Hassan, and Ahmed. And the well, though filled with clear, cold water, seems to be empty.Because, after twelve years of hope dug into the rock, the men gained only one, unshakable certainty: no matter how tall a castle stands, it can only rise on the foundation of promises kept. And when a promise dies, it can bury the soul of those who make it. And so, Corvin Castle remains a Gothic masterpiece, full of glory and a black lack of soul.