The rain had not yet learned to be silent. That same water, which during the night had served as a curtain for an ambush, returned now with the patience of one who does not forget. In the great dining hall of the Solís mansion, the pieces of the broken table cast shadows like bones upon the floor; the smell of ozone and burnt iron clung to the wood and to the skin. The air seemed to hold the breath of the world, waiting for the next movement.

Valentina slept in a side chamber fitted with a simple bed and blankets; they had placed her there so her dreams would not be disturbed. Narka remained at her side in reduced form, still as a living figurine, golden eyes open and attention fixed on every flow that crossed the house. No one dared look at her too long: the girl was, at that moment, an island where everything still worth defending had taken root.

At the center, Helena and Selena examined the remains of the night: equipment, electrical traces, protocols that had to be restored. They did not speak like two people solving a puzzle; they spoke like engineers finishing an operation, knowing that every second was part of a countdown. From their voices came practical instructions: routes, decoys, interferences —measures that sought no heroism but protected crossings and silences.

Sebastián and Virka stood together, near a wall where the wood had lost its name. Even with tension clinging to their skin, their breathing was slow. Between them, no words were needed. The decision had already germinated. It was not blind pride nor unrestrained anger; it was the clear urgency of preventing the mansion —and the girl— from once again becoming the place where the Smiths would leave their mark. They had to move, and move with thought.

Selena took the communicator and, with restrained voice, requested the armored vehicle with a Faraday cage, a pair of support technicians, and spare batteries. The requests were practical, direct, without drama. Helena, meanwhile, deployed the digital decoys: scripts that would simulate activity in the house and interference spiders that would erase traces for a few hours. Everything had to appear normal while the core withdrew.

—We're going to Kael's Dojo —said Virka, as if she were pronouncing an already consummated fact—. She will be safe there.

The word "Kael" tightened the room like a vibrating string. It was not a casual name: it was the name of the man who had taken her in, who had assumed the burden when the essential had been torn away. Virka did not say "master"; she said "father." She wanted the line to be clear. Her voice carried a weight that admitted no reply.

Helena nodded. —We protect him until we have the time and means to return the visit —she replied—. We cannot leave her alone.

Narka gathered compact gear: packages with rations, thermal batteries, a technical blanket for Valentina, and a small portable interference field that Helena

insisted on activating around the sofa before the transfer. It was not about moving her lightly; it was about preserving her in a controlled transit: to sleep so as not to remember, to dream so as not to keep images.

When the moment came, with measured movements, they placed her in the back seat of the vehicle. Selena took the wheel. She sought no glory; she knew her craft under the rain. Narka reduced himself just enough not to obstruct the view; Sebastián sat by the door, checking weapons and routes; Virka held the blanket over the girl's shoulders like someone sealing a pact with the night. Helena did not get into the vehicle: she stayed in the mansion until the very last moment to activate decoys and interference layers, the final line that would turn the house into an illusion.

—If you return with her —murmured Helena, before the vehicle departed—, you will have done well. And if you do not return, let the world at least have a name for this dream.

The engine sounded deep and restrained. The road toward the mountains bit into the night; mud and puddles kissed the bodywork. The vehicle advanced carefully; each turn was a calculation of probability. Narka, in his own way, whispered safe routes; his suggestions were not great decisions, but trajectories born from the feel of old ground under the rain.

They did not measure the distance in kilometers but in decisions. They crossed valleys where the wind licked the skin of the world; they crossed bridges that seemed like chains over the void; they remained silent. Inside the vehicle, words were few, for there was no room for long stories: it was about verifying routes, anticipating the Smiths' reactions, measuring how long Helena had to sustain the blank screens before the effect weakened.

When the silhouette of the Dojo emerged from the mist, it was as if a mouth of stone opened to swallow them. The structure was not ostentatious; it was carved resistance: polished stone, restrained arches, a courtyard that seemed to have been shaped with the patience of one who keeps secrets. Under the portico, Kael Ardom waited, his robe clinging from the damp and his expression unsurprised, for in his life he had learned to await what must arrive. His eyes, however, bore the gaze of a man who had awaited the call for longer than was just.

Virka stepped down with the same swiftness that necessity demands. She did not run with tears; she walked, and when she stood before him, she let the word "father" escape without warning. Kael inclined his head slowly and placed his hand on the back of her neck, with a gesture that was both the adjustment of armor and a caress.

—My daughter —Kael said, barely—. Come.

The word "daughter" did not distort the scene: it reinforced it. Kael spoke not of hierarchies. When he greeted Sebastián and Selena, he did so with respect, like one who recognizes will in another. There were no questions that sounded like judgment; only a stillness that understood what it had cost to arrive.

They led them to an interior room, warm from a contained fire and the tiles that breathed ancient heat. Kael requested that the girl be taken to a protected side chamber. Helena, who had arrived by a side entrance with the discretion of one who knows shortcuts, placed Valentina on the bed Kael offered and readjusted the blanket with hands that no longer missed tenderness. Then, without fuss, she began to deploy the communications node she had brought in a suitcase: link equipment, interference panels, a listening module to monitor approach routes.

—I'll keep watch from here —Helena said—. I can hold the channel with the mansion and send info to Selena. But for a limited time.

Kael nodded. —Let the girl sleep in peace —he murmured—. I will keep vigil.

The meeting moved to a stone room where maps were not decoration but necessity. Selena connected her equipment; she laid out routes, variants and points of possible pursuit. She was concise: there was no room for metaphors.

—We have a short window —Selena said—. Helena maintains the decoys for a few hours. We go in and out, or we try and return to operate from here. There is no margin for prolonged losses.

Kael listened with the patience of one who has dealt with thick times. —I'm not here to stop your will —he said—. But if you are going to knock on the door of evil, do so with the certainty of what you intend to preserve. Destroy whatever is necessary, but preserve what you want to prevent from dying.

It was, in his voice, a lesson: war that does not nourish something is not war, it is an earthquake. Sebastián responded with the sharp serenity his muscles dictated:

—We are not here for spectacle. We come so they won't use bodies as pieces again.

There was no drama in the room. The war they projected was not a heroic act for the chronicle: it was a decision bearing the name of a sleeping girl. It was then that Selena pointed with her finger to a spot on the map: a logistical depot that Helena had detected in the collection of residual signals. It was not large, but it was the stone where parts were built: assemblies, energy nodes, component storage. A logistical wound.

—If we break this —Selena said—, we cut their chain. If we destroy the core, they have to rebuild it elsewhere.

Kael asked about the human nature of the place. —I'm not looking for excuses —he said—. Will there be civilians there?

—Operators; some forced, others volunteers —Selena replied—. But the main machinery is there.

The plan took shape with precision: nocturnal reconnaissance, insertion of the technical team to destroy the core, and withdrawal along routes guided by Narka and Kael's men. Virka and Sebastián would be the first team; Selena and two technicians would cover communications and the retreat; Helena and Kael would remain at the Dojo as the link point and custody. Kael offered two veterans who knew the mountain as silent guides.

In the Dojo, Virka sat on the stone, her back against the cold wall, and ran through the sequence like someone memorizing a choreography that cannot fail. Sebastián remained at her side in silence; when he spoke, his voice was a metal being sharpened.

—If we strike and do not make it irreparable, they will have taught us to clean their wounds —he said—. What we do must prevent rapid reconstruction.

Virka nodded with cutting calm: —Then what we break must be impossible to assemble in a short time —she replied—. We do not assail for pleasure; we assail to create a prison of impossibilities.

Kael, who watched the rain break against the stone, intervened: —What is broken can be rebuilt, but what is uprooted takes generations to return. You have something that is not mere rage: you have a purpose. Use it with precision.

Helena finished adjusting the detonators and the protocols. The charges were not vulgarly explosive: they were designed to degrade cores and make the power supply lines irreparable without large-scale industrial reconstruction. Selena explained the timing: insertion, damage interval, withdrawal. There was no room for grandiloquent improvisations.

Dawn compressed until it became a blade. The two veterans set off first in search of the path Narka had indicated: shortcuts that avoided sentries and patrol routes. They returned with thumbs down: the perimeter was tense, but without immediate traps. That was enough. Helena's window was beginning to close. The hour had come.

The assault was a succession of held breaths and measured movements. Sebastián and Virka descended from the shadow like two figures accustomed to the edge: tiny steps, precise maneuvers. There was no heroic poetry in their advance; there was technique, economy of motion. A perimeter was neutralized with a brief combination of shove and lock. A guard fell without cries, as if the cords of his life had been cut with the precision of a cut that never intended to startle.

Upon entering the central hangar, the sight was worse than any rumor: shelves with assembled parts, energy racks, and remnants of bodies tied to structures that turned them into conductors. The machinery did its work with the cruelty of efficiency. Selena's technical team worked with steady hands and dry eyes: they placed the charges in the flow chambers, in the power cores, where the damage would be more lethal to the structure than to the men lost in its functioning. No one celebrated. No one shouted. The detonation was a dry chord that kissed the night and opened a wound.

The wave that followed was not a movie scene: it was a practical cut. The power lines split with a metallic groan; the core suffered an internal rupture and the facility began to burn like a beast devouring its entrails. The withdrawal was a learned choreography, covered by the action of Kael and his men who protected the flank. Narka marked the return path: a fold in the rock that avoided sightlines and posts. As they moved away, they looked back. The depot burned like a heart that had broken in public.

At the Dojo, Helena shut down the main link when the withdrawal signal arrived. Kael remained on the threshold, watching the tongue of fire lick the distance. Valentina had not moved: her sleep remained intact, as if the night had decided to respect it. Kael approached Virka and, with a voice that was not sermon but father's flesh, said:

—We have done it. But now the question is always the same: what do we do with what remains?

—We continue —replied Virka—. If we do not, they will raise another factory.

Dawn was not triumph; it was a pause that smelled of ash. The rain had ceased and, in the landscape, the mansion still breathed beneath its wound. The war was no longer a rumor: it was a direction with names and routes. In the Dojo, the girl continued sleeping, protected. On the skin of those who had acted remained the indelible mark of what they had done and what would come. The decision, once made, continues its relentless march.

Dawn arrived like a wounded mirage, and the mountain breathed with a deep, wet, ancient sound. The sky still held shreds of the storm, and the light, instead of cleansing, revealed the rot that the fire had left in the distance. Sebastián walked ahead, his clothes marked by the shadows of the previous fight. His skin, hardened by the air and memory, seemed made of a substance that no longer belonged to the human world. Beside him, Virka advanced without altering her pulse: each step she took sank into the earth like an oath. Between them, the air vibrated with a density that admitted no words. There were no speeches to justify what they were about to do. Only necessity. Only the debt.

Narka guided them with the calm of an ancient condemned. His reduced form rested on Sebastián's shoulder, but his voice resonated with mineral gravity inside both their chests. "Further ahead," he said, "the ground breaks in three directions; the central one takes you straight to the heart of the factory." His tone contained no emotion: only the certainty of one who has seen too many ruins. Sebastián nodded in silence. Through the communication link, Selena's voice reached them with precision: —Channel open. No visible movements on the tactical net. You have twelve minutes before the interference pattern recalibrates. Use that window.

In the Dojo, the screens showed images of heat and energy. Helena adjusted the filters, Kael watched with the contained serenity of a master who understands war from its root, and Valentina, in the adjoining room, continued to sleep, wrapped by the faint pulse of a protective field that Helena had reinforced before dawn. The entire Dojo was a contained breath, a sanctuary suspended amid the roar of the world.

Virka and Sebastián entered a valley that smelled of metal and fatigue. As they advanced, signs of the Smiths' activity grew sharper: transport lines hidden underground, observation towers with energy lenses, traces of dried blood on thresholds. The enemy had raised a realm of production and punishment. The objective, this time, was not a depot: it was a living factory. Hundreds of meters of corridors where flesh and iron blurred, where the sound of the hammer was also the heartbeat of the inhuman.

The access was not difficult; the Smiths' arrogance had made them trust in others' fear. Sebastián lifted a steel plate and bent it with a wrist movement. The metal creaked as if an ancient bone were breaking. On the other side, a guard barely had time to inhale. Virka moved, her arm drew a brief arc, and her hand pierced the man's throat with a soft sound. There was no scream. Only a warm flow that stained the floor and a look that did not have time to understand that it was no longer alive.

They entered. And the world closed behind them.

The corridors were narrow, saturated with steam and red light. The walls vibrated with the pulse of energy, and every so often a human lament could be heard, lost among the cables. The bodies, half fused with the machines, were conductors of current: men and women reduced to biological circuits. Virka stopped for a second before one of them. The creature had eyes that still moved, a mouth that seemed to pray without sound. Sebastián looked at it and understood that mercy was no longer an option. His fist fell, and the skull dissolved against the panel. The ensuing silence was so dense that it seemed to absorb the light.

Selena spoke from the Dojo, her voice trembling from interference. —They are inside the central corridor. I detect movements on the lower levels. If the sensors are correct, there are more than forty active units.

—It doesn't matter —Sebastián replied—. We're going to clear this place.

Narka emitted a deep sound, closer to a groan of earth. "Let there be nothing left that breathes," he said. And the earth obeyed.

The first wave arrived without warning. Mechanical guards, bodies plated with alloys, eyes without pupils. Virka leapt. Her leg cut the air, and the energy accumulated in her body detonated with a sharp whistle. The first fell without a face. Sebastián followed, striking with the brutality of a catastrophe. His fist tore through a guard's chest; the impact produced a wet, broken sound, like a fruit bursting. Another tried to fire, but Virka reached him before the trigger responded: she split him in two, the torso on one side, the legs on the other, the body still moving as if it would not accept its death.

Blood painted the walls. It was not a battle: it was a ritual slaughter.

In the Dojo, Kael listened to the transmissions without blinking. He knew that every word he heard was a loss of return. Helena, beside him, kept her gaze on the panels, adjusting signals, prolonging interferences. Valentina turned in her sleep, breathing with an innocence that no longer belonged to anyone else.

In the field, Sebastián and Virka advanced like two predators who had remembered what they were made of. Their bodies moved with animal precision; there was no error nor excess, only purpose. Sebastián hurled an enemy against a containment column; the structure split, releasing sparks that ignited the puddles of oil and blood. Virka, with a dry motion, tore off a guard's head and threw it against another, who fell before understanding what had struck him. Narka roared, and his form expanded partially, covering the entrance. The plates of his body shone like fragments of a living mountain. Each step he took produced a tremor that disassembled the foundations of the place.

The air filled with the smell of burned flesh and melted metal. Sirens began to scream. Selena, on the link, sent the coordinates of the core. —Fifty meters east, second chamber —she said with a voice of steel—. Destroy the power center.

Virka did not respond. She moved. Each step was a word written in the language of the end. Sebastián followed her, dragging behind him the echo of those he had eliminated. When they reached the chamber, what they saw was not a machine, but an altar: a mechanical heart beating with the energy of bodies connected by cables, mouths open in a scream that could no longer be heard. Virka stopped. For an instant, humanity wanted to awaken. But it was Sebastián who silenced it.

—There is no forgiveness here —he said—. Only debt.

The strike fell. Their hands sank into the core, tearing out cables, shattering structures, breaking what kept the beast alive. The glare was white, as if the sun had been born underground. The roar that followed was not sound: it was a fracture in the soul of the factory. The walls opened, the columns split, and the heat became an animal that devoured everything.

Selena screamed through the transmission: —Get out, now! —The interference almost erased her voice. Kael took a step toward the panel, but did not intervene. He knew that if he called them now, they would hesitate. And in war, hesitation is death.

The exit was a corridor of fire. Sebastián carried Virka when a beam fell over them; she shook off the dust and kept running, her black hair burning at the ends. Behind them, Narka returned to his full form and pushed the debris aside to open a path. His roar drowned out the screams of those who still remained inside. Then, the ground gave way. And everything sank.

From the distance, the explosion was a new dawn. A flower of fire devouring the horizon.

The Dojo trembled when the shockwave arrived. The lights flickered. Valentina did not awaken; the protective field absorbed the vibration. Helena lifted her gaze toward Kael.

—Finished —she said.

Kael closed his eyes for an instant and murmured a prayer without gods.

When the link stabilized again, Selena's voice broke through the static.

—Confirming… operation complete. Nothing remains.

At the edge of dawn, Virka and Sebastián emerged among the remnants of the forest. They were covered in blood and dust, breathing like beasts still undecided whether they were alive. Behind them, the factory burned. The wind blew ash over their skin, and the rain, timidly returning, began to cleanse the traces without erasing the story.

Narka moved beside them, immense, his golden eyes fixed on the horizon. —The cycle is not over —he said.

Sebastián nodded, his voice carved from stone: —No. But they have begun to understand what it means to awaken something they can no longer put back to sleep.

The mountain fell silent again. The dawn, instead of bringing peace, rose like a mirror reflecting the truth: two shadows walking among corpses, a child sleeping far away, and a master watching the price of what is necessary.

The morning was a warm wound upon the earth. The rain had left puddles where blackened fragments of metal and ash floated, and the air, still heavy with the scent of battle, moved slowly. Sebastián walked at the front, his skin splattered with the blood of others that the sunlight turned into shadows. His body still responded, though every muscle held the memory of recent violence. On his shoulder, Narka, reduced, watched the horizon with his golden eyes, attentive to every pulse of the surroundings.

Virka walked beside him, her clothes clinging to her skin from the humidity, strands of hair falling over her face, her gaze fixed on the mountains where Kael's Dojo was hidden. Nature seemed to recognize them, opening a path with the gravity of respect—or fear. They did not speak. Only the sound of mud beneath their steps broke the silence. The forest stretching before them did not hold the purity of dawn, but the sobriety of morning: a gathering of ancient trees, damp soil, stones that kept the echo of old rains.

The path descended between hills. The sun, still low, filtered through the branches like an eye watching them. Narka kept his attention fixed. —The ground is trembling —he murmured—, but it is not the earth. It is something moving beneath it. Sebastián stopped. It was not a spiritual sense; it was instinct. His chest tightened, his breathing changed rhythm. Virka tilted her head, studying the air with a dry gesture. The birds fell silent. Even the wind stopped touching the leaves.

The impact came without warning. A beam of energy tore through the air with a metallic roar, exploding a few meters from the trio. The blast hurled soil, rocks, and roots into the air; the ground opened in a smoking crater that still vibrated from the shockwave. Sebastián reacted before thought could reach him: he grabbed Virka by the arm and dragged her to the flank while Narka leapt to the ground and expanded a minimal containment field. The heat passed over them like a tongue that burns without touching.

The smoke cleared, leaving behind the tense silence that comes before the second strike. Sebastián looked toward the crater: the molten earth, the edges of stone fused into a perfect circle. It wasn't a bomb. It was pure technology. Narka returned to his shoulder, his eyes brighter. —Energy rocket launchers —he said in a grave voice—. They compress plasma in a sealed chamber. Not human. They're theirs.

From among the trees emerged five figures. The metal of their suits gleamed in a dark gray tone, without ornament. Articulated exoskeletons, blue visor strips for eyes, their movements silent and synchronized. The Smiths' "advanced" units. Each carried a weapon integrated into the arm: cylindrical tubes connected to an energy pack on the back, symbols carved into the surface, flow lines flickering with every charge.

Virka stepped forward, her eyes alight with that dangerous calm. —Five —she whispered. Sebastián nodded, exhaling slowly. The distance was short, but enough to know there was no margin for error. The enemies spread into a semicircular formation, their movements as precise as an ancient mechanism. They did not speak. Only the hum of their weapons filled the forest.

The next shot cut through the air. Sebastián propelled himself forward, his body in pure tension; the beam struck where he had been a second before and opened another crater. The forest ignited. Virka answered with animal speed, rolling over the ground and dodging a burst that shattered a thick trunk. Splinters and burning leaves flew through the air. Narka, without increasing his size, emitted a deep roar that shook the ground; the sound waves partially disrupted the enemies' sensory systems, forcing one of them to stagger back.

The air filled with the smell of ozone. The Smiths' weapons unleashed bursts of pure energy, tracing incandescent lines that sliced through branches and stone. Sebastián moved as if his body remembered each motion before performing it: he dodged, rolled, struck the ground with his heel, lifting fragments of dirt to cover his movement. Virka matched him, the two of them reflections of brutal precision. Technology against flesh.

One enemy drew too close. Virka spun on herself and intercepted him with her forearm; the force of the collision shattered the structure of his mechanical shoulder. A blue spark filled the air. She finished him with a sharp strike to the neck: the metal gave way, and the body fell with a heavy sound, half flesh, half iron. Sebastián saw it without pausing. The next shot passed so close it scorched his side, leaving a line of burn. He pivoted, grabbed a rock with his hand, and threw it with such force that it pierced the attacker's helmet. The body collapsed lifeless, the visor still flickering.

Narka extended a small claw; from it emanated a faint vibration, an invisible wave that disturbed the aim of the three remaining foes. The energy from their weapons veered off and struck the ground to the side, lifting more dust and heat. Sebastián and Virka seized the moment. She moved like a blade, her body tracing a precise line between two adversaries; one fell with his torso split open, the other with his leg shattered. Sebastián charged the last one: one strike, two, and the helmet caved in against the jaw until it broke.

The forest fell still again. Only the residual hum of fallen weapons and the smell of hot metal remained. Narka turned toward the bodies and spoke in a deep voice: —These are not scouts. They were sent to secure the route. They were waiting for us.

Sebastián looked north. In the distance, the line of trees rose like a natural wall, behind which the Dojo lay hidden. —It doesn't matter —he said—. If they knew we were coming, let them also know we made it out alive.

Virka wiped the blood from her neck with her hand and looked again at the crater. —Better that they believe they can stop us —she whispered—. Then they'll understand the mistake they made when they tried.

Selena's voice came through the communicator, broken by interference. —We've detected you on the radars. The discharge signal was strong, but we've got you covered now. No further movements to the east. Proceed to the marked point. Kael is waiting.

Narka returned to his place on Sebastián's shoulder, his deep gaze holding not relief but analysis. —The enemy is evolving fast —he said—. This morning was not an attempt. It was a warning.

Sebastián set off without replying. Virka followed. Behind them, the forest smelled of iron and smoke. The morning went on as if nothing had happened, but every leaf, every shadow, every step carried the echo of the confrontation. On the horizon, Kael's Dojo waited unseen, cloaked by the mountain.

The path was no longer a return. It was a continuation of war. And as the sun rose over the forest, the earth understood that the worst had not yet begun.

Silence had a shape: an invisible dome breathing above the bed. The air within the protective field was warm, constant, without wind. Valentina opened her eyes slowly, with that blink that separates dream from reality. For an instant, she did not understand where she was. The blanket covered her thin arms, and the scent of the fabric was clean, unlike the dampness she remembered from other days. The ceiling, the soft lights, the pale wood framing the room —none of it was familiar.

She turned her head. At the edge of her vision, she saw golden lines floating in the air: the outline of the protective field that isolated her from the rest of the world. She touched it. A faint vibration ran across her hand, as if the air itself answered her. She withdrew her fingers in surprise. Her heart beat fast. There was no noise, no voices, no footsteps, not even the deep sound of Narka breathing nearby. Sebastián was not there. Nor was Virka.

Silence, instead of calming her, returned an echo. It was not from that place, but from another time. Memory, treacherous, opened its door. The room vanished for a second, and the world filled with the acrid smell of alcohol and cigarettes; the sound of shattering glass, the screams that filled the corners of the place where she had grown up. That darkness, where even the air hurt, returned without warning. For a moment, Valentina believed that everything she had lived with them —Virka's warmth as she covered her, Sebastián's voice giving her food, Narka's stories— had been a dream.

Her throat closed. The words came out broken:

—Dad?... Mom?... Uncle Narka?...

Nothing.

The protective field kept shining, indifferent. She called again, a little louder. Her voice echoed inside the dome like a drop falling into a well. She tried to stand, but her bare feet met the invisible boundary. She struck it with her palm. Nothing changed. Another strike. The vibration intensified, returning to her the feeling of confinement. It was not the present that terrified her—it was the idea of having gone back, of being once again in a place where no one would come to open the door.

—Please… —she whispered, barely a sound.

The tears began to form, not as an outburst, but as an overflow. One drop fell onto the blanket, another slid down her neck. Her shoulders began to shake. She wept without crying, her breath broken, with that expression fear takes when it does not yet know if it is real or a memory. She was about to sink again into that darkness.

Then, the door opened.

A figure crossed the threshold with a serene step. Helena. The light from the hallway drew the outline of her gray robe, and her face, always so firm, seemed to soften for an instant upon seeing her. She said nothing. She simply walked to the edge of the field and extended a hand. A precise gesture unsealed it. The air changed its sound: the field vanished like a sigh.

—Easy now, little one… —said Helena, with a voice that seemed made of stone and comfort at once—. It's all right. Forgive me for taking so long to come for you.

Valentina looked at her with reddened eyes, not daring to speak. Helena leaned down, ran a hand through her hair, and wiped her tears with her thumb. Then she offered her hand. The girl hesitated only a second before taking it. Her skin was cold, but the contact was enough to restore a small fragment of certainty.

—Come —said Helena.

They left the room. The Dojo's corridor was lit by the light that filtered through the gaps in the tiles. Outside, the sounds of the forest shaped its own breathing: leaves stirred by the wind, water falling in the distance. The wood beneath their feet creaked as if it recognized every step. Valentina looked around attentively, her gaze still blurred by tears.

—Where are we? —she asked in a low voice.

—In a safe place —Helena replied, without stopping.

The path opened into the main hall. The torches along the wall cast a warm light over the stone. Kael Ardom stood there, watching the fire in the central brazier. His figure was steady, and his white robe, barely marked by the damp, seemed to carry a gravity the air itself respected. When Helena and the girl entered, he lifted his gaze.

For a moment, no one spoke. The silence of the Dojo became so dense that the crackling of the fire sounded like a language. Valentina, still holding Helena's hand, looked at the man who watched her. Her heart beat faster. In her mind, the figures of those she loved still floated: Sebastián, Virka, Narka.

It was she who broke the silence.

—Where are my mom, my dad, and Uncle Narka? —she asked, her voice trembling, but with an innocence so pure it seemed to fill the room.

Helena knelt until she was at her height. She looked at her with an expression that mixed weariness and tenderness.

—They're taking care of something, little one. They'll be back soon.

Valentina watched her for a few seconds and nodded. She did not insist. Her trust was a bridge that needed no explanations.

Kael approached slowly. His shadow stretched across the stone. He stopped in front of them and spoke in a deep, calm tone that did not seek to impose itself, only to affirm a direction.

—Helena, check the state of the process. Make sure everything remains stable.

Helena nodded and gave Valentina one last gentle touch before walking away. Her footsteps faded into the corridor. Outside, the sound of Selena's instruments vibrated in the distance: the monitors, the electric hum of the vehicle, the echo of technology mingling with the murmur of the forest.

Kael remained silent. He sat on one of the stone benches and, with a slight gesture, motioned for the girl to come closer. Valentina hesitated, then took a few steps, with the timidity of one unsure if she is welcome. The fire reflected two distinct tones in her eyes: warm brown and pale blue. Kael observed her in silence, without judgment.

—Do not be afraid —he said at last—. This place is older than any fear.

The girl nodded, and for an instant, she seemed to understand that those words were not comfort, but truth. She sat on the floor near the fire. Her small hands played with the edge of the blanket.

The Dojo breathed. Outside, the forest kept moving, unaware of the war. Inside, silence had a different weight. Kael watched the girl calmly, recognizing in her not only the fragility of the world but the reason why his kind continued to fight.

The fire crackled. Valentina lifted her gaze toward the flame, and in its reflection there was something new: not only fear, but memory. She remembered the darkness from before, but also the hands that had pulled her from it. In that instant, she understood—though she could not explain it—that fear never disappears; it only changes form when someone promises to return.

Kael volvió sus ojos hacia la puerta, donde la luz del día había comenzado a inclinarse. Sus pensamientos eran antiguos, sus silencios aún mayores. Pero en el corazón del Dojo, en esa quietud que parecía el comienzo de algo, el hombre entendió que la guerra exterior y el niño ante el fuego eran parte de la misma promesa: soportar sin perder lo que aún podría llamarse vida.

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