False alarm...?

"Brother... I'm scared," Saida whispered in a trembling voice, clinging tightly to Jota's arm.

"Don't worry, that's normal. It always happens when the sun goes down," said Ela with a barely perceptible smile, but her eyes revealed a spark of unease. She placed a firm hand on Saida's shoulder, trying to calm her down.

"Come on, let's go," she added, gently pulling Saida's hand as the three of them ran along the path surrounded by vegetation. They walked in single file, holding hands, quickening their pace as anxiety grew in their chests.

"So... it's not because of the Devo...?" Saida didn't get to finish, and Ela interrupted her with a firm, almost urgent tone.

"No. My dad says these warnings always sound to prevent a possible attack by those beasts," Ela replied, forcing a smile as her gaze fixed on the shadow that was beginning to spread among the trees.

At that moment, the two girls were smiling. Saida already felt calmer after hearing the words of her new friend. However, it was not the same for Jota. His eyes were wide open, sweat poured from his forehead like an incessant spring, and his lips moved slightly, murmuring something only he could hear.

"I... I saw it..." he whispered, his voice breaking. He had turned his gaze towards the forest a few moments earlier, and in the shadows, he saw it: a burning fire, dark red, almost black, as if hatred itself had taken shape.

Jota Morel had an ability he did not fully understand, a gift that no one else knew about: he could see through people. Not their flesh or bones, but something deeper. Their soul.

When someone harboured kindness, compassion or tenderness, Jota saw a green flame burning softly in their chest. Not all of them shone equally; some were barely a flicker in the darkness, others more intense, vibrant like hope in difficult times. It was his way of understanding the world. Of distinguishing what was worth protecting.

But when the flame was violet...

That colour meant something else. Evil. Resentment. Corrupt intentions. And like green, it also had nuances. Some were ashes that refused to go out, others roared like internal storms, silently screaming everything that words could not say.

This caused his body to go on high alert. Sweat poured relentlessly from his forehead, sliding down his temples and falling to the ground like drops of unease.

His breathing became irregular.

But then something snapped him out of his trance: a firm tug on his hand. Saida and Ela were pulling him to keep running, not understanding what he had just witnessed. The warmth of their fingers contrasted with the cold that was beginning to creep up his back.

His face reflected confusion... and fear.

An expression that even he did not fully understand.

He turned once more towards the forest, looking for the sinister glow he had seen seconds before.

But there was nothing.

Only branches, shadows and the whisper of the wind in the trees.

It was as if that dark fire had never existed. As if his mind, under pressure from the tension of the moment, had conjured up horror where there was only silence.

"Children, you're here. I was worried for a moment."

Grandmother Rose's voice sounded relieved when she saw the three children appear among the trees. Next to her, Grandfather Edeh nodded calmly.

"It's good that you arrived before it got completely dark," added Adelise, smiling as she saw her children holding hands with Ela.

"Yes, you can tell they had a good time."

Edras commented kindly as he bent down a little to look at Saida.

"Who won the race?"

"Ela! She runs so fast!" Saida shouted between laughs, still breathing heavily.

"Maybe she eats too many magic flowers,"

joked Noam, Ela's father, carrying a basket of cloths and fruit. "Well, we're off to our cabin now. It was nice spending time with you."

Sira, Ela's mother, approached the children and stroked her daughter's hair.

"Ela, come on, it's time to rest. Tomorrow there will be more time for adventures."

"Tomorrow we'll play!" Ela shouted enthusiastically as she ran towards her father. She raised her flower to the sky like a flag, smiling broadly.

"Yes!" replied Saida, raising her hand and jumping a little. Jota, beside her, barely moved.

"Take care, kids," said Sira as she looked affectionately at the two siblings.

"Thank you for looking after Ela, okay?"

"We always will," replied Saida, with a soft, childlike smile.

"See you early tomorrow," added Edras, raising his hand slightly in farewell.

Ela's family walked away laughing, their footsteps crunching on the damp earth. The murmurs faded until only the wind rustling the leaves remained. They went into their cabin next to the farm.

It was then that Adelise noticed something.

"Jota... are you okay?"

The boy did not respond. His body remained still, tense. His face did not show the same joy as his sister's. His gaze did not follow Ela and her family like everyone else's.

He stared at the forest. As if waiting for something to come out of it.

Edras narrowed his eyes, curious.

"Son..."

Jota swallowed hard. The sweat on his forehead still trickled silently. What he had seen... that dark red fire... was it real?

His mind searched for explanations, but something in his chest kept beating hard. As if the forest had not only looked at him... but recognised him.

Adelise's heart sank when she saw her son's face. That expression... that raw, real fear. She hadn't seen him like that since he was very young, when he would wake up trembling from dreams he couldn't explain.

Without thinking, she knelt in front of him and hugged him tenderly, holding him tightly against her chest. Her arms were a warm wall, a silent promise of protection.

"Son... Mummy's here... everything will be all right," she whispered softly, so that only he could hear her. "Tell me... did you see anything in the woods?"

Jota didn't answer straight away. Feeling his mother so close, so real, his breathing calmed for a moment. The touch of her clothes, the familiar smell of damp earth and dried flowers, reminded him that he was safe.

But as soon as he heard the question, his body tensed again.

"I don't know..." he whispered, almost without a voice. His throat tightened. His eyes, previously wide with amazement, were now filled with tears.

The first ones rolled down his cheeks silently, falling like drops of doubt.

Edras approached slowly, leaving behind the cheerful atmosphere of minutes before. He crouched down next to his wife and son, placing a firm hand on Jota's shoulder. His gaze became serious, filled with a concern he rarely showed in front of his children.

"Calm down, Jota. We're with you," he said in a calm voice, trying to instil calm, even though his eyes sought invisible answers in his son's expression.

The grandparents, Rose and Edeh, remained standing. The grandmother put a hand to her chest, uneasy, looking at her grandson with tenderness, but also with that seriousness that only elders understand. The grandfather nodded once, silently. His gaze turned to the forest, wordless, with that quiet vigilance cultivated by years of experience.

Saida, who had remained a few steps behind, watched silently. It hurt her to see Jota like this. He, who always knew what to say. He, who turned every day into an adventure, who named the clouds and said that the trees spoke when no one was listening.

She couldn't bear to see him so subdued.

Without thinking, she ran towards him. She threw herself into his arms and buried her face in his chest.

"Don't be sad, Jota..." she said in a small, muffled voice. "We're here. I'm with you... Mum, Dad... everyone."

Jota said nothing. But that hug, that warmth, that presence... made him close his eyes for a moment.

And for the first time since he saw that dark fire in the distance... he breathed.

The wind blew again, carrying the scent of dry leaves and the countryside at dusk. The farm, bathed in the dim light of twilight, seemed to return to its rhythm, as if time had stopped for a few seconds to hold that moment.

The threat had passed.

At least, for now.

Hours later, night had completely covered the sky over Pondcross. The stars, shining timidly between passing clouds, cast their light on the cottages surrounding Morel Farm. One of them, made of thick dark wood logs, welcomed the family inside as a warm and quiet refuge.

On the first floor of the cabin, the first thing you noticed upon entering was the smell: a comforting mixture of dry wood, root infusion and warm ash.

To the left of the entrance, a modest kitchen occupied a corner, with a stone countertop, wooden shelves filled with hanging herbs, and copper utensils that glistened in the light of the fire. A small pot was still bubbling on an iron brazier, emitting steam that perfumed the air with the scent of yanca leaves and dried jurel flowers.

Next to the kitchen, in the centre of the room, sat the adults. A set of wooden chairs, all different, some with floral carvings, others plain and aged by time, formed a circle around a lit stone fireplace.

The fire crackled quietly, casting warm shadows on the log walls. A low oak table creaked softly under the weight of steaming clay cups, some still half full.

Adelise, Edras, Rose and Edeh shared that space, speaking in low voices, their expressions tense and their gazes sometimes lost in the flames.

At the side of the room, next to a rustic coat rack filled with wool coats, stood a wooden staircase leading to the second floor. Its steps were somewhat worn, and when stepped on, they protested with soft but firm creaks.

The second floor was an open, spacious area covered by a sloping roof supported by thick wooden beams. It was a place for rest, simple but functional.

There were four beds distributed around the sides, all made with log frames and covered with heavy hand-woven blankets. Two of them were empty, still stretched out and smelling of recent washing. The other two were occupied by the children.

Jota slept in one of them, although his face seemed more restless than serene. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, and he moved from time to time as if his sleep did not offer him peace. The blanket rose and fell to the rhythm of his irregular breathing.

A few metres away from him, in the other bed, Ela slept soundly. Her face was relaxed and her body was wrapped in thick reddish blankets. She was hugging a rag doll with a broad torso, a cape sewn onto its back and a symbol embroidered on its chest: it was a figure representing one of the most famous heroes in Frontier's recent history.

The doll was somewhat worn, with a loose seam on one leg and its colour faded by time, but its embroidered eyes still reflected courage. It was clear that Ela cared for it fondly, as if that little cloth hero could protect her even while she slept.

The silence on the second floor contrasted with the murmurs on the first, where the adults were still chatting between sips of tea, surrounded by the soft glow of the fire. The whole cabin, though modest and aged, exuded a quiet warmth that barely concealed the tension in the air.

The conversation, at times calm, kept returning to the same point.

"He didn't say it was an animal or a shadow," Adelise murmured, frowning. "He said it was fire. A dark fire. That's not something a child makes up just like that."

"And especially not Jota," Edras interjected, crossing his arms. "He's not the type to imagine things to scare himself. If he said it, it's because he saw something real."

Rose shifted in her seat, thoughtful. "What if it was just the alarm? The sound, the tension... it may have affected him more than we think."

"I don't think so," replied Adelise, lowering her gaze. "He stared at the forest long after it was over. He didn't even blink. It wasn't normal fear. It was as if... he recognised it."

There was a brief silence. A heavy silence.

Edeh, who until then had only listened quietly, slowly looked up. His voice was grave, without drama, but heavy with meaning.

"Maybe what he saw was really there."

Everyone looked at him.

"Are you saying it was one of them?" asked Edras, instinctively lowering his voice, even though the children were already asleep.

Edeh didn't respond immediately. He took a sip from his cup, as if taking time to choose his words carefully.

"If it were... the Frontier Shield would have detected it," he said at last. "When a Devourer crosses a Red Zone, the alerts go off instantly. They can't pass without leaving a trace."

"Then why did Jota see that?" Rose insisted, frowning.

Edeh slowly set the cup down on the table. "I don't know. It may have been an echo... a remnant of something that's no longer there. Or maybe it was something more personal. Something only he could perceive."

"Whatever it was," said Adelise, clenching her hands on her legs, "I don't want it to happen again. Not like that, not with that terror on his face."

Edeh slowly straightened up. There was something different about his posture, a tension that was not new, but which he had rarely shown so clearly.

"If it was a Devourer..." he said gravely, his voice like stone. "I will crush it myself."

He struck his chest with his clenched fist.

A tattoo in the shape of a black whirlpool appeared from the base of his neck, spreading like a vortex across his torso. It was not ink. It was a living mark, which seemed to awaken rather than emerge.

Green lines lit up inside it, snaked up his arm, and concentrated their glow on his clenched fist.

Then the air trembled.

A wave of wind spread out from him, pushing papers, creaking wood, extinguishing the oil lamp for a second.

The silence that followed was almost reverential.

Edras broke the tension with a half-smile, though his eyes remained fixed on the slowly fading swirl.

"Wow... it seems you haven't weakened yet. I still can't imagine how you didn't become a hero."

Edeh let out a short exhalation, without looking at anyone in particular.

"It's because the competition to become a hero is very high," he said, almost as if repeating something he had been told many times. "And not only that... you have to have talent to be in that world."

Adelise looked at him for a moment, but said nothing.

Rose simply traced circles with her finger on the surface of her cup.

Only the wind, still creeping through the cracks, seemed to respond. As if even the house had recognised that Edeh was not just a father, or a farmer.

And that, perhaps, he had never been entirely either.

Meanwhile, the day on the farm had come to an end. The sky was melting into shades of red and purple that blended with the thick mist that was beginning to rise from the forest. The air smelled of wet earth and old metal. The workers returned slowly from the fields, as if they were dragging something more than their exhausted bodies: an uneasiness they could not name.

A woman with her braids tied back—Mara, a widow for two winters—arranged the buckets by the well, glancing towards the boundary. The water reflected a sky that looked wounded.

Beyond, Julián, a man with thick arms and a back bent from years of farming, tied up the cattle with mechanical movements. He muttered under his breath, as if talking to himself or praying. The wind blew out the torch hanging from the corral, and for a moment, he stood still, watching the flame die.

A young man ran across the field. It was Tamo, the blacksmith's son from the market, his face tense and his breath heavy. Dirt covered his boots and leaves stuck to the back of his shirt.

"I saw something strange on the north side," he said, removing his hat with a brusque gesture, as if by doing so he could also rid himself of what he had seen.

"How strange?" asked Julian, leaning his hoe against the shed with deliberate slowness.

"Footprints. Lots of them. They weren't from deer or wild boars. They were... mixed. As if all the animals in the forest had run off at the same time in one direction. The ground was churned up."

No one answered immediately. The crackling of the fire and the sound of a canvas flapping were the only noises. Mara crossed her arms, her brow furrowed.

"And the dogs? Nothing?"

Tamo shook his head, looking at the ground. "That's the worst part. They didn't bark. Not one. From the moment I left the corral until I passed the chicken coop, total silence. As if... as if they weren't there."

"That's not normal," Julian murmured. "They always bark when they sense something. Even a loose chicken makes them howl."

"Today everything was quiet."

A breeze swept across the field and the torches flickered as if unsure of themselves. The workers' eyes turned towards the forest, that threshold of shadows where the logic of the day did not seem to apply.

"Shall we check the perimeter tomorrow?" asked Mara.

"No," Julian replied after a brief silence. "It could just be a natural movement. There's no point in scaring everyone with noises."

"Maybe that's all it is," said Tamo, but his voice sounded as if he were trying to convince himself more than the rest.

Little by little, they began to put away their tools, close the gates, cover the carts, and secure the sheds. But no one whistled, no one joked, as they usually did at the end of a long day. The stillness was too thick, like a promise suspended in the air.

Mara, Julian, and Tamo were the only ones who decided to check the northern path, driven more by a mixture of pride and anxiety than by common sense. They advanced through the fog swirling in the crevices of the field, taking careful steps, Julian's rusty lantern casting a flickering light.

"Let's be careful. I don't like these silences," he said, adjusting the torch.

"What if it's a wild animal?" asked Tamo. "Maybe a wild dog. Or... I don't know, a small bear."

"There are no bears in this area," muttered Julián. "And no dog I've ever heard makes those noises."

The forest closed in around them. The branches hung like elongated fingers, dripping with moisture. It was as if every step they took separated them from the world they belonged to.

"Did you see that?" Tamo suddenly blurted out, stopping.

"Where?" asked Julián, raising the torch.

"Between the trees. Right there." He pointed to a spot where the fog seemed to ripple, as if the air were trembling. As if something were breathing without being seen.

The light from the torch swept over the spot. Nothing. But the silence became more... attentive.

"It has no shape... but there's something there," Mara whispered.

"Whatever it is, I don't like it. This isn't normal," said Tamo, taking a step back.

"Let's keep going a little further. We'll go around the fence. We won't go back without at least knowing what it is."

They said it to give themselves courage. But they already knew something was wrong. They knew it from the first moment, from the first step into the mist.

Soon they found the stains: dark, shiny, thick. Julian crouched down and touched the ground.

"Is this... blood?"

The drops became denser as they advanced, mixed with impossible footprints. They were neither human nor animal. Long, disproportionate claws, as if something had escaped from its own flesh to exist only in form.

"What the hell...?" Julian muttered, standing up.

"We'd better get out of here right now," Mara began to say, but her voice trailed off.

She had stumbled upon something.

A deer, still fresh. Its side opened with unnatural precision. Not torn: opened. Organs missing. Ribs bent outward, as if something had exploded from within. Around it, other bodies: a fox without eyes. A dog with a twisted jaw. A decapitated bird, its wings still trembling, without air.

The silence grew tense. And then it came.

A buzzing sound.

It wasn't sound, not entirely. It was vibration. As if the air were complaining. As if the atmosphere had become thick, resentful, sick.

"This isn't carrion," whispered Tamo. "This... this was done on purpose. As if someone were... studying."

The torch flickered.

Once.

Twice.

And then it went out.

Darkness enveloped them, except for a distant, flickering blue glow, as if the forest were breathing light that did not belong to it.

"Don't run," said Julian, though his voice trembled.

But Tamo had already turned around.

And then they heard it.

A deep, false breath, as if imitating the act of living. As if the air itself had learned to pretend to be human.

Tamo stopped.

And he saw it.

A black silhouette among the trees. Tall. Too tall. Wide. Too wide. No definite shape. Made of floating extremities, of pulsating segments. Two blue coals opened up in the shadow. Eyes, or something that wanted to be eyes.

"Aaaaahhhh!" he screamed.

But his scream was cut off.

A flash of darkness shot out from the shadow. A sinuous appendage, black as oil.

And then, the mouth.

It opened in the creature like a bottomless wound. Full of long, curved teeth that seemed to sing with drool.

A sharp crack.

CRACK!

Tamo's head was torn off like a rotten fruit. The jet of warm blood hit Mara in the face. She screamed. Not like a person. Like an animal whose world had been torn away.

The head fell to the ground with a plop, rolled a couple of metres and came to rest with its eyes still open, a frozen expression of absolute terror.

The body, now out of control, fell to its knees, shaking for a few seconds before collapsing face down, convulsing.

The silence lasted only a few seconds.

"RUN, MARA!" Julian shouted, raising the machete with both hands.

She hesitated. She took a step back, her eyes wide, her heart racing. Then she stumbled backwards, never taking her eyes off Julián.

He charged with a roar.

"FUCK!"

The machete came down in a fierce arc.

It didn't hit anything.

The figure in front of him vanished into smoke, as if it had never been there. The air vibrated. Julián stopped dead in his tracks, spinning around, searching.

Nothing.

"Where...?" he muttered.

A buzzing sound began to grow. Low, sharp, like a bodiless swarm. Julián staggered. He dropped the machete. He put his hand to his throat and coughed.

Black.

He spat out something dark.

"Mara... does it hurt...?"

Mara didn't answer. Her legs were shaking. The buzzing was getting into her teeth, into her marrow. She watched helplessly as Julian fell to his knees, his body beginning to lean forward.

The creature reappeared.

It floated behind him, soundless, as if it had never left. Or as if it had always been there.

The shadow arched. A claw slid towards Julián's back and entered him, without tearing, without hurting.

It just entered.

Julián arched his back. His eyes flew open. For a second, he seemed to see something. To understand something.

And he fell.

Mara screamed, but her voice barely came out. A hollow, muffled sound.

The Devourer turned towards her.

It didn't walk. It didn't float. It was just there.

Mara couldn't move.

The buzzing stopped abruptly. Silence fell, dense and absolute. The air smelled of damp earth and iron.

And then, the Devourer spoke. A single word. Barely a whisper:

"Humans..."

Mara gasped. She took a step back.

"How... how are you here?" she thought, her throat tight. "The Shield... didn't sound... No one warned us... How did you get in?"

There was no answer.

"You were already inside?! Since when?!"

The Devourer did not move. He just watched her.

Mara felt a chill run through her bones. It wasn't just fear. It was the certainty that something had gone wrong. That the enemy was no longer outside.

It was inside.

She tried to move. She tried to run.

But she couldn't.

A moment later, the creature appeared in front of her. Too close.

One second.

That was all.

Mara didn't scream. She didn't have time to. Her expression froze. Her body collapsed silently, as if her soul had been extinguished first.

The Devourer leaned forward slightly, tilting its head as if observing Mara with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. It didn't seem to be in a hurry. It moved its limbs with a cold rhythm, oblivious to the panic in the girl's eyes.

"Humans... are weak," it murmured in a harsh, hollow voice, as if coming from the bottom of a forgotten pit. A voice that did not tremble, that did not hesitate.

One of his tendrils stretched out into the air, floating with macabre elegance until it brushed her cheek. Upon contact, Mara's skin bristled. The simple touch was icy, as if she were touching absence itself. A shiver ran through her.

She crawled backwards, splashing through leaves and mud, breathing heavily.

"But when they wake up... they are a..."

The tendril slowly withdrew, and the Devourer raised one of its thorny claws. It did so not with haste or fury, but as one who contemplates something interesting before destroying it. It held it high, static, savouring the anticipation.

"No! No, no, don't do it!" Mara screamed. Her voice broke. Her hands closed over her belly as if that could protect what little she had left. As if that were enough.

"Problem."

Then the claw descended.

The blow was direct, sharp. It pierced her without hesitation, as if her flesh were nothing but mist. From side to side, cleanly. Mara's body arched violently. Blood spurted out, thick and dark, splattering the ground. She was left suspended, impaled, trembling.

"Aaaaahhh...!" she screamed, though her voice was now little more than a gurgling wheeze.

"Silence."

The Devourer's arm swung with a terrible crack. Broken bones, torn flesh. Mara's body split in two, as if it no longer had a soul to hold it together. The halves fell to the ground, soft, unrecognisable.

And finally, the forest fell silent again.

The Devourer crouched down slightly. He sniffed the air, absorbing something invisible. As if savouring the emotion that still lingered in the air. Fear. Resistance. The last spark of humanity.

And then he laughed.

A hollow laugh, devoid of everything that had once been life. It was not mockery. It was madness. It was pleasure.

"HA... HAHAHA... HAHAHAHAHA..."

It sounded like rusty iron crunching in the throat of an abyss. Joyless. Soulless.

As if what he had just done was not a crime, but an inevitable act. A necessity.

The halves of Mara's body lay lifeless, unrecognisable, bathed in the flickering light of the moon that he barely dared to look at.

Silence returned.

Not as relief.

But as an open wound that would not stop bleeding.

The Devourer slowly rose, warm remains still dripping from his tendrils.

His empty eyes turned towards the sky.

Not towards the stars, but towards the Shield.

As if challenging it.

Or worse... as if he knew something that humans did not.

And then, he disappeared into the shadows of the forest, leaving behind the echo of laughter that would continue to reverberate long after the blood had dried.