Chapter 1: Goblins Gang

Rapha's bare feet ran through the sand of the wide dirt road, dust rising with each step. The trail was flanked by fields of golden wheat, already ripe, swaying in a warm breeze that promised more warmth than relief under the orange sky of dawn.

-Come on, Rapha. Come on. I told you it was true.

He picked up his torn sandal from the ground and continued running, barefoot, even as the ground burned.

Steam rose from the simple houses of Escadero, making the air tremble. The morning sounds of the village, men calling to cattle, women at the wells, the clanking of tools, were lost in the distance. While the two boys rushed forward, driven by the urgency of a promise.

 They passed through the central square, where the memorial to the heroes of the last war stood in old bronze, and the baron's hall, whose windows were always closed. The houses became scarce, and then they saw him.

At the final bend in the road, where the day before there had been nothing but dirt and grass, now an impossible structure appeared. It was as if a house had grown overnight, large and strange, with columns of freshly cut wood, stretched canvas, symbols and indecipherable scribbles hanging from plaques.

Rapha's eyes widened. His friend smiled. They threw themselves behind the low fence that surrounded an old forgotten yard. The grimaces and waving hands were immediate as they lowered themselves into the boiling sand.

Men came and went. They wore clothes too starched for Escadero. They carried boxes and walked in sync. They spoke little. They seemed like shadows from another world.

-See? I told you. It could be a treasure. They say the World Tree gives things that shine... — whispered his friend, his eyes fixed on the structure.

Rapha narrowed his eyes and frowned. The heat created mirages on the horizon.

- Treasures, yes... or maybe... That's where the Chimeras hide the monsters. To keep in a cave, underground — he whispered, his voice choked.

- Nonsense! — the other whispered, but his gaze did not deny his fear. — It must be the baron's flying cart factory. That's why they worked at night, hidden!

The assumptions collided in the air, mixing with the heat and dust of the morning. Suddenly, a different sound came. A footstep.

Heavy. Rhythmic.

It wasn't the sound of ordinary boots, nor of someone tired from work. It was the sound of authority, of someone who knew the ground was opening up at his feet. Rapha turned around, his stomach churning. And he saw him.

Tall. Red. Faceless.

The fabric of his uniform was the color of fresh blood. His face was hidden under a red balaclava and an immaculate white cap. A Vermillion Guard. Adults trembled before them, and children had nightmares. They said they took the disobedient away never to be seen again, that their voices were not human, that their eyes burned like embers behind their masks.

Rapha knew, by the way the air seemed to bend around the figure, that no children's story came close to the truth.

The Vermillion headed toward the strange building, his steps sinking into the sand. He stopped at the entrance. One of the men in a suit came out, the same one Rapha had seen a moment ago. They exchanged inaudible words, but the man's gestures were polite. The Vermillion nodded, seemed to nod. Nothing there made sense. Not the Chimeras. Not the flying carts. Nothing.

-See? - whispered his friend, nudging Rapha. — He came to get the key to the monsters' cave. Only the Vermillions can guard something like that...

— Or... Or he came to take a flying cart to the baron — Rapha replied, although his voice was barely a whisper. — That's why the man gave it away.

They stayed there, inventing legends to give shape to what their eyes saw, because that was what children did when the world became bigger than they could understand.

And then the impossible happened.

The Vermillion left and as he passed, the Vermillion's red and white head turned. Not quickly, not slowly, but with the precision of something that had always known they were there. And he stared at the fence.

There were no eyes. But Rapha knew he was being stared at.

Terror rose up his chest, his legs trembled. The Vermillion began to walk. Each step made the ground vibrate. The blood-soaked fabric of his uniform seemed to breathe, to pulse. He was coming straight for them.

And he stopped in front of the fence.

— Hey, munchkins. This is not a place to play. Go back home. It can be dangerous around here.

The voice was... human, gentle. Like that of a patient father. But the gentleness, there, in front of the mask, was worse than any roar.

Rafa could barely breathe.

— S-sorry, Mr. Vermillion... we just...

— Let's go! — whispered his friend, already standing up, trembling.

They didn't wait any longer. They jumped, ran away, their feet kicking up hot dust. They fled like someone fleeing from a dragon, or something worse: one that smiles behind a face that doesn't exist.

Vermillion's figure shrank behind them like a nightmare that refuses to die, the echo of his hurried footsteps still resounding when, in the central square, Escadero was in fever.

There was no longer the reverent silence before the heroes' memorial, nor the monotonous whisper of the stallholders opening their stalls with the rising of the sun. Now the air was charged. The normally restrained voices of the villagers spread like sparks in a dry haystack. There was haste in their eyes, and tension in their gestures.

Groups gathered under the shadow of the marble obelisk, at the foot of the bronze plaques bearing the forgotten names of illustrious dead. Peasants, artisans, fishermen, old men huddled in thick linen cloaks. No one spoke loudly, but everyone was talking. The word Vermillions returned like a somber refrain, interspersed with rumors, forbidden names, and theories without an owner.

-I heard it is the work of the Vermillion Order. They are planting their roots here, taking each village, one by one. - Said an old man with a rough voice, spitting on the ground as if he wanted to purge his own sentence.

A spoiled Dievai's whim, that's what it is. - Murmured a corpulent woman, her forehead creased by life under the sun. - Some protégé of the Deanery who is wanting to play hide-and-seek away from the eyes of the capital.

The Chimeras, perhaps. - whispered a young man who had barely outgrown the age of pimples. His eyes were sunken and his speech tense. - They say that not even the Vermillions can catch them all. That there are agreements... bought silences…

These words were not shouted. They were poured carefully, like poison in someone else's cup.

In the center of its building, like a symbol planted with purpose, was the sign at the entrance. Made of dark wood, it hung from the top of one of the building's improvised pillars. On it, golden letters, far too refined for that place, announced a name that no one understood...