From the balconies of the old border compound, keys hung from the ceiling like sleeping skeletons. Thousands of keys. Each one with a number, a name, or simply a date. As if in Hospedare, everyone who ever arrived left a trail behind them.
The entrance to this state was unlike any other. There was no wall… but a succession of gigantic gates across the rocky desert of Vareen. Each gate was unique: made of gold, iron, stone, solid water. All closed. All sealed since the Great Fall.
Pablo arrived at the place without ceremony or soldiers. Just him and a gray cloak, his boots covered in dust. In front of him, a plaque covered in sand:
"Here where the journey ends, home begins.
Law 7 of Hospedare, signed by Eldric I."
The complex had been one of the most visited during the monarchy's heyday. The place where refugees from the Seven Mares, from parallel dimensions, even from enemy kingdoms, came to seek asylum. Hospedare was the frontier of compassion… and also the most manipulated.
A woman was waiting for him inside the main building.
"I didn't think you'd come alone," she said, her voice calm.
"I assumed it wasn't a place to arrive with an escort," Pablo replied, scanning the hallways covered in papers and forms blowing in the wind.
The woman introduced herself as Kora Thayn, former director of Multiversal Reception. A woman of uncertain age, with silver hair and scarlet eyes. She wore a coat with the crest of the old Republic... crossed out with a line of fire.
"I saw them come in. All of them. I saw the last ones to cross the gates of Hospedare before they closed forever. I saw their eyes… they knew they were coming in to die."
Pablo frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Kora led him to the lower part of the complex. Through hidden staircases and abandoned archives. She led him to the Chamber of the Final Record.
There, thousands of names written on screens floated in a liquid crystal sky. The letters glowed... until a spark extinguished them, one by one.
"These people came here believing they would be protected. They were locked in underground blocks with no exit, by direct order of the Council of Pillars during the Republic. They called them 'latent risks.'"
Pablo approached one of the modules. Inside, skeletal bodies still clutched suitcases. One held a photo of his son.
"What kind of nation were we...?" Pablo muttered, clenching his fists. "This isn't just inhumane... it's insane."
"It hurts me too," Kora said. "But many of us tried to stop it. I was removed for speaking out." My colleagues… died in "accidents."
Pablo ordered the underground areas to be liberated. Of the 30 chambers, only two contained survivors, in a catatonic state. They would be sent to Hospitale, once it was restored.
The rest of the estate was opened, not to tourists or visitors, but to memory.
Hospedare became a living memorial. The gates would now bear plaques of those who once passed through them. A museum was built in each one, and future use of the complex as an internment center was prohibited.
"And what will you do, Kora?" Pablo asked as they walked toward the exit.
"I will restore the Code of Welcome. Perhaps this time, with people who truly believe in it."
Before leaving, Pablo wrote one last order: to convert the central building of Hospedare into the Tribunal of Exiles, a place where every person, regardless of where they come from, can receive a fair trial… or welcome.
But as he was about to cross the final door, a letter was found under one of the fallen statues.
It was from Gabriel, the Pillar of Beginning.
"Hospedare was my noblest creation… and my most silent crime.
Forgive them, if you can.
And if you can't… remember them."
Pablo kept the letter. A tear fell on Gabriel's signature.
The young man was not yet a king. But with every step he took, he carried an entire kingdom on his shoulders.
And the journey was not yet over.