El Como's lips pressed together, his breath shallow against the constriction of the haze. He wanted to speak. Every nerve in him clawed at his throat, demanding he call out, beg, demand, plead—anything to crack the terrible stillness that hung between him and the three figures below.
But...
But something told him that words would be his undoing.
The way they stared, the way the haze obeyed them, the way the broken land itself seemed to lean toward their presence—these were not men accustomed to being questioned. He felt it in his bones: any sound from him would be a spark in a forest already dry with waiting flame.
So he kept quiet.
Not because he chose so but because he couldn't disobey...
The silence felt like swallowing glass. It cut him from the inside, left his tongue raw with restraint. He hung there, stiff as a corpse, and he waited.
The tallest of the three shifted first—the lean one, the one whose gaze had burned sharpest, cruelest. His face tilted, the faintest curl of lip betraying disdain. He raised his chin, and his voice came at last.
It was a harsh thing, jagged and guttural, as though each word scraped against his teeth.
"Follow. Do not speak."
The fellow moved a shiny piece of metal skillfully with the deep-rooted precision of a swordsman.
El como stared hard and noticed that the whatever wasn't ajust a metal but a sword.
'What the hell. Must it be so sharp and shiny. It's not like I do not have a mirror at home.'.
Suddenly, the man's gaze deepened and his rather red face contorted slightly.
Though slight, it wasn't so hard for Como to notice... even though with difficulty.
The haze shuddered, and El Como dropped.
Not far—only enough for the breath to tear from his lungs, for panic to seize him before the invisible force caught him once more. He landed on his feet, though his knees nearly buckled. The haze thinned to smoke at his shoulders, still pressing, still binding, but looser now—guiding instead of holding.
Darr—the slim one with a surprisingly oval face which did not fit him due to his chiseled body frame smirked.
As if saying, try me...
El Como guessed—turned without another word. The other two followed, boots grinding against stone, and without thinking, El Como stumbled after.
The plateau stretched like a scar through the broken land. Black rock jutted in sharp ridges, veins of pale dust running like cracks through bone. Each step echoed with a hollowness that spoke of caverns beneath, empty and waiting.
El Como kept his head low, eyes flicking between the men ahead. He could feel them even when they didn't turn: their presence pressed at his skin, heavier than the haze.
They walked in silence.
Time became a blur. There was no sun above, only a pale, suffocating sky that churned faintly with smoke. The haze clung still, trailing in threads from the men as though leashed to their armor. Sometimes it curled around El Como's ankles like a warning hand.
His chest burned with the urge to speak. He wanted to ask where they were going, who they were, what they wanted from him. He wanted to demand why he had been spared—or if "spared" was even the right word.
But he remembered the command.
Follow. Do not speak.
The silence thickened until it became another body at his side, brushing against him, breathing down his neck. He thought he could hear whispers in it sometimes, but when he strained to listen, there was only the crunch of boots and the grind of stone.
Once, he dared to lift his gaze.
The man called Darr walked at the fore, movements precise, lean as a blade unsheathed. His back was straight, his armor dark, less battered than the others. He looked as though he could vanish into the haze at will.
Behind him strode the broader one, massive, bull-shouldered, his every step a weight that seemed to shake the ground. His gauntlets were dented, scarred, but clenched always, as though he longed to crush something in his grip.
The third—the scarred one, jaw square, face unflinching—walked without hesitation, his eyes never wavering from the path ahead.
They were not men who needed to speak. Their silence was command enough.
El Como swallowed, forcing himself to match their pace. His own boots scuffed clumsily, out of rhythm with their steady march. Each sound he made felt like an insult to the silence.
Hours—days?—he could not tell. His throat ached, dry as stone. His mind churned, restless, gnawing at questions until he could no longer hold them.
The words burst from him before he could stop them.
"Where are we going?"
His voice cracked, raw, loud against the quiet. It echoed across the plateau, bouncing back at him like a sneer. He winced, clamping his mouth shut, but the sound was already loose, already crawling toward their ears.
Darr did not turn. His shoulders stiffened, but he walked on.
El Como's pulse raced. He should have stayed silent. Gods, why had he spoken? But the taste of his own voice was too sharp, too addictive now that it was out. His questions tumbled forward, desperate, choking.
"Who are you? Why me? What is this place?"
His words scattered like bones across the stone. They rang too loud, too human, too weak.
The broad one stopped.
El Como froze mid-step. His breath hitched. The man's shoulders rose and fell once, twice, the sound of his gauntlets groaning as his hands clenched tighter.
Slowly, the bull-shouldered man turned his head.
His eyes met El Como's.
They were not eyes made for pity. They burned with a fury barely caged, a beast behind bone, straining against its skull. His gaze alone pressed into El Como's chest harder than the haze ever had.
When he spoke, his voice was thunder ground into gravel.
"You have broken… CODE 8."
The haze stiffened around El Como, tightening like a noose. His breath vanished. His vision swam.
And the meaning of the words—unspoken, unexplained—hung over him like a blade yet to fall.