The flash lingered on the horizon like an open wound in the sky.
It was too white to be fire, too silent to be lightning.
And even from miles away, Miguel felt the heat run through his skin like a living shiver.
No one dared speak—and yet, a murmur seemed to vibrate inside their heads, soft and insistent, like an echo of a memory that belonged to no one.
"She's calling," Elisa wrote, her hand trembling.
The medallion on the table responded before Miguel could say anything.
A crack ran through the metal, and a thin crack formed right in the center.
From within, a thread of light oozed out, pulsing like liquid blood.
Pedro took a step back.
"This shouldn't happen," he wrote hurriedly. "The medallion reacted to the energy of the runes, but it never... bled light."
Miguel watched, mesmerized.
"Perhaps we've never seen it fully awake."
In the streets, chaos began to spread.
Houses shook, and the wind carried voices no one recognized.
Dogs barked at nothing, and shadows seemed to move with a will of their own.
Residents emerged from their doors, confused, some laughing, others crying—and when they tried to write on the papers hanging around their necks, the words dissolved as soon as they finished.
A woman ran into the square, screaming silently.
Hanging on her chest, the note read:
"I remember her name.
I shouldn't remember."
Dr. Vasconcelos arrived soon after, accompanied by two guards and a flashlight that flickered wildly.
The light made his face look older, almost sickly.
He wrote on his pad, his handwriting already slurred from his haste:
"The source of the phenomenon is in the forest.
There is a pulsation of energy—something equivalent to a solar discharge.
But the pattern is... organic.
It's as if it's breathing."
Miguel looked up toward the north.
The glow seemed to form patterns in the fog—curved lines, interconnecting symbols.
It didn't take long to realize they were the same runes as on the parchment.
"She's writing in the sky," he whispered, more to himself than to the others.
Hours later, Miguel, Elisa, and Pedro decided to head to the entrance of the forest.
The city seemed resistant to the idea—winds changed direction, doors slammed, and the ground trembled slightly as if the earth itself were trying to block their path.
Even so, they continued.
The road leading to the forest was shrouded in thick fog.
Each step made the sound of water, even though the ground was dry.
And as they walked, the air grew colder, but also more… alive.
It seemed to be watching.
Elisa paused for a moment and wrote:
"Do you feel it? There's something here.
Something that knows who we are."
Pedro pointed ahead—between the trees, a soft glow.
The stranger was there.
Standing motionless, his dark cloak covering his body, his face hidden in shadow.
The light emanating from him was unnatural—it didn't reflect, it absorbed the surroundings.
Miguel took a step forward.
"What do you want from us?" she wrote on a piece of paper and held it up, trembling.
The stranger didn't answer immediately.
He merely raised a hand, and the medallion on Miguel's chest reacted—pulsing in time with his heart.
A voice rang out, but not through the air.
It echoed inside their heads, each word felt and not heard:
"The city has forgotten who built it.
And now, memory is taking its toll."
Elisa put her hands to her head, suffocated by the weight of the images that emerged—visions of an ancient city bathed in golden light; people speaking with their hands, with gestures and symbols; an altar erected in the center, with a stone statue weeping tears of salt.
Then, the voice continued:
"The Guardian is not a myth.
She is the echo of all that has been silenced.
And she is awake."
Suddenly, the ground shook.
The trees began to writhe, their roots moving like serpents.
The stranger raised his arm, and a symbol shone in the sky—the same one drawn on the parchment, the same one that had appeared before the Council House.
But now, it was no longer a sign.
It was an open eye.
Michael fell to his knees, feeling the weight of the light wash over him.
His mind was flooded with fragments—memories that weren't his own: children writing on the walls, temples being built, voices singing in lost languages.
And, amidst it all, a name that repeated itself, echoing like a lament:
"Silaren."
The stranger lowered his arm, and the light began to dissipate. Before disappearing completely, he turned to them and said—silently, but with absolute clarity:
"The Guardian will rise where oblivion began.
You must remember before she does."
And then he was gone—not walking, but swallowed by his own shadow.
The silence returned, heavy, almost tangible.
Back in the city, Doctor Vasconcelos was waiting for them.
When he saw Miguel and Elisa return, his expression was a mixture of relief and terror.
"What happened?" he asked, writing with a steady hand.
Miguel replied:
"She's alive.
And the stranger... is her herald."
The Doctor looked at the medallion, which now glowed with a faint, steady light.
For a moment, he seemed to hesitate—then he wrote slowly:
"If he speaks the truth...
then oblivion was never a curse.
It was a protection."