En Tierras: Salvajes

The creature screamed. A real scream, this time. The flesh of Mateo’s face began to split, curling back like burning paper. The thing beneath was a churning mass of pale roots and obsidian shards, a hungry emptiness that had worn humanity like a cheap costume.

He adjusted the strap of his worn leather satchel, the one that still held his brother’s compass. The needle no longer pointed north. Here, deep in the savage lands beyond the Sierra de los Muertos, it spun in lazy, useless circles, pointing only to the tremble in Elías’s hand. En Tierras Salvajes

“You don’t belong here,” Elías said, holding up the stone. “You are not the land. You are a parasite. And a parasite has no name.” The creature screamed

Elías descended using a rope made of braided leather. The silence was the worst part. No birds, no insects, not even the buzz of a fly. Just the soft crunch of his boots on the black sand. The thing beneath was a churning mass of

It lunged. Elías didn’t move. He thrust the obsidian shard forward. It was not a blade, but it didn’t need to be. It was a mirror.

Elías’s hand trembled. The truth was a cold stone in his gut. He had crossed all that savage land not for hope, but for an ending. He needed to see the body. He needed to bury the guilt.

Elías sank to his knees. He didn’t weep. The Gran Páramo did not allow tears. It drank them before they could fall.