The smoke was thick as burned flesh.
It rose in twisted columns on the horizon, dragging ash and voices that weren't made of sound — but of intention.
Elías drew closer, his body weak, eyes burning, blood pulsing at the wrong rhythm — more aligned with what lies beneath than with life itself.
The city was real.
But it shouldn't be.
The outer wall was neither stone nor wood nor metal. It was blackened flesh, tangled bones, and plates of something that moved subtly — like slow breathing.
There were three gates.
One locked with chains.
Another half-open, flanked by rows of skulls like silent guards.
And the third… was pulsing. Literally.
He entered through the second.
---
Inside, the ground was a kind of hardened, cracked black mud, where footprints seemed to merge and vanish.
The streets were lit by lanterns burning with green fire — but the lights flickered not from wind, but when Elías passed.
Yes, the city was alive.
But like a body with dead parts still trying to move.
There were people.
But none spoke.
All wore long dark robes, their eyes covered by strips of black cloth.
They walked in pairs or knelt on the ground, palms open toward the cracked sky.
When Elías approached a group, one of them raised its face — and had no face.
The skin had grown smooth over the eyes and mouth, as if the flesh had decided that sight and speech were sins.
They whispered — but not with their mouths.
The words came from elsewhere.
And Elías heard them, though he tried not to:
> "Silence is the offering."
"Sound is heresy."
"He who listens to the dark shall see."
"He who sees shall be erased."
---
At the city's center, a tower rose.
Black. Twisted.
It looked like melted candles fused with human teeth.
At its top, a constant sound: a broken bell, ringing in irregular intervals — not marking time, but mistakes.
Guards walked the streets, bearing needle-shaped spears.
But they didn't step.
They hovered, a finger's width above the ground, their feet wrapped in bloodied cloth.
When they crossed paths with Elías, they stopped.
The sound of the world seemed to fold backward.
One raised his hand.
And behind him, a taller figure appeared — a priest.
His mouth was sewn shut.
His bare chest displayed a vertical scar, as if he'd been cut open and stitched many times.
> "Your scent... is not from here."
Elías tried to speak, but his throat felt like wet coal.
> "Speak, if you wish to be heard by the Muteness."
He forced the words:
— I... I'm just... looking.
The priest stepped closer, face inches from Elías.
> "No one looks here.
Here, we wait.
Here, we obey the Void."
Then, as if hearing some silent command, the priest withdrew.
The guards did too.
As if the moment had ended by something else's decision.
---
Elías walked to the city's core.
There stood an altar.
Not of stone.
But of bodies.
Stacked.
Praying.
Long dead — but not decayed.
At the center, a mask.
Black.
Smooth.
Without holes.
From it oozed a substance like liquid shadow.
And at the base of the altar, the inscription
> 𐌍𐌏𐌂𐌕𐌖𐌁𐌑𐌑
The symbol seemed to have been carved with fingernails, not human hands—and it glowed faintly, as if it were still warm.
When Elías read it, or tried to read it, a falling sensation took over his body.
As if his bones were being pulled into the earth.
The inscription spoke in a forgotten language, but Elías understood.
Not with his mind. With his soul.
As if something inside him had always known what it meant.
> "Noctvorr, the Breathing Silence."
"He Who Devours Voices and Leaves Shadows."
"The First to Die. The Last to Be Forgotten."
And the instant he understood,
the broken bell in the tower stopped.
The entire city held its breath.
And every inhabitant fell to their knees—as if existence itself had bowed to Elijah.