Rapha's bare feet ran through the sand of the wide dirt road, dust rising with each step. The trail was flanked by fields of golden wheat, already ripe, swaying in a warm breeze that promised more warmth than relief under the orange sky of dawn.
-Come on, Rapha. Come on. I told you it was true.
He picked up his torn sandal from the ground and continued running, barefoot, even as the ground burned.
Steam rose from the simple houses of Escadero, making the air tremble. The morning sounds of the village, men calling to cattle, women at the wells, the clanking of tools, were lost in the distance. While the two boys rushed forward, driven by the urgency of a promise.
They passed through the central square, where the memorial to the heroes of the last war stood in old bronze, and the baron's hall, whose windows were always closed. The houses became scarce, and then they saw him.
At the final bend in the road, where the day before there had been nothing but dirt and grass, now an impossible structure appeared. It was as if a house had grown overnight, large and strange, with columns of freshly cut wood, stretched canvas, symbols and indecipherable scribbles hanging from plaques.
Rapha's eyes widened. His friend smiled. They threw themselves behind the low fence that surrounded an old forgotten yard. The grimaces and waving hands were immediate as they lowered themselves into the boiling sand.
Men came and went. They wore clothes too starched for Escadero. They carried boxes and walked in sync. They spoke little. They seemed like shadows from another world.
-See? I told you. It could be a treasure. They say the World Tree gives things that shine... — whispered his friend, his eyes fixed on the structure.
Rapha narrowed his eyes and frowned. The heat created mirages on the horizon.
- Treasures, yes... or maybe... That's where the Chimeras hide the monsters. To keep in a cave, underground — he whispered, his voice choked.
- Nonsense! — the other whispered, but his gaze did not deny his fear. — It must be the baron's flying cart factory. That's why they worked at night, hidden!
The assumptions collided in the air, mixing with the heat and dust of the morning. Suddenly, a different sound came. A footstep.
Heavy. Rhythmic.
It wasn't the sound of ordinary boots, nor of someone tired from work. It was the sound of authority, of someone who knew the ground was opening up at his feet. Rapha turned around, his stomach churning. And he saw him.
Tall. Red. Faceless.
The fabric of his uniform was the color of fresh blood. His face was hidden under a red balaclava and an immaculate white cap. A Vermillion Guard. Adults trembled before them, and children had nightmares. They said they took the disobedient away never to be seen again, that their voices were not human, that their eyes burned like embers behind their masks.
Rapha knew, by the way the air seemed to bend around the figure, that no children's story came close to the truth.
The Vermillion headed toward the strange building, his steps sinking into the sand. He stopped at the entrance. One of the men in a suit came out, the same one Rapha had seen a moment ago. They exchanged inaudible words, but the man's gestures were polite. The Vermillion nodded, seemed to nod. Nothing there made sense. Not the Chimeras. Not the flying carts. Nothing.
-See? - whispered his friend, nudging Rapha. — He came to get the key to the monsters' cave. Only the Vermillions can guard something like that...
— Or... Or he came to take a flying cart to the baron — Rapha replied, although his voice was barely a whisper. — That's why the man gave it away.
They stayed there, inventing legends to give shape to what their eyes saw, because that was what children did when the world became bigger than they could understand.
And then the impossible happened.
The Vermillion left and as he passed, the Vermillion's red and white head turned. Not quickly, not slowly, but with the precision of something that had always known they were there. And he stared at the fence.
There were no eyes. But Rapha knew he was being stared at.
Terror rose up his chest, his legs trembled. The Vermillion began to walk. Each step made the ground vibrate. The blood-soaked fabric of his uniform seemed to breathe, to pulse. He was coming straight for them.
And he stopped in front of the fence.
— Hey, munchkins. This is not a place to play. Go back home. It can be dangerous around here.
The voice was... human, gentle. Like that of a patient father. But the gentleness, there, in front of the mask, was worse than any roar.
Rafa could barely breathe.
— S-sorry, Mr. Vermillion... we just...
— Let's go! — whispered his friend, already standing up, trembling.
They didn't wait any longer. They jumped, ran away, their feet kicking up hot dust. They fled like someone fleeing from a dragon, or something worse: one that smiles behind a face that doesn't exist.
Vermillion's figure shrank behind them like a nightmare that refuses to die, the echo of his hurried footsteps still resounding when, in the central square, Escadero was in fever.
There was no longer the reverent silence before the heroes' memorial, nor the monotonous whisper of the stallholders opening their stalls with the rising of the sun. Now the air was charged. The normally restrained voices of the villagers spread like sparks in a dry haystack. There was haste in their eyes, and tension in their gestures.
Groups gathered under the shadow of the marble obelisk, at the foot of the bronze plaques bearing the forgotten names of illustrious dead. Peasants, artisans, fishermen, old men huddled in thick linen cloaks. No one spoke loudly, but everyone was talking. The word Vermillions returned like a somber refrain, interspersed with rumors, forbidden names, and theories without an owner.
-I heard it is the work of the Vermillion Order. They are planting their roots here, taking each village, one by one. - Said an old man with a rough voice, spitting on the ground as if he wanted to purge his own sentence.
A spoiled Dievai's whim, that's what it is. - Murmured a corpulent woman, her forehead creased by life under the sun. - Some protégé of the Deanery who is wanting to play hide-and-seek away from the eyes of the capital.
The Chimeras, perhaps. - whispered a young man who had barely outgrown the age of pimples. His eyes were sunken and his speech tense. - They say that not even the Vermillions can catch them all. That there are agreements... bought silences…
These words were not shouted. They were poured carefully, like poison in someone else's cup.
In the center of its building, like a symbol planted with purpose, was the sign at the entrance. Made of dark wood, it hung from the top of one of the building's improvised pillars. On it, golden letters, far too refined for that place, announced a name that no one understood:
Grotto Goblins Warehouse.
The name was a stone thrown into a lake of doubts. "Goblins?" they asked. "In a Grotto? Here?" The question never came alone, it was accompanied by glances to the east, where the road turned into the wilderness, where Rapha and his friend had gone to snoop around. The questions grew like weeds: what was that? Why now? Why in Escadero?
The baron's hall, always quiet, seemed to hear everything. Its tall windows remained closed, but in the shadows behind the curtains, many swore they saw eyes. The baron had not appeared in public since the last full moon, but it was said that a messenger dressed in red had entered through the side gate before the sun had even risen.
And what about the starched men? Foreigners, no doubt. Their boots did not bear local mud. Their words sounded different. They seemed to possess something that could not be named.
At dawn the next day, two uniformed officials, adopting the posture of calculated deference so common in Cinnabar, were seen walking towards the warehouse at the exit of the village. They approached the entrance with measured steps.
One of the officials, with a formal smile, addressed the figure in a suit who was watching from inside:
— Excuse me, good morning. We represent the administration of baron Monfre. We are here only for a routine verification of data and formalities of this new venture. Could you enlighten us about the nature of the operations conducted here by… Grotto Goblins?
The man in business attire, whose calm seemed like a well-fitted mask, responded with equal politeness, his voice controlled and without unnecessary inflections:
— Gentlemen, good morning. Grotto Goblins thanks the city hall for its diligence. This is a temporary logistics operation for the receipt and safe storage of containers. Wooden crates, to be exact. They contain materials of a... specific nature, with considerable symbolic value. I can assure you that all legal procedures are strictly in order. We have the supporting documentation at our disposal.
With a gesture, he indicated the papers.
There they were: a transport and storage permit issued with the unmistakable Royal Seal, indicating direct approval from the circle of the God-King. Beside it, a certificate of compliance issued by the High Magistrate of the Vermillion Order. It was confirmation that the operation had passed the scrutiny of the other great forces of the state.
Attached to this powerful pair of authorizations was a detailed plan for a Zen garden. The description of the material in the documents was surprisingly mundane, and at the same time, extraordinary: very fine sand, extracted directly from the natural sanctuary of the World Tree, a protected place with restricted access.
The Officials exchanged a quick glance. It was sacred sand, with the Royal Seal and the approval of the Vermillion Order, intended for a Zen garden, according to the plan submitted. It must have been a project for the Royal Palace or another high-ranking Dievai property.
The agent forced a wider smile:
-Understood. The documentation appears complete and in order. We greatly appreciate your cooperation, sir. Have a good day at work.
With a brief bow, the agents left.
Less than a week after the discreet installation, the facade of controlled efficiency had crumbled. The manager of the 'Grotto Goblins' was exploding in frustration, his loud voice cutting through the air. He complained of 'conflicting instructions', 'inexplicable delays' and the 'suffocating bureaucracy' that invalidated the seals of approval he brandished.
The day after one of these outbursts, Escadero's routine was disrupted. A luxury carriage, black and lacquered, gleaming in the pale morning light, glided down the road and stopped silently in front of the warehouse. Its elegant, un-emblazoned lines exude power. From the door emerged a man who was a statement in himself: haute couture attire, impeccable cut, an absolute calm that defied the manager's outburst.
With measured steps and a gaze that assessed the rustic environment, the newcomer walked to the entrance. The curious glances, previously on the manager, fixed on him. The decision came quickly, but enigmatically.
The next morning, above the warehouse door, where shouts had previously echoed, a simple sign: 'FOR SALE'. No explanation, no dismantling, just the cold offer of the property.
For baron Monfre's administration, the sequence of events was intolerable.
Baron Monfre's office, a sanctuary of power and the peculiar, displayed on its dark walls and furniture not only symbols of authority, but an eclectic collection of souvenirs: stones with faint runes, fragments of twisted metal from forgotten places, ornaments that whispered arcane stories. In this environment of sigils and mystical echoes, Rogè, the impeccably dressed merchant and owner of "Grotto Goblins", sat relaxed, almost defying solemnity. Monfre watched him from behind his massive desk, where an opaque crystal pulsed gently beneath his fingers.
His soft voice carried the timbre of Dievai authority.
- Mister Rogè. Your presence in Escadero has stirred the still waters. To what do I owe the honor?
Rogè inclined his head, a polite smile on his lips.
- Baron Monfre, the honor is mine. And I thank you for your frankness. I have come to share something... unique. A chain of events that has brought me to this point, and I admit, defies the commercial logic that usually guides my steps.
Monfre made an inviting gesture with his free hand.
- Go ahead, sir. My time is yours. What upsets the logic of a businessman like you?"
- As you may have already learned - Rogè began, his voice carefully modulated
- My company was hired for a task of enormous prestige: to obtain and transport a material of exceptional purity, extracted from a... notoriously restricted area. A resource destined to beautify no less than the Royal Palace. We faced considerable logistical and diplomatic challenges, secured the highest approvals, the Royal Seal, the seal of the Vermillion Order… - He paused, as if weighing the weight of those words.
- Everything meticulously planned. And then, quite... abruptly, we received the notification. A 'reassessment of priorities' at the Palace. The project has been suspended indefinitely. - He gestured slightly.
- And so, this rare, almost sacred material, destined for royalty, now rests temporarily here. Within the confines of your Escadero, Baron.
Monfre drummed his fingers on the crystal.
- A 'reassessment,' you say. material already extracted from the World Tree and with such... seals involved. Curious. Very curious. And what is your plan now, sir. Rogè, for this unexpectedly idle treasure?
Rogè sighed, a studied perplexity.
- My practical mind seeks a logical path, baron. Recover the investment, find a new destination. But... the events do not fit together. The difficulty in obtaining, the mythical origin, the sudden cancellation... culminating here. Forgive my boldness, but the sequence seems... orchestrated. Too monumental a coincidence.
- Coincidences exist, Mr. Rogè. - Monfre replied softly.
- But in our world, they are rarely without intention. What does your intuition tell you?
Rogè leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.
- I am not versed in the arcane arts like a noble Dievai, baron. But I observe patterns. And I know your reputation... your discernment for objects that transcend material value, which carry echoes... resonances. I can't help but wonder… - He hesitated, choosing his words.
- What if this sand's true destination was never the Palace? If its journey has brought it to Escadero seeking... not a buyer, but a guardian? Someone with the sensitivity to understand its true nature?
Monfre arched an eyebrow, a glint of interest or amusement in his eyes.
- An intriguing prospect. Are you suggesting that this sand holds more than geological rarity? That it carries a... will? - He glanced at one of the artifacts on his shelf.
- Items of singular origin can have resonances, it is true. Echoes from the World Tree are no trivial matter. The question is to discern the nature of that resonance... and its intent.
- Exactly! - Rogè exclaimed, perhaps a little too quickly. - Ever since this material arrived, I have felt a... disturbance in normality. My practical mind hesitates, but my intuition... just look, baron, even I have one... compels me to seek wiser advice. Therefore, before any pragmatic decision, I felt it was my duty to share this with you first. I would love to show you the material there in the warehouse. Your unique perspective... your experience with the unusual... Perhaps it can illuminate what my eyes still cannot decipher.
Monfre sat back, pondering. The invitation tempted him, arousing his vanity and curiosity. Dievai touched the crystal.
- The perspective... yes. The value lies not in the substance, but in the history it carries, in the energy it has absorbed…
An urgent knock sounded on the office door. Before Monfre could answer, it opened, and one of Rogè's employees burst in, panting and disheveled.
- Mr. Rogè! Baron, a thousand pardons! An offer! — the man shouted, his voice cracking. — For the entire lot of sand! They just offered triple the initial value!
The aura of mystery snapped. Rogè stood up abruptly, his philosophical calm undone by the urgency of a businessman.
- Triple? Who? What guarantees? — He turned to Monfre, composing himself. — Baron, excuse the interruption. Worldly matters call me urgently.
As Rogè and the employee hurried out, Monfre heard the man's loud voice down the hallway. - Pay in cash, sir! Take it or leave it!
Baron Monfre remained seated, watching the closed door. A slight smile played on his lips.
Minutes later, news of the offer was already circulating. Rogè returned to the office, his philosophical calm restored, but his eyes with a pragmatic gleam. He found Monfre contemplating the artifacts in the room, the atmosphere still dense from the previous conversation.
Rogè bowed slightly.
- Baron Monfre, I thank you for receiving me again in such a short time. The interruption earlier... was as real as it was lucrative. The offer my assistant mentioned; three times the value we had estimated for the sand has been formalized. - He paused, observing Monfre's reaction.
- Financially, it would be the logical conclusion to this... unexpected adventure in Escadero.
Monfre turned slowly, his Deivai eyes fixed on Rogè.
- Three times the value. A tempting proposal for any merchant. And yet here you are. Tell me, Mr. Rogè, what brings you back, when the logic of profit points in another direction?
Rogè approached the baron's desk, his voice now a confidential whisper.
- Because, baron, as I considered the offer from that… distant consortium, whose sole motivation is profit over rarity… I thought about our conversation. I thought about what your eyes see. Do they see an asset being liquidated? Or do you see, as I have come to suspect, something more?
Monfre rested his chin on his hand, studying Rogè.
- I have told you what I see, or what I am beginning to sense. A fragment of the Tree that seems to have… intent. A potential symbol for Escadero. A piece that resonates with the very nature of this place, perhaps even with the power that permeates it. - He gestured vaguely to the mystical objects around him.
- It's not just sand, rare as it may be.
- Exactly! - Rogè tapped the table lightly with his fingertips.
- That buyer, with all his gold, would never understand this. To him, it would be just another exotic trophy, locked away or resold. Its intrinsic meaning, the story we've begun to unravel, would be lost, suffocated by the vulgarity of pure commerce. - He leaned closer.
- You spoke of legacy, baron. Of anchoring the singularity of Escadero. Can an anonymous buyer, hundreds of miles away, offer that? Can he nurture the narrative that this material seems to beg for?
Monfre pondered, clearly seduced by the idea of being the guardian of something unique, something that transcended the mundane.
- You make a good point, Rogè. The narrative... the story we can weave around it... has its own value. A value that perhaps only someone with roots here, with a sensitivity to the unusual, can cultivate. - He allowed himself a slight smile. It seems that this sand, in a suit, has chosen its stage in Escadero.
- And that is why I am here. - Rogè said, his voice firm now, sensing the change in the baron.
- Because I believe, perhaps against my own pragmatic nature, that its destiny is not to be a curiosity in a distant collection, but rather a landmark here, under your protection. A testament to the extraordinary. - He paused dramatically.
- But let's be honest, baron. Securing a destiny, protecting such a powerful narrative... that has a cost that reflects not only the material, but the unique opportunity. - He took a deep breath.
- The other offer was three times the value. An offer for an object. But to ensure that this sand remains here, so that it flourishes as the symbol you envision, to honor the intuition that brought us together in this room... the value must be different. - His eyes met Monfre's, steady and calculating.
- Five times the initial value, baron. That is the price to guarantee not only the possession, but the purpose of this relic in Escadero.
Baron Monfre was silent for a moment, his gaze lost somewhere beyond Rogè. Five times the value was nonsense in commercial terms. But Rogè was no longer selling sand. He was selling a legacy, a symbol of power and mystery for Escadero, and, by extension, for the baron himself. It was the price of the story he wanted to star in.
He stood up, walking to the window, observing little Escadero outside. When he turned around, his decision was made.
- Five times… - He repeated, almost to himself.
- A price to rewrite the destiny of a handful of sand... or perhaps, to accept the destiny it imposes on us.
- He stared at Rogè. - You are a shrewd businessman, Rogè, or perhaps an instrument of the most peculiar chance I have ever encountered. - A thin smile appeared on his lips.
- Whatever. The symbol I envision for Escadero justifies the investment. The sand stays. - He held out his hand.
- Deal closed. Provide the terms. I want custody of this... enigma... secured as soon as possible.
…
In Sant'Amaranthis, Bibi's Bar was more than just a bar; it was a refuge and a dome. The noise was constant, not so much from the glasses hitting the counter or the persistent frying in the background, but from the secret buried beneath the boards. There, tucked into a gap under the worn counter, lay an old copper suppression sigil, the kind of relic that only Vermillions could use. Scraped, camouflaged, working.
Under its protection, the Gang of the Goblin's Grotto breathed, or tried to.
The thick fog of cheap cigarettes colored the room with a slow yellow, mixed with the smell of recycled fat, spilled beer and broken promises. On the improvised stage, just a wooden elevation covered with maroon cloth and hope, a melody hovered.
Dafne sang.
Simple dress, modest posture. But her voice… oh, her voice was something else. A rope that pulled time from within. As if it were sewing memories into each verse.
In the back, at the most disorganized and noisy table in the room, the gang celebrated.
Goose, big and flashy, laughed as if he wanted to push the smoke away with his shout. Rat kept his eyes glued to the door, drumming on the table, the tic of someone who has seen too much. Kid spoke loudly and with broad gestures, trying to compensate for his size with presence. Myrtle, firm as a river rock, drank methodically and vigorously. Only one was missing.
The door creaked as if asking permission.
And he entered.
Not as someone who arrives, but as someone who returns. As someone who is expected. Safo, or Rogè, in the disguise of the day, crossed the threshold with his suit neatly aligned, his hair perfectly tamed, and the smile of someone who had just sold faith in an empty bottle.
Bibi, without even looking up, was already holding out the glass.
— A toast! — he said, with that triumphant gleam in his eyes. — To the Barons Dievai, with more ego than sense... and to the most expensive sand in all of Cinnabar!
Myrtle laughed, slamming her glass on the table.
— Five times the cost, Safo! Five! And the fool still thought he was guaranteeing Escadero's 'legacy'! If we stayed one more day, he'd give us the key to the city.
— Perfect paperwork — said Kid, adjusting his glasses. — Not a single seal out of place. The Vermillion Order would never suspect it. Clean exit.
— Too much money. Too fast. — Rat whispered uneasily. — That attracts eyes. Even here.
— The only reason it wasn't cleaner was because we almost left the manager choking on his own dust — laughed Goose, leaning back. — The poor guy must still be shouting 'logistics!' on the road.
Bibi approached with a new jar, her voice practical as ever:
— Relax, Rat. That's why this place exists. Here, the magic eyes can't see. And those who live trapped in yesterday's scam, lose tomorrow's.
Goose winked at her:
— My wife, the philosopher of the underworld!
— Cheap philosophy — Myrtle grumbled, rolling her eyes. — I almost ruined the ink forging that warrant with the royal seal. One flick of the candle and the Supreme Magistrate would turn into a drunken baker. I had to drink three glasses just to imitate the pretentious flourish of the signature.
— And the material! — Kid recalled. — Saltpeter sand. More dust than sand. We had to sift through it until we had no patience. Goose almost sneezed and gave it all away in the middle of the road.
— Drawing up the paperwork, inventing a deceased relative, bribing a scribe... — Rat spoke with his eyes still scanning the ceiling. — Everything to understand the bureaucracy of a narcissistic Baron.
— The worst was me! — Goose raised his hand. — Planted in that fake warehouse, acting like the operations emissary! The manager squeezing me for "logistics"... I almost gave away that my logistics was a straydog!
Safo raised his glass sparingly.
— The important thing, Mr. Trasgos... is that our dear Baron's letter of credit has already become an investment. Good wine for Bibi. Profit without raising dust. We laundered money and left a nobleman poorer — and more conceited. A toast to our art.
They toasted. Glasses clinking against the smoke. But Myrtle... watched.
Safo's eyes were not on the table. They were on the stage. On Dafne.
Kid smiled, noticing the diversion:
— Look at him. The Dreams Merchant hooked on a new song. Be careful, poet. That one doesn't seem to be impressed by stories of mystical sand.
Safo answered without taking his eyes off the singer:
— Every song is a story, Kid. And every story... can be retold.
—There he goes. — Goose snorted. — Soon, the girl will be without a tip and won't understand how.
— Or without a heart. — Rat completed dryly.
The laughter mingled with the clink of dishes, muffled by the increasing volume of the bar.
Myrtle took a long sip before saying, in a low, sharp voice:
— Have you found a new audience yet, Master Safo? You have a beautiful smile on stage.
He raised his glass, slowly, with a smile that seemed to come from another time.
— Always attentive to my interests, Myrtle. Or would you prefer me to be inspired by your... bribery spreadsheets?
Kid, trying to escape the tension, cleaned his glasses:
— Did you know that cockroaches live for weeks without a head? Weird, right?
— At least they have an excuse to lose their heads. — Rat muttered, his eyes teasingly on the corners of the bar.
Safo, however, did not look away.
— I was thinking... The new circus. — His voice was calm, like a veiled invitation. — It would be interesting to have company.
He turned his face slowly, until he met Myrtle's gaze. Subtle. Measured.
— Someone who doesn't remind me of spreadsheets. A more... subtle soul. — He paused, letting the sound of the bar fill in the rest. — Someone with an artistic streak.
His gaze returned to Dafne.
Myrtle hesitated. Her hand, halfway to the glass, stopped. A moment of doubt. Or curiosity.
— Interesting how your "interests" change stage so quickly.
Safo laughed softly. Almost without sound. Shoulders shaking.
— Gambling stalls, shows, street food...
And then, more seriously:
— Maybe I'll even bet on finding someone... with some affection.
Almost. Myrtle almost smiled. But her jaw clenched, stopping the gesture.
— Don't bet what you can't have, Safo. Your art of deception... doesn't work here.
Rato raised his voice, cutting the thread:
— The atmosphere is heating up at the main table. Someone should let it out.
— Well, well! — shouted Goose, already raising his glass. — Enough with the arts and spreadsheets! Bibi! Bring another round of fancy drinks! Let's cool our spirits and our livers!