They arrived without banners.
Without horns.
Without names.
Figures born from forgotten wars, exiled prophets, failed kings, lovers of ruined tomes — they came not to serve, but to stand. Not under Elías, but with him.
The field was no longer quiet.
It breathed.
Each blade of parchment-grass curled toward the sky, vibrating with anticipation, as if the world itself awaited a command. And Elías, still holding the silver quill, felt the gravity of expectation.
He was not a god.
Not yet.
But they looked at him as if he could change the shape of fate.
And maybe he could.
---
One stepped forward.
A woman covered in stitched shadows, eyes made of candle flame.
"I am Leshra," she said, voice made of echo. "Once I ruled the Ash Choir. Now I follow no voice but the one that wrote itself free."
Another followed.
A beast. Half-wolf, half-lost. Fur like iron. Teeth like prophecy.
"I am Verrun," he growled. "Once cursed by a god of hunger. Now I bite only the lies that bind."
Then more.
A child who never aged.
A man without a face.
A librarian whose hands were cages.
Dozens.
Then hundreds.
Each one a story unspoken — until now.
---
Tirian stood beside Elías, quiet.
"You didn't summon them," he murmured.
"They heard," Elías replied.
---
A new voice echoed.
One not spoken, but felt.
It rumbled from beneath the field, from the cracks in memory, from the old dead sky.
"Who dares write without permission?"
The air trembled.
The clouds curled inwards.
And from the horizon, a figure emerged.
Not walking.
Not flying.
Simply arriving.
---
He wore a robe of empty names. His hands dripped unfinished prayers. Around his throat hung chains forged from erased commandments.
A Watcher.
One of the Keepers of the Old Order.
A servant of the gods who had ruled before language bled.
---
"You open the Gate too early," the Watcher spoke.
"There is no schedule for freedom," Elías answered.
"You are not yet allowed."
"Then unallow me."
---
The Watcher raised his hand.
From the sky, a storm descended.
But it wasn't made of water or fire.
It was made of rules.
Of grammar.
Of limitation.
The sky screamed in the voice of editors.
---
Leshra stepped forward, arms wide.
Verrun howled.
The others moved as one.
Not to fight the storm —
But to rewrite it.
Their bodies bled verse.
Their weapons were contradiction.
And Elías, heart steady, dipped the quill in the ink of his own fear — and wrote:
"Let no silence go unchallenged."
The storm broke.
---
It screamed, it wept, it split into shards of unmet prophecy.
And where it shattered, new winds rose.
Winds that carried voices.
Winds that carried names.
---
The Watcher staggered.
"You... you have no place."
"I make my own," Elías replied.
---
He stepped forward.
Closer.
Quill glowing now, burning with each heartbeat.
"You represent the order of the past," Elías said. "But the future will not kneel."
The Watcher raised one final objection — a sentence older than death.
But Elías struck it down not with power.
With a question:
"What if we were never wrong?"
---
The Watcher collapsed into punctuation.
---
Silence again.
Not fear.
Breath.
The field steadied.
The sky rewrote itself.
And in the center of them all, Elías stood — not as a god.
Not yet.
But something becoming.
---
Leshra approached him once more.
"What now?"
Elías looked to the west, where mountains bled ink and stars blinked like wounded eyes.
"We walk."
"To where?"
He looked at the quill.
Then at the sky.
Then at the people around him.
---
"To a place," he said, "where stories end only when we say so."
---
And far beneath the earth, something watched.
A god not yet dead.
A faith not yet buried.
A pen still waiting to be stolen.
---
Question for the reader:
What would you be willing to lose... to write the truth of who you really are?