The fire had died.
But Elías still heard it.
Not in his ears — in his bones.
The crackle was no longer warmth or safety. It was breath. Something ancient pretending to be flame. It whispered to him without sound.
And he listened.
Because he remembered what the city said:
"You were meant to be devoured."
---
Morning came broken.
The sky had forgotten to rise, leaving only a pale veil above the wasteland. The ash didn't fall — it hovered, waiting for permission.
The group moved slowly.
No one had slept.
No one admitted why.
But all of them had seen the tongue speak.
And all of them felt that same hunger now — not for food.
For meaning.
---
"I dreamed I was hollow," Verrun said at last.
They all turned.
"I opened my chest. There was nothing inside. No bones. No heart. Just... a mirror."
Tirian whispered, "What did it reflect?"
Verrun didn't answer.
But Elías already knew.
---
They walked until the earth cracked beneath them.
Not from age.
From rejection.
The land here refused to carry them. Rocks slithered away. Trees — long dead — leaned aside. The wind circled, but would not touch.
Then they found it.
A ruin.
Built like a throne tipped on its side. Broken columns reached upward like begging fingers. Its steps were carved with apologies.
Words like:
Forgive what we became.
We remembered wrong.
Do not resurrect the voice.
---
At the center stood a well.
But there was no water inside.
Only a mouth.
Wide. Silent. Waiting.
---
"Is it alive?" Leshra asked.
"No," Tirian said. "Worse. It's listening."
---
They stood in silence.
Then, Elías stepped forward.
Not because he wanted to.
Because something in the well pulled.
Not physically.
Existentially.
---
He stared down.
Blackness looked back.
But not empty black.
This was a darkness filled with options.
He saw:
His village, alive.
His mother, unbroken.
A life without the scythe.
A world without the gods.
Each flickered for a heartbeat.
Then vanished.
Replaced by a single phrase:
"You may speak one truth."
---
Elías opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Then he whispered:
"I never wanted this."
---
The well didn't echo.
It replied.
In his mind. In his blood.
"But you were chosen."
---
"No," Elías said, louder. "I was forced. I didn't choose the scythe. I didn't ask for the ink. I didn't want to climb."
"And yet you climb."
---
The ground quivered.
The well shifted.
It began to rise.
No longer a hole — now a figure.
Tall.
Unshaped.
Made of phrases too ashamed to be spoken.
Its mouth was sealed with light.
But it didn't need to speak.
The others backed away.
Only Elías remained.
---
Then the figure placed a hand on his shoulder.
Not heavy.
But final.
And for a moment — just one — Elías felt peace.
Because for the first time since he awoke in the ash,
He felt…
Understood.
---
Then it leaned close.
Its mouth didn't move.
But Elías heard the message deep in his memory:
"You are not a god. Not yet.
But you are becoming…
What even the gods forget to fear."
---
And then it was gone.
Just gone.
Like it had never been there.
Only the well remained.
Only the silence.
---
Elías turned.
Tirian looked pale.
Verrun's hands were shaking.
Leshra held her sword like it might betray her.
But no one spoke.
Not yet.
---
They camped far from the ruin.
That night, Elías wrote again.
Not with his hand.
With his presence.
The ink moved. The page formed.
And the words etched themselves:
"I am not devoured.
I devour."
---
Then a final line:
"But who speaks this, if I no longer know who I am?"
---
Question for the reader:lf you were offered one truth — only one — would you speak it…
or hide it forever to remain yourself?