The castle was quieter than Esteban had expected.
There were no screams, no drums, no knights shouting in the courtyards. Only cold stone corridors illuminated by scattered torches, servants passing in silence like shadows, their heads lowered and their eyes fixed on the floor, and black-coated men occasionally walking by without a glance in his direction.
The air smelled of damp stone, burnt bread, and candle wax. It was the smell of a large household inhabited by many men and no women.
Esteban walked among the servants with a bundle of cloth over his shoulder, his left hand concealed inside his sleeve. Something pulsed beneath the fabric that hands weren't supposed to feel.
Pure fear, without pain.
At the third corridor, Rico stopped.
He didn't turn around. Instead, he pretended to adjust the crate on his shoulder and whispered through clenched teeth.
"I'm going this way. Don't forget: the window corridor, then the spiral staircase, then the gallery. And if you hear a whistle..."
"I know."
"...run."
"I'm not running."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
Esteban could hear a small, trembling smile in his voice.
"Good luck."
The young man turned right with the lightness of a cat and disappeared into the darkness of a side corridor.
Esteban was left alone.
He had experienced solitude for ten years, but he had never known this kind. The loneliness of a man walking into his enemies' den with one bare hand, a held breath, and a heart pounding in his ears like a distant drum.
He climbed a narrow spiral staircase, each step creaking beneath his feet like a scream. He passed through one gallery, then another, and in the second, he stopped without meaning to.
A side door stood slightly open. Beyond it, beneath the light of a small lamp, stretched a row of beds.
They weren't soldiers' beds.
They were small and short, with neatly arranged white covers embroidered with tiny yellow stars. Against the wall stood a row of little shoes, lined up side by side, their soles still unworn.
Ten beds.
Ten pairs of shoes.
Esteban stared for a long time.
The room was clean, orderly, and warm. If he hadn't known where he was, he might have mistaken it for a nursery.
But something about it made his skin crawl.
There were no toys on the floor, no drawings on the walls, not even a forgotten scrap of cloth. Everything was in its place, polished and waiting.
Ten beds, just as the messenger had requested ten boys.
He stepped closer and reached out with his trembling hand, touching the pillow on the nearest bed. It was cold and soft, with a faint indentation as though a small head had rested there long ago.
He thought of Mateo.
Of the little fingers that had clutched his sleeve in the courtyard.
He snatched his hand back as though he had been burned.
Then he pulled the door almost shut and continued on his way.
The final corridor was long, ending at a heavy wooden door without carvings. There were no guards beside it, no lantern hanging overhead.
Just a door in a wall at the end of a corridor.
Esteban stopped in front of it.
His right hand was rising toward the handle when he heard hurried footsteps behind him, a faint tune being whistled, and the metallic clinking of a spoon against a bowl.
He turned.
A short, stout man was approaching down the corridor, wearing a black coat stretched over his belly as though it belonged to someone smaller. A thick, drooping mustache covered his upper lip. In his left hand, he carried a clay bowl filled with steaming liquid, while his right hand held a spoon, stirring its contents with an expression of disgust.
He wasn't armed.
In fact, he looked positively miserable.
"Ah, there you are." The man spoke as he approached, utterly unconcerned. "You're the new one."
Esteban froze.
"I'm..."
"Don't say anything. I know. I was new once, too. But listen, listen, don't go in just yet." The man raised his spoon. "The master is reading. He hates being interrupted while he reads. And if you ask me, he also hates being interrupted when he isn't reading."
"I'm..."
"Yes, yes. I know. We all want to go inside. But what can you do? Wait. I'm Julio."
He extended the spoon toward Esteban, then quickly pulled it back when he realized his mistake and wiped his hand against his coat.
"The permanent guardian of this door. And if you don't see any guards around, it's because I'm in the kitchen."
"You..."
"I was in the kitchen. You know why."
He glanced down at the bowl with a scowl.
"This."
He brought it closer to Esteban's face.
The liquid was grayish-green, with several unidentifiable chunks floating in it. It gave off a strange smell, something between soap and burnt onions.
"This is soup," Julio said grimly. "That's what they call it."
"Who's the cook?"
The question escaped Esteban before he could stop himself.
Julio's eyes lit up as though he'd finally found what he had been waiting for.
"His name is Pedro! Used to be a fishmonger at some port. I don't know which port or what kind of fish, but he swears he cooks with the spirit of the fish."
Julio spat into the bowl.
"The spirit of the fish! I'm telling you, the fish in my house used to die twice: once when they caught it, and again when this man cooked it."
"I'm..."
"And every day, he puts a piece of something into the soup that nobody can identify. Yesterday, I found a button in it."
He reached into his pocket and held up a small object before Esteban's eyes. It was a shiny brass button.
"I keep it as a souvenir."
"I'm..."
"I know you probably think it's excellent. That's fine. Even the meat here doesn't know what animal it came from. I used to buy a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese from the market every day, but the market's been closed for ten years."
He sighed bitterly.
Esteban was trying to find a polite way to end the conversation, but Julio had already settled against the wall beside the door as though he'd finally found someone willing to listen.
"And then there's the food." He raised a finger. "The food! Do you know how my wife used to cook?"
"I don't."
"Lentils!" he declared in a tragic voice. "Lentil soup with cumin, a little garlic, and a drop of lemon at the end. She used to say the lemon woke up whatever had fallen asleep."
He shook his head.
"I never understood what she meant, but I loved it."
He closed his eyes.
"She'd put warm bread beside the bowl and say, 'Eat. Eat. And don't talk with your mouth full.'"
He fell silent for a moment.
Something strange stirred in Esteban's chest, something dangerously close to a smile.
Then he looked at the heavy door, at the man beside him, and wondered how much longer this conversation would last.
"Did she..." he began cautiously. "Did she disappear?"
"Who?"
"Your wife."
"Ah."
Julio sighed deeply.
"Yes, yes. She disappeared. On that terrible day. Vanished just like everyone else. And there I was, left alone with..."
He waved his spoon through the air.
"...with this."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you. You're a good man."
Julio studied him with glistening eyes.
"Truly. It's rare to find someone who cares."
"It's nothing..."
"No, no, wait."
He suddenly raised his hand, then lowered it. His expression tightened before slowly relaxing.
"No. No, no. I'm lying."
"What?"
"She didn't disappear with half the world."
His voice had grown quieter, and his eyes carried the confusion of a man confessing something shameful.
"I tell that story to everyone I meet because it's prettier than the truth. But the truth..."
He scratched his mustache.
"The truth is, she left me."
Esteban stared at him.
"Three weeks before the disappearance. Because I was poor."
"Poor..."
"Very poor."
Julio shook his head.
"I worked in a warehouse, and my salary was barely enough to pay the rent for a single room. One morning, she told me, 'Julio, I love you. But love doesn't cook lentils.'"
He let out a short, sorrowful laugh.
"Then she packed her bag and went to live with her brother, who was a wealthy merchant."
"And since then?"
"I don't know. Maybe she disappeared with the others. Maybe she didn't. Nobody knows anything."
He raised the bowl to his mouth, then quickly lowered it and spat on the floor.
"But I tell everyone she disappeared with half the world. Do you know why?"
Esteban shook his head.
"Because that makes me a hero in their eyes, not a fool."
"You're not a fool."
"Actually, I'm a tremendous fool."
Julio smiled at him with strange gratitude.
"But you're kind, and that's enough."
"And you?" Julio suddenly asked, his mood changing with astonishing speed. "What's your favorite food?"
"I'm..."
"No, no, tell me. We're colleagues here."
He leaned closer as though sharing a secret.
"I have a theory. Every man who serves the stars carries a soup in his heart that he longs for. Choose yours."
Esteban looked at the man's flushed face and thick mustache, at the gray liquid in his hand, and for one very brief moment, he felt something strange and shameful.
He felt fond of him.
"Onion soup," he said quietly. "With carrots."
"Excellent!"
Julio slapped the wall with his palm.
"See? Every man has his own soup."
It was the most honest thing Esteban had said all night.
A brief silence settled between them. Somewhere in the distance, Esteban could hear water dripping.
Deep inside, he didn't know what to feel.
Before him stood an enemy. A man serving the very people who had taken his family. A man guarding the door of a murderer.
And this enemy was telling him about lentil soup.
"Ah, wait a moment."
Julio raised a finger, then quickly lowered it.
"You're new. And I haven't seen your tattoo."
Esteban felt his entire body freeze.
"Show me your hand."
His heart pounded in his ears like a war drum.
He considered slowly extending his right hand and striking. He could silence this man before he had the chance to scream.
But his hand trembled inside his sleeve, refusing to move.
"I'm..."
"Julio."
The voice came from behind the door.
It wasn't loud. It was calm and gentle, like a man asking for a glass of water.
Yet Julio jolted as though he'd been struck by a whip, and the spoon trembled in his hand.
"Sir!"
"Have you finished?"
"I... yes! I was just... talking to..."
"I know. I heard."
There was a brief pause.
Then the voice spoke with astonishing gentleness.
"I don't like the soup either."
Julio became so flustered that he nearly dropped the bowl.
"You may come in."
The voice wasn't addressing the guard.
It was speaking to the man standing at the door.
"Go ahead."
Esteban couldn't tell how long he remained standing there before his hand finally moved.
He looked at Julio, who stared back at him with wide eyes, the bowl trembling in his hand as though he had only just realized where this stranger had come from.
Then Esteban grasped the cold handle, turned it, and pushed the door open.
He stepped inside.
The moment he crossed the threshold, a short line of red text appeared before his eyes. It neither glowed nor pulsed.
[WARNING: OPPONENT LEVEL EXCEEDS YOUR CURRENT LIMITS]
There was no further explanation.
The room was small and warm, illuminated by a single candle and a little fireplace where the flames danced peacefully.
A slender man with black hair tied back sat in a simple chair before the fire. He wore a clean gray coat and slowly closed the book resting in his lap.
Esteban had imagined this moment countless times during the journey.
A cruel face. Red eyes. A man in a black coat standing in the darkness, laughing.
He hadn't imagined a small, warm room, an open book resting on a wooden stand, or a half-full cup of tea releasing a thin trail of steam.
He hadn't imagined a man who looked like a teacher.
And that was precisely what made his feet refuse to move.
"Welcome, Esteban."
The man knew his name.
"I wasn't expecting you until next week." Raphael smiled. "But I'm glad you came. And you came on your own."
"How..."
The man slowly rose to his feet and glanced at Esteban's left hand, concealed inside his sleeve.
"Show me."
Esteban didn't move.
"Show me your hand."
He slowly extended it.
The palm was pale and clean, without a single mark.
"Ah."
Raphael shook his head with gentle sadness.
"Our followers aren't allowed in here without a tattoo. Yet you haven't even touched the ink. How honest of you."
"Where's Rico?"
"Which Rico?"
Raphael raised an eyebrow.
"Ah, the young man with the ugly star. No one's hurt him yet. I don't like anyone getting hurt before I've had a chance to ask a few questions."
"You..."
"Don't rush."
Raphael smiled calmly.
"Anyone brave enough to come here with his face uncovered deserves to be questioned. But before we begin, you should understand something."
His expression remained pleasant.
"I don't like violence. But I'm very good at it."
Neither man moved.
The red warning still hung in the air between them, visible to only one of them.
Then Raphael slowly raised his hand and gestured toward the door through which Esteban had entered.
Outside, Julio could be heard clearing his throat quietly. A moment later, his footsteps hurried down the corridor, the spoon clinking against the bowl that was still full as he muttered to himself about soup, lentils, and a wife whose whereabouts nobody knew.
Raphael stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
Esteban still watched the warning floating before his eyes.
[WARNING: OPPONENT LEVEL EXCEEDS YOUR CURRENT LIMITS]