Sami

Elaine stood on the dock, watching the ship with her arms crossed behind her back. The wind made her dark hair move in soft waves, as black as her mother's. In fact, almost everything about her was reminiscent of Shakky: her features, her demeanor, and even that beauty that seemed to draw attention without even trying.

But her eyes were Rayleigh's.

They held the same quiet determination, the same intelligence that seemed to silently analyze everything. It was a gaze capable of inspiring confidence and, at the same time, making anyone feel watched too closely.

“You and Buggy were planning to leave without saying goodbye?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as a small smile touched her lips. “What friends they are!”

Shanks chuckled and leaned against the ship's railing.

"Buggy had the misfortune of cleaning the toilets. I don't think your father was in a particularly good mood this morning."

"And was he in a good mood with you?" she asked.

"No, but I managed to escape before he saw me."

Elaine let out a small giggle, the sound making Shanks smile almost reflexively.

"So you were planning to leave without saying goodbye after all."

This time her smile was fainter. There was something different about her expression, a sadness she tried to hide, not very successfully.

This was no ordinary voyage. Roger was ill. Everyone knew it, though no one dared say it aloud. The captain had decided to sail one last time to reach the final island before it was too late.

Shanks's smile faltered slightly. He stepped away from the railing and climbed down the plank to the dock, stopping in front of her. The height difference between them had become noticeable. Though they were still young, the first signs of adulthood were already beginning to show.

Shanks observed her for a few seconds.

The small dimple that appeared on her left cheek when she smiled. The freckles scattered across her nose, barely visible against her sun-tanned skin, and those eyes.

He saw the same eyes every day in Rayleigh. But in her, they were different. Harder to ignore. Sometimes she felt she could see right through him, as if there was nothing, he could hide from her, and seeing her now, trying to pretend she wasn't sad, made her feel uncomfortable pressure in her chest.

“You know I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye.” Her voice came out lower than she intended.

The truth was, neither of them knew when they would see each other again. They didn’t know if the crew would stay together after this trip. Everyone knew the inevitable. They knew that the end was approaching. That sooner or later they would have to go their separate ways, but no one talked about it. Because as long as no one said it out loud, they could still pretend that nothing was about to end.

Elaine bit her lower lip slightly. For a few seconds, she tried to maintain her composure, but her eyes began to well up with tears. Her breath faltered slightly, and before the tears could fully escape, she brought a hand to her face to quickly wipe them away, as if she wanted to hide any sign of weakness.

Shanks watched her silently, unsure what to do. Part of him wanted to go to her, put his arms around her, and tell her everything would be alright. He wanted to assure her they would see each other again, that this wasn't the end, that one day they would return to Sabaody so he could tell her all the stories they still had to live.

But he couldn't. Because he wasn't sure they'd ever cross paths again, and Shanks hated empty promises.

So, he remained motionless, his fists clenched at his sides as he fought the uncomfortable feeling that pressed against his chest.

When Elaine finished wiping away her tears, she let out a long sigh and looked up at him again. Although her eyes were still slightly red, she had regained some of the smile she always wore.

They were silent for a moment when Shanks seemed to suddenly remember something.

“Wait, I almost forgot.” He began searching for his trouser pockets until he pulled out a small wooden box, somewhat battered from voyages at sea. “Your birthday is next week, isn't it?”

Elaine blinked in surprise.

“You remembered?”  He nodded and handed her the box with a carefree smile.

“I won't be here to give it to you that day, so you'll have to be content with receiving it beforehand.” She opened the box curiously. Inside lay a simple silver necklace with a small white pearl in the center.

"A pearl?" Shanks scratched the back of his neck, a little embarrassed.

“I was fishing a few weeks ago and I caught it.” Elaine looked at him silently. “The others made fun of me because I spent half an hour fishing for just one oyster.”

“Sounds like something they'd do,” Elaine said.

“Buggy was the first to laugh.” A smile appeared on both their lips.

“When I opened it, I found the pearl. So I thought... I don't know... you might like it.

Elaine glanced down at the necklace.

It wasn't an impressive piece of jewelry. It had no diamonds or gold; it was simple. Probably any nobleman in the world would have scoffed at something like that. But she liked it.

“Thank you, Shanks.”  Before he could reply, she took the necklace and slipped it around her neck.

"It fits."

Shanks looked at her for a second longer than usual; he would miss her terribly. The sparkle that appeared on Elaine's face made everything seem a little lighter. He smiled genuinely this time, and she extended a hand toward him.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Shanks...”

For a moment, the redhead stared at that hand suspended between them. Taking it was admitting that this was a goodbye. That the journey she was about to begin could change everything. That neither of them was certain they would ever meet again. But even so, Shanks extended his hand and gently took it.

“Same here, Elaine…”

──────────────────────────────

Shanks walked briskly through the long halls of Fingarland Manor. His footsteps echoed against the polished marble as he passed through nearly empty corridors, illuminated by enormous windows.

The meeting had lasted much longer than he expected, and to make matters worse, Sommers had intercepted him as he left. That despicable man always found an excuse to stop him and talk about the honor of being a Holy Knight, the privilege of serving the Celestial Dragons, or some other nonsense he had no interest in hearing. As usual, he had steered the conversation away with short, polite replies, hoping the other man would lose interest, but Sommers seemed incapable of understanding when someone didn’t want to talk to him.

Even so, Shanks hadn’t tried to shake off his company too quickly. He couldn’t afford to appear desperate to get back. He knew perfectly well that Garling and Shamrock would notice any strange behavior, and the last thing he needed was to arouse suspicion.

If either of them connected him to her, if they discovered that he genuinely cared about what might happen to her, any chance of helping her would vanish before it even began. That's why he had to be careful. With his words, his actions, and even the way he looked at her. In Mary Geoise, one mistake was enough to condemn someone.

As he walked through the corridors, his mind returned again and again to the scene in the throne room. To the image of her kneeling before Garling, chained, forced to endure humiliations she should never have had to face. That memory made his stomach churn.

He had spent years preparing himself to endure the atrocities of that place without reacting, convincing himself that it was a necessary sacrifice to fulfill the promise he had made to Roger. However, seeing her there had been different. It had shattered, in a matter of seconds, the control he had spent years building.

He quickened his pace.

He knew she would be in her chambers. What he didn't know was how to face her when he saw her. He would have to explain many things. He would have to tell her the truth. But how could he explain that he wasn't there of his own free will? How could he convince her that the white cloak, the title, and the obedience were little more than a front? From her eyes, he must look exactly like everyone else. Just another man in the service of the monsters who ruled the world, and that was what he feared most.

Because he wasn't worried that she was afraid of Mary Geoise. He was worried that she was afraid of him.

Besides, he needed answers. Garling had mentioned that she was now the Empress of Amazon Lily, news that was still difficult for him to grasp, but which made sense. If anyone could inherit such a title, it was her. She had always possessed an undeniable determination, a force that compelled others to take her seriously even when she was just a child. But she still didn't understand how she had ended up captured, or what circumstances had led her directly into Garling's hands.

Finally, she reached the enormous doors that led to his chambers. She paused for a few seconds and looked at both ends of the corridor. There were no guards watching the entrance, so he was grateful that no one saw him behaving like an impatient child.

He let out a slow sigh as he tucked a few stray strands of hair behind his ear. For the first time since leaving the hall, he felt a slight nervousness run through him.

Then he placed a hand on the door; a soft creak echoed as he opened it.

Shanks surveyed the room as soon as he crossed the threshold. Everything was exactly where it should be. The fireplace was lit, filling the room with a pleasant warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold of Mary Geoise's endless corridors. The fire cast shadows on the marble and dark wood walls.

To one side stood a huge bookshelf crammed with books. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. For years he had feigned interest in some, but most he had never opened. He loved to read, he always had, but these books were written by the victors of the world. Manipulated stories, half-truths, and carefully constructed lies to maintain the order the Celestial Dragons wished to preserve.

Near the fireplace lay a small parlor. As elegant as it was unnecessary. The carved wood gleamed in the candelabra light, reflecting the excessive opulence that characterized the Holy Land. Everything in that room was too big, too luxurious, too empty.

His gaze eventually shifted to the enormous bed at the far end.

Long silk curtains descended from the carved canopy, partially obscuring the interior. However, the orange light from the fireplace cast a shadow on the fabric. Someone was sitting there.

Shanks felt his throat go dry.

For a few seconds, he remained motionless, observing the figure through the curtains as he tried to gather the words he'd been repeating to himself since leaving the meeting room.

"El... hello."

The word came out stranger than he'd expected. He wasn't sure if he could still call her that. "El" had been the nickname he'd given her when they were children, back when she hated her own name and was convinced that being a girl was the worst injustice in the world. He still remembered the day she'd stood before Rayleigh, announcing, with all the seriousness she could muster, that she was now a boy and ready to become an official member of the crew.

She'd said it with a determination that didn't sound like a seven-year-old eager to see the vast ocean, ignoring the crew's laughter and her father's explanation that even though she was a boy, he wouldn't be taking her along. Shanks swallowed and cleared his throat.

“Look... I know this is all strange. I know you hate me, and frankly, you have every reason to. I understand. But I need you to let me explain.” The room remained still, disturbed only by the steady crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace. Silence was the only answer.

He walked toward her with slow, almost fearful steps. He had never been afraid of anything. Not the Marines. Not the dragons. Not even death itself. But in that moment, with Elaine's shadow silhouetted against the white fabric, he felt a lump in his throat.

“I don't agree with any of this,” he continued, speaking more to himself than to the person behind the curtains.” And I know you have no reason to believe me right now, but I promise I'm going to help you get out of here.”

It was the only promise he could make. The only one he was willing to keep, no matter the consequences.

He reached out and grasped one of the silk curtains between his fingers.

“Just let me...” He pulled the fabric aside, opening a path inside.

The words died in his throat. His eyes widened as he processed the scene before him. Elaine wasn't lying on the bed; instead, it was one of the officers assigned to patrol the corridors.

"What the hell...?"

The man was half-naked, his hands and feet bound with the bed curtains, and a makeshift gag covering his mouth. A dark mark was beginning to form on his forehead, clear evidence of a recent blow. But he wasn't dead; he could see his chest rising and falling with difficulty. He was just unconscious.

For a moment, Shanks simply stared and understood why there were no guards in the corridor. That was why no one was watching the door.

But before he could analyze the situation, he sensed a presence behind him. Years sailing alongside Roger, surviving in the New World, and the training he had received since arriving at Mary Geoise made him react purely on instinct. He felt the movement before he saw it, a slight shift in the air, an almost imperceptible change in the room's pressure.

He whirled around, his fingers closing around a wrist that held a knife just inches from his neck.

For a moment, they both froze.

She stared at him with an intensity that seemed capable of piercing him. Her black hair fell haphazardly over her shoulders, some strands clinging to her face with sweat and exertion. Her lip was still split from Garling's blow, and the bruise on her cheekbone was beginning to darken. Yet, there was no trace left of the prisoner they had dragged in. She had managed to free herself from her restraints, overpower a guard, and ambush him within his own quarters. Strange as it seemed, a small part of Shanks felt relieved. Because despite everything, she was still herself.

"Elaine..." he murmured, still gripping her wrist.

"Traitor!" The word fell between them like a knife.

Shanks felt something sink in his chest. He had imagined many times what it would be like to see her again after so many years, but never like this. Never with a gun between them and that contemptuous gaze fixed on him.

The memories came flooding back, unstoppable. The races across the dock deck. The arguments with Buggy. The visits to Sabaody. The afternoons listening to outlandish stories while Roger roared with laughter. The afternoons when Rayleigh carried her asleep in his arms after she had stayed awake longer than she could bear. Simple memories that now seemed to belong to another life.

Years had passed since they had last seen each other. Years without letters, without news and without explanations, and now she looked at him as if he were just another one of the monsters that inhabited Mary Geoise.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he tried to say.

But Elaine didn’t even let him finish.

With a swift movement, she used her free arm to propel herself at him. She didn’t try to stab him. She rammed him with all the strength of her body, forcing him back several steps across the room. There was rage in every movement, a contained fury that had been waiting too long for an opportunity to be released.

Shanks barely managed to maintain his balance. She used every second to struggle, trying to break free from his grip. She was fast. Much faster than he remembered, and even though she wasn’t at her best, she kept fighting as if her life depended on it.

He dodged the blows he could and endured the rest without responding. He didn’t want to hurt her. Not after everything that had happened. Not after seeing her chained up in front of Garling.

“Let me go!” she spat as she tried to break free.

“No.”

“Let me go!”

“Not until you calm down.”  Elaine let out a bitter laugh that held no humor whatsoever.

“Calm down?” Her gray eyes flashed with a fury “I saw you standing there. I saw you watching as that vile man beat me. As they dragged me around like an animal. And you did nothing!”

"I couldn't..."

"You didn't even try!"

Shanks clenched his jaw. He knew this was going to be difficult. Much more difficult than he'd imagined as he ran through the corridors. Because he didn't just have to explain why he was there. He had to convince her that he hadn't become what she saw before her eyes, and seeing the way she was looking at him, he wasn't sure he could do it.

They struggled for several seconds. Elaine fought like a cornered animal, using every inch of space she had to try to break free. Every blow he blocked twisted something inside him. He didn't want to be doing this. He didn't want to hold her or see her looking at him with that hatred that seemed to grow with every passing second.

But the difference between them was too great.

Shanks was taller, stronger, and had spent years training both at sea and on Mary Geoise. Elaine had also grown strong, much stronger than she remembered, but she was still hurting from the blows she had received that day and from the exhaustion of having been captured. No matter how hard she fought, her body had its limits.

Taking advantage of a moment of inattention, Shanks spun around and used the momentum to change position. Before she could react, he lifted her off the ground effortlessly. Elaine kicked and thrashed, hitting him wherever she could and hurling all sorts of insults, but he barely flinched. He took a few steps and sat her down on the armchair that stood before the fireplace.

Before she could get up again, Shanks caught both her wrists and pinned them against the arms of the chair. He didn't use more force than necessary, but he also didn't leave her any room to escape.

They stood face to face.

Elaine's breathing was rapid and ragged. Her chest rose and fell violently as she tried to break free once more. Her hair plastered to her face, and fury still burned in her eyes with the same intensity as when she had tried to attack him.

Shanks, on the other hand, seemed barely agitated.

“Let me go, you damned traitor!” she growled, writhing uselessly.

"No."

"I said let me go."

"And I said not until you calm down."

For the first time since entering the room, Shanks held her gaze. There was firmness in his eyes, but also something vulnerable. As if he were desperately trying to make her see beyond everything that surrounded him.

He wanted her to understand that he was still him. That, despite everything, he hadn't forgotten who he was.

Elaine clenched her jaw tightly. The muscles in her arms trembled with the effort, with rage, and with the helplessness of finding herself trapped once again. She had escaped chains only to end up being immobilized by someone who, years ago, she had considered one of her closest friends.

Shanks waited.

He didn't try to justify himself. He didn't try to explain it yet.

Silence stretched between them as the fire crackled in the fireplace. In the distance, muffled by the thick stone walls, they could hear the occasional footsteps of a guard making his rounds, unaware of the small battle taking place inside that room and that one of their own lay unconscious.

When she stopped struggling, Shanks finally spoke.

“I’m not a traitor,” he said quietly. “I’m not with them.”

Elaine gave a bitter laugh.

“I saw you. You’re here, in their house, wearing their clothes.”

“It’s a front.”

“A front?” She looked at him as if he’d just said the stupidest thing in the world. “A front for what? To watch them enslave people? To watch them tear children from their homes? To watch them…”

“To destroy them from within.”

Shanks cut her off before she could finish.

The silence that followed was heavy. Elaine stopped moving for a moment, though disbelief was still written on her face.

Shanks felt his heart pound in his chest. He’d never spoken of this to anyone. Not to Buggy. Not to Rayleigh. Not even to the men on his crew. He’d carried this secret with him.

But she deserved to know.

“I didn’t choose this,” he continued. “I didn’t choose to be born with their blood. I didn’t choose Garling to be my father. I didn’t choose to be a Fingarland. But I did choose to come back.”

 He loosened the pressure on her wrists slightly.

“I chose to wear this mask. I chose to be seen as one of them. I chose to smile at them as I watch, as I learn, and as I wait for the right moment to destroy all of this.”

Elaine held his gaze.

“And you expect me to believe you?”

“I don’t expect anything.” Her response was immediate.

“But I need you to hear the truth.” She shook her head.

“The truth is, you disappeared for years. The truth is, you’re wearing their uniform now. The truth is, when I saw you again, you were standing there watching them keep me chained up.”

Each word hit him hard. Shanks opened his mouth to reply, but then something caught his attention.

A small white pearl gleamed in the fireplace light.

Her gaze slowly drifted down to it.

The necklace.

Years passed. The chain showed the wear of time. But it was still the same necklace she had given him that morning on the pier before leaving with Roger.

“You still have it..." Her voice came out softer than she intended.

Elaine followed the direction of her gaze and understood immediately.

“Don't change the subject.” She spoke, but without the same force, as if she had been caught.

“I thought you’d thrown it away years ago,” Shanks admitted. “After all this time.”

Elaine looked away.

“It’s just a necklace.” I speak trying to sound convinced

Shanks almost smiled.

Because they both knew it wasn’t true. If it had been just a necklace, it wouldn’t have survived so many years. It wouldn’t have crossed oceans. It wouldn’t have reached Mary Geoise. It wouldn’t have remained around her neck even after everything she believed about him.

“Sure,” murmured. “Just a necklace.”

For the first time since the argument began, he loosened his grip on one of her wrists—not completely. His hand remained close, just in case, but he gave her space.

“Let me explain everything,” he said finally. “And if, after hearing me out, you still think I’m a traitor… then I’ll accept it. But at least give me a chance to try.”

Elaine remained silent. The light from the fireplace danced across the walls as they gazed at each other.

Finally, she nodded.

"Speak."

Shanks slowly released her wrists and stepped back. He sat at the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a respectful distance between them.

Elaine drew her knees to her chest almost instinctively. As if she were still preparing to defend herself. As if listening didn't equate to trusting.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with untold years.

Shanks spoke in a measured voice, weighing each word, but without hesitating. There was no turning back now. If Elaine wanted to call him a traitor after this, at least she would know the whole truth.

“Before the crew disbanded,” he began, his gaze fixed on her, “Roger called me aside. I thought it was to say goodbye, like he did with everyone. But no. He took me to the bow of the ship as the sun was setting and said, ‘Shanks, I know who you are. I know where you come from.’

Elaine frowned but didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t know what he was talking about at first. I… I didn’t know. No one had told me.” His jaw tightened.” Roger told me my father was a Celestial Dragon. That my blood was that of those monsters. That I was the son of one of the most dangerous ones in this place.”

“And how did you end up on the Oro Jackson?” Elaine asked, her voice softer than before.

“Roger found me in a chest during the God Valley incident. Even though he didn’t know how I got there, I suppose someone wanted to give me a chance. Someone who thought a child didn’t deserve to grow up in that hell.”

 Shanks lowered his gaze for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts.

“Roger didn't tell me to hurt me. He told me because he trusted me. Because he needed someone to know the truth before he left.” He paused. “Because he asked me something.”

Elaine watched him intently out of the corner of her eye, the resentment slowly replaced by something more complex.

“He asked me to help the next generation,” Shanks continued. “Not to let the world rot as it was. That when the time came, when the King of the World was about to fall, I would be there so that those who came after could sail toward a dawn that Roger would never see.”

 Silence settled between them once more.

“That's why I came back,” Shanks said, looking up. “Not because I wanted to. Not because I'm one of them. I came back because I needed to earn their trust. I needed Garling to see me as a loyal son, as another Holy Knight. I needed access to their meetings, their documents, and their secrets. To know how to destroy them.

"And have you succeeded?" Elaine asked.

“Partially,” Shanks admitted. “I've seen things. I know which levers pull the strings behind the scenes. But it's still not enough. One mistake and everything could crumble, and I can't allow that. Not after everything I've sacrificed to get here.”

Elaine remained silent. Shanks couldn't tell if this stillness was a good thing or a bad thing. She stared at him, as if trying to find the lie in his eyes, the crack in his story. But there wasn't one. Everything he had told her was true.

“How can you,” Elaine finally said, her voice barely a whisper, “submit to this? To them. To live among monsters, pretending you're one of them. How can you endure this torture?”

“I don't know either,” he answered honestly. “Sometimes I think I'm going to break. Sometimes, when Garling looks at me with those cold eyes, I feel like he knows. That he's always known and is just waiting for the exact moment to see me fall.”

He paused, staring at his hands. He didn't know when he'd brought them together, clenching his fists in anger, as if he himself believed he was part of it all.

“But then I remember why I do it. I remember the nights at the Oro Jackson, laughing without care, feeling free for the first time in my life, and I know it's worth it. Worth it if, in the end, all this suffering allows others to experience that freedom.”

She looked at him for a few seconds, as if she truly understood what was happening. As if she could see the weight he carried on his shoulders, the years of silence, the decisions he had made, and everything he had sacrificed to get to this point.

“You're a fool to think that” she murmured, looking away, and a small smile appeared on Shanks's lips.

“I know...”

Silence settled between them again. The flames in the fireplace crackled softly, filling the room with warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold outside. Shanks watched her for a few moments. She looked tired. More tired than someone her age should be.

Years without hearing from her. Years spent busy building his own name at sea, assembling a crew, pursuing goals too grand to pause and look back. Over time, the memories became less frequent, hidden among adventures, storms, and battles, until he almost forgot she still lived in that archipelago.

It would be selfish of him to think she had waited for him. That she sat every afternoon on the dock watching the horizon, awaiting the appearance of a ship that might never return. Because he never made her a promise. Never swore he would come back. Never ask her to wait.

Life went on for both, as it always did. While he sailed the seas, she too had grown up. She had found her own path, built her own story far from him, and yet, seeing her, a part of Shanks couldn't help but wonder if ever, even just once, she had gazed at the horizon thinking of him.

“And you?” he finally asked. “I'm a little surprised you're Empress.

Surprise crossed Elaine's face.

"Do you know about Amazon Lily?"

“I just found out.” Shanks scratched the back of his neck, somewhat embarrassed. “I think I'm pretty out of the loop on what's going on down there."

Elaine let out a small, low laugh. For the first time since she'd entered the room, the conversation seemed to have shifted away from Mary Geoise.

“Well, I haven't been Empress that long either.” Her gaze fell to the fire. “It all happened after Roger's execution.”

The smile slowly faded from her lips.

“My father was devastated.” Shanks felt a knot form in his chest.

“My mother kept saying to give him time, that he'd eventually be himself again. But the days went by and nothing changed. Every morning I found him sitting in front of a bottle. Every night he was still in the exact same spot.  He drank and drank as if he could drown the pain that way.”

She was silent for a few seconds.

“I’d never seen my father like this. I always thought he was invincible. That nothing could bring him down. But suddenly he seemed… empty.” Her fingers closed on the fabric of her skirt. “I think it was the first time I understood how much Roger meant to him.”

The firelight briefly illuminated her moist eyes before she looked away.

“Then the Kuja arrived.” A tired smile appeared on her face. “And that’s when I found out my mother had been Empress of Amazon Lily.”

Shanks’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Shakky?”

The disbelief in his voice made Elaine chuckle.

“That was exactly my reaction.”

Shanks shook his head. He’d heard stories about Shakky. He knew she’d been a feared pirate in her youth, but he’d never imagined she’d ruled Amazon Lily.

“My mother never spoke of her past. I knew she’d been a pirate, but nothing more.” Suddenly, those women appeared and began speaking of her as if she were a legend.

For the first time she started talking, she seemed to relax a little.

“The Empress back then invited me to visit the island. To see Amazon Lily. To learn about my heritage.” Elaine let out a small laugh. “My father immediately refused.”

The amused expression became more pronounced.

“He didn't even let her finish the proposal. He heard the words 'Amazon Lily' and was practically prepared to throw them out of the bar.”

Shanks smiled; he could perfectly imagine the scene. The women flattering a young Elaine, and Rayliegh leaping from his stool to chase away that pack of snakes before his eyes.

"The problem is that the Kuja don't accept being denied anything by their Empress, much less by a man."

She leaned her head back against the armchair.

“So they decided to take matters into their own hands.” Her smile became genuine at the memory.” They kidnapped me.

Shanks chuckled.

"They did."

"While I was sleeping."

"I can't believe it."

"Neither could I when I woke up in the middle of the ocean."

For a moment, they both laughed.

“Although I think no one was angrier than my father when he found out I was gone.”

The image of Rayleigh waking up to find his daughter kidnapped by a group of Kuja was so absurd, and for the first time since arriving in that room, Elaine seemed to be herself again.

“Didn't Rayleigh come looking for you?” Shanks asked.

A small smile touched Elaine's lips.

“He would have if my mother hadn't stopped him.” She turned her gaze back to the flames in the fireplace, as if remembering that time. “I never knew exactly what she said to him. My father was ready to sail that very night. But somehow, she managed to convince him to let me go. Something about growing up on my own and finding my own way.”

Her smile softened.

“I spent years on Amazon Lily. At first, it was strange. Everything was different from what I knew. But eventually, I adapted. I learned their customs, their history, and their fighting styles. I trained with the Kuja warriors until they stopped seeing me as a foreigner and started treating me as one of their own.”

As she spoke, something shifted in her expression. He leaned back in the armchair.

“When Tritoma, the empress at the time, announced she would be stepping down, several women were proposed as possible successors. I was one of them,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice. “But wanting the position wasn’t enough. You had to prove yourself worthy. The Kuja are very proud. Nothing is given away there; everything must be earned.”

Her eyes sparkled as she recalled those days.

“There were trials and battles,” a smile spread across her face. “Battles that, of course, I won.”

Or the first time since they had begun speaking, she seemed to forget the chains, Mary Geoise, and everything that had happened that day.

“And that’s how I became empress.”

There was a moment of silence between them. It wasn’t awkward; after everything they had talked about that night, it felt strangely familiar. Shanks watched the flames in the fireplace as he listened to Elaine’s breathing on the other side of the armchair. She had always been like this—once she set her mind to something, she wouldn't stop until she got it, no matter how many obstacles appeared in her path. That's why something kept bothering him.

If she had fought to become empress, if she had survived for years among the Kuja and proven herself strong enough to lead them, how had she ended up there? The question had been nagging at him for hours. Ever since he saw her enter the hall in chains, he hadn't stopped wondering what had really happened. Because he knew that look. It wasn't the look of someone defeated. It was the look of someone waiting for the right moment to act.

But he didn't want to pressure her. Too many years had passed between them, and they were only just beginning to tear down the wall that had been built between them.

"Remind me not to mess with a Kuja," he finally murmured.

A small smile appeared on Elaine's lips.

"You'd be naked before you knew it." Shanks chuckled softly.

"I definitely don't intend to find out."

As if summoned, a soft groan of pain echoed from the bed, breaking the tension that had settled between them. They both turned their heads simultaneously. The guard was still tied to the canopy post, beginning to regain consciousness. Shanks raised an eyebrow before shaking his head.

“I think I just checked."

Elaine let out a more genuine laugh, one that reminded him for a moment of the little girl running along the Sabaody docks. Shanks stood and took a couple of steps toward the bed. Observing the reclining guard, he reached for the restraints—very good ones—and began to untie him.

“I'd better take him away before someone notices he's gone from his post. When he wakes up, I'll tell him he had an accident on the stairs, hit his head, and was unconscious for several hours. He won’t remember a woman taking his keys, leaving him naked, and tying him to a bed.”

He turned for a moment to look at her, somewhat worried.

“Besides, you should rest. It's been a long day.”

He was about to bend down to help the guard up when he felt a hand grasp his wrist. He stopped immediately and turned to face her. Elaine was still sitting in the armchair, but the slight smile had vanished. Her expression was different now. More serious. As if she had been gathering the courage to say something she had kept bottled up for too long.

"Shanks..."

Something in her voice made him give her full attention.

"One of mine was captured." Shanks frowned.

"What?" Elaine looked down at the floor.

“Several, in fact.” For a few seconds, she seemed to waver between continuing to speak or remaining silent. Finally, she took a deep breath.

"Girls."

The word landed in the room like a stone.

"The Boa sisters."

Shanks felt something settle in his head. Suddenly, he understood why she was there. He understood why she hadn't escaped sooner. He understood why he still saw that determination in her eyes even after everything that had happened.

"Celestial Dragons..." he murmured.

"Yes." The answer came out dripping with hatred.

Elaine looked away and stared at the flames in the fireplace.

“It was a simple mission. Just reconnaissance. Nothing I haven't done before. But they took several girls from the ship. By the time I arrived, it was too late.” Her fingers tightened on the fabric of her skirt.

"That's why you came," Shanks murmured.

“I came to rescue them. To bring them home. But Garling... he already knew I was coming. He set a trap for me, and I fell for it like a fool.”

"You're not a fool," Shanks said firmly. Elaine almost smiled. Almost.

“Now I’m here, and they are too, somewhere in this damned place, being…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Her hand clenched into a fist in her lap. “I can’t just stand by and do nothing, Shanks. I can’t.”

Shanks nodded slowly, processing the information.

“Are they Kuja warriors?”

“No, they’re still just children.” His voice was a soft, impatient sigh. “They’re barely training. Hancock has potential, a lot of potential, but right now she’s just a scared little girl who needs someone to get her out of here.”

“Like you,” Shanks thought as he watched her.

Because he saw her do exactly what he had done years before. Shoulder a responsibility too great for one person. Try to save others even when he knew he could lose everything in the process.

The silence grew heavy.

The flames in the fireplace crackled softly, but even that sound seemed distant. Shanks already knew what she was going to ask for before she uttered a single word.

“Help me,” Elaine said, looking him straight in the eye. “Help me get them out. All of them. Not just mine. As many as we can. The slaves who have been waiting for years for someone to do something.”

“Elaine…”

“I know it’s dangerous. I know it could ruin your plan. But if you are who you say you are, if you truly want to destroy them from within… what better way to start than by taking away what they value most? Their toys, their slaves, their damned sense of power.”

Shanks ran a hand over his face.

"It's not that simple. If Garling finds out that I..."

“He won't know.” Elaine leaned forward insistently. “Listen to me. We can set up a prisoner ambush. I'll be the one to escape. The one to organize the revolt. The one to free the slaves. You won't have to lift a finger. I just need you to give me information: routes, guards, and schedules."

“And what about you? If you organize a revolt and escape, Garling will come after you. He'll hunt you down.”

“Let him come after me.” Elaine's gaze was steely, the gaze of someone who didn't fear death itself. “He already has me on his list. It won't change anything. But if I escape, if I free the slaves and take my girls with me... Garling will think I did it alone. He'll never suspect you.”

Shanks studied her silently.

The logic was sound. Too sound. If Elaine managed to escape without leaving a trace, his cover would remain intact, and in the meantime, he would continue gathering information, waiting for the right moment to strike the final blow. But the risk…

“I need a few days,” he finally said. “To study the routes. To identify where they’re keeping the slaves. To find out when there are fewer guards.”

Elaine nodded, suppressing the impatience that she saw inside her.

“In the meantime,” Shanks continued, “you stay here. In this room, recover your strength. You’re going to need it.”

“What if someone comes in?”

“They won’t. My quarters are private. Not even Garling would dare to barge in unannounced. You’re safe here.”

“Safe?” Elaine let out a bitter laugh. “In the wolf’s den.”

“Trust me,” he said, extending his hand toward her. Elaine looked at his hand. Then at his eyes. Then at his hand again.

The gesture was small, yet it carried years of meaning. A bridge across the distance that time, silence, and mistrust had built between them.

Finally, Elaine raised her own hand. Not to shake his, but to point at him.

“If you betray me,” she said, her voice low but deadly, “I swear by the Sun God Nika that there won't be a corner of this world where you can hide from me.”

A real smile finally crossed Shanks's face.

“Do you still believe in Nika?”

“You don't have to be a child to believe in him.”

Elaine said nothing more. But the tension in her shoulders had lessened, just a little, enough for Shanks to notice the difference.

Then she finally took his hand and squeezed it gently.

It didn't feel like a deal or a sealed promise. It was something much simpler, and at the same time, more important. As if they were both reminding each other that they weren't alone anymore. As if, for the first time since they'd found each other again, there was someone else bearing some of the weight they carried on their shoulders.

Shanks was the first to pull away. He blinked uncomfortably before approaching the unconscious guard again. He slipped one hand behind his neck and the other under his torso to lift him. The man was heavy, but after years of sailing and training, it barely felt like a strain to him.

He walked calmly to the door.

“Rest, Elaine,” he said, grasping the doorknob. “We'll talk tomorrow.”

"Shanks."

The redhead stopped without turning around.

“Thank you.

His voice was so low it was almost lost in the crackling of the fireplace. Shanks remained motionless for a moment. Then he nodded once and left the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

When the door closed, silence filled the room once more.

Elaine let out a long sigh and leaned back against the armchair. For a few seconds, she tried to stay strong, but as soon as she was completely alone, she felt all the tension of the day begin to crumble. Silent tears trickled down her cheeks and streamed down her face.

It had been too much. Everything had happened too fast.

That morning, she had been on the deck of her ship, checking routes and preparing for the voyage to the next island. Now she was trapped on Mary Geoise, plotting a rebellion with her childhood friend, who also happened to be the son of the man who had kidnapped her.

She still couldn't believe it.

She remembered the moment she received the news. The exact instant she was informed that the Boa sisters had disappeared. As soon as he heard their names, he ran to the deck and caught a glimpse of a ship sailing away on the horizon.

Without hesitation, she ordered an immediate pursuit.

The chase eventually led her to the Sabaody Archipelago, the place where she had grown up. The smartest thing to do would probably have been to seek out Rayleigh, ask for help, gather more Kuja warriors, and devise a plan.

But she had never been particularly good at asking for help. Besides, she didn't want to drag her Amazons to a place like that. She knew the risks all too well.

From a young age, she had heard stories about slaves. She had seen men and women in chains as she crossed certain mangroves. People sold like merchandise. People treated as if their lives were worth absolutely nothing.

Rayleigh had taught her how to escape chains if she were ever captured. He had taught her to defend herself, to be wary, and to survive. He had also forbidden her from going near certain places. Now she understood perfectly why.

What she hadn't expected was to find the girls so quickly.

She had managed to infiltrate one of the trading houses. She had moved undetected for a while, hiding among corridors and empty rooms. She even caught glimpses of them.

But before she could get close, before she could even break the lock and get the girls out, everything went dark. She didn't remember the blow. She didn't remember who had captured her. The last thing she remembered was the image of the Boa sisters behind those bars, frightened and confused, before waking up hours later in Mary Geoise.

From then on, it had all been a succession of moments that felt like a nightmare. The chains around her wrists. The guards watch her every move. The endless white marble corridors leading her to the hall where Garling's voice spoke contemptuously of her parents as if he had the right to utter their names, and then Shanks.

Shanks standing next to another man identical to him. Shanks wearing the uniform of the Holy Knights. Shanks watching her from across the room as she tried to understand what was happening. For a moment, she had believed that everything she knew had shattered before her eyes. That the boy she used to run with along the Sabaody docks had vanished, becoming one of the people she hated most.

Elaine closed her eyes and let the tears continue to fall silently. She was tired. More tired than she wanted to admit. She felt guilty for the girls, guilty for having failed, guilty for having believed she could handle everything alone. Maybe if she had asked for help. Maybe if she had waited for Rayleigh. Maybe if she had brought more Kuja warriors with her. There were too many "maybes" swirling in her head.

Yet, deep down, she knew that this guilt wasn't truly hers. The real culprits were the men and women who lived in that city. Those who built their wealth on the suffering of others. Those who chained people simply because they could. Those who believed they owned the world and treated human lives as if they were objects they could buy, sell, or discard at will.

For the first time since waking up in that place, Elaine felt something akin to hope. It was small, fragile, and dangerous, but it was there. Because now she had a chance. A chance to destroy them from within. A chance to give them back, even if only a fraction, of the fear they had sown for generations. A chance to rescue the girls and everyone else she could save before it was too late.

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and looked up at the flames in the fireplace. The fire danced slowly, reflecting in her eyes, no matter what she had to risk. No matter how much pain it cost or how many times she had to get up after falling. If there was a way to reduce that place to ashes, she would find

═════════════════════════════════════════════

—I'll never get used to the smell,— Nero muttered, wincing.

—You get used to it,— Dante replied, without looking back.

—I don't want to get used to it.

Vergil said nothing. His cold, calculating eyes were already fixed on the reddish horizon where he knew the portal lay. Or perhaps he was thinking of something else.

It was strange to remember the moment the three of them began fighting side by side. Even stranger was that Vergil was now living with his son after disappearing practically his entire life, reappearing only to rip off his arm and unleash hellish chaos. But things had changed after Dante and Nero beat him senseless and somehow managed to bring him to his senses.

Over time, things between them stopped feeling tense; in their own way, they got along, and none of the three knew when it happened. Although they did know why.

Because of you.

Because you had managed to get three emotionally inept men to sit in the same room without them trying to kill each other.

You had appeared in Dante's life during a mission. You, a photographer obsessed with getting the perfect picture of demons, never seemed to understand the meaning of the word danger. Dante still remembered the first time he saw you: crouched behind some destroyed ruins, camera in hand, with the kind of survival instinct only a completely insane person could possess.

The demon appeared behind you far too quickly. You would have died right there if Dante hadn't appeared at the last second, cutting the creature down before it could touch you. He vividly remembers wondering what on earth a woman like you was doing in a place like that. But what truly baffled him was that, instead of thanking him for saving your life, you turned furiously toward him.

"All the photos came out blurry because of you!"

Dante stared at you for a few seconds, demonic blood still dripping from his sword, while you checked the camera with genuine indignation.

And that's when he was completely smitten.

You were the kind of woman who contradicted him just to see him argue. The one who walked into his office without knocking, moved empty pizza boxes off the sofa, and forced him to live like a functional person. You took over the store's bills. Technically, you paid them with Dante's money, but he still found it impressive that, thanks to you, he had hot water more than twice a week and a steady supply of electricity for an entire month.

But you also scolded him, even though he was a grown man, a legendary demon hunter, and several years older than you. When he did something stupid, you treated him like an irresponsible teenager. Lady and Trish would laugh at him every time they heard you reprimanding him from across the office. Dante was never bothered by it; he loved you and was sure he wanted to be with you. That's why he decided to propose.

He had imagined hundreds of possible responses. In most, you ended up laughing at him. In others, you slapped him for kneeling and soiling your pants before kissing him and accepting. He even considered the possibility that you might insult him first, just to keep up the tradition.

What he never imagined was seeing you cry.

He panicked as soon as he saw your hands cover your face. He didn't know what to do. He had faced giant demons, infernal portals, and ancient monsters that were much easier to handle than a woman crying in front of him. He jumped up, trying to fix something he didn't even understand.

—Hey, hey, calm down…— he murmured quickly. — You can say no if you want. It's okay, really. I understand.

He knew that, after all, his work consumed him. He lived surrounded by violence, danger, and blood. He was half-demon, probably not the most stable man on the planet to build a life with. You deserved someone who would be with you every day, not out killing demons.

But you shook your head, wiping away your tears in frustration, and confessed, your voice trembling, that you felt too old to get married.

Dante stared at you as if you'd just spoken in another language. He'd never thought about that. He was so much older than you. He'd never had a relationship that lasted long enough to worry about age or time. For a moment, he even thought you were talking about the difference in your lives. That thanks to his demonic blood, he'd end up outliving you.

But that wasn't it.

You told him you couldn't give him children, that the doctors had always warned you it would be difficult for you to get pregnant, and now, at your age, you felt the chances were even slimmer. The prime of your youth, as you yourself said through tears, was over. Perhaps he should find someone younger. Someone who could give him a family without complications. Not a woman who was starting to worry about the wrinkles around her eyes.

Dante watched you silently for a few seconds and then burst out laughing. You were obviously furious. You pushed him away immediately, humiliated and angry, unable to believe he could laugh in the middle of something that was so important to you. You turned to leave, furious, but Dante grabbed your arm and gently pulled you back, one hand encircling your waist.

—Honey, I've heard much scarier things coming out of demon mouths,— he said, chuckling softly. —Do you really think I care about that nonsense?"

You looked at him and knew that for the first time since you'd known him, he was completely serious. He told you he didn't care about having children. He just wanted you. He didn't need anything else. Then you kissed him and finally said yes.

The truth was, Dante had never been too concerned about having children. He'd just discovered he had a nephew; his father's bloodline clearly wasn't going to disappear anytime soon. Besides, he'd much rather share his life with you than chase after some absurd idea of ​​a family legacy.

What neither of you expected was that the doctors would be wrong. It turned out you weren't completely infertile. A month after the wedding, Dante nearly fainted when they found out you were pregnant. Not with one. With two.

Twins.

The universe really did have a strange sense of humor, because between him and his brother, it had to be Dante who was the lucky one with his genes.

You still remembered the look on his face when the doctor confirmed the second heartbeat. He sat completely still next to you, staring at the screen as if he'd just been told Mundus had returned from the dead. You decided to have the babies without even thinking twice, and from that moment on, Dante started taking care of you three times over.

The pregnancy hit you hard from the start. Nausea, dizziness, constant aches and pains, and a brutal exhaustion that made you barely want to get out of bed some days. On top of that, you were carrying part-demon twins, which probably explained why it seemed to drain all your energy.

Dante transformed into a surprisingly attentive husband. He cooked for you—or tried to—helped you walk when your legs hurt too much, and practically forbade you from lifting heavy things. He even started accepting fewer missions so he could be with you, or so you thought. In reality, he'd been secretly paying Nero to take jobs in his place for weeks. Of course, he never thought to tell you because he was absolutely certain you'd kill him if you found out he was sending Nero out to face demons all alone while he rested with you at home.

But he managed to conceal the situation despite being a terrible liar. Every time Nero returned with fresh injuries, Dante would come up with some ludicrous excuse before you could get too suspicious. They weren't clever lies, but they worked, and now that you were close to giving birth, Dante had practically become a shadow by your side. He wanted you to rest, avoid stress, and not do anything that might exhaust you.

That's why, when a major new demonic threat appeared, Dante vowed he'd be quick. Go in, destroy that son of a bitch, save the world, and be back with you before dinner. With an excuse, he ended up descending into Hell along with Vergil and Nero, leaving you in Lady's care. He trusted her almost as much as he trusted himself.

As they passed through the portal back, covered in demonic blood, Dante already imagined how the day would end. You'd sit on the sofa while he massaged your swollen feet, and you'd complain, between bites of pizza, that his daughters were already just as troublesome as him even before they were born. Dante would smile like a fool, taking all the blame.

When they arrived, they went through the gate where they had left the SUV—that piece of junk on wheels that Nero insisted on calling a vehicle—and he didn't expect to see you leaning against the door. You were wearing a loose maternity dress, your hair pulled back in a messy bun, and one hand was pressing against your enormous belly. Beside you, Lady held your arm, her expression a mixture of panic and resignation.

Dante stopped dead in his tracks. Nero nearly crashed into his back for not braking in time, and Vergil barely raised an eyebrow, though even he seemed to sense that something was wrong.

—What…?— Dante began, but he was already moving toward you before he could finish the sentence.

You slowly moved away from the SUV, walking toward your husband, your breath coming in short, ragged steps. You frowned, your hand pressed against your belly, trying to manage the contractions that came every few minutes.

—Honey…— Dante caught up to you in just three strides, instinctively placing his hands on your enormous belly. —Are you okay?— You looked at him with an expression heavy with sarcasm and exhaustion.

—Oh, yeah. I’ve never felt better,— you replied, your voice tense. —I’m only eight months pregnant. I had to come to Hell because nobody told me you three were going to play at slaughter, and right now I feel like a demon is twisting my uterus from the inside. But other than that, fantastic.

Nero looked away, clearly trying not to laugh because he knew it wasn’t the right moment. Dante blinked, looking up at Lady, who was still leaning against the truck with her arms crossed and a face that looked like she’d lost years of her life during the drive.

“Why did you bring her?”

Lady let out a dry, incredulous laugh.

—Why did I bring her?— she repeated. —I had no choice. She started having contractions three hours ago. I told her to wait, that we should call an ambulance, that coming to Hell to get you wasn't the first thing we needed. But this woman started yelling that if we didn't bring her herself, she was going to walk through the gate, and believe me, Dante, when a woman eight months pregnant looks at you like that, you're gonna get off your ass.

From the driver's seat came another exhausted groan. Nico, the driver and mechanic, was slumped against the steering wheel, her expression one of utter weariness. Clearly, she too had been dragged into this mess by the demands of a pregnant woman desperate to find her idiot husband before he died in Hell. She'd probably gotten Lady's call and had no choice but to speed off to get you.

Dante closed his eyes for a second, practicing breathing exercises he'd learned from a manual, "How to Stay Calm While Your Wife Gives Birth." But not out of panic that you were about to deliver, but rather to decide not to kill someone.

He looked at you again, this time with a mixture of guilt and concern that he barely tried to hide.

—Let's go to the hospital,— he said immediately, putting an arm around you and pulling you close. —Now.

—That's what I've been saying for the last three hours,— Lady muttered.

Another contraction hit you before you could reply. You clutched the front of his coat, wincing in pain, and Dante practically panicked as he felt you trembling.

—Oh, no, no, no…— he murmured quickly, placing a hand on your back. —Love, breathe. Breathe, okay? We're leaving now. It's over.— Nero watched the scene with a mixture of nervousness and guilt.

—Maybe we should move quickly…—he commented.

—Such an observer, —Nico grumbled as he restarted the engine.

Lady yanked open the back door of the SUV.

"Get in before this woman decides to have the twins right here and I end up traumatized for life."

Nero approached you from your other side with obvious clumsiness. He still didn't quite know how to handle you while you were pregnant; he seemed a little terrified of touching you too roughly and accidentally breaking something.

—Relax,— he said in a softer voice than usual, offering you his good arm for support. We're here. Everything's going to be alright.

You looked at him immediately with a strange mixture of affection and maternal irritation.

—And you,— you said, raising an accusing finger at him. —Since when do you go to Hell without telling me, huh? What do you think? Just because you killed a couple of demons, you can disappear without asking permission?

Nero opened his mouth to defend himself, then closed it again. Maybe he did have arguments. Maybe he could say he was an adult now, that he’d been fighting demons for years, or that he was technically stronger than everyone still believed. But he simply couldn’t, because you had been the closest thing to a mother he’d ever had.

From the moment he met you, you didn’t need any explanation to make room for him in your life. You served him a plate of food at the Devil May Cry table and told him, horrified, that he was too thin. Nero still remembered how strange it felt to have someone worrying about him like that.

When he lost his arm, you took care of him for days on end without letting him complain. When they discovered he was Dante's nephew, you didn't panic or treat him any differently. You just sighed, looked up at the ceiling, and said that Dante's father had clearly been an idiot too, because that family had a serious problem raising children properly.

So yes, even though Nero was an adult, even though he could already face enormous demons on his own and wasn't obligated to obey you, if you scolded him, he would listen and apologize afterward.

But before you could say anything, you noticed another presence in front of you. Dante's older brother was still exactly where you had left him, motionless, with the Yamato resting at his waist and that unreadable gaze fixed on you.

The last time you had seen him before the pregnancy was during that awkward dinner where Nero decided to try to give him a chance. There were long silences, tension thick enough to cut through the air, and conversations that never quite happened.

Vergil just watched you as you slowly let go of Dante's arm and Nero's shoulder and started walking toward him. Your steps were short and careful, forcing you to breathe between contractions as the weight of your belly seemed to announce your presence before you did.

You stopped right in front of Vergil and slapped him. The thud echoed. Nero's mouth fell open in shock. Dante let out a low whistle, smiling slightly at the woman he had for a wife. Lady covered her face with one hand as Nico muttered something like "shit…" from the truck.

Vergil didn't move an inch, his head tilted slightly, his eyes downcast, a little surprised by what you'd just done, a reddish mark beginning to appear on his pale cheek.

—You white-haired idiot,— you spat through gritted teeth just as another contraction shot through your body. —Only because I'm in this condition and you look too much like my husband am I not strangling you right here.

You took a deep breath, pressing a hand to your stomach.

"I hope this time it wasn't your fault."

Silence fell for a few seconds. You hadn't planned that slap with true malice toward Vergil. Honestly, you didn't even dislike him, which was rather strange considering everything he'd done. He'd opened hell portals, unleashed enough chaos to traumatize entire cities, and ripped off Nero's arm as if it were a recreational activity. But after living with him for months, you'd discovered that Vergil wasn't cruel for pleasure. He was just an idiot, just like your husband, who needed fatherly affection.

So no, you didn't hit him because you hated him. You hit him because, in your exhausted, pregnant mind, the most logical explanation was that Vergil had dragged Dante and Nero on another suicide mission because he'd decided to play Demon King again. Especially since it was exactly the kind of thing you'd expect from him. You didn't stop to think too much. Not with the contractions tearing your back apart. You just saw Vergil and reacted.

What didn't occur to you for a second was to consider the kind of man you had for a husband. Because if anyone was capable of concocting an absurd excuse, smiling in your face, and then willingly embarking on a hellish mission while promising to stay home and rest, it was Dante.

Vergil turned his eyes slowly toward you. The corner of his lip lifted barely, so slightly that anyone who knew him would have thought you'd imagined him smiling. Then he sighed, bringing a hand to his reddened cheek.

—It's good to see you anyway,— he said in that deep, calm voice that sounded serene even after being slapped.

Indignation flashed across your face again, battling directly against a smile you clearly didn't want to let out.

—You’re…— you began.

You couldn’t finish when another contraction hit you, sending your hand flying behind you and slouching slightly. Dante appeared behind you before you could try again and wrapped a protective arm around your waist.

—You’ll have time to kill it later,— he said with surprising pragmatism. —If you want, I can help. But now we need to get to the hospital.

Another contraction shot through your body, stronger than the previous ones, forcing you to tense up against Dante as a gasp escaped your throat.

—I’m not having this baby in Hell, —you muttered through gritted teeth when the pain subsided only slightly. —The girls will have enough family trauma without adding this.

Dante wasn’t listening anymore; all his attention was still on you, on how you were clutching his coat, and on the visible tension in your body.

So he began guiding you back toward the truck with far more care than he normally used when carrying legendary demon weapons. Nero followed closely behind, though he glanced at Vergil first. It was a strange mix of "I'm sorry" and "you totally deserved it." Vergil, of course, didn't react. He stood motionless for a few more seconds in the middle of the infernal clearing, still touching his reddened cheek as if he could still feel the echo of the blow, before walking behind you.

When Dante helped you into the truck, you raised a hand again and pointed an accusing finger directly at his chest.

—And you,—you muttered wearily. —You're next.

Dante let out a small, nasal laugh.

—I know. —He leaned down to kiss your temple gently. —Get in, love.

The door slammed shut.

The truck shot off as Nico began to curse because no one was considering the emotional state of the driver trapped with a pregnant woman about to give birth, another woman who spoke to her forcing her to go for the pregnant woman to take her to the entrance of hell to look for her husband and three men with demonic blood with more traumas than swords.

The drive to the hospital felt endless to Dante. He didn't care that Nico ran every red light he encountered, hurled insults at half the city from the window, and broke enough traffic laws to lose his license about ten times in a row. It was still too slow for him. Every contraction of yours made him feel like his heart was going to burst out of his chest, and every tiny twitch of pain made him more nervous than any demon he'd ever faced.

Nero tried to distract you by talking, Lady yelled at Nico not to crash the truck, and Vergil sat silently in the back, probably wondering how he'd ended up involved in an emergency delivery. Even so, amidst all that chaos, Dante couldn't stop thinking that nothing would change.

Because meeting you had put his life in order in a way he never imagined. Before you, there were only demons, debts, cold pizzas, and empty rooms. Then you came along, forcing him to remember to pay the bills, get enough sleep, and come home because someone was waiting for him there.

You gave him something he lost as a child and never imagined having again: a home, a family. And now, sitting in that disinfectant-scented hospital room, watching you sleep, exhausted, on the bed while you held your two newborn daughters to your chest, Dante understood that he would have gone through Hell a thousand times over if it meant coming back to you in the end.

Especially when both girls had completely white hair.

══════════════════════════════

Garling was not a man accustomed to regret. He had always gotten what he wanted. If something caught his interest, sooner or later he ended up getting it. But there was one thing he had never fully come to terms with: letting Shakuyaku slip away.

Even after so many years, the memory still gnawed at him from within. Shakuyaku had been perfect. Beautiful to the point of absurdity, proud, intelligent—a woman worthy of standing by his side. Garling was willing to overlook the fact that she had been a pirate, even when she caused his men too many problems. None of that really mattered to him.

That’s why he was so determined to win that year’s hunt. He had it practically in the bag. Shakuyaku was going to become his wife, the future mother of his children. A former Amazonian Empress Lily was a worthy trophy for someone like him.

But then Silver Rayleigh appeared. That damned pirate not only helped her escape, but Shakuyaku also chose him.

At that moment, he couldn't go after them; his injuries were still too severe, and there were more pressing matters to attend to after the disaster in the Valley of the Gods, so he left Saint Sommers in charge of monitoring the situation. It was a mistake.

Sommers couldn't be trusted with anything important, and by the time Garling had fully recovered and discovered they were both gone, rage nearly drove him to kill Sommers right there.

But it wasn't Sommers he truly hated. It was Rayleigh. That wretch who had stolen something he considered his own. From that moment on, he swore that one day he would have his revenge.

One day he would find a way to strike him where it hurt most, without warning and with no chance of escape.As he reviewed the new bounties issued by the Navy, an image caught his eye. The new Empress of Amazon Lily. That bastard's daughter.

And then she appeared.

Garling smiled the moment he saw her. All those years of waiting had been worth it. He didn't care that she was a pirate. He didn't care that she was Rayleigh's daughter either. If he couldn't have Shakuyaku, he would have her offspring. And through her, in a twisted way, he would still possess a part of the woman he had once lost.

But Garling was no longer young, and though the idea of taking revenge on Rayleigh still gnawed at him, the thought of taking another wife also wore him down. Because he knew exactly what she would be like.

With that blood running through her veins, she would never stay still. She wouldn’t be submissive; she wouldn’t bow her head or agree to obey him in silence. He could put a collar on her, lock her up, and force her to stay by his side, but even that was starting to seem exhausting. He no longer had the patience to deal with someone like that every day.

He had fulfilled part of the mission he had been given as a young man; he had fathered children, established his family’s name, and dedicated his life to serving the King. By that point, spending his final years watching over a rebellious woman seemed more like a burden than a desire. But beyond that, he knew that every time he looked at her, he would end up seeing Rayleigh’s eyes reflected in hers.

But Garling was not a man to give up on getting what he wanted. If he couldn’t possess directly what he desired, then he would find another way to do so.

The sound of the massive doors opening snapped him out of his thoughts. Garling looked up just as his twin sons entered the hall.

The two were identical from head to toe. The same red hair that had once caught that woman’s eye, the same sharp features, and the same intense gaze. Yet, even so, they were both different in their own way.

Garling discovered the existence of his sons during the hunt in God Valley. For a moment, he even felt grateful that the woman with whom he’d had an affair had given him offspring, even if she was a woman he considered inferior to himself. At that moment, it didn’t matter much to him. According to his plans, in a few hours he would have a new wife, and those children would grow up under his name.

But in the end, he lost one of his sons.

For years he tried to get him back. He sent men to infiltrate, to snatch him from that pirate’s ship, far from Roger and, above all, far from Rayleigh. Garling couldn’t allow a man like that to raise someone of his blood. He didn’t feel genuine affection for his sons, not the way other men did, but he understood perfectly what a Fingarland’s place in the world was.

To serve the King.

That was what he had done all his life, and that was what he expected of his sons.

That’s why, when Shanks decided to return on his own after Roger’s execution, Garling confirmed that it didn’t matter how many years someone lived among the trash of the underworld. If you discovered you were a descendant of a Celestial Dragon, sooner or later you would claim the place that was rightfully yours.

For Shanks, his first month in Mary Geoise was exhausting.

In addition to faking the reasons he was there, he had to get used to the new schedules, the heavy silence of the corridors, and the invisible rules that governed every corner of the Holy Land. He also had to bear the truth. His father was a Celestial Dragon, and so was a twin brother.

When he discovered it, Shanks was still sailing. He had already assembled his own crew. He was young, full of dreams, hopes, and ideals passed down by the man he truly considered his father. But everything changed the day he found that familiar emblem in the middle of the vast ocean.

That was when he met his father and his brother, Shamrock.

It was strange at first. Shanks didn’t remember him; he didn’t even know he existed. Shamrock, on the other hand, had always known about him.

The awkwardness between them didn’t last long. Shanks eventually came to understand that, behind the arrogance and impeccable composure, Shamrock just seemed to need someone who truly loved him. Someone who understood the pressure under which he had grown up. After all, for years he had believed himself to be the sole heir of Garling Fingarland, the only son destined to shoulder the expectations of Mary Geoise.

But when Shanks arrived, something changed between them. They grew close faster than anyone could have expected. They discovered similarities—the same tastes, the same favorite books, the same way of reacting to certain things. It was strange.

Shamrock had grown up in that oppressive place, surrounded by cruelty from childhood. On Mary Geoise, it was common to see a nobleman beat a slave until he bled. It was common to hear screams and keep walking as if nothing had happened; yet Shanks had never seen him raise a hand against anyone.

He gave orders, yes. He expected obedience; there was a harshness in him, a coldness learned to survive in that world, but never cruelty. That made Shanks wonder if, deep down, his brother had simply been born in the wrong place.

What would have happened if Shamrock had ended up on Roger’s ship instead of him?

For as long as he could remember, Shanks had lived alongside Roger. No one had ever really explained how he’d ended up there; he only knew fragments of the story. A baby found inside a chest, as if he were a forgotten treasure after the Battle of God Valley.

But even with all the luxuries of Mary Geoise, he couldn’t bring himself to regret that childhood on the Oro Jackson. The constant sound of the sea. The crew’s laughter. The absurd arguments, the nights under the stars, and the freedom.

The years he spent living with Buggy, training to be a pirate, getting into all sorts of trouble that eventually required them to be rescued. The days they would visit the Sabaody Archipelago so Rayleigh could see his family. Days when he no longer just played with Buggy, but also spent hours telling stories of his adventures to a girl who had inherited her mother’s beauty and her father’s cunning.

Those were his best years. That is why, before his execution, and before Roger told him the truth about the world, he promised himself, as his captain drew his last breath, that he would save humanity.

Even if, to achieve it, he had to lose himself in the process.

For that reason, he was there now, walking alongside his twin brother toward the man who had given him life. His footsteps echoed on the polished floor—rhythmic, measured, exactly the same as his brother’s. Both wore the white cloaks of the Holy Knights draped over their shoulders, swords hanging at their sides from their belts, and the same stern expression that Mary Geoise demanded of her warriors.

“My sons,” Garling spoke as soon as the massive doors to the hall finished opening.

Shanks hated that place—the cold silence of its corridors, the cruelty disguised as nobility, and the way everyone seemed to look the other way while the world rotted beneath them. But no matter how much he loathed it, he couldn’t leave.

There was something inside him that kept telling him he had a duty to fulfill. A debt to pay. Roger had entrusted him with the truth about the world before he died. He had placed a burden on his shoulders that was far too heavy for someone his age, and ever since then, Shanks had understood that he could not live only for himself.

By then, he had mastered his role. He had learned when to remain silent, when to lower his gaze, and when to feign indifference. He had patiently built that mask of coldness, forcing himself to harden his face so they would trust him, so they would stop seeing him as the lost son who grew up among pirates.

“Father,” said Shamrock, bowing his head just enough to show respect without appearing submissive.

Shanks did the same a few seconds later. He couldn’t call that man “father.” The word stuck in his throat every time he tried to say it. Because for Shanks, that word had always belonged to someone else. To a man who laughed too loudly, who drank until he fell asleep on the deck, and who was capable of sacrificing everything for his crew.

Garling watched them, his fingers clasped around the hilt of his sword. In the candlelight, his silver hair looked almost white, and his eyes scanned his children with an unbearable coldness, as if he were appraising weapons before a battle.

“I’m glad you came,” Garling said.

His voice conveyed no joy whatsoever. There was something about him that made the air in the hall feel heavier, as if his mere presence crushed everyone else.

“You have duties to fulfill in the coming days,” he continued, “but first I want you to witness something.”

Shanks exchanged a brief glance with Shamrock. His brother seemed as disinterested as ever, almost bored. He had one arm crossed behind his back and the relaxed expression of someone accustomed to the eccentricities of the Celestial Dragons. Shanks, on the other hand, felt an uncomfortable twinge in his chest.

Garling rarely did anything without an ulterior motive. And when he spoke that way, with that almost gentle calm, it usually meant trouble.

“Something important, Father?” Shamrock asked.

Garling smiled. It was a small, elegant, and completely empty smile.

“I have always completed every mission entrusted to me,” he said slowly, as if speaking to himself. “I have always obtained everything I have desired. Everything I have set my sights on has ended up belonging to me.”

Shanks felt a chill run down his spine. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the tone of his voice. Or maybe it was the way Garling spoke of people just as other men spoke of objects.

The room fell silent for a few seconds. Then Garling lifted his face slightly.

“But there was one thing that slipped through my fingers.”

“One thing that for years consumed me from within because I didn’t have it.”

Garling’s voice remained calm.

“Do you want us to get it for you?” asked Shanks.

Garling slowly turned his face and smiled faintly, pleased to hear those words come from his son’s mouth. There was a certain satisfaction in his gaze, as if he were finally seeing that, even after growing up among pirates, Shanks had understood the importance of his blood and the place that belonged to him as a Fingarland.

“No… oh, no. I’m too old for certain things now,” he replied calmly. “Besides, I’m bored of having to wait for others to bring me everything. You’re young. Good blood runs through your veins; you deserve to have it all.”

He paused briefly before continuing.

“So allow me to present you with a gift.”

The massive doors to the hall swung open. The sound echoed off the marble columns, and a guard strode in with a firm gait, looking impeccable in his white uniform. He walked to the center of the hall and knelt before the throne, keeping his head bowed.

“Your Excellency, they have brought what you requested.”

Garling gave a slight nod.

“Let them in.”

Shanks kept his face expressionless, though he felt an uncomfortable pressure slowly building in his chest. At his side, Shamrock raised an eyebrow with slight curiosity, clearly intrigued by the spectacle his father had prepared.

Then the guards entered. Two men, weighed down by their armor, advanced through the hall, dragging a third figure between them. A woman.

Her hands were chained in front of her with shackles; her jet-black hair fell in disarray over her face and part of her shoulders, partially obscuring her features. Her dress was covered in dust, with the fabric torn in places and a fresh bruise on her cheekbone. And yet she did not seem defeated.

The guards forced her forward to the center of the hall. One of them dug a hand into her shoulder and shoved her down violently. Her knees struck the marble with a sharp thud.

Shanks recognized her instantly.

It was impossible not to. Even though years had passed. Even though her face had changed over time, becoming more mature and now bearing the marks of a fight.

It was still her.

Shanks felt something heavy tighten inside his chest as he watched her. For a moment, the hall vanished around him. He no longer heard the echo of the chains or the guards’ breathing. His mind dragged him back years, to days when the sea still seemed infinite and life didn’t feel like a burden impossible to bear.

He remembered the little girl running across the deck of the Oro Jackson along side him and Buggy, laughing too loudly every time one of them ended up falling to the ground. He remembered the visits to the Sabaody Archipelago, the endless afternoons at Rayleigh’s house, listening to her talk nonstop while she tried to eavesdrop on conversations that were clearly not meant for children.

She was always there. Following them everywhere, insisting on hearing stories about pirates, adventures, and sea monsters. And every time Shanks exaggerated something just to impress her, she ended up believing it with such earnestness that it made him tease her for days.

They were ridiculous memories. But at that moment, watching as they forced her to remain on her knees in the heart of Mary Geoise, those memories felt unbearably distant.

Because she didn’t belong there. No one like her could belong there.

Shanks kept his face impassive, forcing himself not to react. By then he had learned to control every gesture, every glance, every breath. In Mary Geoise, showing emotion was dangerous, especially in front of Garling.

What was she doing there?

The question struck Shanks’s mind as he continued to watch her. He couldn’t understand how she had ended up in Mary Geoise, chained as if she were a war trophy.

She was supposed to be in Sabaody with her mother. Rayleigh had lived as a pirate practically his entire life, but he would never have allowed his daughter to grow up in that world. She was his princess. Everyone who knew Rayleigh knew that. He always treated her as something too precious to drag out to sea and make her a target for the Government or other pirates. Even Roger used to tease him about how overprotective he was.

She was always there. Following them everywhere, insisting on hearing stories about pirates, adventures, and sea monsters. And every time Shanks exaggerated something just to impress her, she ended up believing it with such earnestness that it made him tease her for days.

They were ridiculous memories. But at that moment, watching as they forced her to remain on her knees in the heart of Mary Geoise, those memories felt unbearably distant.

Because she didn’t belong there. No one like her could belong there.

Shanks kept his face impassive, forcing himself not to react. By then he had learned to control every gesture, every glance, every breath. In Mary Geoise, showing emotion was dangerous, especially in front of Garling.

Shanks never heard any rumors about her sailing, or about a crew, or about bounties. After the Roger Pirates disbanded, she simply vanished from his life along with the rest of them.

The last time he saw her was years ago, during the Oro Jackson’s final voyage. Roger was already ill by then. The crew was sailing toward Laugh Tale, and the atmosphere had changed. Even as a young man, Shanks could feel the strange weight the adults carried, as if they all knew the end was near and none of them wanted to say it out loud.

She had run after him before they left; Shanks could still remember how she had complained that he felt “too old” to spend time with her and Buggy like he used to. And now she was kneeling before the Celestial Dragons.

Shanks felt an uncomfortable pang welling up inside his chest. Because he knew exactly what she must be thinking as she looked at him.

Anyone from the old crew would have tried to understand. They would have asked questions. They would have stared at him for hours before jumping to conclusions. Even Buggy would have ended up demanding explanations amid insults and shouts.

But she wouldn’t look for reasons or try to listen to what he had to say. In her eyes, he had simply chosen that place. He had abandoned everything Roger stood for to don the white cloak of the Holy Knights and walk alongside men like Garling.

Garling began to approach; his footsteps echoed through the enormous hall. She didn’t look up; her eyes remained fixed on the floor, her jaw tense, her back straight. Even kneeling and bound by the Kairoseki shackles, she refused to look defeated.

Garling stopped in front of her and watched her for a few seconds in silence.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

His words hung in the air, heavy with authority, with years of absolute power. Faced with anyone else, it would have been enough to make them bow their head. But she remained motionless.

Shamrock watched the scene with growing interest, amused by that small display of defiance. Shanks, on the other hand, felt his chest tighten, as if something inside him refused to breathe.

Garling raised a hand; his fingers, long and pale as claws, closed around the woman’s jaw and forced her to lift her face abruptly. His nails dug slightly into her skin as he pulled her upward, forcing her to look at him.

The face before him was Shakuyaku’s. The same beauty that had obsessed him years ago in God Valley. The same high cheekbones, the same wild elegance in her features, the same curve of her lips that had once made him believe that woman would end up belonging to him. Even beaten, covered in dust, and chained to the floor, she still had something hypnotic about her.

But her eyes were Rayleigh’s. That cold, steely gaze that seemed to defy the whole world without saying a word. The same unbearable intensity that pirate had whenever anyone tried to break him. A look that could intimidate even the bravest knight.

Garling felt something stir inside his chest. For a moment, he said nothing. He just watched her, clenching his jaw as if trying to swallow all the memories that look had just brought back.

“You’re just like your mother,” he murmured finally, and his voice came out lower than he intended. “The same beauty… damn it, the same beauty…”

His fingers tightened a little more around her jaw, forcing her to remain still before him.

“But you have the same look as that bastard.”

Shanks clenched her fists without realizing it. She felt her nails dig into the palms of her hands as she watched Garling hold her like that, speaking of Rayleigh with contempt, as if he were trash, as if that man hadn’t been more honorable than any of the nobles breathing within Mary Geoise. And she hated the way Garling looked at her, as if she were something he could claim simply for having certain blood in her veins.

But she had never been weak. Ever since he’d met her, she’d always found a way to defy everyone, even Rayleigh. She argued, she insisted, and she did exactly what she wanted, even if it meant getting herself into trouble afterward. Shanks could still picture her crossing her arms whenever someone tried to give her an order, looking at them with that pride she’d clearly inherited from both her parents.

But seeing her there, chained in front of Garling, something inside him screamed that he had to protect her. Not just because she was a woman, nor because she was the daughter of his former first mate. It was something deeper. Something that had been buried for years and was now coming back with a vengeance, twisting inside his chest in a way he didn’t know how to describe.

For a moment, he wanted to shatter the mask he had built up over all those years on Mary Geoise. He wanted to go and grab Garling’s wrist, wrench it right there, turn toward her, lift her into his arms, and take her back home. But before his thoughts could turn into actions, she smiled.

It wasn’t a warm smile. It was dangerous. The smile of someone who had learned that words could hurt more than a sword.

“The only bastard in this room,” he said in a clear, firm voice, without a trace of fear, “is you.”

The sound of the slap echoed through the room like a lash. Her head snapped violently to one side, and the impact sent her crashing onto the marble floor. The sharp thud of her body hitting the floor made something inside Shanks tense up immediately. A trickle of blood slowly ran down from the corner of her split lip.

Shanks felt his own fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. He couldn’t do a single thing except stand there, watching, hating himself for it.

“You should be grateful I’m sparing your life,” Garling said.

His voice sounded furious, though he was trying to maintain that calmness that was so characteristic of him. Even when angry, he refused to give others the satisfaction of seeing him lose control. Garling looked down at her with contempt before continuing.

“Your father caused me too many problems in the past. Problems that someone should pay for.”

Shanks felt her stomach churn. All of this was nothing more than revenge, a punishment aimed at Rayleigh through her.

Garling slowly straightened up and calmly smoothed the cuff of his shirt, as if he’d just crushed an annoying insect under the sole of his shoe. Then he turned on his heel and walked back toward his sons.

“I’ve decided you can keep her,” he said with complete nonchalance, as if he were talking about the weather. “A gift from me. Whoever wants her can take her.”

Shamrock walked toward her with slow, relaxed steps, clearly amused by the situation. He stopped right next to her and began to examine her with the same curiosity one might use to inspect a recent purchase.

He walked all the way around her before whistling softly.

“Not bad, Father,” he remarked. “Not bad at all.”

Then he glanced over his shoulder at Shanks, wearing that arrogant half-smile that appeared whenever he thought he had the upper hand.

"What do you say, brother? Shall we share?"

Shanks didn’t answer. His jaw was too tight, and his heart was pounding too hard against his ribs.

Shamrock ended up crouching down in front of her until he was at her eye level. His eyes slowly traced her face, taking in the cut on her lip, the bruise forming on her cheekbone, and the way her black hair framed her features even in that miserable state. But even so, she looked dangerous and utterly beautiful.

“You’re pretty,” Shamrock said, his tone sounding almost surprised. “I didn’t expect that from someone born on the bottom.”

She lifted her face just enough to look at him. Her gaze was cold and calculating—the look of someone who was already sizing him up, searching for weaknesses, and thinking of the best way to strike as soon as she had the chance.

But before he could fully process it, she lunged at him.

The sound of clashing chains echoed violently through the hall. Her hands reached for the redhead’s face, but they only managed to scratch the air as she was stopped by the guards. They grabbed her violently before she could reach him and forced her back down onto the marble floor. She struggled in their grip, trying to break free as the chains of her handcuffs clanked around her wrists. Her clenched teeth, ragged breathing, and a hoarse growl escaping from the back of her throat made her seem more like a cornered beast than a prisoner.

Shamrock had leaped back without losing his composure. For a few seconds, he simply looked down at her, as if trying to understand what had just happened. And then he began to laugh. It wasn’t a mocking laugh. It was genuine. The laugh of someone surprised by something new.

“Well… she certainly has spirit,” he murmured as he readjusted his cloak over his shoulders.

The guards were still holding her against the marble, but even so, she continued to struggle as if she still believed she could rip everyone’s throats out. Shamrock watched her for a few more seconds before turning his face toward Shanks.

Shanks’ expression remained cold, controlled—exactly the same impassive mask as always. But Shamrock knew him too well not to realize that something was wrong.

Then he walked over to him and gave him a light nudge on the shoulder, snapping him out of his trance.

“I can tell you like her,” he said with an amused half-smile. “Ever since she walked in, you haven’t been able to take your eyes off her.”

Shanks didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say without giving himself away.

Shamrock smiled a little wider, amused by his brother’s silence.

“You keep her. I have other distractions tonight.”

Shanks blinked. For a moment, the mask of coldness he had built up over the years cracked ever so slightly.

“I…”

“Don’t argue,” Shamrock interrupted him before he could continue.

His tone remained relaxed, almost carefree, as if he truly believed he was doing him a favor. Then he turned to the guards and spoke with the ease of someone accustomed to being obeyed instantly.

“Take her to my brother’s quarters. Have her cleaned up and dressed. Make sure she understands her place, or someone will have to teach it to her in less pleasant ways.”

The guards nodded immediately. One of them grabbed her arm roughly and forced her to her feet. The other took hold of the chain of her shackles and began dragging her toward the exit without the slightest care.

She didn’t protest. She didn’t look back at Garling or Shamrock. But just before she crossed the threshold of the enormous hall, her gaze lifted for just a second, and then her eyes met Shanks’s.

He felt something heavy sink into his chest as he held that gaze he hadn’t seen in years. They were still the same eyes he remembered from Sabaody. The same ones that would light up when listening to absurd stories about the sea. The same ones that would narrow every time he teased her just to see her get angry.

She had recognized him from the start. She had seen the white cloak over his shoulders. The sword at his waist. The place he occupied beside Garling and Shamrock. And now she was trying to understand how the boy who had once sailed alongside Roger had ended up there. How someone like him could stand in that hall doing nothing.

He felt like he couldn't breathe, too many explanations stuck in his throat. Explanations he couldn't give her there, that she probably wouldn't even want to hear. He wanted to tell her it wasn't what it seemed. That he hated that place as much as she did.

That every day inside Mary Geoise felt like slowly rotting from the inside out. That he never forgot Roger, or Oro Jackson, or the people he once called family.

He wanted to tell her he was there for a reason. That Roger had left him with an impossible burden and that he had chosen to go down alone if it meant protecting the world someday. But it all sounded like an excuse.

Because in the end, she was still obeying orders. She was still standing next to the monsters who had just beaten her.

For a moment, Shanks thought he saw disappointment in her eyes. Of all the people in the world, she was one of the last he wanted to look at him that way.

The guards yanked the chains again, and she finally disappeared behind the massive doors of the hall. The metallic echo of shackles scraping across the marble floor lingered for several seconds after she was gone.

Shanks stood motionless, though his heart pounded so hard against his ribs he felt everyone could hear it. Seeing her there had shattered something he had spent years trying to keep intact—what he had built to survive inside Mary Geoise.

Garling turned, beginning to walk away.

“I hope,” she said with a venomous gentleness, “that you will appreciate the gifts I give you.”

Shanks immediately lowered his gaze.

“Yes, Father,” he murmured. The words tasted like poison. He had survived in that place for years thanks to lies, silence, and the mask he had built for himself.

But something inside him was beginning to break.

Because seeing her there had awakened too many things he thought were buried. A desperate need to destroy everything that kept her locked away in that place began to grow.

Shanks slowly clenched his fists, and deep in his mind, a single idea began to burn fiercely. It didn't matter what it cost or if it jeopardized his entire plan. He had to get her out of there.

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I hope it was translated well, thanks for reading.

La fortaleza —casa del árbol— tenía reglas absurdas, muchas creadas únicamente para alimentar su ego infantil. Sin embargo, la más importante y ridícula era “prohibida la entrada a niñas”.  

Mientras escapaba de los ninjas por los pasillos de la fortaleza con la energía hiperactiva de un niño convencido de que era un genio criminal, Lloyd terminó subiéndose hasta el techo. El viento golpeaba fuerte a esa altura riéndose de los intentos de los ninjas por atraparlo. El bounty apareció justo arriba de su cabeza las cadenas del barco rechinaban y en él estaba su tío, que sin mucho éxito trataba de convencerle que dejara las travesuras antes de terminar lastimado, pero Lloyd apenas le prestó atención. Estaba demasiado ocupado activando pequeñas trampas improvisadas para retrasar a los demás. Y durante unos segundos creyó que estaba funcionando.

Los ninjas terminaron atrapados entre cuerdas, cajas y mecanismos mal armados que él mismo había preparado, y Lloyd estaba tan orgulloso de sí mismo que ni siquiera notó el sonido metálico detrás suyo.

Primero escuchó el golpe seco de una cadena tensándose. Después el ancla cayendo. Y finalmente un dolor brutal atravesándole el abdomen antes de terminar desplomado contra el suelo del barco sin aire en los pulmones. El impacto fue tan fuerte que durante un instante todo se volvió borroso. Apenas logró incorporarse un poco, llevándose una mano a la panza mientras intentaba recuperar la respiración entre pequeñas inhalaciones dolorosas. Y entonces levantó la cabeza.

Ahí estabas tú.

Una niña —cercana a su edad— de cabello oscuro observándolo con una expresión que no parecía enojo infantil ni molestia pasajera, lo mirabas como si estuvieras completamente harta de él, como si delante tuyo no estuviera otro niño sino la peor criatura que habías conocido en tu vida. Tú parecías cansada de él.

Lloyd abrió la boca dispuesta a reclamarte apenas logró recuperar algo de aire, pero su tío habló antes.

Te regañó inmediatamente, claramente sorprendido de que hubieras ignorado órdenes directas para intervenir de esa manera. Sin embargo, a ti pareció no importarte demasiado el regaño. Ni siquiera bajaste la mirada avergonzada. Solo cruzaste los brazos y dijiste, todavía molesta, que alguien tenía que hacer algo porque estabas harta de él.

Fue irónico que al final del día tú fuiste castigada por desobedecer órdenes y actuar por cuenta propia, mientras él acabó durmiéndose temprano mientras su tío le contaba un cuento sobre por qué los Serpentine eran peligrosos.

Lloyd sabía que vivías en el monasterio junto a su tío. Nunca entendió realmente por qué estabas ahí y, siendo honesto, tampoco le importaba demasiado en aquel entonces. Solo sabía que no eras una estudiante como los ninjas. Mientras los demás practicaban combate o pasaban horas enteras perfeccionando técnicas, tú parecías vivir atrapada entre tareas interminables, que consistían en limpiar los pasillos, ordenar habitaciones, preparar té, acomodar pergaminos o ayudar a Sensei Wu con cualquier cosa que necesitara.

Y quizá precisamente por eso terminaste convirtiéndote en su objetivo favorito.

Porque Lloyd jamás olvidó el golpe que le diste aquel día.

Durante semanas enteras se dedicó a molestarte de todas las maneras posibles. En realidad, fastidiaba a todos los ninjas. Les teñía accidentalmente la ropa de entrenamiento, robaba comida de la cocina o dejaba pequeños polvos irritantes escondidos entre las sábanas de sus camas. Pero contigo era distinto. A ti no te hacía bromas por diversión. A ti te provocaba porque le encantaba la expresión que ponías cada vez que perdías la paciencia.

Ensuciaba los pisos apenas terminabas de limpiarlos, arrastrando barro por los pasillos con una sonrisa descarada mientras tú lo mirabas con ganas de asesinarlo. Dejaba huellas de suciedad sobre la ropa recién lavada solo para escuchar cómo apretabas los dientes intentando no gritarle. Incluso una vez le puso sal al té que llevabas para Wu y terminó observando desde una esquina cómo el maestro te regañaba suavemente mientras tú intentabas explicar, claramente frustrada, que no había sido tu culpa.

Y durante todo ese tiempo, Lloyd permaneció detrás de una columna observando la escena con una sonrisa llena de malicia, disfrutando absurdamente cada segundo.

Hasta que en una de esas veces que se descuidó. Todavía recordaba perfectamente la manera en que tu rostro se giró hacia el apenas notaste su expresión satisfecha. Durante un segundo creyó que simplemente ibas a insultarlo otra vez, pero no esperaba que te lanzaras hacia él.

El golpe contra el suelo le dolió. Tus manos terminaron alrededor de su cuello mientras intentabas estrangularlo con furia, y Lloyd apenas alcanzó a sujetarte las muñecas intentando sin éxito quitarte de encima mientras tú le gritabas que estabas harta de él. Los demás ninja tardaron varios segundos en separarlos porque, honestamente, algunos parecían demasiado entretenidos viendo cómo alguien finalmente intentaba matar a Lloyd.

Por supuesto, Sensei Wu decidió intervenir antes de que la situación empeorara.

Y así fue como ambos terminaron castigados limpiando y acomodando los pocos libros que salvaron del incendio del monasterio. Wu insistió en que trabajar juntos ayudaría a que dejaran de pelear constantemente. Lloyd pensó que era la peor idea posible desde el momento en que escuchó la propuesta. Tú pareciste pensar exactamente lo mismo.

Los primeros diez minutos fueron insoportables para Lloyd. Jamás había entendido cómo alguien podía disfrutar ordenar libros viejos durante horas enteras sin volverse completamente loco. Después de subir y bajar escaleras cargando montones de pergaminos y textos polvorientos, terminó desplomándose dramáticamente sobre el piso de madera, completamente cansado y aburrido.

Tú, en cambio, ni siquiera parecías agotada.

Seguías moviéndote entre las repisas con calma, limpiando cuidadosamente cada libro antes de acomodarlo nuevamente en su lugar correspondiente. Tu expresión ya no mostraba el enojo de hacía media hora. Había algo mecánico en la manera en que trabajabas, como si llevaras tanto tiempo haciendo aquello que ya podías hacerlo sin pensar realmente en ello.

Lloyd permaneció observándote unos segundos desde el suelo antes de hablar otra vez, incapaz de soportar demasiado silencio.

—¿De verdad te gusta limpiar libros o simplemente no tienes amigos con quienes salir? —preguntó con esa malicia infantil que siempre aparecía cuando quería molestarte.

Tus movimientos se detuvieron inmediatamente.

Por un instante estuvo completamente convencido de que volverías a lanzarte sobre él como hacía rato. Su mente comenzó a buscar desesperadamente formas de escapar mientras te observaba levantarte lentamente del suelo. Pensó en correr hacia la puerta, pero recordó demasiado tarde que Wu la había cerrado con llave. También consideró la ventana hasta recordar que el monasterio seguía volando por los cielos.

Sin embargo, para su sorpresa, tú simplemente caminaste tranquilamente hacia una repisa cercana y colocaste el libro que tenías entre las manos en su lugar antes de responder.

—Es mi trabajo diario —dijiste con completa calma.

La respuesta terminó desconcertándolo más que si hubieras intentado golpearlo otra vez. Lloyd frunció ligeramente el ceño mientras te observaba regresar con otro libro.

—¿Haces esto todos los días? —preguntó ahora con una curiosidad mucho más genuina.

—Sí. Es parte de las tareas que me deja el maestro Wu.

Te sentaste nuevamente sobre el suelo, aunque esta vez ligeramente más cerca de él. No demasiado. Seguías manteniendo cierta distancia, pero tu cuerpo ya no parecía completamente cerrado hacia él como antes.

Nunca supo exactamente qué fue lo que cambió aquella tarde en la biblioteca. Tal vez fue el calor sofocante de la habitación después de pasar horas encerrados. Tal vez el aburrimiento que sentía. O quizá el hecho de que casi lo estrangularas media hora antes había logrado acomodarle un poco las ideas. Fuera cual fuera la razón, por primera vez desde que se conocieron dejaron de hablarse como enemigos y comenzaron a conversar como personas normales.

Hasta ese momento siempre te había visto como la niña seria del monasterio. La que caminaba con expresión cansada mientras limpiaba los desastres ajenos y parecía vivir únicamente para obedecer tareas. Pero sentado contigo en el suelo de aquella biblioteca comenzó a notar cosas que jamás había intentado descubrir antes. Eras divertida. No de la manera exagerada y escandalosa de los ninjas, sino genuinamente divertida. Soltabas comentarios sarcásticos, contabas historias absurdas sobre la vida en el monasterio y tenías expresiones tan honestas que a veces Lloyd terminaba riéndose antes siquiera de darse cuenta.

Y lo peor era que tenían cosas en común.

Ambos pasaban demasiado tiempo escondiéndose para evitar responsabilidades, ambos adoraban las historietas de aventuras y ambos tenían una extraña obsesión por coleccionar un manga que llevabas años sin actualizar. Lloyd todavía recordaba la expresión orgullosa en tu rostro cuando le mostraste el pequeño escondite secreto que tenías entre dos repisas de la biblioteca, donde guardabas varios tomos viejos y revistas que habías ido reuniendo durante años. Había varios que él jamás había leído.

Hablaron tanto que dejaron de limpiar por completo. Los libros quedaron olvidados mientras discutían historias, personajes favoritos y teorías ridículas. Cuando el Sensei Wu abrió finalmente la puerta de la biblioteca ya entrada la noche, y encontró el suelo lleno de libros y ustedes sentados juntos riéndose bajito. Simplemente suspiró y los mando a dormir recordando que al día siguiente tendrían que terminar todo el trabajo pendiente.

Pero no se volvieron amigos de la noche a la mañana. Todavía pasaron días enteros molestándose mutuamente, empujándose por los pasillos o discutiendo por cosas absurdas. La diferencia era que ahora ninguno terminaba realmente enojado. Lloyd seguía escondiéndote cosas o haciendo comentarios insoportables, pero en vez de intentar asesinarlo cada cinco minutos, tú terminabas riéndote cuando la broma era suficientemente buena. Y Lloyd empezó a buscarte incluso cuando no tenía ninguna travesura planeada. Simplemente porque le gustaba estar contigo.

Pero descubrieron que él era el Ninja Verde, y su padre Lord Garmadon lo dejó atrás para que el siguiera su propio destino, Lloyd pasó horas enteras intentando entender qué se suponía que debía hacer con todo aquello.

El atardecer cubría el cielo de tonos anaranjados mientras él permanecía sentado observando el horizonte en silencio, con los pensamientos aplastándole el pecho de una forma que no sabía explicar. Su madre lo había dejado en una escuela para niños problemáticos porque no podía cuidarlo. Su padre, a quien llevaba años queriendo conocer y cuya atención había perseguido desesperadamente desde niño, apenas apareció en su vida antes de convertirse nuevamente en alguien que debía abandonar. Y ahora tenía un destino que jamás eligió.

Salvar Ninjago.

Convertirse en un héroe.

Derrotar a su propio padre.

Tan perdido estaba entre sus pensamientos que ni siquiera notó cuando te sentaste a su lado en la cubierta del barco. Solo se dio cuenta de que estabas ahí cuando escuchó tu voz romper suavemente el silencio.

Le dijiste que dejara de atormentarse tanto. Que el Sensei Wu lo ayudaría a entrenar y que eventualmente sería capaz de controlar todo aquello. Tu voz sonaba tranquila, sincera, pero Lloyd estaba demasiado frustrado para interpretarlo de esa manera. En su cabeza aquellas palabras sonaron como otro intento de decirle que simplemente aceptara el destino que otros habían decidido por él.

Y explotó.

Te dijo que no entendías nada, que no sabías lo que era crecer esperando el cariño de alguien que nunca estuvo realmente ahí, ni lo que se sentía descubrir que tu destino consistía en destruir a la única persona que alguna vez quisiste impresionar. Se desquitó contigo porque eras la única persona cerca. Porque estabas ahí escuchándolo. Porque estaba cansado, confundido y dolido.

Pero apenas terminó de hablar y volvió a mirarte, el arrepentimiento le golpeó el estómago de inmediato.  No parecías molesta ni ofendida. Lo mirabas con ojos comprensivos. Lo que hizo sentirse todavía peor.

—Yo ni siquiera conocí a mis padres —dijiste finalmente, bajando la mirada hacia tus propias manos.

Tu voz era baja, casi demasiado tranquila, y aun así logró hacer que Lloyd se quedara completamente en silencio.

—Por lo menos tú sabes quiénes son —continuaste lentamente—. Sean buenos o malos, sabes cómo se llaman. Abrazaste a tu madre, ella te cuidó hasta que pudo y tu padre… aunque sea un villano, aunque tengas que enfrentarlo algún día, por lo menos sabes de dónde vienes.

Mientras hablabas, tu voz comenzó a quebrarse poco a poco.

Lloyd observó cómo levantabas rápidamente la manga del suéter para limpiarte los ojos antes de que las lágrimas terminaran cayendo. Intentabas actuar como si nada estuviera pasando, pero era evidente que aquellas palabras llevaban demasiado tiempo atrapadas dentro de ti.

—He vivido toda mi vida en el monasterio —murmuraste—. No sé qué les pasó a mis padres. El maestro Wu nunca me lo dice. No tengo un poder elemental, así que limpio y ayudo con las tareas porque Wu dice que es lo mejor para mí que no debo arriesgarme o preocuparme por entrenar a diario.

Tu mirada permanecía fija sobre el suelo mientras hablabas.

—Wu me crió y sé que él es bueno conmigo. Sé que le debo todo… pero tú todavía puedes decidir qué hacer con tu vida.

El silencio que siguió fue insoportablemente pesado, Lloyd sintió que había sido un completo idiota. Se dejo llevar que acabo por arruinar una amistad contigo. Qué a partir de ahora solo serian palabras de cortesía las que se iban a dirigir. Pero para su sorpresa, apenas terminaste de limpiarte las lágrimas con la manga del suéter, levantaste la vista hacia él y sonreíste como si nada hubiera pasado.

Después preguntaste si quería ir a jugar.

Y Lloyd aceptó.

Porque al final del día, seguían siendo niños.

Todavía recordaba aquella etapa con una nostalgia que le apretaba el pecho. Recordaba cómo comenzaste a ayudarlo a entrenar después de que descubrieran que era el Ninja Verde. Al principio él creyó que sería sencillo ganarte en combate, después de todo, tú no eras ninja, no tenías un elemento y pasabas más tiempo limpiando el monasterio que peleando. Pero esa idea desapareció rápidamente después de la décima vez que terminaba estampado contra el suelo.

Nunca entendió cómo alguien aparentemente tan tranquila podía pelear de forma tan agresiva cuando quería. Tú lo derribabas sin el menor problema y luego extendías la mano para ayudarlo a levantarse mientras te reías de él. Y lo peor era que terminaba riéndose también.

Recordaba las noches acostados sobre el techo del monasterio mirando las estrellas mientras hablaban de cosas absurdas hasta quedarse dormidos. Las tardes escapándose a recorrer Ninjago sin permiso, convencidos de que nadie descubriría que habían salido. La bicicleta vieja que encontraron abandonada y que insistieron en compartir, aunque ninguno sabía manejarla. Lloyd todavía recordaba perfectamente el terror en su cara cuando terminaron perdiendo el control cuesta abajo antes de chocar violentamente contra un puesto de frutas. De como corrieron entre risas ignorando las quejas del dueño. Hasta que los acuso con Wu. Y aun así, entre regaños terminaron sentados compartiendo un helado como si hubiera valido completamente la pena.

Fueron buenos años.

Probablemente los mejores que Lloyd había tenido.

Hasta aquella misión.

Todo ocurrió demasiado rápido. Los ninjas habían sido convertidos nuevamente en niños y la amenaza del Grundall empeoraba cada minuto. En medio de todo eso fueron a la tienda de Mystake, una anciana rara a la que el Sensei Wu le compraba el Té. Ella les dio el Té del mañana, la única oportunidad que tenían para arreglarlo todo antes de que fuera demasiado tarde.

Al usarlo podían revertir el rejuvenecimiento, pero también hacer envejecer.

Los ninjas terminaron acorralados sin poder hacer nada, aún en esa condición le decían que no lo hiciera, que si lanzaba el té perdería los mejores años de su vida. Que todavía era un niño y merecía vivir como uno.

Por primera vez entendió realmente lo que significaba aquella decisión. Si lo hacía, ya no habría vuelta atrás. Todo el tiempo que todavía le quedaba desaparecería en segundos. Los ninjas seguían gritándole, intentando convencerlo de escapar y buscar otra solución, pero él apenas lograba escucharlos. Su mente estaba completamente bloqueada hasta que levantó la vista y te encontró entre todo el caos.

Estabas sosteniendo un arma que encontraste por ahí apuntando directamente hacia el Grundall, preparada para atacar en cualquier momento si se acercaba más. Cuando notaste que él te observaba, giraste ligeramente el rostro hacia él.

No parecías asustada.

Sus miradas se cruzaron apenas unos segundos y entonces asentiste lentamente. Aquella pequeña señal terminó dándole la respuesta que necesitaba.

Lloyd lanzó el Té del Mañana.

La explosión de energía iluminó todo alrededor durante un instante cegador. El aire vibró violentamente mientras el poder del té comenzaba a expandirse, envolviendo a todos los presentes. La criatura empezó a desvanecerse lentamente mientras los ninjas recuperaban sus edades reales entre destellos de energía.

Y Lloyd sintió cómo su propio cuerpo cambiaba.

Fue una sensación extraña, incómoda, imposible de describir realmente. En apenas unos segundos su cuerpo comenzó a estirarse, los músculos tensándose y los huesos acomodándose dolorosamente mientras crecía de golpe. Cuando finalmente la luz desapareció, se sentía diferente. Más alto. Más pesado. Su voz incluso sonaba distinta dentro de su propia cabeza. Bajó la mirada hacia sus manos casi sin reconocerlas del todo.

Cuando levantó la vista hacia ti, el aire se atoró inmediatamente en sus pulmones.

Porque tú habías cambiado mucho más.

Seguías siendo tú, obviamente. Reconocía perfectamente tus ojos, tu expresión y la forma en que te movías. Pero ahora te veías distinta. Más alta, sí, aunque no era eso lo que realmente lo desconcertó. Tu cuerpo había madurado completamente en cuestión de segundos, te observaste varias veces, claramente nerviosa, como si ya no supieras cómo sentirte dentro de tu propio cuerpo.

Y Lloyd simplemente se quedó mirándote demasiado tiempo.

No fue hasta que notaste su mirada que reaccionó.

Desvió la vista inmediatamente, completamente avergonzado mientras sentía el calor subirle hasta las orejas. Sintió una sensación extraña en el pecho que no tenia nada que ver con el hecho que había envejecido.

No hablaron hasta en la noche. Era prácticamente una costumbre para ustedes subir al techo antes de dormir. El aire nocturno era fresco y desde esa altura podían ver las luces lejanas de Ninjago. Sin embargo, esa vez el silencio entre ambos duró demasiado.

Lloyd estaba acostado mirando las estrellas, intentando ignorar la sensación rara que le provocaba todo desde el incidente del Té del Mañana, cuando escuchó finalmente tu voz romper el silencio.

—Eres el mismo, ¿verdad?

La pregunta salió mucho más tímida de lo normal. Cuando giró apenas la cabeza para mirarte, notó que lo mirabas directamente, parecías temerosa pero esperanzada.

—Sí —respondió con una pequeña sonrisa cansada—. Sigo siendo yo.

Sonreíste ante su respuesta y volvieron a mirar el cielo.

Pero adaptarse a crecer tan rápido había sido mucho más difícil de lo que esperaban. Lloyd sabía que eventualmente la adolescencia llegaría igual que para todos, pero pensó que tendría tiempo para acostumbrarse poco a poco. En cambio, un día era un niño y al siguiente tenía un cuerpo completamente distinto, responsabilidades peores y emociones que ni siquiera sabía cómo manejar correctamente.

Aunque parecía que tú la estabas pasando peor que él.

Los primeros meses después del cambio fueron un desastre absoluto. Comenzaste a quejarte por literalmente todo. Te molestaba el calor, el frío, el ruido, las misiones, los entrenamientos y hasta la forma en que Kai respiraba demasiado fuerte cerca tuyo. Empezaron a salirte pequeñas espinillas y eso parecía arruinarte el humor durante días enteros. A veces te encerrabas en tu habitación sin querer hablar con nadie y otras explotabas de la nada por cosas absurdamente pequeñas.

Lloyd todavía recordaba la expresión derrotada de Wu cada vez que tú le gritabas frustrada antes de encerrarte otra vez en tu cuarto. Honestamente, todos terminaron agradeciendo silenciosamente que Nya comenzara a pasar más tiempo contigo, porque parecía ser la única capaz de entender lo que te estaba ocurriendo sin empeorar accidentalmente la situación.

Y entonces comenzaron a pasar cosas raras. La primera vez ocurrió durante la comida. Todos estaban sentados alrededor de la mesa cuando dijiste algo riéndote y, apenas un segundo después, una corriente de aire atravesó el comedor tan fuerte que varios platos y vasos salieron deslizándose violentamente por la mesa antes de caer al suelo.

Todos se quedaron en silencio. Pero como nadie entendió qué había pasado a sí que terminaron culpando al clima y continuaron con su día.

Después comenzaron a repetirse más incidentes.

Una madrugada, Lloyd despertó sobresaltado junto con el resto del monasterio al escuchar tu grito desde el otro lado del pasillo. Los ninjas corrieron pensando que algo te había atacado y encontraron tu habitación completamente destruida. Libros tirados, ropa volando por el suelo, papeles pegados contra las paredes y las cortinas agitándose salvajemente.

Tú estabas de pie sobre la cama con el cabello completamente desordenado y una expresión de pánico absoluto.

—¡Un tornado entró aquí! —insististe todavía medio dormida mientras señalabas alrededor.

Pero los demás pensaron que simplemente habías tenido una pesadilla extraña. Kai incluso soltó una carcajada antes de que Nya le pegara en el brazo para callarlo. Al final solo te dijeron que limpiaras el desastre y volvieron a irse dormir.

Días después de eso tú estabas afuera del monasterio barriendo hojas como parte de tus tareas diarias. Habías pasado casi una hora entera juntándolas cuidadosamente en varios montones enormes mientras murmurabas cosas molestas porque el viento seguía moviéndolas. Los demás ninja acababan de regresar de una misión y entraban distraídos al monasterio cuando Jay, completamente agotado, aterrizó accidentalmente justo encima del montón de hojas que acababas de terminar.

El silencio que siguió fue peligrosísimo.

Se levantó lentamente la vista hacia ti apenas se dio cuenta de lo que había hecho.

—Ah… puedo explicarlo—

Ni siquiera alcanzó a terminar la frase. Porque explotaste. Literalmente.

Antes de que cualquiera pudiera reaccionar, una corriente de aire brutal salió disparada a tu alrededor. Las hojas, las escobas y todo lo que estaba cerca salió volando violentamente por el patio mientras el viento azotaba las paredes de la tienda. Kai terminó arrastrado varios metros hacia atrás mientras intentaba sostenerse del suelo y Jay comenzó a gritar algo sobre “morir aplastado por basura”. Lloyd apenas logró cubrirse la cara antes de que una cubeta saliera volando directo hacia él.

Y en medio de todo el caos, tú permanecías completamente quieta, mirándote las manos con una expresión de horror absoluto. El viento desapareció tan rápido como apareció. Por varios segundos nadie habló.

Hasta que Wu avanzó lentamente hacia ti con una expresión que mezclaba sorpresa y confirmación al mismo tiempo. Te mirabas las manos atónita sin saber que te pasaba, Wu con tranquilidad puso una mano en tu hombro.

—Tienes un poder elemental. —Dijo con tranquilidad

Después de descubrir tu poder elemental, Lloyd juraba que jamás te había visto tan feliz en toda tu vida.

Era una felicidad completamente distinta a la de antes. No era solo emoción momentánea ni una de esas sonrisas pequeñas. No. Esta vez parecías genuinamente radiante, como si algo dentro de ti finalmente hubiera encajado después de años sintiéndote fuera de lugar. Y nadie te culpaba.

Habías pasado prácticamente toda tu vida viendo cómo los demás encontraban un propósito, los ninjas entrenaban, aprendían técnicas nuevas o descubrían habilidades increíbles, tú te limitabas a observar desde lejos intentando fingir que no te afectaba. Así que descubrir que también poseías un poder elemental fue como si de repente el mundo finalmente te hubiera dado un lugar.

Lloyd todavía recordaba cómo comenzaste a dar pequeños saltos de emoción apenas Wu confirmó que controlabas el viento.

—¡Sabía que algún día tendría uno! —repetías emocionada mientras señalabas alrededor como si necesitaras que todos entendieran que siempre lo habías sospechado.

Cole fue el primero en levantarte del suelo cargándote sobre sus hombros mientras comenzaba a gritar tonterías celebrando “el nacimiento oficial de la ninja del viento”. Los demás se unieron enseguida haciendo una especie de porra ridícula improvisada.

Incluso Lloyd terminó uniéndose. Y mientras te veía reír de esa manera, sintió una alegría tan genuina. Porque él sabía perfectamente lo mucho que aquello significaba para ti. Por eso comenzó a imaginar cómo sería entrenar juntos ahora que ambos tenían poderes. Pensó que finalmente podrían practicar técnicas, pelear lado a lado o aprender Spinjitzu al mismo ritmo que los demás.

Y técnicamente sí entrenaron juntos.

Aunque no exactamente de la forma que esperaba.

Wu solo te hacía meditar.

Horas enteras.

—La paciencia es una virtud —decía Wu tranquilamente mientras tú permanecías sentada cruzada de piernas intentando no perder la cordura—. El viento no siempre debe ser fuerte. A veces es apenas una brisa delicada.

Al principio intentabas obedecer, realmente lo hacías. Lloyd te veía sentarte durante horas intentando meditar, aunque cada pocos minutos abrieras un ojo para comprobar cuánto tiempo había pasado. Pero conforme avanzaban las semanas, tu paciencia comenzó a romperse lentamente.

Terminabas frustrándote, te levantabas molesta y abandonabas el entrenamiento antes de tiempo mientras Wu simplemente suspiraba como si aquello también fuera parte de la lección.

—¡Es injusto! —protestabas una noche mientras ambos estaban sentados sobre el techo viendo las luces lejanas de Ninjago—. Todos aprendieron Spinjitzu en los primeros días y yo llevo un mes entero sentándome a respirar como anciana.

Lloyd soltó apenas una pequeña risa antes de mirar el cielo.

—Wu sabe lo que hace.

Aunque, siendo honestos, ni siquiera él estaba completamente seguro de eso. El tampoco entendía las enseñanzas de su maestro.

Notaba lo mucho que comenzaba a afectarte. Veía la forma en que fruncías el ceño cada vez que otra meditación terminaba “sin resultados”. Escuchaba cómo te quejabas constantemente de no avanzar mientras los demás parecían mejorar cada día. Y aunque Lloyd jamás había sido especialmente bueno expresando lo que sentía, odiaba verte tan frustrada.

Por eso aquella tarde, mientras caminaba por Ninjago haciendo unos encargos para Wu, escucho aquel sonido.

Fue un tintineo delicado moviéndose junto con el viento.

Lloyd se detuvo casi por reflejo antes de girarse hacia una pequeña tienda cercana. Colgadas en la entrada había varias campanas de cristal decoradas con dibujos pintados alrededor del vidrio. Se movían lentamente con la brisa, produciendo una música tranquila y ligera que se mezclaba perfectamente con el ruido lejano de la ciudad.

Y de inmediato pensó en ti.

No sabía exactamente por qué. Tal vez porque el sonido era suave, pero constante. O porque las campanas no luchaban contra el viento, simplemente dejaban que este las moviera libremente. Y por alguna razón eso le recordó las palabras de Wu sobre cómo el viento debía sentirse.

Sin pensarlo demasiado —y usando casi toda la mesada que le daban— terminó comprando una.

Lloyd paso media hora meditando en cómo dártelo. Le avergonzaba la idea de entregártelo directamente y que tú comenzaras a burlarte de él o pensaras que se había vuelto raro de repente. Así que terminó entrando rápidamente a tu habitación cuando sabía que estabas entrenando y dejo la campana cerca de la ventana antes de salir corriendo como si hubiera cometido un crimen. Y después fingió que no sabía absolutamente nada del tema.

Durante los primeros días pensó que quizá no te había gustado. No mencionaste nada, no preguntaste quién había entrado a tu cuarto y tampoco apareció ninguna reacción exagerada como esperaba.

Hasta que una tarde, mientras caminaba por el monasterio, escuchó nuevamente aquel sonido. El tintineo suave de cristal moviéndose con la brisa. Lloyd levantó apenas la vista y terminó asomándose hacia uno de los patios exteriores.

Ahí estabas tú.

Sentada completamente quieta sobre el suelo, meditando en silencio mientras una corriente de aire suave movía apenas tu cabello. Y encima tuyo, colgando tranquilamente, estaba la campana de cristal balanceándose con el viento. Por primera vez en semanas parecías relajada.

Cuando notaste su presencia abriste lentamente los ojos y levantaste la vista hacia él.

—Me gusta el sonido que hace —dijiste tranquilamente—. Tal vez Wu pensó que me ayudaría.

Lloyd sintió inmediatamente cómo algo le apretaba el pecho. Porque obviamente asumiste que había sido Wu quien la dejó ahí. Y aunque tuvo el impulso de decirte la verdad, terminó quedándose callado. Solo asintió ligeramente mientras observaba la campana moverse otra vez con la brisa.

Después de aquello, tu entrenamiento cambió por completo. Poco a poco comenzaste a mejorar de una forma tan rápida. Mientras los demás ninjas habían necesitado meses enteros para dominar ciertos movimientos básicos, tú parecías entenderlos casi por instinto. Era como si el viento respondiera naturalmente a cada movimiento de tu cuerpo, como si siempre hubiera estado ahí esperando que finalmente aprendieras a escucharlo.

Entonces apareció él.

La primera vez que sintieron aquella presencia, el aire mismo se volvió extraño. El viento comenzó a moverse de manera violenta alrededor del monasterio, demasiado agresivo para ser natural, una figura fantasmal atravesó el lugar manipulando corrientes de aire con una precisión aterradora. Mucho más avanzada que la tuya. Mucho más poderosa. Y antes de que lograran detenerlo se llevó a Lloyd.

El caos que siguió fue inmediato.

Los ninjas comenzaron a prepararse para rescatarlo mientras exigían respuestas a Wu, porque era evidente que él reconocía perfectamente a aquella figura, Sensei Wu finalmente habló sobre él.

Morro.

Su antiguo estudiante.

El anterior portador del elemento del viento.

Wu explicó cómo había sido uno de sus alumnos más talentosos, alguien increíblemente fuerte y dedicado hasta que la ambición terminó consumiéndolo por completo. Habló sobre su obsesión con convertirse en el Ninja Verde, sobre cómo el resentimiento lo destruyó lentamente y terminó llevándolo a la perdición.

Y mientras todos escuchaban la historia preocupados por Lloyd, tú permaneciste completamente en silencio. Morro tenía el viento. Antes de ti.

Aquella idea comenzó a quedarse atorada en tu cabeza de una forma incómoda. Hasta ese momento siempre asumiste que tu elemento provenía de alguno de tus padres, porque los poderes elementales se heredaban. Por eso Nya había despertado el agua gracias a su madre. Entonces… ¿de dónde habías sacado tú el viento?

Las dudas comenzaron a perseguirte constantemente.

Comenzaste a preguntarte si había alguna conexión entre ustedes. Tal vez eran familia. Tal vez compartían sangre sin saberlo, un hermano, un tío incluso tu propio padre.

La sola idea hacía que el estómago se te revolviera. Pero no sabías con quién hablar de ello. Lloyd seguía desaparecido, y no querías enfrentar directamente a Wu porque una parte de ti sospechaba que no decía toda la verdad. Así que terminaste acercándote a Cole.

Probablemente porque Cole siempre parecía saber qué decir.

Pasaste varios minutos dando vueltas al tema mientras él simplemente permanecía sentado escuchándote con paciencia hasta que finalmente terminaste admitiendo lo que realmente te aterraba, que tal vez el origen de tu poder estuviera conectado con alguien como Morro.

Cole guardó silencio unos segundos antes de responder.

—No importa de dónde vino el poder —dijo finalmente—. Ahora es tuyo.

Y aunque la respuesta no solucionó completamente tus dudas, logró calmar un poco el miedo que comenzaba a crecer dentro de ti.

Hasta la pelea final.

Porque enfrentarte a Morro fue completamente distinto a cualquier entrenamiento que hubieras tenido antes. Él era rápido.

Manipulaba el viento con una facilidad aterradora, como si el elemento entero obedeciera cada pensamiento suyo sin el menor esfuerzo. Mientras tú todavía necesitabas concentrarte para controlar ciertas corrientes, Morro convertía el aire en armas, presión y destrucción pura casi de manera natural.

Y lo peor era que estaba usando el cuerpo de Lloyd.

Cada golpe se sentía extraño.

Porque, aunque sabías que quien estaba peleando no era realmente tu mejor amigo, seguía teniendo su rostro, su voz y sus movimientos. Más de una vez dudaste apenas unos segundos antes de atacar, y Morro aprovechó cada vacilación sin piedad.

Fue entonces cuando entendiste cuánto te faltaba todavía por aprender.

Aun así, pelearon.

Y al final lograron derrotarlo y rescatar a Lloyd, aunque cuando todo terminó y finalmente pudiste verlo libre otra vez, apenas respirando agotado después de todo lo ocurrido, sentiste un alivio, tu cuerpo simplemente reaccionó antes que tu mente. Lo abrazaste.

Él se quedó completamente quieto durante los primeros segundos. Como si su cerebro necesitara tiempo para procesar lo que acababa de pasar. Después correspondió el abrazo lentamente. Aunque ninguno dijo nada, ambos sabían perfectamente por qué te estabas aferrando a él con tanta fuerza.

Porque ahora entendías.

Entendías exactamente lo peligroso que podía ser perderte dentro de tu propio elemento. Morro no había comenzado siendo un monstruo. Había sido un estudiante, alguien como tú, alguien que seguramente también creyó tener el control hasta que sus emociones terminaron consumiéndolo por completo. Comprendiste por qué el Sensei Wu insistía tanto en la meditación, en la paciencia y en controlar tu temperamento antes que enseñarte técnicas más avanzadas.

El viento necesitaba calma.

Si no aprendías a controlarte a ti misma primero, eventualmente el poder terminaría controlándote a ti. Por eso, cuando todo finalmente terminó y el monasterio volvió a quedar en silencio, buscaste a Wu. Necesitabas respuestas.

Lo encontraste en uno de los jardines exteriores, sentado tranquilamente como si hubiera estado esperando aquella conversación desde años. Intentaste mantener la calma mientras hablabas, él notó inmediatamente la duda que te estaba atormentando.

Así que preguntaste directamente.

Preguntaste si Morro era familia tuya.

Wu guardó silencio unos segundos antes de negar suavemente con la cabeza. Te explicó algo que jamás te había contado sobre los poderes elementales. La mayoría de las veces, sí, estos se heredaban de padres a hijos. Era lo más común. Pero no era una regla absoluta. Algunos elementos podían saltarse generaciones enteras antes de manifestarse nuevamente y, en otros casos cuando un portador moría sin un sucesor directo, el poder simplemente buscaba por sí mismo a alguien compatible.

A alguien digno de recibirlo.

—El viento te eligió a ti —dijo Wu finalmente.

No eras hija de Morro. No eras su hermana ni compartías ningún vínculo secreto con él. Solo eras una chica común que, por alguna razón, terminó siendo considerada la portadora adecuada para aquel elemento, eso te alivió más de lo que esperabas.

No preguntaste nada más después de eso. Simplemente asentiste ligeramente y abandonaste el jardín en silencio mientras intentabas ordenar todo dentro de tu cabeza.

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Y eso fue lo que realmente la inquietó. No la muerte, no el cuerpo tendido frente a ella, sino la facilidad con la que todo empezaba a dejar de importar. Como si el mundo, ese que hasta hace poco la había ahogado, ahora ya no tuviera forma de alcanzarla.

Se perdió observando aquel cuerpo, tanto que olvidó por completo al hombre que tenía frente a ella, al mismo al que estaba a punto de entregarle su alma. Fue su voz la que la trajo de regreso, obligándola a abandonar esos pensamientos antes de poder aferrarse a ellos.

—Aún no —respondió el Charro—. Pero lo estarás en unos minutos. Por ahora, eres lo suficientemente viva en tu alma como para estar aquí, fuera de él, hablando conmigo.

Volvió la mirada hacia su cuerpo. Lo observó con una quietud extraña, como si ya no le perteneciera del todo. Vio cómo su pecho se levantaba apenas —una vez, dos, tres— en respiraciones débiles, lentas, como si cada una fuera un esfuerzo que el cuerpo ya no quería hacer.

—Puedo devolverte —dijo el Charro—. Puedo mandarte de regreso a ese cuerpo, hacer que abras los ojos, que respires hondo, que te levantes y camines.

La idea de volver le resulto absurda. Las monjas rezarían. Los médicos dirían que es una casualidad. Sus padres llorarían de alivio. Pero nada de eso la salvaría de la vida que le esperaba.

— Incluso puedo darte a ese hombre que crees amar, —El siguió hablando con calma— pero estas advertida.

—¿Advertida de qué? —preguntó ella, con la voz más baja de lo que pretendía.

— Lo que ofrezco tiene un precio —

El silencio volvió a caer entre ellos. La lluvia dejó de tocarla, como si el cielo la hubiera apartado del mundo. Y en ese espacio suspendido, sus pensamientos comenzaron a ordenarse con una claridad que no había tenido antes.

Podía aceptar.

Respirar otra vez.

Tenerlo a él.

Podía aferrarse a esa posibilidad y construir algo que se pareciera a la felicidad, aunque fuera suficiente para engañarse.

Pero el precio… su alma.

La eternidad.

El infierno que tantas veces le habían descrito desde niña. Siempre le enseñaron a ser buena, a ser obediente, a vivir sin mancha para que, al morir, pudiera descansar en paz. ¿Y ahora tendría que condenarse por decisiones que nunca fueron suyas?

Sintió una punzada de indignación. ¿Por qué tenía que pagar por los pecados de otros? Por las decisiones de su padre, por la vida que le impusieron, por un compromiso que nunca eligió. Le enseñaron a ser sumisa, a aceptar, a sonreír y obedecer, a creer que en esa obediencia encontraría una forma de felicidad. Pero ni la sonrisa más perfecta podría devolverle lo que había perdido. Ni siquiera la vida que le ofrecían de regreso se sentía realmente suya.

Pero ese hombre sí podía devolvérselo.

La idea se instaló en su mente con una fuerza peligrosa. ¿Qué tan terrible era perder su alma por la eternidad, si la vida que le esperaba era igual de vacía? Si de todos modos iba a vivir encadenada a algo que no quería, ¿no era mejor elegir al menos la ilusión de haber decidido por sí misma?

¿Pero si él no la amaba? Si nunca lo había hecho de la forma en que ella lo amaba, si incluso con la ayuda del Charro ese amor seguía siendo insuficiente, ¿no sería egoísta de su parte exigir algo que nunca le perteneció? ¿Aferrarse a un sentimiento que no era correspondido, solo porque no sabía cómo soltarlo?

Bajó la mirada un instante, sintiendo cómo esa verdad se acomodaba dentro de su pecho. Tal vez no tenía que aceptar nada. Tal vez podía simplemente quedarse así. Dejar que todo terminara. Si no entregaba su alma, si no hacía ningún trato, quizá aún existía alguna forma de salvación. Quizá su destino no era el infierno ni ese regreso, sino algo distinto. Otra oportunidad. Otra vida. Algo donde no tuviera que luchar tanto por ser amada.

Tragó saliva.

Pensó en la vida que la esperaba si decidía volver, en ese vacío que la consumía incluso antes de lanzarse al agua y entendió que su decisión no tenía que ver con la muerte, sino con lo que estaba dispuesta a seguir soportando.

—No —dijo finalmente.

La palabra salió firme, más firme de lo que ella misma esperaba.

—No quiero volver. No quiero a ese hombre. Si me dices que no me amaba como yo lo amaba entonces no quiero comprobarlo. No quiero abrir los ojos para eso. Prefiero no seguir.

El Charro arqueó una ceja. No parecía sorprendido, pero algo en su expresión cambió, suavizándose apenas, como si esa respuesta confirmara algo que ya sabía.

—Eres tozuda —dijo.

—Lo sé.

—No tienes miedo a la muerte.

Dejó escapar una pequeña exhalación, casi una risa sin humor.

—Ya estuve muerta una vez —respondió—. El lago solo fue... el final.

No supo de dónde había salido aquella valentía para negarse. Tal vez ni siquiera era valentía. Tal vez era miedo. El miedo de perderse a sí misma. De convertirse en algo que ya no pudiera reconocer, de entregar lo único que todavía parecía pertenecerle por aferrarse a algo que, en el fondo, quizá nunca había sido suyo.

El Charro la observó en silencio durante un momento, como si pudiera leer cada uno de esos pensamientos que se agitaban dentro de ella.

—Sabes que no tendrás descanso —dijo con calma—. Las almas en pena como la tuya nunca descansan.

Sus palabras cayeron con un peso distinto.

Ella volvió a mirarlo, sintiendo cómo aquella posibilidad comenzaba a dibujarse con claridad en su mente. Vagar sin rumbo. Condenada a permanecer entre dos mundos, observando cómo los años pasaban sin poder alcanzarlos. Sin cruzar al más allá, sin encontrar descanso, sin un final verdadero.

No había salida.

No podía entregarle su alma por un amor obligado. No podía condenarse por la promesa de una felicidad construida sobre un sentimiento que quizá nunca existió de verdad. Aunque él cumpliera su palabra, aunque le devolviera a ese hombre, aunque le ofreciera una vida entera a su lado… ¿de qué serviría, si cada día se preguntara si aquel amor era real o solo el reflejo de un pacto desesperado?

La sola idea le revolvió algo dentro del pecho.

No.

Si iba a perderse, no sería persiguiendo una ilusión.

Y si aquello significaba vagar por la eternidad, convertida en un eco de lo que alguna vez fue, entonces lo aceptaría. Tal vez ese era el único destino que verdaderamente le pertenecía. Bajó la mirada hacia sus manos, pálidas, casi irreales bajo la luz intermitente de los relámpagos.

—No importa… —murmuró.

El Charro levantó apenas la mirada y dejó escapar un silbido largo, agudo, que cortó el aire de forma antinatural. Pareció atravesarlo todo, como si incluso el cielo se viera obligado a escucharlo.

Durante un instante no ocurrió nada.

Y luego, a lo lejos, entre la oscuridad de los árboles, algo se movió.

Fue una presencia que se reveló poco a poco, como si siempre hubiera estado ahí, escondida entre las sombras, esperando el momento exacto para mostrarse. Un caballo negro emergió de entre los troncos, avanzando con una calma que contrastaba con la violencia de la tormenta. Su figura parecía absorber la luz de los relámpagos en lugar de reflejarla, y cada paso que daba era firme, silencioso, casi irreal.

Su crin se agitaba con el viento, brillante bajo los destellos del cielo, y sus ojos no eran los de un animal. Eran rojos e intensos, fijos en ella con una atención demasiado consciente, como si entendiera más de lo que debería.

El Charro comenzó a caminar hacia él sin prisa, como si no hubiera duda de que sería obedecido. Se detuvo junto al animal, pasando una mano por las riendas con una familiaridad que hablaba de algo más profundo que simple posesión.

—Muy bien —dijo—. Entonces… tengo otra proposición.

Ella lo miró desde el suelo. Había algo en el que no terminaba de encajar, algo en esa tranquilidad que mantenía mientras todo a su alrededor parecía desmoronarse.

—¿Cuál?

El Charro no respondió de inmediato. Sujetó las riendas con suavidad, sin esfuerzo, como si el caballo no necesitara ser contenido, como si estuviera ahí por decisión propia. Luego, giró lo suficiente para que su mirada volviera a encontrar la suya.

—Ven conmigo.

Ella parpadeó, confundida.

—¿Qué?

—No te pido tu alma. No te pido que firmes nada —continuó, con la misma calma—. Solo míralo bien.

Hizo una breve pausa, dejando que sus palabras tomaran un peso antes de continuar.

—Si vuelves, te espera una vida que no elegiste. Un matrimonio sin amor. Un pueblo que te juzga. Un hombre que no te ve a ti… sino a lo que representas.

Su voz no se endureció, pero algo en ella cambió, volviéndose más baja, más cercana, como si no intentara convencerla, sino hacerla recordar.

—Y si no vuelves… —añadió— te espera la soledad. Vagando sin descanso, viendo cómo el mundo sigue sin ti, recordándoles a todos lo que fuiste, sin poder ser nada más.

Ella lo miró a los ojos, había algo en sus palabras que no podía ignorar, una verdad incómoda. No era lo que decía exactamente, sino la forma en que lo decía, como si no intentara convencerla, como si simplemente estuviera señalando algo que ya existía desde antes, algo que ella misma había estado evitando mirar. Y eso la irritó más de lo que esperaba, porque en el fondo entendía que había una parte de ella que quería creerle.

Aun así, negó suavemente con la cabeza, aferrándose a lo poco que todavía sentía como propio, a esa resistencia que no terminaba de romperse.

—Eso no es elegir —respondió, con una firmeza que le costó más de lo que dejó ver— Solo me estás arrinconando… a una salida que es peor que las otras.

Mientras lo decía, sintió cómo las palabras se asentaban dentro de ella, como si al pronunciarlas tomaran más peso del que tenían en su mente. Porque no era solo él. No era solo esa propuesta. Era todo. Su vida, sus decisiones, el punto al que había llegado sin darse cuenta. Y por un instante, el enojo no fue contra él, sino contra esa sensación de no haber tenido nunca una opción real.

El Charro no respondió de inmediato.

La sostuvo con la mirada, en silencio, y ese silencio no fue vacío. Fue denso, cargado, como si en él se estuviera formando algo que ella todavía no alcanzaba a comprender. Entonces, sin apartar los ojos de ella, dejó escapar una risa baja, contenida, que no sonó como burla si no como si su respuesta no lo hubiera sorprendido en absoluto, como si, de hecho, fuera exactamente la que esperaba.

Él se llevó la mano al rostro por un instante, cubriéndose apenas los labios, pero la sonrisa seguía ahí, insinuada en la forma en que respiraba, en la calma con la que volvió a mirarla. Y en sus ojos se reflejaba un brillo que pareciera que iba dirigido a ella.

—Te he estado observando, mujer —admitió con una leve sonrisa—. Sé quién eres. Sé lo que quieres. Tu corazón es egoísta… pero te lo niegas a ti misma.

Sintió cómo esas palabras se le clavaban con una precisión incómoda. Quiso rechazarlas, decir que no era cierto, que él no sabía nada.

 Pero no pudo.

Porque había algo en su voz, en la forma en que lo decía, no sonaba a acusación, sino a conocimiento. Como si la hubiera estado viendo mucho antes de ese momento, como si entendiera partes de ella que ni siquiera ella misma había querido mirar de frente.

Él montó con una facilidad el movimiento fue limpio, natural, casi elegante, y cuando quedó sobre el caballo, elevado por encima de ella, la imagen se volvió aún más irreal. La tormenta seguía rugiendo alrededor, pero no lo tocaba.

—Yo te ofrezco otra cosa —continuó—. Libertad.

Ella sintió algo moverse dentro de su pecho al escuchar esa palabra. Libertad. Era una palabra que siempre había escuchado desde lejos, como algo que pertenecía a otras vidas, a otras personas nunca a ella.

—Lo que tanto deseaste en esta vida. Nadie te dirá qué hacer. Nadie decidirá por ti… —su voz bajó apenas—. Y las personas recordarán tu nombre. Incluso aquellos que te lastimaron aprenderán a temerlo.

Lo miró sin responder. No era consuelo. No era paz. Era algo más intenso, más vivo. Algo que le hacía imaginar, por primera vez, una versión de sí misma que no estaba limitada, que no tenía que pedir permiso, que no tenía que aceptar lo que otros decidían.

Y eso la asustó.

Porque sabía que estaba mal.

Sabía que nada de lo que él ofrecía podía ser bueno. Que no venía sin consecuencias. Que no era un camino limpio ni correcto. Pero aun así sus palabras no sonaban como una trampa. Sonaban como una salida.

El caballo se movió bajo él, inquieto, como si estuviera listo para partir en cualquier momento. Pero él no hizo nada. No la apuró. No insistió.

—Lo único que pido… —dijo entonces— es que seas mía.

La frase debería haberle helado la sangre. Debería haberla hecho retroceder, rechazarlo de inmediato. Pero no fue así. Porque no sonó como una orden. Si no como si, de alguna forma, ya hubiera decidido que le pertenecía… pero sin imponerlo, sin forzarlo. Solo esperando

Sonó como algo más profundo. Más extraño.

—No embotellaré tu alma como hago con las demás —continuó—. No te voy a encerrar… ni a quitarte lo que eres.

Sintió cómo esa calidez regresaba, más intensa esta vez, extendiéndose desde su pecho hacia el resto de su cuerpo.  Algo que la hacía querer entender más.

—Pero estarás cerca de mí… —añadió él—. Todo el tiempo que quieras.

Frunció ligeramente el ceño, sintiendo que la forma en que él hablaba no encajaba del todo con lo que estaba ofreciendo, como si hubiera algo que no terminaba de decir, algo que se quedaba justo en el borde de las palabras. Lo miró con más atención, intentando encontrar sentido a lo que le proponía, pero entre más lo pensaba, más le incomodaba esa sensación de no poder sostener una respuesta clara.

—¿Soy tuya pero no soy tuya? No entiendo —dijo al final, y aunque su voz salió firme, por dentro había una duda que no lograba acomodarse.

El Charro soltó una risa baja, breve, distinta a las anteriores. No respondió de inmediato. La observó en silencio, con esa calma que no parecía buscar convencerla, sino dejar que ella misma se enfrentara a lo que estaba preguntando.

 —…No importa —murmuró al final, restándole peso con una facilidad que solo hizo que la inquietud creciera en ella —. No tienes que entenderlo ahora.

No insistió. Se quedó mirándolo, atrapada en esa forma en la que él la sostenía sin tocarla, en esa presencia que no la dejaba ir del todo. Sus ojos eran oscuros, pero no vacíos; había algo ahí que no terminaba de encajar con todo lo demás, algo más consciente, más atento a ella de lo que debería. Y eso la atormentaba más que cualquier amenaza.

—¿Si tomo tu mano… —dijo después, más despacio, como si al decirlo en voz alta lo volviera real— No podre regresar?

—No — Él no suavizó la respuesta.

Y el silencio que siguió no fue incómodo, sino pesado, como si cerrara algo que ya no podía abrirse otra vez.

 —Te van a encontrar —añadió con la misma calma—. Van a llorarte. Van a enterrarte con ese vestido…

Las imágenes se formaron solas en la mente, su madre llorando, su padre en silencio, el pueblo murmurando. Tragó saliva, esperando sentir algo que la detuviera… pero no llegó. Ni culpa, ni miedo. Solo una distancia extraña, como si todo eso ya no le perteneciera.

Bajo la mirada hacia sus manos mientras sus pensamientos se acomodaban, en ellas vio el anillo. Brilló bajo un relámpago, llamando su atención por un instante. Se quedó mirándolo más de lo necesario, sintiendo el peso de todo lo que representaba, todo lo que le habían impuesto sin preguntarle.

—No quiero esto… —murmuró, y no sonó como una decisión firme, sino como algo cansado, algo que ya no quería seguir cargando.

 El Charro inclinó apenas la cabeza.

—Entonces quítatelo. — No fue una orden, pero tampoco una sugerencia.

Ella deslizó el anillo fuera de su dedo con lentitud, sintiendo el roce, el vacío que dejaba al salir. Lo sostuvo un momento en la palma, observándolo como si intentara reconocerlo por última vez. Cerró ligeramente los dedos y lo lanzó al lago. El agua lo tragó sin hacer ruido, sin resistencia.

Se puso de pie. El vestido le pesaba, el tul mojado se le pegaba a las piernas, pero ya no le importó. Dio un paso, luego otro, sin pensar demasiado en lo que hacía, guiándose más por esa sensación que por cualquier idea clara. El suelo no se sentía igual, pero tampoco la detuvo. Se acercó al caballo, y el animal resopló suavemente, moviendo la cabeza, pero sin retroceder, como si también la estuviera esperando. El Charro seguía ahí, extendió la mano lentamente, sin apurarla, sin insistir, como si supiera que no hacía falta.

Su mano, aún húmeda la elevó despacio, como si el simple movimiento pesara más de lo que debería, como si en ese gesto se concentrara todo lo que estaba a punto de dejar atrás. Sus dedos se extendieron hacia los de él, pero no llegaron a tocarlo de inmediato. Se quedaron ahí, suspendidos en el aire, a nada de alcanzarlo.

Vaciló.

No fue un retroceso, ni una duda que la hiciera bajar la mano, pero sí un freno. Un instante en el que todo volvió de golpe, toda la vida que había dejado atrás y la que no iba a recuperar. Su pecho se tensó, no por arrepentimiento, sino por el peso de entender lo que estaba a punto de hacer.

—¿Dolerá…? —preguntó al final.

Su voz tembló apenas, más de lo que ella habría querido. Algo que no sabía nombrar, pero que la obligaba a detenerse un segundo antes de cruzar ese límite.

Alzó la mirada.

Él seguía ahí, arriba del caballo, inmóvil, con la mano extendida hacia ella como si el tiempo no pasara de la misma forma para él. No la apuró. No insistió. Solo la observó, con esa calma que no tranquilizaba, pero tampoco la empujaba.

—Al principio —respondió.

No suavizó las palabras. No intentó engañarla.

—Pero después lo olvidas.

El silencio que siguió fue breve, pero suficiente.

Bajó la mirada un instante hacia sus manos, observo las de él, parecían lizas, pero firmes, no tenían raspones ni por agarrar las riendas del caballo. Miro las de ella, le resulto extraño no tener su anillo que tantos meses atrás le quemo en la mano, estaban a centímetros de la de él, solo un leve movimiento y se tocaban.

Tragó saliva.

Y sin apartar la mirada por mucho más tiempo, terminó de cerrar la distancia.

Sus dedos tocaron los de él.

El contacto fue inmediato, firme, y en cuanto sus dedos se cerraron, él la levantó con facilidad, como si no pesara nada. Ella apenas tuvo tiempo de reaccionar. Apoyó el pie en el estribo, acomodó el vestido como pudo el rededor de sus piernas y subió, quedando sentada de lado, pero sin apartarse. No le dio la espalda. Se quedó frente a él, demasiado cerca, sintiendo otra vez esa presencia que la envolvía sin tocarla del todo. El espacio entre ambos se volvió denso, casi irreal.

Por un momento no dijo nada. Solo lo observó. De cerca, su presencia era distinta, no era el miedo lo primero que aparecía, sino una sensación extraña. No era ternura, no era amor… pero tampoco era vacío. Era algo más complejo, algo que no sabía nombrar y que, sin embargo, la hacía quedarse quieta en lugar de apartarse.

Sin darse cuenta, su mano se elevó apenas, como si buscara sostenerse de algo que no era el aire. Sus dedos rozaron la tela roja cerca de su cuello, apenas un contacto, ligero, como si quisiera comprobar que era real.

El Charro no se movió.

No la detuvo, pero tampoco reaccionó como alguien sorprendido. Sus ojos no se apartaron de ella ni un instante. Ese pequeño gesto, tan mínimo, la hizo sentir expuesta de una forma que no entendía.

Se acomodó ligeramente en la silla, girando lo suficiente para no darle la espalda. Su cuerpo terminó apoyándose con cierta torpeza contra él.

Sus brazos la rodearon.

El calor la envolvía mientras él tomaba las riendas, firme, seguro, como si ese espacio le perteneciera desde antes de que ella llegara ahí.

No era el de una persona viva. No era el calor que recordaba de otros cuerpos, no era el tipo de cercanía que había tenido con su amado en vida, con sus caricias parecían de consolación, de algo que solo uno anhelaba y el otro complacía. Ni el que había imaginado en sus pensamientos más intensos. Era más constante, más profundo, como si no viniera solo de la superficie, sino de algo que latía de una forma diferente.

Se dio cuenta de que no quería apartarse.

Poco a poco, la tensión en su cuerpo comenzó a ceder. Sus hombros dejaron de estar rígidos, su respiración se volvió más lenta, más profunda, como si por fin pudiera soltarse de algo que llevaba demasiado tiempo cargando. No entendía del todo por qué, ni en qué momento había dejado de resistirse, pero ya no estaba luchando.

Cerró los ojos.

Por primera vez desde que todo había ocurrido, no había imágenes golpeando su mente, ni voces, ni recuerdos que exigieran ser atendidos. Solo ese instante suspendido por primera vez se sintió protegida.

Sintió cómo él se inclinaba apenas.

No fue un movimiento brusco lo suficiente para que su voz bajara, para que sus palabras no tuvieran que cruzar la distancia entre ambos. Un murmullo, grave, contenido, que parecía quedarse más en el espacio que en sus oídos.

—No tardaremos en llegar.

Ella no respondió.

No porque no quisiera, sino porque no había nada que decir. La frase no traía preguntas, ni promesas, ni advertencias. Solo era un hecho que en ese momento, le bastó. El silencio volvió a instalarse entre ellos, pero ya no era pesado. Era un silencio lleno, casi denso, como si el mundo alrededor se hubiera retirado para dejarles solo ese espacio.

Entonces él se incorporó ligeramente. Sus manos ajustaron las riendas con naturalidad, sin apuro, sin necesidad de anunciar lo que iba a hacer. Un leve movimiento de su pierna, y el caballo respondió.

Primero con un paso más firme.

Luego otro.

El viento se levantó de golpe, envolviéndolos, arrastrando consigo el olor de la lluvia, de la tierra mojada, de todo lo que quedaba atrás. Su vestido se agitó, su cabello se liberó por completo, y el mundo comenzó a desaparecer a su alrededor, como si no estuvieran avanzando sobre el camino, sino atravesándolo.

No hubo despedida.

No hubo último vistazo.

Solo el avance constante, decidido, hasta que sus figuras se volvieron parte de la de la noche

Y desaparecieron.

Casi cerca del amanecer, cuando todas las esperanzas se estaban perdiendo y la lluvia se empezaba a calmar la encontraron.

A unos metros de la orilla, sobre el pasto oscuro y aún empapado, yacía el cuerpo. El vestido blanco, ahora gris y pesado, se extendía a su alrededor como una flor marchita, hundida en la tierra. El cabello húmedo cubría parte de su rostro, y sus manos permanecían abiertas, vacías, como si hubieran soltado algo en el último momento. Y sus ojos estaban un poco abiertos.

Sin vida.

La velaron como se debe. Hubo rezos, lágrimas, susurros que se apagaban cuando alguien más se acercaba. Su nombre se repitió con tristeza, con lástima y con el tiempo, con menos frecuencia.

La enterraron con ese mismo vestido.

Y al final, como tantas otras cosas, quedo como un relato que se cuenta en voz baja, uno en que la gente asegura no creer, pero que nadie se atreve a olvidar del todo.

Pero algunos dicen que, en noches de tormenta, cuando el viento sopla distinto y los caballos se inquietan sin razón, se pueden ver dos figuras cruzando a lo lejos.

Una sombra oscura.

La gente lloró la pérdida de aquella muchacha, la que tenía el corazón más noble y una sonrisa tan cálida que hacía latir incluso al corazón más frío. El puente por el que había pasado su carroza fue clausurado y se colocó una tumba en el lugar donde fue hallada.

Pero no el acontecimiento no se olvidó, con el tiempo empezaron a surgir rumores de vecinos que habían visto caminar algo blanco por las orillas del rio, las novias comenzaron a ir la noche antes de sus bodas a rezar para no sufrir el mismo destino, y los padres les prohibían a sus hijos salir a jugar cerca de ese lugar.

Así fue como todo quedó marcado como un terrible accidente, aunque, en voz baja, algunos sabían la verdad.

La novia no cayó.

La novia saltó.

Esa fatídica noche, el frío no era cualquiera, quemaba en los pulmones al respirarlo, mientras el viento soplaba con más fuerza y las nubes terminaban de cubrir el cielo, borrando cualquier rastro del día tranquilo que había sido horas antes, para la joven que estaba de pie en la orilla del río, ese día jamás había sido feliz.

El aire enredaba su cabello, adornado con una diadema de flores, y el borde de su vestido blanco comenzaba a empaparse con el agua, pegándose a su piel sin que ella le prestara atención. Su mirada estaba fija en el reflejo que se rompía con violencia en la corriente.

Aquella muchacha, la que era el amor platónico de la mayoría de los jóvenes por su carisma y su sonrisa, se sentía todo menos feliz.

Su padre la había comprometido meses atrás. Meses en los que ella rogó, suplicó, imploró que cancelara la boda, pero él se negó.  La había prometido al hijo de un viejo amigo, un hombre con riqueza y apellido, del que se decía incluso que tenía un lejano vínculo con el virrey.

Su madre intentó consolarla con palabras que no aliviaban nada, diciéndole que ella también había aprendido a amar con el tiempo, pero ella sabía que eso no sería posible.

Porque su corazón amaba a otro.

A un joven que estuvo trabajando en la finca de su familia, al que observaba en silencio desde la ventana, levantándose antes del amanecer para verlo partir y esperando al atardecer para verlo regresar.

Durante meses fue solo eso, miradas a la distancia y una curiosidad que crecía en silencio, hasta que una tarde el destino intervino.

Mientras cabalgaba, el viento asustó a su caballo y estuvo a punto de caer, de no ser porque él apareció justo a tiempo para sostenerla por la cintura y calmar al animal.

Sus brazos eran firmes, marcados por el trabajo, su piel estaba tostada por el sol, y sus ojos la miraron con una intensidad que la hizo olvidarse de todo por un instante. Cuando la ayudó a bajar y le devolvió el rebozo que había caído, le sonrió, y su corazón dio un vuelco que ya no pudo ignorar.

Después vinieron los encuentros en secreto, las miradas que hablaban más que las palabras, los roces accidentales de los dedos y los besos robados en el establo. Incluso su padre se alegró al verla interesarse por el campo, sin saber que no era la tierra lo que iba a observar.

Cuando le anunciaron su compromiso, fue con él y lloró en sus brazos, le confesó que lo amaba, que su vida le pertenecía, que no quería a nadie más. El muchacho le propuso escapar, huir juntos hacia la capital, empezar de nuevo donde nadie pudiera encontrarlos, y ella aceptó, entregándose a esa promesa con todo lo que tenía, incluso su cuerpo como una alianza que no necesitaba palabras.

Pero no sabía que no llegaría lejos.

Esa noche esperó a que sus padres durmieran, preparó una pequeña maleta y escondió algunas joyas en su rebozo, tal como él le había indicado. Vio su silueta desde la ventana, la señal acordada, pero cuando intentó abrirla, la encontró trabada. Intentó forzarla, pero no cedió.

Entonces escuchó a los perros, vio cómo él corría, cómo los caballos lo perseguían, cómo la oportunidad se le escapaba entre los dedos sin poder hacer nada. Intentó salir por la puerta, pero también estaba cerrada. Golpeó, suplicó, lloró, hasta que escucho los disparos.

Cayó de rodillas, y en ese instante supo que lo habían alcanzado.

Cuando su padre entró a su habitación, la golpeó por primera vez en su vida. La insultó, la humilló, le dijo que agradeciera que su prometido no supiera la verdad como para cancelar el compromiso, y que él no la echaría de su casa como a una cualquiera. Pero ella con la mejilla ardiendo y los ojos llenos de lágrimas, solo pudo pensar que nunca se casaría con ese hombre, no importaba el precio.

Ahora estaba ahí, en la orilla del río. El agua fría rodeando sus pies se le metía hasta los huesos, mientras recordaba su vida como si ya estuviera terminando.

Tal vez así era antes de morir.

Escuchó entonces el trote de caballos acercándose y la voz de su prometido llamándola, no como una súplica, sino como una orden. Se giró para verlo, y encontró en su mirada con el frialdad y molestia.

Él le gritó que se alejara.

Pero ella no lo escuchaba, apretando los puños y enderezando su rostro tomo una calda de aire frio y decidió saltar, sin importarle nada.

Sintió el agua frio de golpe al caer, abrió la boca tragando agua hacia sus pulmones, su cuerpo inconsciente intentaba salir a la superficie, pero la pesadez de su vestido y la fuerza del rio la llevaron de nuevo para abajo.

Pensó en él. En el hombre que amaba. En sus manos, en la forma en que reía, en la promesa que nunca pudieron cumplir. Había muerto y junto con él, su felicidad.

Ya no sentía el frío, su piel se había entumecido por completo, sus pulmones ardían, se hinchaban con una presión insoportable, y cada intento de resistirse era más débil que el anterior. Con sus últimas fuerzas, levantó la mano, apenas, como si intentara sacarla del agua, como si una parte de ella aún se negara a morir. Un miedo le azoto silencioso, ahogado, mezclado con una esperanza absurda de que todo fuera un mal sueño. Pero incluso así prefería eso a la vida que le esperaba.

Cerró los ojos.

Y se dejó ir.

Entonces lo sintió.

Un tirón.

No fue la corriente ni el movimiento del río. Fue una mano. Firme y caliente. Incluso dentro de esa agua helada, el contacto quemó mientras la sujetó con una fuerza.

No tuvo tiempo de pensar, solo sintió cómo su cuerpo era jalado hacia arriba, cómo el peso desaparecía, cómo el mundo cambiaba de lugar.

La sensación del pasto llegó de golpe.

Cayó sobre sus manos y rodillas, el impacto le sacó el aire que ya no tenía, devolviéndola a una realidad que dolía más que el agua. Tosió. El agua salió de sus pulmones con violencia, quemándole la garganta, desgarrándole el pecho, obligándola a encorvarse mientras su cuerpo luchaba por recordar cómo respirar. Tosió una y otra vez, hasta que el aire regresó, torpe, irregular, y aun así cada bocanada le ardía, el frío clavándose en su interior ahora que volvía a sentir.

Abrió los ojos.

El cielo que recordaba dorado antes de saltar ahora era gris, pesado, partido por relámpagos que iluminaban el mundo en destellos breves y violentos. La lluvia golpeaba su rostro, sus párpados, su piel, pero apenas podía enfocarse hasta que lo vio.

Una sombra inclinándose sobre ella.

Un charro.

No era un charro cualquiera, lo supo al instante. El traje negro parecía absorber la luz, ajustado con elegancia, impecable pese a la tormenta, con detalles sutiles. El sombrero de ala ancha ocultaba parte de su rostro. Bajo la sombra, se alcanzaban a distinguir facciones definidas, casi demasiado perfectas, como si no pertenecieran del todo a un hombre vivo. Su piel era clara, sin rastro de frío, y su cabello oscuro caía en mechones desordenados a los lados de su rostro, húmedos, pero sin perder forma. Un paliacate rojo descansaba en su cuello, contrastando con la oscuridad de su vestimenta, como una mancha de vida en medio de algo que no lo era.

Y sus ojos.

Oscuros y profundos.

Tenían una mirada de ver más allá de lo físico, como si hubieran visto la maldad del mundo en persona, o él era esa maldad.

Sintió un escalofrío.

Su abuela le había hablado de él. De las historias susurradas por las noches, de hombres y mujeres que, por ambición o desesperación, lo llamaban. Decía que él cumplía deseos, que daba todo lo que uno pedía pero que siempre cobraba. Y que lo que pedía nunca era algo que pudieras recuperar. También decía que quienes intentaban escapar de él fallaban, porque no había rincón en el mundo donde no pudiera encontrarte.

Y ahora estaba ahí.

Frente a ella.

El Charro Negro.

—Una novia debería estar en el altar, casándose —dijo él, con una voz grave, profunda, como si naciera desde muy abajo, desde un lugar donde la tierra y los muertos se confunden—. No en un ataúd.

Un relámpago cayó cerca, iluminando su rostro por completo durante un segundo. Fue suficiente para confirmar que no era humano o al menos, no del todo.

Ella se incorporó con dificultad. El pasto mojado manchaba su vestido blanco, el encaje arruinado de pegaba a su piel, pero no le importo.

—No es diferente —respondió, con la voz quebrada—. De las dos formas estaría muerta.

El Charro inclinó ligeramente la cabeza, como si analizara sus palabras más de lo necesario. La lluvia resbalaba por el ala de su sombrero, evitando tocar su rostro, como si incluso la tormenta respetara su espacio.

—Ay, mujer… —murmuró, y en su tono hubo una diversión baja, peligrosa—. Sí que estás loca.

Le sostuvo su mirada. Sus ojos, que alguna vez habían estado llenos de vida, ahora cargaban algo más pesado, algo que no se iba a ir con lágrimas. Siempre le dijeron que si lo encontraba debía rezar, correrlo de su casa con firmeza. Que su voz era dulce como la miel y que sus palabras envolvían, que atrapaba a los débiles.

Pero ella ya no era débil.

O tal vez ya no le importaba serlo.

Después de haber decidido morir, el miedo se había vuelto inútil.

—¿Va a llevarse mi alma? —preguntó, con una calma que ni ella entendía.

El Charro se arrodilló frente a ella, y en ese instante algo cambió. La lluvia seguía cayendo, pero el sonido se volvió lejano, como si ya no estuvieran en el mismo lugar que el resto del mundo, como si existiera un espacio solo para ellos dos.

—Estoy tentado —admitió, y una sonrisa lenta se dibujó en sus labios, una que no era cruel pero tampoco amable—. Las almas bonitas son las que más se disfrutan. Pero no puedo llevarme un alma si la otra persona no acepta.

Hizo una pausa, observándola con atención.

—Son las reglas.

Ella lo miró a los ojos, pero su mirada no estaba del todo en él, estaba perdida entre pensamientos. Sabía quién era. Sabía lo que significaba estar frente a alguien como él, lo que su abuela le había advertido tantas veces con voz baja, como si incluso nombrarlo pudiera atraerlo. Sabía del peligro, de los tratos, de las consecuencias que no se podían deshacer una vez aceptadas.

Pero también que ya no tenía nada.

Su familia le había dado la espalda, su vida ya no le pertenecía, y el futuro que le esperaban había decidido por ella sin preguntarle nunca si lo quería. Había corrido hacia el río buscando una salida, la más fácil, la más cobarde quizá.

Y ahora estaba ahí.

Frente a algo peor.

—¿Y si aceptara?

El Charro no respondió de inmediato. La sostuvo con la mirada durante un momento largo, como si en lugar de escuchar sus palabras estuviera pesando algo más profundo, algo que ni ella misma terminaba de entender. La lluvia seguía cayendo, empapándole el vestido, el cabello, el agua se deslizaba por su piel. Pero en él no parecía afectarle, su ropa permanecía intacta, como si la tormenta no tuviera permitido tocarlo. Finalmente, se puso de pie con calma, sin apartar sus ojos de ella.

—Aquí nadie acepta nada sin saber lo que pide —dijo con esa voz grave, firme—. Pero si quieres pedir algo, puedo escucharte. Es lo que hago. Los tratos son mi oficio.

Ella bajó la mirada lentamente. Sus manos descansaban sobre el pasto húmedo, el peso del agua en su ropa, el frío que antes le quemaba los huesos todo comenzaba a volverse borroso y en medio de ese vacío que empezaba a abrirse dentro de ella, pensó en él. En su risa, en la forma en que la miraba cuando nadie más estaba cerca, en esa última imagen suya apoyado en la ventana, sonriendo sin saber que ese momento se le quedaría clavado para siempre.

—Hubo un hombre —dijo en voz baja, casi sin aire—. Lo mataron. Quiero que me lo devuelvas.

El Charro no contestó enseguida. Se giró y caminó hacia la orilla del lago. Observando la corriente violenta fluía llevándose todo a su paso, como las gotas se estampaban con firmeza y las ramas de los árboles cercanos se movían con brusquedad. Ella observó sus propias manos, con el pecho apretado, mientras esperaba su respuesta, sentía la necesidad de arrepentirse, que ya no quería nada de él, cómo la ansiedad crecía con cada segundo de silencio.

—Ese hombre —murmuro—Sigue vivo.

Levantó la cabeza de golpe, con una violencia que le hizo perder el equilibrio por un instante, como si el mundo hubiera cambiado de lugar sin avisar.

—¿Qué?

—Te hicieron creer que murió —continuó él, girándose finalmente hacia ella—. Lo golpearon, sí. Lo dejaron por muerto. Pero despertó. Sigue vivo. En algún lugar lejos de aquí.

El silencio que siguió fue denso, espeso, como si el aire se hubiera vuelto agua otra vez. Negó apenas con la cabeza, incapaz de aceptar lo que estaba escuchando. No encajaba. No podía encajar con el dolor que había sentido, con la forma en que todo había terminado.

—No… —murmuró, llevando una mano a su pecho—. No… eso no…

Pero su voz se rompió antes de poder sostener la negación. Algo dentro de ella se movió, algo que no era exactamente dolor, sino una grieta que se abría más profundo, dejando pasar una sensación hueca. Se encorvo en si misma apretando la mano en su pecho, el vestido pegándose al pasto húmedo mientras lo miraba, desesperada por una respuesta que la regresara a lo que creía cierto.

—¿Dónde está?… —preguntó, con un hilo de voz volviendo a mirarlo—. Dímelo…

El Charro la observó con calma, y un relámpago iluminó su rostro por un instante. Pudo verlo entonces con claridad. Era joven, demasiado joven para esa mirada que parecía haber visto más de lo que correspondía a cualquier vida. Sus facciones eran finas, casi elegantes, pero había algo en él que no terminaba de ser humano. Sus ojos, oscuros y profundos, no reflejaban la luz, la absorbían, y en ellos no había compasión, pero tampoco crueldad.

—Lo sé todo —respondió—. Es mi trabajo. Pero, aunque te lo entregue no será como esperas. No te ama de la misma forma que tú a él y lo sabes.

Aunque todo en él gritaba peligro, aunque su sola presencia parecía arrastrar consigo la maldad, ella al escucharlo sabía que no le estaba mintiendo. Apretó los labios, negándose a aceptar lo que su propio pecho ya empezaba a comprender.

—No me importa —dijo, pero su voz no tuvo la firmeza que quería—. Solo quiero que vuelva.

Se incorporó como pudo, apoyándose en sus manos hasta quedar de rodillas frente a él. El vestido mojado pesaba, el pasto se le pegaba a la tela, mientras lo miró con insistencia, casi con desesperación, como si en su respuesta estuviera la única cosa que aún le quedaba en el mundo.

—Aunque vuelva —insistió él, con una paciencia extraña, casi ajena a lo que era—, no te amará de la misma forma.

Se acomodó con calma, llevando las manos detrás de la espalda mientras la observaba, como si estuviera explicando algo inevitable, algo que no podía cambiarse por más que ella lo deseara.

—No de la forma en la que una mujer como tú merece ser amada.

Sus palabras la golpearon con una calidez extraña, pero a su vez con más fuerza de la que esperaba. No fue un dolor inmediato, sino algo que se le clavó despacio, que se abrió paso bajo la piel hasta instalarse en el pecho. Quiso negarlo, quiso decir que no era cierto, que él no sabía nada, que estaba equivocado pero la voz no le salió.

Porque en el fondo ella ya lo sabía.

—No es cierto… —murmuró, más para convencerse a sí misma que a él.

El Charro dejó escapar una leve carcajada, baja y contenida, que no sonó a burla abierta sino a algo más peligroso. Se llevó la mano al rostro por un instante, como si ocultara esa sonrisa que no necesitaba mostrarse del todo, y cuando volvió a mirarla, sus ojos ya no tenían ese aire distante de antes, sino una cercanía incómoda, como si la hubiera desarmado sin tocarla.

—Eso ni tú te lo crees —dijo con suavidad.

Las palabras no la golpearon con fuerza, pero se le quedaron dentro, pesadas, incómodas, instalándose en un lugar del que no podía sacarlas. Apretó los labios, sintiendo cómo su propia negación empezaba a resquebrajarse.

—Además… —continuó él, y su voz descendió apenas, volviéndose más baja, más íntima, como si el mundo alrededor dejara de importar— ya no puedes estar con nadie.

La frase cayó con un peso distinto. No era una advertencia, ni una amenaza. Era una afirmación. Frunció ligeramente el ceño, sintiendo una inquietud que no lograba nombrar, una sensación que le recorría el pecho como un presentimiento que se niega a tomar forma. Levantó la mirada hacia él, buscando una explicación que le devolviera algo de control, algo que le dijera que aún entendía lo que estaba pasando.

—¿Por qué?

El Charro no respondió de inmediato, inclinó un poco la cabeza, observándola como si evaluara cuánto estaba lista para entender, y luego, con una lentitud casi deliberada, movió apenas la cabeza, señalando a un lado de ellos. Fue un gesto mínimo, casi descuidado, pero cargado de una intención que le erizó la piel.

Y con un miedo que no nacía del dolor sino de la comprensión, giró la cabeza.

El Charro no la detuvo.

A unos metros, sobre el pasto oscuro y empapado, yacía un cuerpo.

El vestido blanco, ahora gris y pesado, se extendía alrededor como una flor marchita, hundida en la tierra mojada. La tela estaba desgarrada en algunos puntos, pegada al suelo, absorbiendo la lluvia como si quisiera desaparecer en ella. El cabello oscuro, húmedo, se adhería al rostro inmóvil, ocultando apenas unas facciones. Los brazos estaban abiertos, sin tensión, abandonados, como si ya no pertenecieran a nadie.

Y ese rostro.

Era el suyo.

No gritó. No retrocedió. No hubo un intento de negar lo que veía. Se quedó ahí, inmóvil, observando, mientras algo dentro de ella dejaba de resistirse y comenzaba a acomodarse de manera inevitable.

Intentó encontrar algo dentro de sí. Algo que le confirmara que seguía siendo la misma. Pero no encontró nada. Solo un vacío extraño, tranquilo, que no dolía, pero tampoco le consolaba.

—¿Estoy muerta? —preguntó al fin.

Y su voz no tembló.

El aire no pesó en sus pulmones. El frío no la atravesó. La lluvia no la incomodó. El la miro sin responderle. El río siguió su curso sin detenerse, la tormenta no se apartó para ella, y su propio cuerpo —ahí, tendido en el suelo— no dio señal alguna de vida.

El mundo no cambió.

Solo la dejó atrás.

──────────────────────────────────────────

People wept for the loss of that girl, the one who had the noblest heart and a smile so warm that it made even the coldest heart beat. The bridge over which her carriage had passed was closed, and a tomb was placed in the spot where she was found.

But the event was not forgotten; over time, rumors began to arise of neighbors who had seen something white walking along the riverbanks, brides began to go the night before their weddings to pray so as not to suffer the same fate, and parents forbade their children from playing near that place.

That is how everything came to be marked as a terrible accident, although, in a low voice, some knew the truth: the bride did not fall, the bride jumped.

That fateful night, the cold was not ordinary, it burned in the lungs when breathing it, while the wind blew stronger and the clouds finished covering the sky, erasing any trace of the peaceful day it had been hours before; for the young woman who was standing on the riverbank, that day had never been happy.

The air tangled her hair, adorned with a flower headband, and the edge of her white dress began to soak with the water, sticking to her skin without her paying attention. Her gaze was fixed on the reflection that violently broke in the current.

That girl, the one who was the platonic love of most of the young men for her charisma and bright smile, felt anything but happy.

Her father had promised her months before. Months in which she begged, pleaded, implored him to cancel the wedding, but he refused. He had promised her to the son of an old friend, a man with wealth and a surname, of whom it was even said that he had a distant connection to the viceroy.

Her mother tried to console her with words that brought no relief, telling her that she had also learned to love over time, but she knew that would not be possible.

Because her heart loved another.

A young man who had been working on her family's estate, whom she watched in silence from the window, getting up before dawn to see him leave and waiting at sunset to see him return.

For months it was just that, glances at a distance and a curiosity that grew in silence, until one afternoon fate intervened. While she was riding, the wind startled her horse and she was about to fall, if it weren't for him appearing just in time to hold her by the waist and calm the animal.

His arms were firm, marked by work, his skin was tanned by the sun, and his eyes looked at her with an intensity that made her forget everything for a moment. When he helped her dismount and returned the shawl that had fallen, he smiled at her, and her heart skipped a beat that she could no longer ignore. Then came the secret meetings, the looks that spoke louder than words, the accidental brush of fingers and the stolen kisses in the stable. Even her father was glad to see her interested in the countryside, unaware that it was not the land she was going to observe.

When they told her of her engagement, she went to him and wept in his arms, confessing that she loved him, that her life belonged to him, that she loved no one else. The young man proposed that they run away, flee together to the capital, and start over where no one could find them, and she accepted, giving herself to that promise with everything she had, including her body as a pledge that needed no words.

But she didn’t know she wouldn’t get far. That night she waited for her parents to fall asleep, packed a small suitcase, and hid some jewelry in her shawl, just as he had instructed her. She saw his silhouette from the window—the agreed-upon signal—but when she tried to open it, she found it locked. She pulled, pushed, tried to force it open, but it wouldn’t budge.

Then she heard the dogs, saw him running, the horses chasing him, the opportunity slipping through her fingers as she stood helpless. She tried to get out the door, but it was locked too. She pounded on it, begged, cried, until she heard the gunshots. She fell to her knees, and in that instant she knew they had caught him.

When her father entered her room, he struck her for the first time in her life. He insulted her, humiliated her, told her to be grateful that her fiancé didn’t know the truth—otherwise he would have called off the engagement—and that he wouldn’t throw her out of the house like some common woman. But with her cheek burning and her eyes filled with tears, all she could think was that she would never marry that man, no matter the cost.

Now she was there, on the riverbank. The cold water lapping at her feet seeped into her bones as she recalled her life as if it were already coming to an end. Perhaps this was what it was like before dying. Perhaps this was what the last moment of clarity felt like. Then she heard the sound of horses’ hooves approaching and her fiancé’s voice calling her—not as a plea, but as a command. She turned to look at him and met his gaze, which was cold and annoyed.

He shouted at her to back away.

But she didn’t listen; clenching her fists and lifting her face, she took a deep breath of cold air and decided to jump, not caring about anything.

She felt the cold water hit her as she fell; she opened her mouth, water flooding into her lungs. Her unconscious body tried to break the surface, but the weight of her dress and the force of the river pulled her back down.

She thought of him. Of the man she loved. Of his hands, of the way he laughed, of the promise they could never fulfill. He was dead, and with him, her happiness.

She no longer felt the cold; her skin had gone completely numb. Her lungs burned, swelling with unbearable pressure, and each attempt to resist was weaker than the last. With her last ounce of strength, she raised her hand, barely, as if trying to pull it out of the water, as if a part of her still refused to die. A fear struck her—silent, suffocating—mixed with an absurd hope that it was all just a bad dream. But even so, she preferred that to the life that awaited her.

She closed her eyes.

And she let herself go.

Then she felt it.

A tug.

It wasn’t the current or the river’s movement. It was a hand. Firm and warm. Even in that icy water, the touch burned as it held her with such force. She didn’t have time to think; she just felt her body being pulled upward, the weight disappearing, the world shifting.

The sensation of the grass hit her all at once.

She fell onto her hands and knees; the impact knocked the air out of her—the air she no longer had—bringing her back to a reality that hurt more than the water. She coughed. The water rushed violently from her lungs, burning her throat, tearing at her chest, forcing her to hunch over as her body struggled to remember how to breathe. She coughed again and again, until the air returned, clumsy, irregular, and yet every breath burned, the cold piercing her insides now that she could feel again.

She opened her eyes.

The sky she remembered as golden before she jumped was now gray, heavy, split by lightning that illuminated the world in brief, violent flashes. The rain pelted her face, her eyelids, her skin, but she could barely focus until she saw it.

A shadow leaning over her.

A charro.

He wasn’t just any charro; she knew it instantly. The black suit seemed to absorb the light, elegantly tailored, impeccable despite the storm, with subtle details. The wide-brimmed hat hid part of his face. In the shadow, one could make out defined features, almost too perfect, as if they didn’t quite belong to a living man. His skin was pale, showing no sign of the cold, and his dark hair fell in messy strands down the sides of his face, damp but still holding its shape. A red bandana rested around his neck, contrasting with the darkness of his attire, like a splash of life amidst something that wasn’t.

And his eyes.

Dark and deep.

They had a gaze that saw beyond the physical, as if they had seen the world’s evil in person, or he was that evil.

She felt a chill that didn’t come from the cold.

Her grandmother had told her about him. About the stories whispered at night, of men and women who, out of ambition or desperation, called upon him. She said he granted wishes, that he gave everything one asked for but always took his toll. And that what he asked for was never something you could get back. She also said that those who tried to escape him failed, because there was no corner of the world where he couldn’t find you.

In front of her.

The Black Charro.

“A bride should be at the altar, getting married,” he said, in a deep, resonant voice, as if it were coming from far below, from a place where the earth and the dead merge. “Not in a coffin.”

A bolt of lightning struck nearby, illuminating her face completely for a second. It was enough to confirm that she wasn’t human—or at least, not entirely.

She propped herself up slightly on her elbows. The wet grass stained her white dress; the lace clung to her skin, ruined, but she didn’t care.

“It’s no different,” she replied, her voice breaking. “Either way, I’d be dead.”

The Charro tilted his head slightly, as if analyzing her words more than necessary. The rain slid down the brim of his hat, avoiding her face, as if even the storm respected her space.

“Oh, woman…” he murmured, and there was a low, dangerous amusement in his tone. “You really are crazy.”

She held his gaze. His eyes, which had once been full of life, now carried something heavier, something that wouldn’t be washed away by tears. They had always told her that if she encountered him, she should pray, drive him from her home with firmness. That his voice was sweet as honey and his words enveloping, that he ensnared the weak.

But she wasn’t weak anymore.

Or maybe she didn’t care if she was.

After deciding to die, fear had become useless.

“Are you going to take my soul?” she asked, with a calmness even she didn’t understand.

El Charro knelt down in front of her, and in that instant something changed. The rain was still falling, but the sound seemed distant, as if they were no longer in the same place as the rest of the world, as if there were a space just for the two of them.

“I’m tempted,” he admitted, and a slow smile spread across his lips—one that wasn’t cruel, but wasn’t kind either. “The beautiful souls are the ones you enjoy the most. But I can’t take a soul if the other person doesn’t agree.”

He paused, watching her closely.

“Those are the rules.”

She looked him in the eyes, but her gaze wasn’t fully on him; it was lost in thoughts that wouldn’t quite fall into place. She knew who he was. She knew what it meant to stand before someone like him, what her grandmother had warned her so many times in a low voice, as if even naming him might attract him. She knew of the danger, of the deals, of the consequences that could not be undone once accepted.

But she also knew she had nothing left.

Her family had turned their backs on her, her life no longer belonged to her, and the future that awaited her had been decided for her without ever asking if she wanted it. She had run toward the river looking for a way out—the easiest one, perhaps the most cowardly.

And now she was there.

Facing something worse.

“What if I accepted?”

El Charro didn’t respond right away. He held her gaze for a long moment, as if, instead of listening to her words, he were pondering something deeper—something she herself didn’t quite understand. The rain kept falling, soaking her dress and hair; the water ran down her skin. But it didn’t seem to affect him; his clothes remained dry, untouched, as if the storm weren’t allowed to reach him. Finally, he stood up calmly, without taking his eyes off her entirely.

“No one here accepts anything without knowing what they’re asking for,” he said in that deep, firm voice. “But if you want to ask for something, I can listen to you. That’s what I do. Deals are my trade.”

She slowly lowered her gaze. Her hands rested on the damp grass; the weight of the water on her clothes, the cold that had once burned her bones—it all began to blur, and in the midst of that void that was starting to open up inside her, she thought of him. His laughter, the way he looked at her when no one else was around, that last image of him leaning against the window, smiling without knowing that moment would be etched in her memory forever.

“There was a man,” she said in a low voice, almost breathless. “They killed him. I want you to bring him back to me.”

El Charro didn’t answer right away. He turned and walked toward the lakeshore. He watched the violent current flow, sweeping everything in its path, as the drops of water struck the water with force and the branches of the nearby trees swayed violently. She looked at her own hands, her chest tight, as she waited for his answer; she felt the need to repent, that she no longer wanted anything from him, how the anxiety grew, even though her body no longer reacted as it had before.

“That man,” she murmured, “is still alive.”

She jerked her head up, with such force that she lost her balance for a moment, as if the world had shifted without warning.

“What?”

“They made you believe he died,” he continued, finally turning toward her. “They beat him, yes. They left him for dead. But he woke up. He’s still alive. Somewhere far from here.”

The silence that followed was dense, thick, as if the air had turned to water again. She shook her head slightly, unable to accept what she was hearing. It didn’t fit. It couldn’t fit with the pain she had felt, with the way everything had ended.

“No…” she murmured, pressing a hand to her chest. “No… not that…”

But her voice broke before she could finish her denial. Something inside her stirred—something that wasn’t exactly pain, but a crack that opened deeper, letting in a hollow sensation. She curled in on herself, pressing her hand to her chest, her dress clinging to the damp grass as she looked at him, desperate for an answer that would bring her back to what she believed to be true.

“Where is he?” she asked, her voice a whisper as she looked at him again. “Tell me…”

The Charro watched her calmly, and a flash of light illuminated his face for an instant. She could see him clearly then. He was young, too young for that gaze that seemed to have seen more than any life should. His features were fine, almost elegant, but there was something about him that wasn’t quite human. His eyes, dark and deep, didn’t reflect the light—they absorbed it—and in them there was no compassion, but neither was there cruelty.

“I know everything,” he replied. “It’s my job. But even if I give it to you, it won’t be as you expect. He doesn’t love you the same way you love him, and you know it.”

Even though everything about him screamed danger, even though his mere presence seemed to drag evil in its wake, when she heard him, she knew he wasn’t lying to her. She pressed her lips together, refusing to accept what her own heart was already beginning to understand.

“I don’t care,” she said, but her voice lacked the firmness she wanted. “I just want him to come back.”

She sat up as best she could, pushing herself up with her hands until she was on her knees in front of him. Her wet dress felt heavy, the grass clinging to the fabric, as she stared at him intently, almost desperately, as if his answer held the only thing she had left in the world.

“Even if he comes back,” he insisted, with a strange patience, almost unlike him, “he won’t love you the same way.”

He settled himself calmly, bringing his hands behind his back as he watched her, as if he were explaining something inevitable, something that couldn’t be changed no matter how much she wished it could.

“Not in the way a woman like you deserves to be loved.”

His words struck her with a strange warmth, yet at the same time with more force than she had expected. It wasn’t an immediate pain, but something that slowly dug in, making its way under her skin until it settled in her chest. She wanted to deny it, to say it wasn’t true, that he didn’t know anything, that he was wrong, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Because deep down, she already knew.

“It’s not true…” she murmured, more to convince herself than him.

El Charro let out a faint chuckle—low and restrained—that didn’t sound like open mockery but something more dangerous. He brought his hand to his face for a moment, as if to hide that smile that didn’t need to be fully revealed, and when he looked at her again, his eyes no longer had that distant air they’d had before, but an uncomfortable intimacy, as if he’d disarmed her without touching her.

“You don’t even believe that yourself,” he said softly.

The words didn’t hit her hard, but they stayed with her, heavy, uncomfortable, settling in a place she couldn’t shake them from. She pressed her lips together, feeling her own denial begin to crack.

“Besides…” he continued, and his voice dropped slightly, becoming lower, more intimate, as if the world around them no longer mattered—“you can’t be with anyone anymore.”

The sentence fell with a different weight. It wasn’t a warning, nor a threat. It was a statement. She frowned slightly, feeling a restlessness she couldn’t name, a sensation running through her chest like a premonition that refused to take shape. She looked up at him, searching for an explanation that would give her back some control, something that would tell her she still understood what was happening.

“Why?”

El Charro didn’t answer right away; he tilted his head slightly, watching her as if gauging how ready she was to understand, and then, with an almost deliberate slowness, he gave a faint nod, pointing to the side of them. It was a minimal gesture, almost careless, but laden with an intention that made her skin crawl.

And with a fear that stemmed not from pain but from understanding, she turned her head.

El Charro didn’t stop her.

A few meters away, on the dark, sodden grass, lay a body.

The white dress, now gray and heavy, spread out around her like a withered flower, sunk into the wet earth. The fabric was torn in places, stuck to the ground, soaking up the rain as if it wanted to disappear into it. The dark, damp hair clung to the motionless face, barely concealing her features. Her arms were outstretched, limp, abandoned, as if they no longer belonged to anyone.

And that face.

It was hers.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t step back. There was no attempt to deny what she was seeing. She stood there, motionless, watching, while something inside her stopped resisting and began to settle in, inevitably.

She tried to find something within herself. Something that would confirm she was still the same. But she found nothing. Only a strange, calm emptiness that didn’t hurt, but offered no comfort either.

“Am I dead?” she finally asked.

And her voice didn’t tremble.

The air didn’t weigh on her lungs. The cold didn’t pierce her. The rain didn’t bother her. He looked at her without answering. The river continued its course without stopping, the storm did not part for her, and her own body—there, lying on the ground—showed no sign of life.

The world did not change.

It simply left her behind.

And in that silent abandonment, without tears, without screams, without resistance, and under the man’s gaze, she understood that there was no turning back.

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