"Tthor, meet Crete."

   The boy was fascinated by the enormous tree that stood in front of him. It had an unusually thick and gnarled trunk that seemed to carry, with serenity, hundreds of branches dressed in green and silver leaves, which stretched beyond the low clouds. And there he realized that it was the same tree that he had seen from the third floor window the day before.

   "It's majestic!" Tthor stammered as he absentmindedly caressed the brown trunk. "Why does one of its branches be dry?"

   " One of the many mysteries of Meaghdose," Noel said. "It's been around for so long that no one remembers it anymore."

   "Well, actually, not long," Darius reflected as he observed the branch with his only eye half open. "The good thing is that the rest seems to be fine."

   Minutes later and with a Tthor reluctantly leaving the tree, they took the side path that led to the abbey.

   Noel headed the other way, with a wave of his hand and a cheerful: “see you soon!”

   "We'll see you at Christmas dinner!" Darius told him.

   "Will we have a Christmas dinner?" Tthor asked as he followed Darius up a narrow upward path.

  "It is a tradition in Warghost, a date that coincides with the birth of Orffelios. An elegant dinner is held and common people from the town are invited. That night we are all equal."

  Tthor really liked learning about that tradition.

   Darius looked at him and said:

   "Good, your nose is now returning to its original size. By tonight you will be completely cured. Stay away from “accidents”, okay?"

   Tthor smiled, feeling his cheeks redden slightly. At a calm pace, they turned around a bend and advanced across a small stone bridge. A few meters away, Tthor was delighted with a double line of tall, straight, green fir trees. Beyond, a field of lavender and sunflowers perfumed the path. They seemed to stand proud to be there, braving the cold.

   Following Darius' instructions, upon arriving at the abbey, he tried to go unnoticed and not get into trouble, while the fortress prepared for the great banquet. From the main entrance through which he had entered to his bedroom, he saw that the decorations - dried flowers, long and short candles, mistletoe wreaths, small baked clay figures of strange animals with humanoid faces, fangs and horns - were already They were everywhere. Reluctantly, he entered his room and sat on the edge of the bed. With a sigh, he looked around the entire place until he perked up a little when he saw the book that Murk had given him.

   "This is a good time to read it carefully," He thought, because until now he had only skimmed it.

   He sat up, took it with both hands and instinctively opened it to the image of the abbey. He tried to locate his room. If he remembered correctly, he was at the bottom of one of the towers, near the dungeons.

   He lay down on the wide bed, face up, with his head resting on several pillows and opened the book to the first page. There he read:

   “The founding of Meaghdose dates back a thousand years in the past, with the settlement in the valley of a group of pilgrims of unknown origin: the Vanir and the Asís, under the wise reign of first Orffelios and then of Uquara Asís and…Tthor …”

   and…Tthor…”

   Tthor was surprised to read his name there. But when he turned his gaze to the text, he realized that he had not read its name but had heard it. And there it was again:

   "Tthor…!"

   It was a metallic, echoing voice, soft but clear.

   "Tthor…!"

   He got up quietly, opened the door and looked both ways. The hallway was deserted and when he was going to return to his bed, he heard it again, now clearer and closer. Without hesitation, he followed the voice. He walked through a small metal door, down a set of stone stairs, and across a threshold framed in burnished bronze.

   He walked like that for more than ten minutes. He didn't care where he was, he just felt an uncontrollable curiosity to know who was calling him. He didn't know that place but he didn't care. And he only stopped when he reached the landing where those three fascinating paintings had captivated him on his first day at Warghost.

   Even though outside, the soft, white daylight was spread everywhere, that hallway on the third floor was always quite dark.

   Tthor shuddered. Still he decided to continue. Without thinking, he began to murmur that song that his dear cousin Wilgenyna had taught him:

   And I will take your hand

And I will take you to that place

Where it all once began

And where our chimeras

will be able to be reborn…

   He stopped before the first painting and fixed his gaze on the goat's bloodshot eyes. He then looked at the dragon-serpent in the second painting and ran his gaze over it, very slowly, as if searching for something. And while he mentally repeated the song, he watched the lion flying in the third frame. He bit his lower lip, as a sign of disorientation, and absentmindedly looked out the window.

   The stone of Kabanor stood in the daylight, rotating rhythmically above the water source. Above, the clock tower reigned majestically and the scarlet and gold banners barely fluttered in the gentle breeze coming from the cold southern sea.

   Just when he was going to turn his gaze to the three paintings, a very bright and moving beam of light caught his attention. He didn't know why but he was sure that he should follow him.

   He quickly descended the spiral staircase and reached the stone of Kabanor, in the inner courtyard. He looked at the bottom of the fountain that contained it, trying to see again the white light that he had seen flickering there from the window. The water was clear and the bottom could be seen without difficulty but the light was not there. He looked up at the stone that was spinning counterclockwise. The sound of water gushing from it enchanted Tthor for a few seconds, until a white light brought him from his thoughts.

   Without losing sight of the flash, he circled Kabanor's stone and followed it to the end of the courtyard. He advanced to the main door of the fortress, which, in reality, was the only authorized entrance and left quickly, without paying attention to the people from the entire town who were already arriving for the celebration.

   He slipped down a side street and crossed a stone bridge. The small beam of light advanced at ground level, just a few meters ahead. Tthor walked for more than an hour, without stopping, without paying attention to the people who passed by him, with their typical costumes of minstrels and other medieval characters.

   The beam of light seemed to grow in size and intensity as it entered an ascending, wild and humid path. He didn't know where he was until he lost sight of the light and looked at the house that stood in front of him. It was a small block construction with a gabled thatched roof, with a red door in front and two simple, circular windows on the sides. It seemed empty; no light shone within. Tthor moved toward the lintel door and pushed it gently. It opened with a metallic noise.

   Daylight illuminated the interior, revealing a small worked metal table and two chairs, in front of an unlit fireplace. On one side, a tidy cot and a small lamp completed the furniture. On the table, a tin cup and a plate with food remains were just what showed that someone lived there.

   TAthor retraced his steps and went to the shed that stood a few meters from the cabin. The iron and wood structure, with a high roof, had no doors or windows; It was open, with only a wall at the back supporting the structure. Tools hung from the ceiling beams and pieces of iron were scattered on a long dull metal table. An oven with burning coals was located in a corner. The place seemed, like the house, completely deserted.

   The boy remained motionless for a few minutes, observing everything, looking at each object in that shed. A slight smile appeared on his face as his eyes, now quite deflated, looked at an oval mirror that appeared semi-hidden in a corner.

   Tthor rushed forward and took it with both hands. He was light and small, the size of an adult person's palm. It was framed in a shiny, glossy metal design, with a few marks scattered around the oval edge. Tthor raised it up to his eye level and saw himself reflected in it but was startled to see another face behind his in the image that the mirror returned to him. He saw an old man, with long, thick deep maroon hair and beard, dressed in rags. He had an ax in his right hand and a clenched fist in his left hand.

   Tthor did not hesitate; The stranger must have been quite close, behind Tthor, because his reflection was clear. The structure was open, which made it easy for him to escape. Without letting go of the mirror, he began to run, quickly moving away in the direction of the mountains.

   Without paying attention to the road, he ran and ran until his legs seemed to give out and then he dropped onto a square stone that was half-buried. Only then did he look around. The only thing familiar to him was the four snow-capped peaks that now seemed closer and more majestic. The stone path had turned into damp earth and solitary yellow thistles grew scattered here and there. There were no trees, no marked paths, no houses. There was no one around.

   As he caught his breath, he stared at the marks on the edge of the mirror, trying to decipher what they meant.

   If Wilgenyna were here..., he thought sweetly, she would know, without a doubt, what these symbols are.

   Thinking about his cousin made him calm down and the cool breeze that was blowing now dried the perspiration from his face. He looked around the surroundings, delighted in the vision of the eternal snow peaks and promised himself that in the next letter to Wilgenyna he would tell her about the beauty of that place. And he felt an indescribable sweetness in her chest, thinking that perhaps one day, he would sit right there with her, on that enormous black stone.

   He ran his fingertips along the rough edges of the rock and absentmindedly followed the pattern of markings at one end. Upon completing the pattern, he felt a small electrical shock that made him jump up. And it was then that he realized that those marks were not natural but carved. And he felt a chill throughout his body when he recognized the pattern: it was the same drawing in the shape of an father of him.

   But before he could enjoy that discovery, a noise of broken branches made him startle and, without thinking twice, sadly accustomed to those situations of persecution, he ran away towards the abbey that could be seen in the distance, beyond a group of tall fir trees.

   Without looking back, he ran down a path, but in the first few meters, he tripped on the dry root of a plant and tumbled down the hill for several meters. He accidentally stopped himself on another dry root sticking out of the ground and hit his head on a small pointed stone.

   He knew he was going to faint. He only managed to make sure that he still had the oval mirror with him. He felt it hidden in the waistband of his pants and closed his eyes, losing consciousness a few seconds later, without noticing a stinging pain caused by a cut on his temple that was already bleeding profusely.