The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, painting the sky a deep orange that contrasted with the dull gray of the rocks. The air was salty, with a faint scent of dried seaweed and wild vegetation. Priscila crouched down for the umpteenth time to paint a stone with a red mark made from natural pigment, making sure to leave a clear path for her return.

  —These marks won't last more than a couple of days with the humidity. — Máximo commented as he stopped beside her, scanning the ground and finding nothing to indicate human presence. — This is... completely untouched.

  —I know. And that makes it more suspicious, don't you think? — Priscila replied, looking up. — It's as if someone deliberately erased all traces.

  The terrain was uneven, littered with rock formations that looked like they'd been shaped by centuries of wind and rain. There were no ruins, no paths, not even trash or wood. Just stone, moss, and the sound of their footsteps breaking the silence.

  They walked without a clear direction, letting themselves be guided by a restless intuition. At some point, Priscila stopped dead in her tracks.

  —Did you hear that?

  Maximo turned his head, alert.

  —What was that?

  —Nothing... or everything. As if something... whispered. — she said, frowning.

  It was then, just behind a group of taller rocks, that something caught her attention. A faint glimmer. A yellowish glow that did not seem to come from the sun or any natural reflection.

  —This way. — said Priscila, quickening her pace.

  They circled the formation and, a few meters away, they saw it.

  A rock, taller than the others, had what appeared to be old, almost decomposed papers stuck to it, as if they had been there for centuries. They weren't just stuck, but embedded in the stone as if it had absorbed them. The corners were torn, the ink smudged, but some words could still be read.

  Maximo stopped, still panting a little from the constant walking. The sky was already beginning to turn a deeper blue, and the wind was whistling through the rocks, as if it had been keeping secrets for centuries.

  —Priscila, it's going to start getting dark and we'll be late getting back, we should start...

  —Look!

  Priscila's voice cut him off. She pointed forcefully at a rock wall, cracked and covered with lichen, where something stood out among the natural colors of the surroundings. It looked like paper, or what was left of it, stuck as if it had fused with the stone itself. The corners were frayed, the edges blackened, but they were undoubtedly sheets of paper, perhaps ancient, trapped by time.

  They both approached cautiously. Máximo took a dry handkerchief from his backpack and began to remove some of the moss, while Priscila gently blew away the dust and ashes left by the wind.

  —They're fragments. — Priscila said in a low voice, as if afraid that the volume of her voice might destroy the words.

  Some pieces were too damaged to be understood, but with patience they began to read the words that still resisted oblivion. Some phrases were broken, others complete but loose, without context. Even so, their meaning hung heavy in the air.

  “...the blood of the crown will not die, but will sleep under the veil of mist until the sea speaks its truth...”

  “...the island is not land, but guardian. He who approaches with the right name will be heard...”

  “...the children of judgment were separated by fear. One fell, the other fled...”

  “...the mark of the sun and moon on the heir's back. They will search high... but it is underground.”

  “...M.A. and E.L.A. went deep into the heart of the archipelago. They left no way back.”

  “...if you find this, remember: not all truth should be spoken, but all justice must be sought.”

  Priscila swallowed hard. Her finger trembled slightly as she ran it over one of the letters still visible on the last piece.

  —M.A...— she murmured. — Magnus Albani. E.L.A... Edesia Lorena Albani?

  —Your father and mother? — asked Máximo, astonished.

  —Or my father and my grandmother. Maybe... they came here before.— She looked at Máximo. — And they never came back because of something that happened here.

  —Do you think... they died here?

  —I don't know. But if this is about them... and ’the blood of the crown' sleeping... maybe they didn't die. Maybe they were... hidden. Or they're prisoners.— Or even worse: forgotten by some kind of spell or punishment.

  —The prophecy... — Maximo murmured, looking at the lengthening shadows. — The island is not land, but a guardian... What is it supposed to guard?

  Priscila carefully placed the most legible fragments in a small box she carried in her bag, sealing them with a piece of cloth.

  —Tomorrow, when it's light, we'll come back to this place and continue exploring. For now, we have to go back.

  —Yes. But this... this changes everything, Priscilla.

  She nodded gravely.

  —This confirms it: we are where we need to be. And we are not alone.

  Louder noises began to be heard among the stones. At first they were faint, like a low hum running through the ground. Then they became clearer: crackling sounds, as if something were crawling beneath the earth. Priscila and Máximo looked at each other with wide eyes, their hearts pounding in their chests.

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  And, as if everything had been planned by an invisible force, the sun suddenly sank below the horizon, leaving behind an abnormally fast twilight.

  —We have to go. — Máximo said firmly.

  —Now. — Priscila nodded, clutching the rescued leaves to her chest.

  They began to run across the rocky ground, following the trail of painted stones, but not all of them were there. Some were no longer where they should have been. Others seemed to have been turned over or covered with dust.

  —It's not possible, I painted them on thick, they shouldn't disappear so quickly! — said Priscila, agitated.

  —Just keep going. — replied Máximo, holding her hand so they wouldn't get separated in the gloom.

  The shadows lengthened, distorting the landscape. Everything seemed bigger, stranger. When they finally spotted the dim lights of the ship, they both breathed a sigh of relief. They hurried up the ramp, their hands dirty, their boots full of dried mud, and the papers trembling between their fingers.

  The captain was waiting for them on deck, holding a lit lantern and looking anxious.

  —I saw you coming from the tower. What happened?

  Without saying a word, Priscila handed him the papers that were still intact. The captain took them carefully and sat down on a bench under the light of the lantern. As he read, his brow furrowed deeper and deeper.

  —What do you think, Captain? — Priscilla asked breathlessly.

  The old sailor looked up, and for a moment he seemed more serious than ever.

  —This... is not just a warning. It's a route. And an omen. What you have in your hands is connected to something very ancient... and very dangerous.

  —What do you mean by ‘route’? — Máximo asked.

  The captain pointed to the second fragment with his finger. — “Under the third moon, the path opens.” That's a very old saying. The old fishermen in these waters said there was a hidden passage between the islands, which was only revealed during certain phases of the moon. Some called it ‘the path of the legacy,’ while others, more superstitious, said it was a trap.

  —And what do you believe?

  —I've seen strange things in this archipelago. I wouldn't dare say I believe it, but I don't deny it either. There are places where logic doesn't rule.

  —And what about the blood that carries the sleeping fire?

  —That... — said the captain slowly, leaning his back against the wooden railing. — That sounds like a prophecy. And if it is, you two are in deeper than you think.

  Silence returned, this time more dense. The boat creaked slightly under their feet, as if it too were listening and forming an opinion.

  —We'll go again tomorrow. — said Priscila decisively. — We'll go when that third moon appears.

  The captain nodded slowly.

  —Then get ready. If that path appears tomorrow, you won't come back the same.

  Máximo swallowed hard. Priscila kept her eyes fixed on the dark sea. The mystery was just beginning.

  Night fell faster than expected, enveloping the archipelago in a dark, damp mist. The three shared a light dinner on board the ship, intending to go to bed early and wake up with the first rays of sun to continue their exploration.

  As they ate, the noises returned. They weren't close, but their persistence was unsettling. The sounds were difficult to define: sometimes a low hum, other times a distant crackling or something like voices distorted by the wind. They were never the same, and this irregularity kept the three of them in a state of silent alertness. Still, they were grateful that the sounds did not seem to be getting closer, but remained at the same level, as if something—or someone—was making sure to keep their distance.

  —I hope you have a good day tomorrow. — said the captain as he set his empty cup aside. — I'll be staying on the boat all day, so don't worry, I'll be waiting for you.

  —Thank you, captain. Have a good rest. — replied Priscila with a polite smile.

  —Good night. — added Máximo.

  Once in their cabin, Priscila and Máximo changed their clothes, settled under the blankets, and, as if it were part of an old routine, each picked up a book.

  —What are you going to read tonight, my wife? — Máximo asked with a crooked smile, picking up where they had left off the night before.

  —Politics. — Priscila replied without looking up. — And you, my husband?

  —Curiously, the same. It seems we share interests beyond the bedroom.

  They both laughed softly before sinking into quiet reading. This time, there was true silence. Uninterrupted by fleeting thoughts or mocking comments, only by the sound of pages turning slowly and the occasional creak of the boat's wood moving with the tide.

  Priscila stared at the paper for several seconds, without even blinking. The texture was rough, as if it were really made of dried moss. She turned it over, held it up to the oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, looked for more text, some symbol, something else... but there was nothing. Just that one line, in diluted blue ink, so similar to the color of the sea in a storm:

  —Fire decides its end...

  —What do you have there? — asked Máximo, putting his book aside.

  Priscila didn't answer right away. She slowly lowered the green sheet and placed it on the blanket between them.

  —This wasn't here before... — she murmured. — I'm sure.

  Máximo leaned toward her, carefully touching the paper.

  —Are you sure we brought it from the cliff?

  —Yes. I checked everything before I went to sleep... this appeared now. And the color... it's not like any of the others.

  They both fell silent as the wind whistled outside. One of those strange noises sounded again in the distance, like a distorted lament lost among the rocks.

  —Fire decides its end... — Máximo repeated in a low voice, scratching his forehead. — It sounds more like a warning than a clue.

  —Or a choice? — Priscila ventured. — Maybe it's talking about me... or us.

  Máximo looked at her seriously. Then he nodded slowly.

  —Tomorrow we'll look for more. Maybe we'll find more papers... or whatever it is that's leaving this.

  —What if it's not 'something' but 'someone'?

  That phrase left the room silent for a few more seconds. The boat creaked again. Outside, the noises continued, changing, distant, like an echo that never dies.

  —Well. — said Máximo, forcing a nervous smile. — At least we have company for our dreams tonight.

  Priscila smiled too, but her hand didn't let go of the green paper. She left it next to her pillow, as if it could talk to her in her sleep.

  The sea breeze continued to filter through the small crack in the window, bringing with it the dull sound of waves crashing against the rocks. The silence between them was comfortable, a necessary pause after a day of walking through hostile terrain and strange discoveries. The rocking of the boat helped keep them relaxed, but not enough to keep the words they had found earlier from leaving their thoughts.

  Priscila read without really reading. Her eyes scanned the lines, but her mind kept returning to the phrases torn from the old papers and the final message she had found after them: “Fire decides its end...” That phrase kept running through her head, as if it couldn't find its true place.

  After several minutes, she closed the book and placed it on her lap, staring at the wooden ceiling.

  —Maximo... she whispered.

  He looked up without moving.

  —Yes?

  —What if we're really following a thread we shouldn't be following?

  —What do you mean?

  —Those notes... the way they appeared, the message on that green paper... and the noises. Máximo, these aren't normal things.

  Máximo closed his book too, carefully.

  —Nothing we're doing is normal, Pri. We're two young people sailing to a forgotten archipelago, looking for clues to a prophecy we don't even fully understand. — He smiled at her tenderly. — But I wouldn't go home without knowing what's out there. Would you?

  She shook her head slowly.

  —No. I wouldn't leave.

  There was a moment of silence before he moved a little closer and brushed a strand of hair from her face.

  —Then tomorrow we'll go down more carefully. We'll look for more clues, more words, more answers. But if at any point you tell me it's enough... then it will be. I promise.

  Priscila looked at him intently and nodded.

  —Thank you, husband.

  They both let out a short, quiet laugh, as if they didn't want to wake something sleeping beyond the wooden walls.

  Maximo turned off the lamp. The room was dark, except for the silvery light filtering through the window. In the distance, as every night, the noises began again. A low hum, then something that sounded like a whistle, then a murmur that was never the same.

  —Did you hear that last one? — Priscila asked in a low voice, her eyes still open.

  —Yes. — Máximo replied. — It sounded like... someone.

  —Like someone whispering.

  —Yes.

  They said nothing more.

  They both closed their eyes, each clinging to their own thoughts. Waiting for the next day. Waiting for the fire to reveal its decision once and for all.

  The darkness was not silent.

  And the fire, still dormant, began to stir.

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