Both woke up early that morning, although neither of them had actually slept at all. They had spent the night in a state of constant alertness, their ears tuned like taut strings and their thoughts spinning relentlessly. Every creak of the ship, every splash of water against the hull, or distant murmur of the wind in the sails had been enough to keep them on edge. However, despite their insomnia, the night had passed quickly, as if time itself understood the urgency weighing on their shoulders.

  The first light of dawn was just peeking through the cabin windows when Priscila sat up in bed, gathering her hair into a careless bun. Máximo was already putting on his jacket, his eyes tired but determined. Without exchanging many words, they knew they had to hurry. It was their last day in the archipelago, and they couldn't afford to leave any loose ends.

  They went up to the ship's dining room, where silence still hung in the air like a soft mist. Everything was calm: the slight rocking of the boat, the intermittent lapping of the water, and the constant, faint sound of seabirds waking up in the distance.

  Máximo, with mechanical movements, began to prepare something simple for both of them. He opened a loaf of bread that was still fresh, cut a couple of thick slices, and placed them on a plate. Next to him, a jar of butter was beginning to soften in the morning heat.

  —You look tired. — he said, without taking his eyes off the butter he was carefully spreading on one of the slices. His voice sounded soft, without judgment, as if with those words he simply wanted to acknowledge aloud the weight of the last few hours.

  Priscila, leaning against the doorframe with a steaming cup of tea in her hands, nodded with a faint smile. Her eyes were swollen from lack of sleep, but there were no signs of surrender on her face.

  —I am. — she admitted as she gazed at the horizon, where the sky was beginning to take on the first warm tones of the day. — But this is our last day here. We can't leave without finding something else... something worthwhile.

  The steam from his cup rose slowly and disappeared into the cool morning air. His breath also escaped in a faint, barely perceptible mist.

  —Eat first. — Máximo said determinedly, handing him the buttered bread. — Then, if you want, we'll run to the rocks from yesterday. But you're not leaving without eating.

  Priscila thanked him with a brief, sincere smile, accepting the bread. Then she went to the table and took a small knife to scoop some jam from a dark jar resting in the corner. She spread a generous layer over the butter, not worrying about the aesthetics of the result.

  Maximo watched her with a raised eyebrow, a mixture of amazement and amusement.

  —What a strange combination!

  —What are you talking about? — she replied with a laugh. — It's delicious. Jam and butter: salty and sweet. The perfect balance.

  He laughed, shaking his head as he took a bite of his own bread, which was much more sober in its preparation. Then he slowly turned to look out the window, where the sea spread out like an infinite canvas, glimmering faintly in the pale light of dawn.

  —You're strange. — he murmured without looking back.

  —And you're too basic. — Priscilla teased as she took a sip of her tea.

  The atmosphere, despite their fatigue, had lightened. There was a silent complicity between them, something that didn't require too many words. They felt in sync: two restless souls, exhausted but determined, sharing the same purpose.

  Breakfast was brief but sufficient. The silence that had accompanied them was not uncomfortable, but rather reflective. The strange noises they had heard the night before had not been repeated that morning, which created a different kind of unease: the kind of tension that arises when danger seems to have receded, but one knows it is still lurking.

  —Ready? — Máximo asked as he got up, buttoning his jacket while looking out at the sea one last time.

  Priscila left her empty cup on the table, picked up her backpack, and nodded.

  —More than ever. Let's go.

  And with that, they both set out again for the archipelago, this time with their senses more alert, their expectations higher, and their determination even stronger than the day before.

  They walked purposefully toward the same spot where they had found the papers the day before. This time, however, there was nothing new. Only rocks, dry earth, and that sea breeze that brushed their skin like a distant whisper. They didn't allow themselves to feel frustrated: they knew time was limited, so they decided to keep exploring without pause, venturing beyond the known.

  They walked for two hours. The terrain became more hostile as they went deeper: uneven, rocky, covered with dry seaweed that crunched under their boots. The whole landscape looked as if it had just emerged from the sea, as if it had been submerged for centuries and was only now revealing itself to human eyes, thanks to the low tide. They found nothing but skittish insects, dark moss, and fragments of dry coral among the rocks.

  Then they stopped dead in their tracks.

  A noise.

  No, several noises.

  The crackling of fire.

  Human voices.

  And then that smell. An unmistakable smell: cooking meat.

  They looked at each other. No words were necessary. Their eyes showed the same mixture of fear and intrigue. Without saying a word, they advanced slowly and silently, like shadows. They took refuge behind a large rock, as tall as a natural tower, and climbed cautiously to peer over the top.

  What they saw took their breath away.

  Before them lay a hidden civilization. A valley hidden among rocks, where life flourished unexpectedly. Although much of the place was rock and barren soil, there were areas where the land was fertile. Small green crops sprouted neatly, alongside low trees and brightly colored flowers. It was not abundant, but it was enough to sustain life.

  There were people. People dressed in cream and gray fabrics, handmade and carefully woven. They didn't know where they got the raw materials, but there they were, moving calmly, carrying baskets, talking in low voices. There were animals too: some common ones like cats and rabbits, others strange, with fur and shapes never seen before.

  The place vibrated with an unexpected harmony, as if they lived oblivious to the rest of the world, protected by the rocks and the silence.

  Priscila and Máximo watched with a mixture of fascination and bewilderment. But soon, a figure among the inhabitants stopped, fixing his gaze on them. His expression was ambiguous: it was not hostile, but neither was it entirely calm. He raised his hand in a gesture of greeting—or perhaps warning—and, like a domino effect, several other inhabitants also looked up at them.

  —They saw us. — Máximo murmured.

  —What do we do? Do we run? — Priscila asked tensely.

  —They don't look violent. Let's go down.

  —Are you crazy? What if they attack us...

  —If they attack us, we attack them. — said Máximo with a calmness that bordered on recklessness.

  Priscila was about to reply, but stopped herself. Máximo was already descending the slope, determined. With a resigned sigh, she followed him.

  When they reached the entrance to the community, several people approached them. They were not armed or aggressive, but their attention was evident. An expectant silence fell between them. Máximo and Priscila looked at each other, undecided: should they speak? What if they didn't understand their language?

  But then, a woman with a steady gaze and braided hair stepped forward.

  —Romans?

  Máximo frowned.

  —How do you know?

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  —Orion told us you would visit us.

  They looked at each other in surprise. They hadn't heard that name in days. How did they know it there?

  —Does our presence bother you? We can leave... or go around the área. — Priscilla offered cautiously.

  —Not at all. We know you come in search of answers. Perhaps we can be of help. Your names?

  —I am Maximus, and she is Priscilla, the next queen of Rome.

  —That doesn't matter. — Priscilla interrupted, lowering her voice uncomfortably. — Here I am just Priscilla.

  The woman nodded slowly.

  —Welcome, then, dear queen.

  —Treat me like a person. — Priscilla said, then paused, waiting for an introduction. —What is your name?

  —Nokala.

  —A pleasure, Nokala. What a beautiful name. How long has it been since you've seen a ship... or people?

  —Centuries. I don't think even my great-grandmother has seen one. But we know what they are. Thanks to them, we got animals and seeds.

  —Do you have ships?

  —Exactly. We don't like tourists or outsiders. We prefer to find what we need on our own.

  —And your tribe... where does it come from?

  Nokala raised her face proudly.

  —We are Arhuacos. Out there they call us Iku. Our oldest ancestors came from South America.

  —It's a pleasure to meet you. — said Priscilla with a sincerity that surprised even herself.

  —So what brings a future queen here? We know you have questions... but we don't know what they are. — said Nokala as she began to walk calmly toward one of the houses built of stone and light wood. As she passed, the other inhabitants watched them with a mixture of caution and curiosity, continuing to work but remaining attentive.

  Priscila followed her with steady steps, though her heart was beating fast. She knew that what she was about to say was not something common, even for her.

  —A prophecy brought me here, Nokala. — she replied in a low but determined voice. —I need answers... about my parents. —

  The woman paused for a moment. She turned her head slightly, as if she wanted to observe her without doing so directly. Then she resumed walking without saying anything immediately. The door of the house opened without being touched: a small boy, about seven years old, peered out with wide eyes and then disappeared inside, leaving the entrance clear.

  —Prophecies are no small matter here. — Nokala finally said, crossing the threshold. —If the fire brought you here... the answers you seek may not be what you expected to find.

  Maximo and Priscilla exchanged a brief glance before following her.

  —I'm willing to hear them. — Priscilla said, her voice tense but firm. —whatever they may be.

  —Then let's eat something first. — Nokala replied without changing her tone. — Truths, like fire, are not to be touched on an empty stomach.

  The house was larger than it appeared from the outside. The interior was dimly lit by oil lamps hanging from the beams, and it smelled of dried herbs, wet earth, and wood smoke. There were handmade rugs, baskets of exotic fruits, and clay utensils arranged in order. Everything seemed handmade, simple, but deeply alive.

  Nokala invited them to sit around a low table. Within minutes, a young woman with a serene face served wooden plates with a mixture of cooked grains, roots, and an aromatic broth. Maximo didn't ask what it was; neither did Priscilla. They ate in silence for a few minutes, as if their bodies knew that this food was necessary to withstand what was to come.

  —Prophecies are ancient fire. — said Nokala as she set her empty bowl aside. — They are transmitted through dreams, symbols, songs... not always with clear words. Sometimes they are just fragments.

  Priscila leaned forward, her eyes wide open.

  —Do you know of a prophecy about fire and lineages? About someone like me?

  Nokala interlaced her fingers.

  —Not one... but many. Some forgotten. Others forbidden to repeat. But there is one in particular that our elders keep written on stones, which only the guardians can read. One that speaks of a lineage born between light and ash.

  Máximo frowned.

  —Light and ash?

  —So they say. — Nokala nodded. —That a daughter would be born when fire fell on the crown, and her parents would disappear in the foam of the tide. That this daughter, guided by signs from the ancients, would find a lost village... where the earth still remembers.

  Priscila felt a chill run up her spine. Her mind replayed the phrases from the moss-green parchment, the jumbled words on the papers stuck to the rocks.

  —My parents died in a shipwreck... supposedly. — she whispered.

  Nokala nodded slowly.

  —Or they hid. Sometimes, when you want to protect something, you don't destroy it... you hide it.

  Maximo narrowed his eyes.

  —Hide something like that for what reason?

  Nokala got up without answering, walked to a corner of the house, and opened a stone chest. From inside, he took out an object wrapped in ivory-colored cloth. He placed it carefully on the table and unrolled it.

  It was a crown. Not gold, but made of wood blackened by fire, with small fragments of amber embedded in it. The symbol of the Albani carved into the base.

  Priscila gasped.

  —That... that crown...

  —The sea brought it here many years ago. — Nokala said quietly. —We never knew who it belonged to... until today.

  Maximus placed his hand on Priscilla's shoulder, feeling her tension.

  —Were my parents here? Are they still here? — she asked, her voice trembling.

  Nokala shook his head gently.

  —They're not here. But they left traces. The fire didn't destroy everything. Some ashes still hold secrets.

  Priscila stared at the crown for a long moment, as if her eyes were trying to engrave every burnt line, every blackened vein of that sacred wood. The silence between them was thick, almost reverent. It wasn't just an object. It was an echo of the past, a fragment of something that refused to die.

  But her mind couldn't stop there.

  —Nokala... — she finally said, her voice firmer than she felt, —what really happened to my parents? Were they here? Did they really die?

  The woman slowly looked up. Her eyes, dark as damp earth, locked with Priscilla's with a mixture of sadness and care.

  —What I know... doesn't entirely belong to me.

  —What do you mean it doesn't belong to you? — Priscilla replied, taking a step toward her. Máximo said nothing, but the tension in his body was evident.

  —There are things that cannot be said unless one is prepared to hear them.

  —I'm prepared. I've waited my whole life. Are you telling me you can't tell me whether my parents are alive or not?

  Nokala lowered her gaze and took the cloth covering the crown between her fingers, as if that action anchored her to the little she could share.

  —Your parents were more than what you were told. And their end... was not an end.

  Priscila frowned, taking another step toward her.

  —So they're alive? Are they in hiding?

  Nokala slowly raised her gaze. A different gleam crossed her eyes, almost like a lament.

  —I can't tell you.

  —Why not? What are you hiding?

  Nokala took a deep breath, her tone becoming more serious.

  —Because there are truths I am not allowed to speak. Because if I did, I would seal a fate that is still in motion.

  Priscila's heart was beating fast. Máximo took a step closer, as if he wanted to intervene, but he held back.

  —What do you mean by that? What destiny?

  Nokala just shook his head.

  —When the fire is completely extinguished, you will see it with your own eyes. Until then, ask no more questions.

  Priscila stood motionless, paralyzed between rage, fear, and anguish. Nokala turned toward the open window, where the sun was beginning to set, tinging the clouds with reddish hues.

  —Tomorrow, the sea will speak again. Sleep tonight... while you still can in peace.

  And without another word, Nokala left the house, leaving them both with more questions than answers, and a fire-scarred crown trembling on the table.

  Priscila was stunned. The air seemed to leave her as Nokala's words dissolved in the wind. She couldn't move or blink; a wave of cold ran through her body like a liquid shadow, freezing her hands, which began to shake uncontrollably. It was as if her mind was trying to process what she had heard, but each new thought became entangled with another, like roots too deep to ever be completely unearthed.

  Maximo, frowning and staring at her, approached without breaking the silence. Gently, as if afraid of breaking her, he took her hands in his. Priscilla's skin felt so cold that it seemed not to belong to the body of a living person. He looked at her intently, searching for some sign of a response, but her gaze was lost somewhere far away, as if she could still hear Nokala's voice repeating that phrase over and over again.

  —It wasn't the end.

  —When the fire is completely extinguished, you will see it with your own eyes.

  —Until then, ask no more questions.

  What fire was she referring to? What did “see it with your own eyes” mean? And why couldn't she ask any more questions? Priscilla suddenly felt trapped by incomplete knowledge, as if she had received part of a coded message, just enough to unsettle her, to tear apart her world of certainties, but not enough to understand it.

  Nokala had left without further ado, leaving her suspended in a limbo of confusion and fear. It was as if she knew that Priscilla wasn't ready to hear more, or worse, that she never would be.

  Maximo tried to speak to her, but not a word came out of his throat. Whatever Nokala had said to her had shaken him too. He knew he couldn't comfort her with empty phrases. All he could do was stay by her side, present, offering her his silence as a refuge.

  Minutes later, without a word, they both stood up and went outside. The air seemed denser, charged with an invisible weight. As soon as they crossed the stone entrance, the inhabitants' eyes fixed on them as if they knew what had just happened. No one spoke, no one approached. They just watched them. Not with hostility, but with an unsettling serenity. As if they already knew their fate. As if they saw them walking toward the fire... toward something inevitable.

  The feeling was suffocating, but they couldn't stay any longer. They had to go back. The walk back to the ship was silent, as if the ground itself demanded respect. The colors of the sunset began to tinge the stones with copper, and the sound of the sea came from afar, more like a memory than a living presence. Each step seemed to carry the weight of an uncertain future.

  When they reached the ship, the captain was waiting for them with his arms crossed and a worried expression. When he saw Priscilla's face—pale, motionless, her lips sealed by fear or confusion—he asked no immediate questions. It was Maximus who broke the silence, recounting the essentials of the visit, without going into detail about Nokala's words. The captain nodded gravely and told them that the ship would set sail as soon as the wind allowed.

  When the conversation ended, Máximo turned to speak to Priscila... but she was gone.

  Alarmed, he ran to check the room that served as their cabin and found her there: lying on the bed, face up, eyes closed, and her face completely serene, though she was not asleep. She seemed more like she was pausing, as if the bed had called to her, whispering for her to surrender, to let herself fall into a place where questions did not exist.

  Máximo stopped at the threshold. For a moment he thought about letting her rest, but something inside him wouldn't allow it. He approached, sat down beside her, and covered her shoulders with the blanket, caressing the edge with silent tenderness.

  That night, the ship set sail back to Rome, breaking the stillness of the sea with its slow progress. No one spoke. No one wanted to speak.

  The sea stretched as far as the eye could see, silent, infinite. The sails rustled in the wind, and the wood of the ship groaned from time to time, as if sharing the weight of their thoughts.

  The stars began to appear, one by one, like distant witnesses to a story that had not yet been written. And in the middle of the night, with the rocking of the waves, Priscilla turned her face toward the wooden wall and whispered, without anyone hearing her:

  —Who lit the fire... and who must put it out?

  But there was no answer.

  Only the sea.

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