Perhaps out of a sense of duty as the village leader, or possibly due to the stubborn pride that men wear like armor, Carlos resolved to meet the druids alone.
Each step Carlos took weighed heavier than the last, his legs trembling, though not enough to betray him entirely. Fear and courage, bitter companions, gnawed at him in equal measure like at a starved dog circling a butcher's stall.
Ahead, the druids were growing closer, their imposing forms growing larger with every stride he took, like ancient trees looming over a small man beneath their shadow, silent, unreadable.
They moved slowly, deliberately, their strides wide and unhurried, yet they seemed to cover twice the ground Carlos did, though his feet scrambled in submissive haste. Every step they took left deep marks on the ground, like those of giants traversing a land unworthy of their mighty presence.
Before he got too close, Carlos stole a glance back over his shoulder, his eyes sweeping over the faces of the gathered villagers, each one marked with anxiety. He had lived among them all his life, knew their names, their families. They were his people. He cared for them, each and every one. Well, almost every one. But they weren't the ones he was looking for.
His gaze found Miguel, still by the graves, the rag forgotten at his feet, his eyes fixed on his father. From this distance, Carlos could barely make out the boy's face, but he didn't need to. He knew his son's tension—the stiffness in his limbs, the way he stood stock still like a rabbit caught in the shadow of a hawk—both too frightened and too curious to flee.
Carlos's eyes shifted to Raquel. She stood not far off, her posture betraying none of the unease rippling through the others. While they fidgeted and cast uncertain glances toward the approaching druids, she remained still, hands loosely clasped in front of her. No tremble, no nervous shuffle of her feet. It was as if the looming figures ahead were nothing more than passing clouds to her.
'Damn fool girl,' Carlos muttered under his breath, teeth grinding as he forced his eyes forward once more. There was no time to dwell on it now.
Coming to a halt at what he deemed a respectful distance, he raised his hand in greeting, the way a farmer might salute a lord. There was no answer.
'It was cozier in the graveyard,' Carlos thought, a bitter smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth as he watched the druids continue their approach with a silence more unsettling than any words could have been. Slow and deliberate, their heavy steps echoed in his skull, each one stretching the moment into eternity.
Finally, they stopped, just a few paces away—close enough for their long arms to reach him, yet far enough that he couldn't touch them, even if he dared. The distance seemed deliberate, a subtle reminder of their superiority. Perhaps, it was.
They were nothing like the old, grumbling prophet he had encountered before. These druids were taller—unimaginably taller.
The larger of the two, a male by appearance, though Carlos could hardly tell with their kind, was especially imposing. His height dwarfed Carlos entirely, his waist narrow but leading into broad, barrel-like ribs, and his arms were thick with muscle—the kind that seemed strong enough to stop a charging bull dead in its tracks.
The second one, with less rugged features, was shorter, but only in comparison; it was still the size of a colossus, a being out of the stories used to frighten children. Yet these two were no myth, and their presence was as real as the cold sweat gathering at the nape of Carlos's neck.
Straining to make out the faces of these uninvited guests, Carlos had to tilt his head back so far it ached. Their faces, though far from attractive, were not ugly either—merely severe, carved by nature's hand. But it wasn't their appearance that stirred the deep unease in him. It was the way they looked at him—or didn't. The taller one, with eyes colder than the frost that gripped the earth in winter, stared down at him as if Carlos were no more than a worm beneath his boot, beneath his notice, beneath contempt. It was the look of a lord at a beggar, a man who owned the world and saw no reason to explain himself.
The other one, with evidently feminine features, was worse. Where the tall one's disdain was like ice, the shorter druid's indifference was a void. She didn't look at Carlos—she looked through him, as if he were no more than a shadow passing unnoticed at dusk. If he were to collapse at her feet, he doubted she'd spare him a glance. There was nothing in her eyes, no hate, no curiosity, no life. It was the emptiness that made his stomach churn, the nothingness that whispered of a world where he didn't matter at all.
Carlos's fists clenched at his sides, the knuckles white, his nails biting into his palms. It had been a long time since he'd felt so helpless, not since the plague had swept through the village and left him burying his wife and son. That same bitter, gnawing feeling crept over him now, the sense that no matter what he did, no matter what he said, he was powerless. A man adrift in the face of forces too vast, too ancient to be reckoned with. He swallowed, his throat dry, trying to force his mind to grasp at something, anything that might explain why they were here. 'Are they just passing through, or have they come for the village?' Are they here to offer aid or to bring vengeance for the wrongs of the past?' He dared not ask aloud.
"Are you the head here?" The voice cut through the silence—smooth, almost pleasing, but devoid of warmth, like ice wrapped in silk. Carlos felt her gaze pressing on him, heavy yet sharp, as though her very eyes could strip the flesh from his bones and smash the trembling soul beneath.
His chest tightened, and for a heartbeat, it felt like there was no air left in the world. His mouth parted, lips quivering, but no sound came out. His voice, always so strong when addressing the village, now felt trapped in his throat.
Then, before he could muster the strength to answer, the second one spoke, his words sharper, more jagged, like a blade not yet honed but still deadly all the same.
"We are looking for Mistress Raquel. Where is her Majesty?" There was impatience in his tone, a demand that was not to be denied.
'Her Majesty?' Carlos blinked, the words a strange echo in his mind. The title sounded foreign, as if it belonged to another world entirely. Carlos's gaze shifted nervously between the two druids, his mind struggling to piece together the fragments of a puzzle that made no sense. 'Mistress Raquel?' Raquel was no mistress—she was just a village girl, no different from any other. His thoughts tumbled over one another in confusion, but none took root - confusion was stronger than the fear now. He stared up at them, jaw slack, face twisted in bewilderment.
"Answer, human!" The druid's voice rose, sharp and loud, a crack of thunder that made Carlos flinch. Carlos's knees nearly buckled beneath the weight of it, his heart racing as the full gravity of their presence sank in.
"I... I..." he managed to croak, though his voice wavered, betraying his fear. His mind screamed for him to speak, but the words had forgotten how to come together. A grown man, a father, a leader—yet in that moment, Carlos felt as powerless as a child.
"Silence, Baruch," the horned woman said, her tone colder than winter winds. She didn't shout, and yet her words carried the weight of command, the kind that kings and queens wield when a single whisper bends nations to their will. "Remember your place."
Carlos's eyes flickered between the two druids as the horned man—Baruch, she had called him—lowered his head at once, his posture shifting from dominant to submissive. "My apologies, Prophet Tabitha," the horned man muttered, the strength in his voice vanishing, replaced by a near-slavish humility.
Carlos almost pitied the one who had loomed over him mere moments before, now reduced to something lesser—a chastened dog with its tail between its legs. Almost. But the taste of triumph was bitter on his tongue, fleeting as summer rain, and it vanished altogether when Tabitha's cold gaze shifted over his head. The indifference, the emptiness that had made his skin crawl, was gone, replaced by a look of devotion. It burned with reverence.
"I'm here," came a voice from behind Carlos, familiar and clear.
Carlos turned, his gut twisting, half expecting to see some phantom conjured by these horned demons. But it wasn't a phantom. It was Raquel.
He could scarcely believe it. The same girl who had once run barefoot through the village streets, laughing, hair wild in the wind, her hands always dirty from some mischief or another. But now... now she walked with the grace of a queen, her chin held high, her hands resting on the amulet that gleamed like a talisman from some far-off realm. No longer the girl he knew. No longer the child who had lost everything.
There was no fear in her eyes, no tremor in her step. She moved as if the earth itself had bent to her will, and Carlos—Carlos, who had spent his whole life breaking his back to tend that very earth—felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He knew this girl. He had watched her grow, seen her weep at her parents' graves. But the woman before him now… she was a stranger. Carlos wanted to shout at her, to pull her away, to demand an answer, but his throat felt like it had been stuffed with wool.
The druids—the towering, horned figures who had made Carlos feel like a child standing before giants—dropped to their knees in one fluid motion. The ground beneath them groaned in protest, cracks splintering out like a spider's web, dust rising into the dry air. Their heads bowed low, horned crowns scraping the earth in a display of reverence.
Raquel halted just a few feet from them, standing tall before creatures who could end her life with a flick of their wrists. Yet her posture remained unyielding, her chin lifted ever so slightly, eyes locked on them with calm certainty, as if this was where she belonged—as if they were not her betters, but her peers. No, more than that. In that moment, she looked every inch the nobility they had treated her as, every bit as formidable as the reverence in their eyes suggested.
"Mistress Raquel," they spoke in unison, voices humbled and reverent—nothing like the thunderous commands they had hurled at him just moments before. "We are here to serve you and your child."
Mistress. The word felt like a slap to the face, echoing in the Carlos's mind, each repetition making less sense than the last.
For years, they had called her that—Mistress. And over time, with her quiet strength and unwavering resolve, Raquel softened the cold hearts of the druids who served her. What began as a task for them, an order to protect, grew into something more. She became more than just their charge; she was cherished. The druids, beings of stone and duty, watched over her with care that went beyond their instructions. There was a tenderness in their protection, a watchful eye that was no less than parental.
Raquel's dreams of distant princes, of knights in shining armor who would sweep her from the dusty streets of the village, had long since faded. Such dreams, fragile and ephemeral as morning mist, had been replaced by something far more real, far more intimate. The touch of the heavens, rare and fleeting as it was, lingered on her skin like the warmth of a fire on a bitter night. No mortal man, no matter how noble, could offer her the same comfort. The kiss of the divine, the way it wrapped around her like a cloak of stars, was a solace she could not have found in any noble's embrace.
Thoughts of grand castles, soaring towers, and the glittering court life that once danced in her mind as a girl lingered like ghosts, faint reminders of a world forever out of reach. Those fantasies had once filled her with longing, with a desire for a life of splendor far beyond the humble boundaries of her village. But as the years passed, they became little more than distant echoes, and she found solace in something new, something fragile and precious—motherhood.
Yet there were days when the secret she bore felt like an iron chain around her neck, dragging her back into the depths of doubt. On those days, the young girl she had once been—playful, mischievous, ever defiant of the mundane—would rise from shadows, rebelling against maturity. Her bright and contagious laughter would once again ring through the streets, a sound that could shake the dust from the village's quiet corners. Wild and carefree, she would dance, spinning through the marketplace, a spark that ignited a fire in the dull, everyday lives of the villagers, trapped in the monotony of their labors. In those moments, her beauty blazed like a flame, drawing all eyes, pulling them into its passion.
She was a child of the Golden Valley, a girl who could charm even the heavens into falling for her. She was a force—brilliant and consuming—no chain seemed strong enough to bind her. She was a wildfire, fierce and untamed, burning her mark on everything she touched. She was a shooting star—blazing, unforgettable, and fleeting. She faded, as all stars must.
Her laughter will never again shake the air, her dances will no longer stir the weary earth beneath her feet, and her beauty, once so radiant, will never again grace the eyes of those who had dared to behold her.
And yet, every moment Raquel lived was rich with meaning. Her story was never one of silence or sorrow, and it is far from over. The spark she lit in the hearts of those around her will illuminate their path through the longest of nights yet to come.
Her legacy will live on—in the hearts of those she had touched, and in the small heart she had once carried within her. In that fragile soul, Raquel's spirit will endure. Her joy, her love for life, will burn brighter than it ever had before, shaping a world she herself will never see—a world forever marked by the fire she had kindled.