Simon leaned forward, the firelight dancing in his wise eyes.
— "Velmoria ruled with a firm hand, but her heart belonged to her daughter, Amelia. The girl was the light of her days... until a mysterious illness consumed her."
Marcelo's eyes widened. "A legendary summoner couldn't cure her own daughter?"
— "Exactly," Simon replied, as if reading his thoughts. — "Not the best doctors, nor rare potions, nor healing magics worked. The illness was *alive*, like a shadow feeding on Amelia's mana."
Understanding that the cure could not come from the human world, Velmoria sought out ancient mystical creatures inhabiting the region.
In ancient accounts, she found information about beings capable of performing miracles—the so-called Nine Fairies, who, according to legend, were guardians of the world's balance.
Simon adjusted his sleeves, his voice taking on a more solemn tone:
— "So, she sought them to the ends of the world. She left the throne under regency and departed with the dying Amelia in her arms. Six moons passed as she tracked traces of those beings."
The first place she found anything was on the Peaks of Eternal Ice, where the air cuts like a blade. There, she found Albida, the Frost Fairy.
A cure was still not possible, but Albida could ease the child's pain and grant her something more. Thus, Amelia was given a gift: ice could never harm her.
— "You shall endure the winter of the soul."
And the child, who trembled with fever, ceased to shiver.
In the place known as the Sea of Lost Souls, amidst mists that whispered secrets, Selina, the Water Fairy, also could not cure Amelia. However, she bestowed upon her a blessing—one that would only manifest when the girl grew up.
Velmoria then continued her quest.
In the Celestial Forest, Sunis, the Nature Fairy, likewise could not offer a cure, but gifted the girl with the ability to speak with plants.
Velmoria, undeterred, pressed on with her pilgrimage.
In the Desert of Golden Sands, under a merciless sun, Lamira, the Sun Fairy, also failed to cure her. But, like the others, she granted her a blessing:
A small sun symbol appeared on the girl's right hand. And, as the stories tell, her pale skin took on a bronze tone.
On the Mount of the Slumbering Fire, Elmina, the Fire Fairy, likewise could not offer a cure, but blew living embers into the child's lungs:
— "Your fire shall never be extinguished. And fire shall never harm you."
Little Amelia coughed tiny flames that warmed the cave like a small dragon.
In the Graveyard of Ages, among the ruins of a city that had witnessed an ancient battle, Merida, the Death Fairy, also failed to cure Amelia. Yet, she granted her a boon:
— "Death shall refuse to take you once."
But the illness Amelia carried could not be cured. And, no matter how many blessings she received—she would still die.
In the Vale of Reflection, Emilia, the Time Fairy, like her predecessors, could not cure her. But she too offered a gift:
— "Time shall not pass for you. When you reach maturity... you shall not age."
On the Mountain of Moonlight, Auria, the Moon Fairy, touched her left hand. Opposite the Sun symbol, a silver moon now shone.
Under the moonlight, Amelia began to heal from any physical wound. But, like the others, Auria could not help her with the illness.
As time passed, the child grew weaker and weaker. Despair gripped Velmoria's heart. Despite the blessings, receiving them was pointless if her daughter would die.
Even so, she continued. To turn back would be to condemn herself to watching the death of the only one she loved. So, she walked... and walked. Seeking a miracle. Because it was all she had left: a spark of hope.
Finally, in the Abyss of the Fallen Star...
(Simon lowered his voice until it almost vanished into the crackling fire)
— The Ninth Fairy had no known name. They called her only the "Weaver of Fate." Velmoria found her in a garden of black chrysanthemums...
Simon paused briefly, as if lost in thought, and then spoke:
— "Little Amelia was finally cured. But the stories do not mention whether it was by the Fairy's miraculous ability, by her own blessing... or even if she received a blessing."
I've heard this story since childhood. It's simple: even though the entire narrative is fantastic from start to finish, this particular part is even more mysterious. The fact is that Velmoria's lineage is alive to this day.
Marcelo then asked: "What did Velmoria do for her daughter to receive the blessing of so many fairies?"
Simon replied: "It's a mystery. Velmoria may have been a heroine in our era, but to these incredible beings, she didn't mean much. Any reason that led them to help her could be the result of some hidden plan or mere caprice.
It's no use speculating too much, for after all, it's just a story. Perhaps the founding of the Kingdom happened in a much less spectacular way.
Seeing the sunlight barely breaking on the horizon, Simon continued:
— "We talked all night. It's been a long time since I had such pleasant company to share my stories with. It was a pleasure meeting you, Marcelo."
Simon extended his hand, and Marcelo returned the handshake.
It was then that Marcelo noticed a small symbol on the back of Simon's hand—a kind of stylized scorpion—which he abruptly withdrew, sighing.
— "Take care, Marcelo. The world abounds in wonders, but also in dangers."
Gratefully, Marcelo thanked him for the stories told and the promised gifts, bidding farewell as he helped Simon pack the utensils into his backpack.
Once they finished breaking camp, Simon waved to Marcelo and to Lydia—who rested in his arms. Smiling at the little dragon, he declared:
— "I look forward to the day I see this little dragon conquer the skies. Take good care of her, and don't push her too hard. You have a promising bond with her."
Marcelo thanked him one last time, and each went their separate way.
A few hours later, at the airport, while selecting treats for Lydia, Marcelo asked:
— "What did you think of Simon?"
— "He gave us so many cool things! And gifted us with that fun story... He must be famous for his stories! The weird thing is that strange mask on him... but I don't think he's bad," said Lydia, Stretching her little paw towards the candy Marcelo held: a berry confection with a crunchy caramel texture.
"I think the same," Marcelo continued. "He really did seem very strong. How lucky we were to meet him."
Morning brought a pale, shy sun. When Marcelo entered the airport hall with Lydia in his arms, the air still smelled of fear.
Where once there had been a mountain on the horizon, now only a disturbing void remained—an amputated silhouette against a rust-colored sky.
— "LAST CALL FLIGHT 741! IMMEDIATE BOARDING!" — the speakers blared.
As they advanced in the chaotic line, a man in a crumpled suit bumped into them hard, almost knocking Marcelo over.
— "Sorry, sorry!" — the man stammered, his eyes wide with panic. — "This is the third flight they've moved up today."
A human torrent dragged suitcases towards the gates. Marcelo saw a woman stumble, abandoning an open suitcase with clothes scattered like wilted flowers.
Marcelo selected the last snacks in a convenience store whose shelves looked looted by a hurricane. His gaze captured fragments of the chaos etched into that sickly dawn: Passengers with purple marks of sleeplessness huddled in dark corners, whispering like conspirators under the buzz of the speakers; further ahead, departure boards spat the word "MOVED UP" in pulsing red—letters bleeding against black backgrounds like digital omens. By the makeshift coffee stand, a baby pointed at the panoramic window, sobbing at the grotesque void where, just the night before, the mountain peak crowned the horizon. Now, only a sky the color of ash and dust remained, as if the world had lost a tooth.
Marcelo pressed the crumpled packet of biscuits and the lukewarm water bottle against his chest, as if they were talismans against that toothless dawn. The boarding procedure was an absurd ritual performed in slow motion. In the line snaking like a clogged intestine, bodies exuded an acrid odor of exhaustion and contained fear. The buzz of the speakers had become a dissonant mantra, repeating flight numbers and gates with an urgency that now sounded hollow. "MOVED UP". The red word on the screens now shimmered less like an omen and more like an ironic sentence.
Before the immigration officer, whose face was a mask of professionalism cracked by sleeplessness, Marcelo handed over documents with slightly trembling fingers. The stamp thudded onto the passport with a dry, definitive sound. It was permission to flee, but flee from what exactly? The security scanner swallowed his last snacks and his coat with a sharp beep, returning them like strange objects, contaminated by the atmosphere of the place.
Inside the aircraft, the air conditioning blew dead-fridge air. Takeoff was a muffled roar against the oppressive silence of the cabin. No one looked out the window. Everyone stared at the seatback in front of them, hands clenched tightly on the armrests.
The landing, hours later, was a jarring impact back into reality. The destination airport breathed a forced normality, but the echo of the departure chaos still pulsed in Marcelo's temples.
The flight had compressed Lydia, reduced to a minimal presence, almost a thermal mirage against Marcelo's neck during the infernal journey. Now, touching the cold floor of the hall, she stretched like a cat after long confinement. A tremor ran through her small body, from her membranous wings, still folded like dry leaves, to the tip of her thin tail. A tiny sigh, a hot and almost invisible wisp of smoke, escaped her nostrils.
"We're..." Marcelo tried to say, but the word died in his throat, hoarse. The voice sounded strange in the amplified silence. The echo of the baby's cry, the loudspeakers' shouting, the plane's muffled roar, still buzzed inside his skull, a dissonant counterpoint to the sudden quiet.
Lydia didn't need words. She rubbed her tiny head, warm as a stone in the sun, against Marcelo's ankle. An infinitesimal purr, more a vibration in the air than an audible sound, emanated from her. As if saying, we're safe. Marcelo closed his eyes, letting the cold from the door penetrate his travel-sweated shirt. The image of the baby pointing at the void tried to impose itself—the chubby little finger, eyes wide with incomprehensible terror—but Lydia pressed harder, his small anchor of flesh and fur.
He bent down, knees creaking with fatigue, and stretched out a trembling hand. Lydia climbed up his arm with lizard-like agility, her minuscule and comforting weight anchoring itself on his shoulder again, but this time without fear, without the need to make herself small. Her reptilian eyes, usually golden sparks of curiosity, were heavy, half-closed, reflecting the gloom of the house like two tired little moons.
In the airport control towers, a tense silence now reigned—the chaos of the previous night had given way to an exhaustion laden with dread.
The almost apocalyptic events still echoed in the collective memory:
From the initial energy pulse that had carbonized the sensors, logged as a "Class Cataclysm Event," to the mountain evaporated into blue plasma on the orbital screens.
Marks of the panic remained: reports stained with dried coffee, shattered glass under improvised rugs, and the vacant stare of the technicians who had witnessed the "Omega" threat level.
Captain Elias was draining his fifth cup of coffee when the report arrived. The Rank Gold specialist team sent to the epicenter had found no traces of the reptilian titan or the masked hunter—only a scar of volcanic glass where a mountain peak had once been.
— "Analysis complete, Captain," announced the squad leader over the comlink, voice restrained as if speaking in a graveyard. — "No residual vital signatures. No organic fragments. Just... this."
Elias clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. His decision came with the coldness of one signing a death warrant:
— "Classify it as a natural incident. Immortal Beasts in territorial conflict. Mutual destruction confirmed."
The silence was broken by the youngest subordinate, hands still trembling:
— "But Captain! The evidence... the energy pattern matches Sunis!"
Elias raised the report blackened by the previous night's coffee—a grotesque symbol of his impotence.
— "Do you want to explain this to the guys upstairs? To the Kingdom Knights?" — he roared, the weight of sleepless hours carving furrows in his voice. — "A mountain vanished. There are no bodies, no culprits, only this cursed light remains. First Sunis, now here..."
The final sentence fell like a tombstone:
— "Suspicions infest this world like rats in the shadows. Monsters that claim no deeds? They're apparitions... and apparitions are hunted with fire, not logic. Abandon the case."