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With silent indifference, the creature tugged the knife downward and, with a casual flick of its wrist, tossed it. Ruy stepped back, his stare locked on the twisted steel lying at his feet.
A voice, not carried by air but woven into the fabric of the minds of those around, cut through the chaos with a single word: "Enough." The command was simple, yet it resonated with a power that brooked no defiance. It wasn't a sound, not really—more like a knowledge, a piece of pure information that bypassed ears and slipped directly into thoughts. Shapeless, without syllables or language, it flooded every mind, sending shivers down to the bones.
In that fleeting instant, the blade Ruy wielded—so solid, so deadly—began to crumble, the steel turning to dust. Around him, his comrades’ weapons suffered the same fate—swords, axes, and arrows dissolving into the air, swirling briefly before the night claimed them, as if swept away by the wind’s silent command.
Ruy’s knees buckled, body collapsing into the dirt like a marionette with its strings severed. Fear, cold and absolute, flooded his veins, washing away the rage that had had fueled him moments earlier. His hands, once so steady, now clawed at the earth, grasping desperately for something solid, something real, to anchor himself. But there was nothing—only the haunting void left in the wake of lost bravery.
The man’s eyes, wide with the terror of a cornered beast, lifted to the figure above him.
With distinctly feminine features, the being was terrifying in its beauty—features so perfectly sculpted that they appeared heavenly, smooth as porcelain and just as deceptively fragile. Even the deep shadows that framed its visage, hinting at exhaustion and illness did nothing to tarnish its perfection. Instead, they accentuated the sorrow etched into its gaze—a sorrow that pierced Ruy’s soul with the silent rebuke of a mother witnessing her child’s shame.
"What was all of this for, child?" The inaudible voice came again, filling his mind with a question that echoed with an unsettling calm.
The marauder’s response, barely more than a whisper, was driven by instinct rather than thought: "¡Por las riquezas!" The words tumbled from his lips, automatic and unthinking, as if the drive for wealth was as natural to him as emptying his bowels. He expected judgment, feared otherworldly wrath, but found none. Instead, that flawless face reflected the same quiet compassion glimpsed in the humiliating look of the woodland elder slain by his hand.
As if to cleanse the world of the destruction that had taken place, a wave of golden luminescence began to seep from the creature’s form, spreading outwards like dawn breaking after the longest night. This glow wasn’t just bright; it was alive, pulsing with warmth and emotions that filled every space it touched.
The light flowed like liquid gold, washing over the ruined houses, the charred trees, the trampled soil. Where there had been only destruction, new structures rose, majestic and gleaming as if cast from the very light itself. Trees, once blackened and ravaged, stood tall again, their branches heavy with leaves that glittered like precious gems. The blood-stained earth was replaced by a soft, green carpet, fresh and fertile.
That was nothing short of miraculous—a paradise that stretched as far as the eye could see, an impossible beauty that filled the air with the scent of blooming flowers and the soft rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze.
Ruy stood paralyzed, caught between the icy grip of horror and the burning sting of reverence. Cries of despair melted into prayers, a desperate symphony rising to the heavens, but the celestial figure before him remained untouched by the chaos, its gaze piercing into him alone. Its voice—soft yet all-encompassing—echoed in the deepest corners of his mind, creeping into the recesses long since buried.
"Will these endlessly fertile and safe lands ever be enough to rid you of violence?"
Seeking an answer, memories surged forth, dragging the man into the murky corridors of his past. He saw himself, a starving child, humiliated by a world that had no place for him. The first crack of bone beneath his fist, the broken nose of a boy no different from himself, the rush of power that had flooded him—these moments, twisted and dark, replayed in his mind with agonizing clarity.
The loneliness of standing over his father’s nameless grave, a solitude that had birthed a hunger more terrible than the one that had gnawed at his belly, filled the void left by the presence that should have guided the child. Then came the endless parade of faces, disfigured and shattered by the young Ruy’s blade, with thick, dark streams pouring from their wounds, feeding his thirst for power.
The long-buried memory of the noblewoman's silken skin—so soft, so delicate, forever beyond his grasp—rose from the depths, gnawing at the frayed edges of his soul. Yet, as swiftly as it had come, darker recollections rushed in, displacing the bitterness with grim satisfaction: cold, lifeless bodies, defiled and desecrated, their insides filled with his seed. Women, and at times men, more often horned than human, all reduced to mere canvases for his twisted artistry.
Before he could sink further into this mire of recollection, the shapeless, transcendent voice tore through him again.
"I see... cruelty has rooted in your hearts."
The words, laced with sympathy and sorrow, as if this silent judge had seen those memories along with him, twisted his insides, turning the man’s stomach into a knot of guilt and dread. A desperation unlike anything he had ever known began to swell in his chest, a panic that clawed at him as this embodiment of power slowly moved toward him.
Ruy wanted to flee, to crawl away from the being that so effortlessly laid bare his darkest secrets, but his limbs refused to obey. His legs, usually so swift and sure, were as heavy as lead, rooted to the ground by an unseen influence. Helplessness, a foreign sensation to him, held him in place, a prisoner of the creature's indifferent advance.
And then, just as suddenly, the figure passed him by, its gaze shifting away as if he were no more significant than the dirt beneath its feet. The cold horror that had gripped him began to thaw, replaced by a burning frustration. Overwhelmed by this unfamiliar terror, Ruy stumbled forward, his knees barely supporting him as they left trails in the trampled golden grass. His hand, the same hand that had wielded a sword with unshakeable confidence, now trembled as it reached for the being slipping away.
Lips, dry and cracked, struggled to shape the question that gnawed at the remnants of his soul.
"¿Tú... eres un dios?" He feared to ask as much as he dreaded the answer.
Yet, its radiant form did not turn, as if it failed to acknowledge his presence, continuing its path towards the figure that had so recently been the object of his savage desires—the child of nature who lay helpless and broken behind him.
Ruy watched, a bitter taste of envy filling his mouth as this majestic entity knelt before her, its movements carried a tenderness beyond his comprehension. It cradled her hand as though holding the most fragile treasure, its words softening into a lullaby of compassion.
"Such a pure and innocent child. You are beautiful…"
The creature’s gentle murmur was soft, full of love and compassion that Ruy had never known, as it spoke to the woodland maiden with the tenderness of a mother comforting her child. Its smile, warm and radiant, transformed its already ethereal features into something beyond beauty, something divine. Its other hand rose, fingers brushing against the forest child’s cheek with a reverence that made the young woman's breath hitch, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
But then, the tenderness vanished, replaced by a resolve as firm as stone. The smile faded, and the voice that spoke next was no longer soft, but stern, filled with an authority that crushed the air around it. "My name is Aelithra, and I am no god. I did not create these lands, nor was I born here." Its gaze lifted slowly, as if it could see through the clouds, peering into heights beyond mortal reach. "Yet, my brothers, sisters, and I are willing to cleanse each of you of hatred and cruelty." These words did not strike as a promise—they were a sentence, inevitable and inescapable.
Ruy’s soul recoiled, every fibre of his being screaming in protest at the thought that there were others like Aelithra—entity that appeared divine. He, who had always believed himself untouchable, invincible, was now faced with a power that could erase everything he had ever been, everything he had ever known. The world the man called Fuerte adored, where he had carved out his dominion through brutality and violence, suddenly seemed fragile, like a thin layer of ice ready to crack under the weight of these new, foreign gods.
Years later, Ruy's fears proved well-founded. The lands he once ravaged flourished, their scars erased as though they had never been. The names of warlords and conquerors, once uttered with dread, lingered only in fables of cruelty and shame. Children no longer cowered beneath the shadow of a blade; they grew under the warm embrace of a world where violence was but a distant specter, a ghost haunting the fringes of forgotten nightmares.
The age of war dwindled into myth, a faint whisper buried beneath the weight of a new and radiant era. For a time, peace seemed eternal. For a while.
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