Excerpt:

Elianor

Our footsteps echoed through a vast hall that seemed carved from marble, but it was dull and gray. As we ascended the stairs, elves passed by, murmuring and glancing sideways at me, unable to comprehend my presence. Soon, we reached a long corridor where distant music permeated, and as we entered another grand room, the music ceased, and silence took hold.

From the far end of the hall, a person raised a hand. The elves began to clear the space, leaving very few of us. My vision blurred, and I stretched out my arm searching for a wall to lean on. Fear momentarily gripped me, but something told me all was well, that what was happening was not dangerous.

"I can't see anything," I said, blindly seeking support from the nearest elf.

"I'm not a walking stick," Kaelithiel replied, turning to see me clutching his arm.

"Sorry," I quickly released him.

"Brother!" a thin, elongated man approached with a mocking smile. "Good to see you again in our home."

"Don't touch me," Kael growled, nodding for him to stop his embrace.

"And who is this lovely Lady?" he asked, turning to me. He paused, then added, "Such strength, so much faith... where does it come from, my lady?"

"I doubt she came here to bare her soul before strangers," I replied, more ironically than intended.

"Spicy," he chuckled softly, arching his brows. "I am Thaelendis, Kael's elder brother. I see you've already encountered my little brother's rough nature."

"Lady Daronen, a true pleasure to meet you," the elf said humbly, his voice deeper than Liendel's.

"The pleasure is mine," I bowed my head.

"Kaelithiel, my son... so many decades without even approaching home," his tone grew more stern.

"I've been compelled to sweeten the halls of Vanir with my presence," Kael retorted arrogantly.

"You bring news that urgently needs sharing," a voice from the hall's depths spoke.

The lights dimmed, and the usual glow was replaced by an orange vision of two elves seated, their eyes veiled, noses and mouths visible but their eyes obscured.

"This woman came from the eastern lands," one said. "She claims the realm of men fell to the Draco, now ruled by another house that took their place."

"Such things happen every century, though this time it has taken longer," responded the other, seeming disinterested. "What is different now?"

"She is here to show you," the first retorted, "for I do not believe her words, and she was found with Nivrald dust upon crossing." His gaze hardened, hostility returning.

"Lady Draconen, may I?" the other asked gently.

He stood, taller than the elves we had been with. Later, it was clear his body was immense yet slender.

"I mean no harm, only a brief inquiry into her mind," he reached toward my face.

The king bowed slightly, touching my forehead. At first, it was a light brush, like a feather's caress, then my mind opened in a whirlwind of images. I again saw the plains with ill Kael, the meadows, and the dreams haunting me, Darethion's fall into my arms. It all passed in a flash, as if my life rewound before me.

I wanted to pull away, but my muscles failed. Then I felt the pressure—not his hand, but his will—tearing memories like a hurricane tears leaves from a tree.

"Enough," I thought, though unsure if aloud.

The white mist thickened, and I felt myself sinking as if into water. Then came the king's voice—deep, calm, yet stone-hard.

"Your soul is marked by fire and blood. The dragons have touched you more than you admit."

His presence expanded within me, suffocatingly. Then I felt a small but firm spark of will rise against his. A flicker amidst the storm. I clung to the memory of Darethion—not his death but his smile before departure, the faith he left me.

The king pushed with the force of centuries, but I did not fully yield. I sensed a doubt, a fleeting hesitation, as if unprepared for resistance.

A crack opened in the vision; the mist broke, revealing his lips pursed beneath the veil. He did not completely defeat me. Finally, he saw my struggle and escape from the Nivraldir and my flight from the castle, alongside the dragon's roar.

I nearly collapsed upon regaining breath, legs trembling but upright. He slowly withdrew his hand.

"Interesting," he said, and for the first time, his voice carried more humanity than air.

Once the probing ended, he gazed at me curiously. I didn't understand his look until the room spun and tilted sideways. My eyes closed.

Kaelithiel

When she began to stagger, I instinctively caught her side to prevent a fall onto the hard marble, which would have been severe. My father looked at me as if witnessing something strange in me, and I soon realized this wouldn't have happened at any other time or perhaps with any other human.

"What's wrong with her?" I asked my father. "Did she faint?"

"No, I induced a restorative sleep. She is exhausted, and confronting me would have overwhelmed any other human," he looked at her long and said with surprise...

"Not me..." my father seemed pleased to have seen a human after so long.

"Were you punished by the Wind's judgment? Something you have not overcome, my son," Kaelethol spoke gravely.

I gently laid Elianor on the ground; she seemed more fragile than usual. She had faced my father's scrutiny and still stood firm. Her willpower must be immense—only ancient kings passed the test without succumbing.

"If you prefer to ignore my question..." my father slowly walked to her, his step solemn as one who carries centuries on his back. "No, it was not easy. She holds something even she cannot decipher. And tell me, Kaelithiel, how could I understand what even its bearer does not?"

A group of elves approached to make Elianor comfortable. They helped her sit on a feathered chair and left her there resting in the elven sleep, protected by my father. This time, she would not have nightmares and could sleep peacefully.

"What do you make of all this?" I asked, recalling everything Elianor had told me.

My father looked at me with the calm of an oak that has braved a thousand storms.

"Men seldom call upon our doors without reason. Their arrival is no accident but a warning. The Nivrald do not wander without purpose; they are harbingers of a change we have yet to fully see. Listen well, Kaelithiel: when the ancient peoples move, the whole world trembles."

Soft footsteps echoed on the marble. Fendriel appeared, from the lesser Elenvar line, among the few still maintaining bonds with human realms. He bowed respectfully, but his words were direct.

"A few years ago, in our last contact with the brotherhood in human territory," he recalled, "around twenty-five years past, a man told us they prospered—no famine, no plague, no war signs. Yet, the Nivraldir emerged. It is not their nature to roam aimlessly. There is a hidden purpose."

My father listened gravely, eyes full of ancient wisdom that needed no words to impose.

"The Nivraldir's alchemy is a poison even our kind cannot fully resist," Kaelethol said in a deep voice. "Where they mix their fire with the earth's essence, spirits rot, and even elven purity can be broken. We must not ignore this. If unhalted now, this will be the great war of the century... perhaps the era."

"I don't see the situation as before. Our borders are strong and guarded. No Nivrald or human beyond this one has appeared. The dragons in the western mountains sleep deeply; centuries will pass before they wake." I recalled my last journey’s visits. "The deer of Sylrion are calm."

"The last time our lineage failed to answer humans' needs, we believed we granted them independence, and their souls perished in Markhosh's ruins," he said, darkening as he mentioned the name. "And how many elven lives have we lost by that decision? We may be wise, but even the wisest err, and that makes us what we are."

A heavy silence fell, thickening the room's air. My mother rose from the throne, her voice solemn as ancient chants.

"Do not forget what lies at all roots," Eryndrael said softly from her seat. "Velkorin, Vaelerin’s second son, forged men and dragons with the same eternal spark. They are branches of the same fire, though centuries have separated them..."

–Read more in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

"A fan of golden rays lights up the sunset, red and scarcely silent, disturbed only by the vision of a meteor descending from the heavens until reaching the height of the bay; its inevitable passage stirs a general sense of alarm that can be felt throughout the expanse. Birds scatter and fly to hide in the cliffs; others, crouched beneath the rocks, watch as the fiery tail grows longer, tracing an arc that collapses into the turquoise ocean.

The impact is mute, freed of doubts and reasons; within seconds, a furious mushroom cloud rises from the waters, slicing them diametrically with nothing and no one able to interrupt its path through the foamy mantle. The nearby coast silently endures the blows of its devastating power.

The plume dissolves, but leaves behind a tall and arcane figure, resembling a totem, anchored in the middle of the coast, which the sun, backlighting it, turns into a phantasmagorical shadow. It measures at least thirty meters in height; its configuration is fearsome and regal.

The titan rises toward the center of the vault; it spins on its axis, again and again. With measured timing, it descends the way it came and remains there, motionless, among the waves. Without confusion, it begins its slow march toward the beach.

With each step it takes, the waters churn and form turbulent spirals that transform into a high wall beneath its feet. When it reaches the shore, a human consciousness is revealed upon its face: indeed, it is one of the first human beings who would evolve into a virtual and mechanical entity in pursuit of legendary Promethean immortality; in other words, a being the epic chants describe as a primordial robot. It removes a box from a hidden compartment. It is a survival capsule. It lays it on the sand and opens it. A Gaian lies inside. He is the young Darian Janov.

“Wake up,” urges the metallic cyclops with a thunderous voice. “There is little time left.”

The Gaian seems dead; his face, clear and charismatic, at last wrinkles and his stomach heaves with force; he comes back to life. His aura exudes restraint and patience, but also firmness and determination.

“Ruwa…” he articulates, drowsy, breathing deeply; he possesses an auditory device that enables him to clearly hear the colossus’s voice. “The moment has come, hasn’t it?”

The giant nods and contemplates the fragility of his companion: he understands that within it lies his strength. “He possesses no physical capacity for hand-to-hand combat, but his intelligence and common sense ultimately compensate for any of his shortcomings.”

He raises his gaze, and what he sees troubles him: The sky begins to fill with hundreds of storm clouds, from whose shadows protrude laser cannons. They are gravitational warships belonging to the Twelfth Kybernes Legion of the Argernan Army, murderous glory of Emperor Killary III. It is led by the decorated General Hakan Grandou, a man fond of the hollow quill he uses to chronicle himself battling in heroic and adventurous events; he seeks, above all, through long, tedious, and unreadable narratives, to convince the Court and high officials of his incomparability as a paradigmatic strategist. So far, things have gone well for him, but he has begun to strain the emperor’s goodwill.

He has come to complete his mission and to inflict a penalty. He pursues with zeal what he considers his greatest prize—supreme embodiment of the ambitions that will consecrate him in the Argernan annals—the capture of the leader of the Galactic Resistance, Darian Janov, and of the primordial robot, Ruwa, who not long ago had escaped him after an epic battle fought in the center of the galaxy.

Haughty and vain, he descends in a small frigate detached from a mothership destroyer; he retains a certain respect for the fugitives; he positions the ship between the beach and his legion. A door lifts and from the depths emerges the vigorous cybernetic entity of the general. His luminous arm stands out, also famed for shattering with a single shot the greatest enemies of the Argernan people, while he delivers a well-worn harangue that turns vain intellectualism into something practical and effective.

“The winners will make of the losers whatever they wish. The greatest philosophers of bellum justify this procedure by invoking the right of conquest; yet I, for the love of divine justice and palatine greatness, disagree. I strive, if the enemy is even greater than myself, first to remedy matters with dialogue, chains, and the dungeon; lastly, if words grow short and emotion grows long, I relieve their unworthy suffering with the application of a painless death.”

He often embellishes his literary style with a mix of romanticism and barbarity when speaking of the affairs of war:

“In the crafts of conflagration, as in those of love, the course of events is always subject to the most trivial causes. Thus, let us not be so reckless as to dare tempt fate, and instead let fools remain convinced that what matters is the plan and the theory. Sometimes glory does not understand waits nor formalities, as the prehistoric commander Comporilliov well understood when he attacked the Relvetics who refused to fight because the moon had not yet reached fullness.”

With a tempered, slightly sardonic voice, his imposing appearance contradicts his charming personality. For a warrior like him, Darian Janov is an insignificant being. But he bears no such feelings toward Ruwa; he fears him for his warlike might. Thus, with careful words, perhaps to soften the heart of his enemy, he addresses his now prisoners:

“My adversaries, receive from the Empire and from General Hakan Grandou a warm salutation.”

He receives, almost rudely, an indifferent reply. Janov’s sharp expression makes him reconsider his words; Ruwa remains absorbed, silent, without this causing the general any anguish.

“I am pleased to state,” he continues with his exordium, “that in all my military career I have never had the honor of facing rivals so formidable. You have fought without fear, which is worthy, if we take into account your natural inferiority and my intrepid attributes. I must confess that I was not prepared to face you, and that such carelessness nearly cost me half my legions. It will not happen again. At last I have captured you.”

Ruwa lifts his head and points it toward the splinter of the region of the Great Rift. Janov remains imperturbable, without averting his gaze for even a second, capturing all his attention.

“I am a reasonable man,” he continues. “I have battled in the most violent campaigns against the Gaians and their allies, whom we conquered with almost no effort; I have subdued vast regions of the Milky Way, including those beyond its disk, last refuge of humanity; I have renounced the triumph owed to me and have punished with strength and without complaint the insolence of the insurgents. All in the name of the emperor of Galaxy, Killary III, ‘The Obstinate,’ proclaiming with the ardor of a believer and the fanaticism of a subject the truth of his good news about the union and solidification of a new empire that offers justice, peace, and planets to all its citizens, not just to a privileged few.

“But until now no one had ever presented such opposition, impressing me as you have done. Your capacity to withstand the pains of discouragement and the scorn of failure is a quality difficult to possess and to endure, even more than death itself, and reveals before my eyes the grandeur of your soldierly spirit. You could even consecrate yourselves within the ranks of my space legions. Thus, resentment is far from my thoughts; nor do I seek vengeance. In gratitude for your display of valor, I offer you a second chance to live.”

Ruwa and the young Janov remain silent. The latter receives a wireless message from Ruwa and proceeds to lift his arm, touch a button located in the right pocket of his suit, and emit a signal that disappears into space.

The general, absorbed in his triumphalism, asks himself: What will they decide now that they stand at the edge of death?

Hence he interprets the Gaian’s gesture as a kind of peaceful submission; however, with the skill born of years, mechanically, mistrusting even himself, he orders one of his officers:

“Find out the status of my troops deployed along the orbit of the planet Ciberion.”

The officer replies with a terse report: “No setbacks, my lord.”

Now confident in the gallantry of his army, the general does not wish to delay his old ritual of submission: he extends his hand and displays his splendid iron ring shaped like a phallus, which for him represents the highest creative expression of Nature, a rare and surprising intellectual sharpness on his part, if we consider that most of his body is composed of robotic components. Turning his head to one side, he makes a gesture of offering it to them, convinced that such mercy is worthy of his rank and treatment.

“Kiss it,” he says with a benevolent smile, “and you shall have my mercy.

“Otherwise, long darkness awaits you,” he concludes, consumed by a trace of histrionic pride.

His words disturb no one, which astonishes him; he arches his eyebrows as he broods due to his martial mordacity. He feels obliged to respond with punishments, but his spirit of letters and philosophy restrains him. He is intrigued with great surprise by the serenity of their souls, their iron will to destiny, and above all their warrior skill, which nearly caused him to fall in open space. “Even surrounded and trapped by the most lethal weapons and men, they do not yield in principle, nor did they cower when they faced an army a hundred times larger.”

Now that he has them before him, he tells himself that their end had come at the hands of the Sulmakian order, the feudal order of the Argernan lower nobility, from whom nothing was expected but complaints and lamentations.

Once again he convinces himself that his aphorisms have not failed him. By pure chance, while making an official and tributary visit to the region of the Sagittarius Great Rift, specifically to the planet Ciberion—capital of the Allied Confederation of Sulmaki, occupied during the third wave of the Andromedean invasion of Galaxy, the former empire of Gaia—his Sulmakian nobles had knelt before him, begging with tears and utter distress that he strike against the rebels of the Resistance. They had taken refuge in that cosmic splinter jutting from the galactic arm plane. The fallen nobles argued that this was nothing but a ruse to prepare an assault on the imperial capital located in the milky bulge.

Which translated to the claim that the rebels had not hesitated to recapture confederate planets with the aid of natives, appropriating all their cities and leaving the Argernan aristocracy exposed to the harsh rigor of aboriginal tyranny—an ill omen for an empire that prided itself on being relentless and unbeatable. Their Gaian leader, Darian Janov, they said, was a barbaric, irate, and reckless man, and his despotism could no longer be endured. They also said he was a kind of sorcerer before whom all bold ones fell who dared face him. If Emperor Killary III did not find a prompt solution, the Argernans stationed there would be forced to abandon the confederation in favor of more distant regions.

The general, with good political sense and aware of the debacle, consoled them with forceful reasons, swearing that he would take charge of the problems that so fiercely afflicted them. Eyes on the horizon, he confided that he harbored firm hope of restoring to each one their benefits, authority, and full plenitude of royal rights. This would put an end to so much violence and bring the long-awaited peace.

“A stroke of luck,” he told himself once far from those effeminate envoys. “I have the leaders of the Resistance within arm’s reach. As great general of the veteran legions, this grants me the popular momentum necessary to go as far as the throne of Galaxy itself.”

Seeing the opportunity for gain, he struck against the rebels, laying a trap involving double agents of the confederation army. It was not difficult to lure them. Even Janov himself had shown up to make war, which the general resolved in minutes after an epic battle. Unexpectedly, the Gaian leader changed his mind and found no other escape from defeat than retreat; he abandoned his people, who soon fled amid the chaos... "

*–-Please read more in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–- *

Excerpt:

“Incidit in Scyllam, cupiens vitare Charybdim [He falls into Scylla while trying to avoid Charybdis].”
Homer, The Odyssey

On January 15, 2007, after conducting some research in the subsoil of the Valley of the Emperors in Mexico, and following an uncomfortable three-hour flight in an old Tucano twin-engine plane, I was landing on the island of Roatán in the Central American Caribbean when I received a voicemail alert on my cell phone:

“My dear Bruno Colono, it is urgent that you contact me. Your presence in Moscow is mandatory. Call me as soon as possible to coordinate your arrival with the staff of the Marine Research Society. Your friend, Dimitri Pavlovich.”

Indeed, it was the powerful, impossibly lyrical Slavic voice of my friend Dimitri. I immediately remembered the wild nights in Russian land, soaked in vodka and mazurkas in the grachevka taverns, where we used to recite Pushkin’s poems and laugh uproariously at the charm of Afanasyev’s tales. And how could I forget the sweetest Olesya, that perfect girlfriend, a real Barbie doll, whom I had left behind with the deepest regret at old Abramovich’s house! Those were my best days. In those fabulous times, Dimitri and I had explored the Atlantic rifts, funded by the Russian government, mapping the abyssal floors, measuring their depths to make way for fiber-optic cables that would connect that country to the rest of the world. And most astonishing of all, we had done these dives with the help of an ancient bathyscaphe, the Thresler—a relic from the days of the great Piccard.

As soon as I stepped off the plane at Moscow airport, the Society’s staff welcomed me. One of them was Mr. Svyatoslav Chernov, a member of the Central Committee and an excellent marine geologist, and Mr. Yuri Kamkov, a submariner specialized in marine archaeology.

“Welcome,” Chernov greeted me in his schoolboy Spanish, kissing me on the cheek.

“Iá jarachó ravariú pa rússki,” I replied with a little smile.Kamkov, surprised, burst out laughing and hugged me, giving me another kiss. I asked about Dimitri, and they laughed again: “Oh, Pavlovich, on miédlenna guliáit!”—referring to the astonishing calm with which my friend usually faces everything.

We arrived at the Society’s building, a true masterpiece of Baroque architecture, and soon my eyes met Dimitri’s. He was waiting for me, leaning with arms crossed beside an archaic metal diving suit—none other than Fréminet’s famous “hydrostatergatic machine”!—smoking a cigarette.

“You’re standing before a monument!” I pointed out.

“In Russia everything is monumental!” Dimitri returned the greeting warmly. “Kak dela?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and extending his hand.

“Normalna,” I answered, and we embraced.We moved to a meeting room. Amid rolls of nautical charts, compasses, and measuring instruments, Chernov spoke..."

--Read more in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com , an open source Spanish community of writers--

Excerpt:

Tyrannical Mirror

The unknown ship crashed against the dead shore of a lake. The impact tore through the wasteland’s stillness: a metallic roar, scattered fire, and a tremor that churned the mud. They were far from the castle, in a lifeless place. Only crumbling ruins, a ghost city rotting upright, no animals, no birds, nothing. The silence of a graveyard.

Shin’s ship descended beside it, followed by the brutal landing of Dragon Darius, whose colossal body shook the ground. Rain fell thick, drumming against his black scales.

Shin leapt from her ship and ran toward the downed fighter without a second thought for anything but the pilot. Black smoke swallowed it from the tail, and the windshield glowed with heat. She forced the canopy with nails and raw strength until the glass gave way and shattered. Then she saw.

The scream that ripped from her throat threw her backward; she clawed at the mud to keep from collapsing.

“Shin!” Darius roared, approaching with steps that sank the earth.

The dragon lowered his enormous skull to the cockpit, sniffing, staring. Inside, unconscious over the controls, lay… herself. But not. It was Shin, yet with silver hair and armor bearing the emblem of the ancient Exquemano Empire.

“Uncle…” Shin whispered, voice breaking. “What… does this mean?”

“I don’t know… this is…” Darius’s deep voice wavered, something rare in him.

...

--Read more in its original language, Castilian, at ficto grama.com, an open source Spanish community of writers--

Short Summary

(in English - The original text is in Castilian)

In Barcelona, the protagonist (a successful Madrid architect living a secret double life) unexpectedly runs into his former lover Lisette and her colleague Kate at a charming neighborhood bakery. Forced into an awkward coffee meet-up, he struggles to maintain his old cover story—that he’s merely a soundproofing technician—while Lisette playfully corners him into a possible dinner invitation that threatens to expose or reignite his hidden past. Trapped between his two worlds, he leaves the café rattled, realizing his quick “confirmation” trip has just become dangerously complicated