Chapter 38

  MY OTHER SELVES

  The cold made his skin bristle as if invisible fingers were moving through him from the inside. The breeze of oblivion slipped through every fragment of his being, whispering names he no longer remembered having. Dust covered him—warm, almost compassionate—and in its touch there was something unsettling, as if existence itself were being dragged away by that silent tide. Absence greeted him with disturbing familiarity.

  And within that cluster of sensations, three presences hinted at themselves in the dimness of the world. Silent. Expectant. They did not advance, they did not speak… they waited.

  Max opened his eyes.

  The sky was a torn canvas in shades of red: crimson, scarlet, dark wine. It painted a desert landscape where distant mountains closed the horizon like ancient walls, and ravines opened deep mouths into a darkness impossible to decipher. The sensation pierced him again: absence or existence? This place was not a dream… but neither did it belong to his world.

  He sat up slowly and, a few meters away, he saw her.

  Diya lay unconscious, partially covered by sand, as if the desert were trying to reclaim her. There was something in the way the dust clung to her body, in how the wind seemed to circle her with devotion, that suggested belonging. As if that place recognized her.

  Max stood and approached. He shook her gently, a small gesture, almost reverent. It was enough.

  Diya opened her eyes and sat up abruptly. Her gaze swept across the burning horizon. On her face overlapped emotions difficult to name: fear, confusion, a rising fury trembling on her lips. Max tried to read her, but it was like deciphering a forgotten language.

  —Where are we? —she asked, standing and forcing her sight beyond the limits the desert imposed.

  —I don’t know… but we’re not alone —he replied quietly—. This world… feels strangely familiar.

  He looked around as if the sand, the mountains, and the breeze whispered in unison: welcome back.

  Above them, storm clouds churned in dense spirals. Distant thunder shook the ground, and within the belly of those clouds, red lightning burst like open wounds in the sky.

  —Look… there —Diya murmured.

  In the distance, three figures advanced with slow, serene steps. There was no urgency in their stride. They walked like those who know time belongs to them.

  Max narrowed his eyes. The dust lifted by the wind distorted their silhouettes, making them almost unreal. But he knew before he could distinguish their faces: they were the presences he had felt. A familiar aura surrounded them, heavy with an ancient melancholy, as if they shared a memory he had not yet managed to reach.

  Diya extended her right hand, determined. She tried to summon one of her shields. The gesture was precise, trained.

  But nothing happened.

  Not a spark. Not even a whisper of energy.

  —My magic… —her voice tightened with contained anger.

  She clenched her fists, ready to fight with her own body if necessary.

  Max looked at his hands as well. He felt the internal current—faint, distant.

  —Our magical energy is weakened —he said gravely—. It’s here… but asleep.

  And as the three figures continued approaching beneath the red sky, the entire world seemed to hold its breath.

  The dust began to dissipate, as if the mere proximity of those three presences imposed order upon the storm. The sand descended with reverent slowness, obedient to an invisible authority.

  Then the first figure revealed himself before their eyes.

  He was a young man, tall and slender, wrapped in an elegance that did not seem practiced but inherent. He wore a long dark coat that fell almost to the ground, classic in cut and flawless in its lines, as if torn from another era… or from someone who had never quite left the past behind. Beneath the coat, a perfectly fitted black suit outlined his silhouette; the shirt buttoned to the collar and the narrow tie, all in sober tones, reinforced an air of calculated restraint, almost ceremonial.

  His black hair, slightly wavy, slipped in unruly strands across his forehead, giving him a studied carelessness—dangerously attractive. His face, angular, with sharp cheekbones and a firm jaw, seemed sculpted with the precision of a severe intention. But it was his eyes that stole the breath: pale, cold, deeply analytical. They did not look; they examined. They did not observe; they judged. As if the entire world were a puzzle he had already solved—and whose conclusion had disappointed him.

  He brought a cigarette to his lips.

  The gesture was neither rebellious nor ostentatious. It was slow. Measured. He lit the flame with an almost liturgical calm and inhaled the smoke like someone breathing in an ancient memory. It did not seem like a vice, but a silent ritual; a way to hold thoughts too dense to be spoken. The smoke rose in pale spirals that contrasted with the red sky, and for an instant it seemed as though the air itself bent around him.

  He said nothing.

  But his mere presence altered the balance of the desert, as if his arrival had been expected long before time had learned to count itself.

  Behind the man in the coat, the second presence emerged.

  He advanced with a steady step, and in the way he held his body there was something more than physical discipline: it was the posture of someone who has learned to endure even when the soul trembles. His athletic build was not ostentatious but functional, shaped as much for combat as for the invisible burden of irreversible decisions. His dark skin, warm and deep in tone, contrasted with the absolute black of his clothing, which clung to him like a second skin, adapting to each movement with almost organic precision.

  He wore a sleeveless dark tunic with a high collar, stylized and practical, leaving his strong, defined arms exposed. Across the fabric ran lines and symbols in gold—ancient strokes that did not seem like mere ornamentation. There was something about them—their symmetry, their arrangement—that suggested forgotten runes or the silent signature of an ancestral pact. At his waist, a golden cloth belt was tied with quiet restraint, one end falling to the side like a motionless flame suspended in time. High reinforced boots and details of aged gold metal hinted at rank, belonging—a martial tradition whose history was likely written in blood and oaths.

  Claro. A continuación tienes la **traducción al inglés**, manteniendo los **guiones de diálogo** y el **tono narrativo**. (En este fragmento no aparece la palabra *brujo*, pero si aparece en textos futuros la traduciré como **sorcerer/sorcery** según corresponda).

  ---

  In the distance, three figures advanced with slow, serene steps. There was no urgency in their stride. They walked like those who know that time belongs to them.

  Max narrowed his eyes. The dust lifted by the wind distorted their silhouettes, making them seem almost unreal. But he knew it before he could distinguish their faces: they were the presences he had felt. A familiar aura surrounded them, heavy with ancient melancholy, as if they shared a memory he had yet to reach.

  Diya extended her right hand, determined. She tried to summon one of her shields. The gesture was precise, trained.

  But nothing happened.

  Not a spark. Not a whisper of energy.

  —My magic… —her voice tightened with restrained anger.

  She clenched her fists, ready to fight with her own body if necessary.

  Max looked at his hands as well. He felt the internal flow, faint, distant.

  —Our magical energy is weakened —he said gravely—. It’s here… but asleep.

  And as the three figures continued to approach beneath the red sky, the entire world seemed to hold its breath.

  The dust began to dissipate, as if the mere proximity of those three presences imposed order upon the storm. The sand descended with reverent slowness, obedient to an invisible authority.

  Then the first figure revealed himself before their eyes.

  He was a young man, tall and slender, wrapped in an elegance that did not seem rehearsed, but inherent. He wore a long dark coat that fell almost to the ground, classic in cut and impeccable in its lines, as if pulled from another era… or from someone who had never quite abandoned the past. Beneath the coat, a perfectly fitted black suit outlined his silhouette; the shirt closed up to the collar and the narrow tie, all in sober tones, reinforced an air of calculated sobriety, almost ceremonial.

  His black hair, slightly wavy, fell in unruly strands across his forehead, giving him a carefully careless look, dangerously attractive. His face, angular, with pronounced cheekbones and a firm jaw, seemed sculpted with the precision of a severe intention. But it was his eyes that stole the breath: light-colored, cold, deeply analytical. They did not look; they examined. They did not observe; they judged. As if the entire world were an enigma he had already solved—and whose conclusion had disappointed him.

  He brought a cigarette to his lips.

  The gesture was neither rebellious nor ostentatious. It was slow. Measured. He lit the flame with an almost liturgical calm and inhaled the smoke like someone breathing in an ancient memory. It did not seem like a vice, but a silent ritual; a way of holding thoughts too heavy to be spoken. The smoke rose in pale spirals that contrasted with the red sky, and for an instant it gave the impression that the air itself bent around him.

  He said nothing.

  But his mere presence altered the balance of the desert, as if his arrival had been expected long before time itself had learned to be counted.

  Behind the man in the coat, the second presence emerged.

  He advanced with a firm stride, and in the way he carried his body there was something more than physical discipline: it was the posture of someone who had learned to endure even when the soul trembles. His athletic build was not ostentatious, but functional, shaped both for combat and for the invisible burden of irreversible decisions. His dark skin, warm and deep in tone, contrasted with the absolute black of his clothing, which clung to him like a second skin, adapting to each movement with almost organic precision.

  He wore a sleeveless dark tunic with a high collar, stylized and practical, leaving strong, well-defined arms exposed. Across the fabric spread lines and symbols in gold, ancient strokes that did not appear to be simple ornaments. There was something about them—in their symmetry, in their arrangement—that suggested forgotten runes or the silent signature of an ancestral pact. Around his waist, a golden cloth belt was tied with restraint, one end falling at his side like a motionless flame suspended in time. The tall boots, reinforced, and the metallic details in aged gold hinted at rank, belonging, a martial tradition whose history was probably written in blood and oaths.

  His dark, curly hair was gathered into a small low bun, though a few rebellious strands escaped to frame his face, softening the severity of his features just slightly.

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  But it was his eyes that truly imposed silence.

  They shone with an intense amber glow, close to incandescent orange, like living embers hidden beneath ash. It was not a metaphorical shine: they burned with their own contained, dangerous light. It was not the common gaze of a man; it was the gaze of someone who carries power… and knows it.

  His expression revealed character: serious, observant, proud. Determination tightened his jaw and defined the line of his mouth. Yet beneath that firmness there was a barely perceptible shadow, a crack in the armor of his will. As if upon his shoulders rested a responsibility far too vast for his age. As if every step he took brought him not only closer to Max and Diya… but also to a destiny that did not entirely belong to him.

  And lastly, the presence that vibrated most intensely with magical energy emerged. The one whose mere silhouette, barely outlined through the remaining dust, made the hairs on Max’s skin rise as if an invisible current ran down his spine.

  He did not seem to fully belong to the world he walked upon.

  There was something about him that clashed with reality itself, as if he moved slightly out of phase with the plane supporting him. The air around him felt denser, heavier; each step he took seemed to compress the space, forcing it to acknowledge him.

  His face was marked by thin scars, irregular lines that spoke of battles that did not always leave visible blood. One crossed his eyebrow with careless elegance; another descended across his cheekbone until it vanished into the shadow of his short, dark, barely contained beard. There were more, almost invisible ones, that tightened his expression whenever his jaw hardened, as if each mark were the signature of an irreversible decision.

  But what truly defined him was his hair.

  Split into two colors like a wound that never healed. On one side, deep black; on the other, ashen white. It was not vanity or eccentricity: it was consequence. The mark of something that had passed through him and changed him forever. He wore it long on the top, partially tied back, though some strands fell freely over his forehead and brushed his eyes.

  Those eyes.

  Red. Burning.

  They did not shine with uncontrolled fury, but with a constant, contained fire, like embers that never fully go out. Within them lived a disturbing mixture of weariness and determination. The gaze of someone who has seen too much… and still chose to keep walking.

  He dressed like someone accustomed to perpetual movement, prepared for violence without desiring it. A long dark leather coat fell over his figure, its wide rigid collar worn by the elements and marked by folds that told stories of rain, dust, and sleepless nights. Beneath it, an open shirt exposed his chest, revealing intricate tattoos that coiled across his skin like an arcane map. They were not mere decorations: the lines seemed to subtly respond to the reddish light of the sky, suggesting ancient pacts, oaths sealed with blood, or powers that demanded a price.

  A dark stone pendant rested against his sternum, exactly where a deeper scar broke the symmetry of his torso, as if something had once tried to tear his heart out… and failed.

  His fitted trousers, reinforced at the seams, followed the firm silhouette of a body trained to endure more than should be human. The tall leather boots showed the wear of endless roads and battles that left more dust than glory. A wide belt held a sword of elegant, functional blade always within reach of his hand, alongside small pouches whose contents—tools, talismans, relics—few would likely understand.

  He did not walk like a hero.

  Nor like a villain.

  He walked like someone who had accepted becoming the point in between.

  When he drew close enough, the wind seemed to change direction. The red clouds cracked in the distance. He did not need to speak to impose silence: the world itself adjusted its breathing to his rhythm.

  His eyes settled on Max.

  And in that instant, the fire contained within them seemed to recognize something. Not with surprise. Not with hatred.

  With memory.

  The elegantly poised man removed the cigarette from his lips with a slow, almost ceremonial gesture. The smoke unraveled between his fingers before touching the ground, as if even the ash obeyed his will. His clear eyes rested on both of them with meticulous attention… and then, against all expectation, he offered them a gentle smile. Not wide, not ostentatious. Just enough of a curve to soften the edge of his presence.

  —They’re quite young… —he murmured, as if the realization stirred a quiet sadness within him—. Well… welcome, Max and Diya. I am Jackson Smith.

  His voice was deep, resonant, yet cordial. It did not impose; it enveloped. And in his gaze there was something unexpected, a restrained warmth, as if seeing them there was not a surprise, but the confirmation of a hope that had waited far too long.

  The second man stepped forward.

  The amber glow of his eyes did not fade, yet neither did it burn with hostility. He observed. Analyzed. His gaze moved between them with the precision of someone mentally dismantling a complex mechanism, trying to understand its gears, its flaws, its possibilities.

  —I am Bassel.

  His voice was firm, without ornament. He did not need to raise it for his authority to be felt. There was no smile in him, no conciliatory gesture, but neither was there contempt. Only evaluation. As if he were still deciding where on the board they should be placed.

  Then the last one spoke.

  The man with the split hair stepped forward just enough for the shadow of his coat to stretch across the sand. His red eyes moved over them slowly, lingering a second longer than necessary on Max. A barely perceptible grimace tightened his mouth.

  —Welcome, damned ones… —he said, and the word did not sound like an insult, but a diagnosis—. I’m Killian. You’re welcome for the help on the other side.

  His tone was mocking, rough, laden with a weariness that did not come from the body but from the soul. As if he had already witnessed too many beginnings to believe in them.

  The wind blew between the five of them.

  Max stepped back almost by instinct, the sand crunching beneath his foot. It was not cowardice, but recognition: something in Killian’s presence triggered a primitive alarm, a memory without memories.

  Diya, on the other hand, did not move.

  She stood firm, fists raised, her jaw tense. No magic. No shield. Only will.

  The red sky cracked in the distance.

  And for a moment, the entire desert seemed to watch the encounter as if it were the prologue to something that had been waiting centuries to begin.

  —Where are we? —Diya demanded, her voice firm despite the barely perceptible tremor in her fingers.

  Bassel lifted his gaze toward the distant mountains, their outlines blurred beneath the red sky.

  —In the Middle World… —he replied gravely—. The point of balance between all that is and all that ceases to be. Between life and death. Between realms. Between existing… or not existing.

  Humans have given it many names: limbo, barzakh, bardo. None of them define it completely.

  The wind passed between them as if validating his words.

  —How did we get here? —Max asked, and there was a fear in his voice that tried not to reveal itself.

  Jackson took a gentle step forward and offered them another of those smiles that seemed made to hold fragile worlds together.

  —Easy. You are not dead. Your consciousnesses were brought here while your bodies recover. You used too much magic… more than you could contain.

  —I suppose while fighting for a world you didn’t even know —Killian added with a look full of contempt, as if that kind of nobility irritated him.

  Max’s jaw tightened.

  —The town of Arbolaria Viate was attacked by a demon… —the anger still vibrated in his voice—. It succeeded because Frida betrayed us.

  Killian let out a rough laugh.

  —I knew that bitch couldn’t be trusted.

  —Language —Bassel corrected him with a stern glance that, for a moment, silenced even the wind—. Things seem difficult, as always… What threat is it this time?

  Diya looked from one to the other, unable to piece it together.

  —I’m not understanding what’s happening.

  Killian spoke first.

  —Invasion of the Kings of Inferno.

  Bassel continued, his tone unchanged.

  —A demon from a lost realm that infected living beings.

  Jackson added, with unsettling calm:

  —Blood fae who murdered and possessed sorceries to use their magic.

  Max swallowed.

  —An arcane sorcery who feeds on chaos… —his eyes hardened—. Who exactly are you?

  Killian pointed at him slightly with his chin, amused.

  —Kid… haven’t you figured it out yet?

  Jackson stepped forward.

  —We are you.

  Diya blinked in disbelief and let out a dry laugh.

  —Are you high? Does this world drive you insane?

  Bassel placed a firm hand on both of their shoulders. The contact was warm. Real.

  —The sorcery is destined to reincarnate when a great evil awakens. Our soul returns, again and again, to face whatever threatens to break the balance.

  Killian brushed Bassel’s hand away abruptly.

  —Don’t lie to them. We are not saviors. We are a cursed aberration of Hecate. Trapped in this prison when we die.

  The name vibrated in the air like an ancient echo.

  —Don’t say that —Jackson looked at him with a restrained anger he rarely showed—. It’s not a curse. It’s our mission.

  Killian snorted.

  —I was Catholic when I was alive. That’s why he’s so unbearable. Out of all the reincarnations… you’re the version of me I hate the most.

  The sky cracked with a distant thunder.

  Diya looked at Max, then back at them.

  —Are you saying we’re both your reincarnation?

  —Yes —Jackson answered, and for the first time his voice trembled slightly, not with doubt, but with emotion—. Twins who share the power. I’m glad to see my last act of magic worked.

  —We’re not siblings —Max replied immediately.

  —You are —Bassel said calmly—. And you felt it from the very first dream.

  Silence fell like sand.

  Diya frowned, holding the gaze of the three men.

  —Let’s say I believe you… —her voice was no longer mocking, but challenging—. Why would you make it so that in the next life there would be two of you?

  The wind stopped.

  And for the first time, the three men did not answer immediately.

  Jackson turned his face toward Killian, and for the first time the softness disappeared completely from his expression.

  —Because he’s a fool who wants to save Celeste’s soul from our curse —Killian snapped.

  The fury in his voice was not loud, but deep. Ancient.

  Killian did not look at them. His red eyes remained fixed on the burning horizon.

  —A fool… —Jackson repeated dryly—. Yes. That’s what I was.

  The name lingered in the air.

  —Celeste? —Max asked, feeling that every answer opened a new crack.

  Bassel took a barely perceptible step forward. His amber eyes glowed with a different intensity now, not martial, but intimate.

  —In my life… she was Kisha.

  Jackson lowered his gaze, and within it slipped a memory that seemed to hurt even after centuries.

  —In mine she was Lorenzo.

  The desert remained silent. The red clouds seemed to turn more slowly, as if they were listening.

  —What are you talking about? —Max’s confusion was no longer anger; it was vertigo.

  Then Killian spoke.

  His voice no longer held mockery. No edge. It was only a broken echo.

  —I did it… —he confessed, and guilt could be felt in every word—. I refused to lose her. I refused to never see her again. And I committed the greatest mistake a sorcery can make.

  The wind rose slightly, as if it wanted to stop him from continuing.

  —I bound her soul to mine. —He closed his eyes for a moment—. Since then… she reincarnates with me.

  Bassel lowered his head.

  —Destined to find each other… but never to remain together.

  Jackson took a deep breath before completing the truth.

  —Killian’s act had a cosmic price. Balance demanded compensation. The sorcery could never be with the angel. In every life… death and madness would claim one of the two.

  The words were not spoken with cruelty, but with resignation.

  The silence that followed was heavier than the air.

  Max felt a name forming in his throat before he could stop it.

  —Gabriel… —he whispered.

  Killian’s red eyes moved toward him.

  And something in his expression changed.

  —Gabriel… —he repeated with a softness that seemed impossible for him—. What a beautiful name.

  For a moment, the fire in his eyes stopped burning with violence.

  —She wanted to name her first son that.

  A faint, fragile smile crossed his scarred face. It was not mockery. Not irony.

  It was memory.

  And perhaps… love.

  Max stepped back again, as if the ground beneath his feet had become uncertain. Diya remained motionless, her gaze fixed on the sand, trying to order thoughts that dissolved before taking shape.

  Jackson watched them with a mixture of compassion and urgency.

  —It’s the first time we exist as two —he explained calmly—. And it’s the first time our reincarnation can speak to us directly. That alters the balance… and opens a possibility.

  You need to see the beginning of everything. Only then will you understand what you must do.

  —What?! —Killian’s reaction was immediate, sharp—. They’re not going to see my life.

  The desert itself seemed to tense with him.

  Bassel stepped toward his companion and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. There was no imposition in the gesture, only understanding.

  —You know it’s necessary, Killian. —His voice was low, but unbreakable—. You’ll have to relive it, yes. But it’s the only way to save her soul. They need to understand.

  The silence stretched for several seconds that felt like years.

  Killian inhaled deeply, as if the air weighed more than usual. He pulled out a cigarette with automatic, almost defensive movements. He held it between his lips without looking at them.

  Bassel raised his hand. From the tip of his index finger, a small flame emerged—golden, pure. It did not burn the air; it illuminated it. With a minimal gesture, he lit the cigarette.

  The ember burned.

  Killian inhaled slowly, and when he exhaled, the smoke did not disperse. It remained suspended before them, turning in on itself. At first it was a clumsy spiral… then a precise, compact vortex that began to expand like a threshold weaving itself into existence.

  —You’re going to see my greatest failure —Killian warned, his voice rough but steady—. Without adornment. Without excuses. Without sweet endings.

  The vortex of smoke opened like a wound in the air, revealing a vibrating void at its center.

  Max felt his heart beating in rhythm with that opening.

  —Cross —Killian ordered with a slight gesture of his chin—. And follow the blue butterfly.

  At that moment, a small luminous figure emerged from within the smoke. A butterfly with translucent wings, tinted a deep blue that seemed to hold sky and ocean at the same time. Its flutter made no sound… yet every movement left behind a faint trail of light, like a memory refusing to fade.

  The butterfly hovered in front of Max and Diya, waiting.

  The portal breathed.

  And the past was waiting for them on the other side.