Literatura en ESPAÑOL

Excerpt:

THE CONTAINMENT PREDICAMENT, Pt. 1

It was then—when the phosphorescent veil cast by the lunar climax reflected across the asters—that he realized he had lost track of time. In a meadow purely monochrome and exotic such as the one he stood upon, it would be normal for anyone to drift amid the dance of unusual colored lights; for him, however, it was indulgent. After all, he had never stopped to contemplate beauty in any of the regions he had explored throughout his sector of work. He was there for a reason: his mission. And his mission here had already ended.

Certain that on that telluric planet there was no trace of the origin of the entity he had been tasked to inspect, the supervisor activated his visors to relocate his ship and head back to it. He crossed the meadow of asters with his gaze fixed on the digital map marker projected onto his lens, completely ignoring the impossible landscape unfolding beneath his hips. Truly, he had never possessed that human knack for curiosity—for losing oneself in wonder, or simply, for feeling.

The first sector of the system where the Agency found itself stranded had already been entirely explored by him. It contained only two Jovian planets, three moons, and the telluric planet from which he was about to depart. Next would be setting a course for the fourth sector, since the second and third were the research targets of other Agency supervisors. It was usually strange for three supervisors to be in the outer field beyond the space station at the same time, but this was a special situation. Days earlier, all communication with the two adjacent solar systems had been lost—something merely impossible given the technological quality New World provisioned to its industries. And yet it happened, and the Agency had to act. Losing communication between space stations could cause coordination failures in the containment of anomalies affecting New World, something that could have been easily resolved by sending engineers between systems—if not for the fact that the localization system indicated the positions had changed completely. All of this, combined with the impossibility of locating one another due to the communication blackout and the maps’ failure to triangulate even the precise positions of their own stations, led them to the conclusion that they were adrift in space, unable even to return home.

Communication with the central base on the Agency’s home planet remained intact, but they could not determine the new whereabouts of the three missing space stations. What was clear was that this was not a simple software issue; something else was happening, and it was only logical to assume the influence of some entity. An anomaly.

“I see you’ve had no luck here either, Supervisor,” said a voice over the radio intercom. “The others haven’t managed to pick up any sign of the anomaly either.”

The supervisor did not bother to reply.

“Since you’ve finished with the first sector, you should return to the station for an equipment replacement,” the voice suggested again—this time with more noticeable warmth.

Silence remained the supervisor’s answer. But the owner of that delicate female voice did not allow the discomfort to dominate the channel.

“Supervisor.”

“I’m here,” he finally replied, his gaze lowered, lost in the ground-anchor lever.

“You’ve gone more than forty-eight hours without replenishing energy or changing. Your visors are deteriorated by the extreme climate, and your oxygen pumps need recharging in less than half a day. I know you’re aware, and I don’t need to remind you. Return to base.”

It was more than clear the supervisor preferred to follow his own plans, yet something within him was fascinated by receiving orders—especially from that voice. There was something so calming in the intonations transmitted through the communicator that he often found himself drifting into those directives. Still, the feeling was buried beneath his sense of duty, which never allowed distractions. Until then, he remained a person defined by his work, someone who—by all indications—had never felt anything special for anything at all, not even for something as touching and endearing as that voice.

Even so, he followed her recommendations.

“Operator Selena.”

“Yes, Supervisor?”

“You’re right.”

He finally lifted his gaze and removed his visors along with the scarlet beret. He raised the anchor lever and indicated the return route to the space station on the monitor. The ship levitated, hovering a few meters above the ground for several seconds, then slowly ascended until it reached a sky clear and utterly devoid of clouds. The planet’s strange colors wrapped around it in the distance until, with the activation of the thrusters, it seemed like just another star in that cosmic mural visible from the aster field. And so, another planet was crossed off the list.

The station—massive in form and unyielding in appearance—made the supervisor feel at home. The station had always been his dearest home, or rather, the only one he remembered ever having. For a decade and a half he had devoted fifteen-hour days to inspecting anomalies at that space base, and for him, that meant everything. In a place like that, routine was difficult to vary. He moved from his small three-square-meter room to his workstation after sleeping his captivating five hours a day. At his post, he received a list of new tasks for the shift—mostly field investigations in various sectors of the system—which he would report upon returning to the station. It was a simple life, but it sufficed. Anything would be worse than returning to his apartment on New World, a place filled with memories and grime. A dump. He couldn’t afford any renovations or improvements and relied solely on the government’s common leisure services: popular television, a daily fifteen-minute ration of lime-heavy water, and packages of mossy food with protein traces from some native caterpillar, delivered by droids to every resident of the buildings in the putrefying pit called “Capital.”

Now the supervisor no longer had to worry about the drastic reduction in lifespan he had been suffering due to conditions in the Capital—though it wasn’t as if he worried much about living at all. On the station, that floating dysmorphic cube with layered walls that offered the failed illusion of creative design and the color of raw concrete, the lives of space workers were better than any king’s when compared to the common caste on New World. The primary difference was food: freeze-dried rations and a few canned goods prepared in the industries of the home planet. Supervisors and other ranks lived in small but apparently comfortable rooms, furnished with a military cot, a thin blanket, and a slim pillow—elements deemed more than sufficient by the workers themselves. They needed no leisure services; they had time only to sleep after long shifts and a few minutes for hygiene. As for the view, it was considered incredible compared to the communal pit below: a labyrinth of wide corridors that seemed endless, whose incandescent lighting enveloped all four sides of the structure, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. With no windows to contemplate what lay outside and no change in that incessant monotony, the station’s labyrinthine corridors were all the supervisor ever saw on his walk from room to workstation—and now, they guided him from the docking bay to the nearest water service (this time not lime-heavy) he could find before the meteorological conditions of the explored areas irritated his throat further.

After leaving his used equipment in maintenance, the supervisor went to his workstation: a small cubicle with a desk and a green-toned monitor—the only contrast to the room’s monochrome. The area was filled with station workers moving frantically from one end to the other, papers floating carelessly in the air, and a screen with red letters displaying an announcement that still seemed impossible: “84 HOURS SINCE LAST COMMUNICATION.”

Without giving it more importance than necessary, the supervisor sat to fill out the reports for the sector he had just explored. He could have done it after surveying the next sector, but since he was at the station, he preferred to seal the task. His calm—or rather, indifferent—attitude was uncommon among any workers at that moment, especially anomaly supervisors. He typed with focus; the only thoughts skating through his neural connections were of finishing as quickly as possible to head for the fourth sector. Even the memories of the places he had visited over the past forty-eight hours stirred no emotion. He had walked on moons tinted with impossible colors by neighboring nebulae, Jovian planets with golden asteroid belts reflecting on lagoons over which he glided in his ship—and above all, that aster field where his mind, for just a moment, had been able to rest. Something he deeply denied and refused to accept.

“What would she look like?” he wondered out of nowhere, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face. Why would he ask that? Obviously, he meant the appearance of the owner of that sweet voice he hadn’t heard since docking. A bead of sweat traced his cheek—again, his mind had led him astray. He should not think of her at all. For his own good.

He tried.

Suddenly, memories of his former life on New World surfaced. He had been alone in the season before qualifying to serve the Agency, but before becoming miserable, he had had a small family—two people bound by marriage. He never thought of it, though lately those memories attacked him, especially when that voice spoke to him through the intercoms scattered across his workplaces. Life with her had been simple. Married since sixteen, their monotonous routine consisted of surviving however they could in the capital’s rot. A few bills from the government’s biweekly stipend afforded them the same life he later had alone. Their diet came from the monthly supply box: urban fungi adapted for consumption, canned larvae—hailed by the New World Empire as the true and only protein source to immeasurably improve quality of life—synthetic milk, and a couple of nutritional bars whose wrappers never listed their composition, yet they ate them all the same. Medical supplementation was an obvious dream for their neighborhood and all capital districts. At first, medicine wasn’t needed, but when a strange malaise fell upon her, the supervisor cursed not having joined the Agency sooner—at least then he might have helped her, even if they had to sacrifice the electricity service that only lasted an hour a day anyway.

The illness soon incapacitated her completely. Bodily paralysis set in, clearly attacking her lungs. It began with weakness in her diaphragm’s ability to assist ventilation, and without access to external respiratory devices, little by little—and sooner rather than later—she became the victim of a strange ailment never diagnosed. In the blink of an eye, for the first time in twenty years of marriage, the supervisor found himself incurably alone. He did not cry her death; in fact, he handed her over to mortuary services with incomparable coldness. He had never nullified his emotions like that before, but that death marked a before and after in his character.

Until that voice made him remember. And more than the terrible final months spent trying to encourage his wife as she petrified in their bedroom, he remembered how her delicate, feminine aura contrasted with the putrid hell they inhabited. He then thought the owner of that voice must resemble his first love—though it was not romantic. He would never indulge such emotions while working for the Agency. It was more a calming presence, something to keep him steady during expeditions into deep space.

As his fingers typed automatically and his mind spiraled through ideas, hours passed in the cubicle—until a small alarm tone from the intercom beside his monitor brought him back.

“Supervisor,” the device said.

It was her again.

“Your gear is ready for pickup. You may return to the field. I hope the time you spent at the station helped you recover.”

Papers floated chaotically again; clerks and supervisors ran more frantically than before; keystrokes from other cubicles grated on the ears; and the red light of emergency report alerts flashed intermittently.

“Yes, Miss Selena,” the supervisor replied after a contemplative pause. “I definitely needed a moment to rest. I’ll head to the fourth sector.”

“Safe launch, Supervisor,” the voice said.

The speed with which he moved from the cubicle to the docking bay betrayed his eagerness to escape the station’s disastrous chaos. It seemed the only way to clear his mind was fieldwork—so it was clear he had lied to Miss Selena.

In the blink of an eye, he was traveling at superhuman speeds through the cosmos. Incredible hues of heterogeneous chromaticism reflected like neon lights across the cockpit. The ship—rudimentary and stripped of paint—drowned in those auroras, taking on a dreamlike, astonishing aspect, while beneath its platform the nearest planet’s asteroid belt shimmered with metallic light, as if solar waves rolled beneath his feet. At some point early in every journey, the deafening roar of the thrusters softened into an underwater echo, and the ship’s seismic vibration ceased entirely as maximum velocity was reached to minimize travel time. When that happened, the magic of outer space awakened something—unacknowledged—deep within the supervisor. He would never tire of what he could not see from the station. After all, why were there no exterior views there?

“For the same reason you’re lost in thought,” he told himself. Distractions were not permitted.

“TWO HOURS TO DESTINATION. SECTOR FOUR. FIRST LANDING ON: LUNAR BODY OF PLANET REGISTERED UNDER CODE 0330.”

The cockpit monitor announced it in a robotic, anticlimactic voice. The supervisor thought it wouldn’t have hurt for such information to be delivered by the operators—by Miss Selena, in his case—but things were as they were, and he had to stop thinking about it.

No further distractions crossed his mind after that notice, and time seemed eternal. He landed on a rocky hill on that fog-choked moon. The monitor warned of toxic weather and how conditions would affect his oxygen pumps, causing a greater-than-usual depletion of up to two percent per hour. He fitted the ventilation filter mask, adjusted his beret, and took the rugged GPS to guide him once he descended the hill and the fog obscured his view. When he opened the hatch, its screech and the fierce gust that swept into the ship irritated him and made him feel uneasy—but these were occupational hazards.

The rappel descent was turbulent due to wind, and as expected, once on the ground he was blind. He tried using the special technology of his visors for a general view, but the terrain scanner generated by the GPS worked best. It produced a digital image detailing every aspect of the terrain, which he transferred to his mask lens. He would use the visors only if he needed infrared assistance, though he didn’t expect to encounter anyone—ship detectors had already indicated the lunar body was incompatible with life. A relief.

Studying celestial bodies for signs of anomalies was, in principle, a simple task. Every known anomaly caused interference in portable sensors the Agency provided to supervisors and special field agents. These sensors were affixed to exoskeletons or suits, as well as to ship scanners, which triangulated interference signals and designated them “sectors.”

The search for anomalies was empirical. Little was known of the infinite kinds of entities, but it was known they could be tracked and ultimately contained. Containment itself was another matter—its difficulty the opposite of tracking. Supervisors located them and reported key characteristics so a containment plan could be devised, where the Agency’s special field agents would direct them—sometimes by force—into a portable gate they carried, which connected directly to a pocket room: fragile within, yet from without, once sealed, impossible to connect to our reality. In this way, all the en—

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–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

ACT I: The Zenith of the Gods Chapter 1: Hixtalis, the Capital of the Gods

It was the Year One since Creation.

The Pillars were beginning to grow accustomed to their new existences. They were not born as children; rather, they emerged slowly, first taking shape as titanic lights before assuming the forms that proved most comfortable to them.

With their emergence and the expansion of their Essences, life began to manifest throughout the universe, growing in parallel from the Point of Origin—the place where they were born. From there, they journeyed outward, leaving their imprint upon a cosmos still in its infancy. It was within the first galaxy to form alongside them that they forged their dynasty.

Life flourished at an ever-accelerating pace the closer one came to the center of creation, and the Hixtalis solar system became the first stronghold of both mortality and divinity coexisting.

Five planets orbited its star, but for now, our gaze will rest upon the most important of them all: the planet Hixtalis, from which the system itself took its name. It was upon this world that the four Pillars chose to inscribe their vision, shaping it in their own image and likeness.

To the eyes of the Pillars, evolution advanced swiftly, though this was little more than an illusion. Their divine nature caused them to perceive time differently. A planet might require millions of years to fully form—especially if it lay far from the Point of Origin. For this reason, the Pillars created the Universal Calendar, intended to record the passage of time as witnessed by their eternal gaze.

This calendar advanced by one year after 365 days per month had elapsed, in a cycle of ten months per year—that is, 3,650 divine days per year. It affected only the creator gods, as each civilization maintained its own reckoning of time. To determine where an event on a specific planet fell within the Universal Calendar, one need only consult that world’s records and the greater god assigned to it.

In the case of the Hixtalis system, during Year One of the Universal Calendar, the first humans were living in the tenth year of their own count, for they shared their world with the gods and dwelled at the very heart of creation.

When the first conscious beings set foot upon solid ground, the first thing they saw were vast lights drifting through the clouds—the celestial bodies of the gods. As they evolved, contact with the Pillars grew more frequent, and reverence for these imposing figures spread like sacred fire.

Settlements, kingdoms, and dynasties were founded upon Hixtalis, and in time, the planet came to be regarded as the central world of all creation.

Years later, each of the planets in the solar system was claimed by a god, yet Hixtalis remained a unified territory—the most important of them all. No god resided there permanently, but they visited often, for it was there that the Senate of the Lakan was founded: a council of sages charged with conveying the will of the Pillars to the emissaries of their faith.

The Lakann served as the central government of both Hixtalis and the other planets, managing the affairs of mortals—matters considered insignificant by the gods themselves. In time, this government solidified into the Unified Republic of the Hyx, the first form of divine administration over inhabited worlds. At that time, only five planets were aware of the existence of the gods.

The three central powers of the Hyx were:

• The Church, which preached the doctrines of the Pillars;
• The Senate of the Lakan, charged with governing in the name of divinity;
• And above all, the supreme authority: the Pillars themselves and the primordial gods.

This order maintained a delicate balance between power and freedom for mortals, though they remained under the judgment and absolute dominion of the divine.

On Hixtalis, each god received their own veneration according to the personal inclinations of the faithful. There was no conflict in this: every mortal was free to follow the Pillar who inspired them most. However, as the Republic expanded and the number of colonized worlds grew, divisions arose...

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–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers– Photograph of the Republican Capital on the Planet Hixtalis and images of protagonists inside the post

**Excerpt: **

The Divine Families The Duxant

The royal family of the Duxant was led by Plazidux, the Pillar of Mortality.

Though not a large family, among the four great divine houses the Duxant were perhaps the most tightly bound.

They understood life and death as few others did, and to them the idea of eternal life was not only a waste of the true gift that existence represents, but also a denial of its very meaning.

They embraced death not as an enemy nor as a dreadful mystery, but as an inevitable companion—the sole moment in which true rest could be attained.

Their patriarch, the Pillar of the Creation of Mortality, Plazidux Depiction of the Pillar of Mortality, Plazidux, in the History Books of the Republic

The Pillar of Mortality differed greatly from his siblings in many respects.

Cheerful and jovial, he seemed ill-suited to the solemnity his position demanded, yet that lightness never diminished the depth of his character.

His philosophy was simple and unwavering: live each day as if it were the last. And so he did—until the day of his death in the War of the Divinities.

He had only two daughters, and with them he was everything a good father could be, and more than any of the other Pillars ever were.

To many, Plazidux felt more mortal than god, for his desires and intentions were no different from those of any human being: to love, to protect, and to enjoy life for as long as it endured.

His firstborn, the Goddess of Death, Rhazel First part of the Great Portrait of the Goddesses Rhazel and Elzarh, found in the Royal Palace of Planet Inicius

Rhazel was the elder twin. Though she bore the title of Goddess of Death, her ways closely mirrored those of her father: she was cheerful and playful, even with those standing a breath away from dying.

Yet she never tended to the dead themselves.

Rhazel carried that title because of her unique gift—the ability to draw souls from dying bodies in their final gasps.

She was neither cruel nor malicious; on the contrary, she aided those in need, granting them a swift and painless passing.

Thus was born her fearsome title, one that inspired terror among those who did not know her true nature.

His second daughter, the Goddess of Life, Elzarh Second part of the Great Portrait of the Goddesses Rhazel and Elzarh, found in the Royal Palace of Planet Inicius

At a glance, there were few ways to tell the twins apart.

Elzarh was more reserved, though no less charismatic than her father; she simply revealed that warmth only to the few who truly knew her beyond her noble bearing.

She was her sister’s counterpart in gift, yet there was no rivalry between them. They were bound by an unbreakable bond.

Elzarh embodied life itself, for she possessed the power to work miracles. To the twins, it was almost a game: while one helped someone die swiftly and without suffering, the other would restore them to life before their final breath faded.

The Duxant were the least conventional of the four noble houses.

They did not lean toward one side or another, for their view of existence was fundamentally neutral amid the conflicts of the divinities.

That stance, however, did not spare them during the War of the Divinities.

Despite their freer, more detached way of life, they were forced to fulfill their roles as Pillar and Primordials—and it was that very duty that ultimately cost them their happiness.

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The Lorian

The royal family of the Lorian was led by Zhaxlor, the Pillar of Power.

They were the greatest warrior house among the four noble families—a burden that would shatter them not long after the birth of their firstborn, Dante Lorian.

The Lorian are perhaps the most tragic family of all.

Their heir, blessed by darkness, stained the stars with the blood of countless gods.

From that moment on, the Lorian lived beneath the shadow of a deity many would come to call the First Sin of Creation.

Their patriarch, the Pillar of the Creation of Power, Zhaxlor Portrait of the Pillar of Power Zhaxlor, found in the Royal Palace of Planet Solaris

Zhaxlor was the most powerful of the four Pillars at the height of the gods, and as such, his firstborn shattered every known limit—but shattered him as well.

Dreams of grandeur and boundless ambition drove him to fatal decisions that destroyed not only his own family, but vast swathes of creation and centuries of work forged by the Pillars.

All for an insatiable thirst for power and conquest.

In the end, his death was little more than a footnote compared to the horrors he unleashed—an insignificant ending for a sin so colossal.

His firstborn, the Supreme Deity of Darkness, Dante Depiction of the Supreme Deity Dante in the History Books of the Empire

The First Sin of Creation, the Blood Traitor, the Fallen God—these were but a few of the many names by which he was known.

Blessed with the primordial darkness of the universe, Dante Lorian wielded a power capable of bringing all creation to its knees.

He was not only the supreme deity of darkness, but also the firstborn of the Pillar of Power.

To be a god, the first child of a Pillar, and the son of the strongest Pillar of all—this was the perfect convergence for absolute chaos.

His pain, fed by the torments that consumed him, drove him to commit the most reviled act in the eyes of the gods: the murder of his own father.

That crime condemned him to exile and made him the target of a divine manhunt.

But Dante was no longer a being that could be subdued.

He led both Great Wars of the Divinities as Emperor of Exquema and became the executioner of his own kind for centuries.

Dante Lorian, supreme deity of darkness. The First Sin of Creation.

A figure so transcendent that he marked a before and an after in the history of the universe alongside the Empire—

an echo that not even millions of years could erase.

His second son, the primordial God of Fire, Kayn Portrait of the God Kayn, drawn by his younger brother Zadkiel, found in his notebook

The god of fire—or the god of ashes, as some came to call him.

Kayn was forced to take the reins of his family after his father’s death, a direct consequence of his elder brother’s actions. This seeded within him an uncontrollable hatred toward Dante, and an absolute contempt for everything darkness represented.

Arrogant and stubborn, Kayn led the Lorian after their exile from the other noble houses. Under his command, they pursued a single purpose: to hunt Dante down and make him pay, once and for all, for his great sin.

His third son, the primordial God of Water, Uriel Portrait of the God Uriel, drawn by his younger brother Zadkiel, found in his notebook

Uriel, after witnessing his father’s death at the hands of his own brother, was deeply traumatized. It was as if his world collapsed in a matter of seconds. The shock left him utterly mute.

From that day forward, he became cold, calculating, and methodical, driven by a single purpose: to support Kayn in the hunt for Dante, no matter the cost.

He harbored neither hatred nor malice, yet a profound resentment and revulsion toward his brother compelled his every action. Every decision, every step taken, served one end alone—to see the slayer of his blood fall.

His fourth son, the primordial God of Earth, Rafael Portrait of the God Rafael, drawn by his younger brother Zadkiel, found in his notebook

Rafael did not share Kayn’s or Uriel’s vision. Though he did not condone Dante’s atrocious act, he understood the reasons that had driven him to it.

He always sought to act as a bridge between them, quietly pursuing reconciliation, longing to rebuild what the House of Lorian once was.

But his words went unheard. His presence, ignored.

And with each new crime committed by Dante, the small spark of hope within him faded—slowly, like a flame suffocated beneath the earth.

His fifth son, the primordial God of Wind, Zadkiel Self-portrait of the God Zadkiel, found in his notebook

Zadkiel, the youngest of the brothers, chose to forget everything.

Grief consumed him as he watched his family fall apart: Kayn and Uriel relentlessly hunting their elder brother in pursuit of punishment, Rafael ignored to the point of exhaustion.

Faced with such desolation, he chose a different path—one marked by abandonment.

His inner light went out. He had no reasons left to live, no ideals to share. Zadkiel became an empty shell, incapable of bearing even the weight of his own thoughts.

He withdrew from everyone, wandering among the endless ancient texts of the family home, seeking refuge in dead words while his mind collapsed under the burden of a reality he refused to face.

The Lorian—once the most powerful and influential royal family at the height of the deities—fell into oblivion...

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

Excerpt:

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Shadowed Heritage

The Divine Families The Alhatomothir

The royal family of the Alhatomothir was led by Mikahla, the Pillar of the Soul.

The nobles of this house were upright and deeply devoted to the traditions they themselves had established.

Their connection to the spiritual realm ran so deep that, on more than one occasion, they were considered emissaries of souls: those to whom spirits turned in search of solace and rest.

Yet the Alhatomothir were also warriors. Their bond with their own souls granted them extraordinary gifts, which they wielded to fortify themselves during the zenith of the divine era.

Their matriarch, the Pillar of the Creation of the Soul, Mikahla

Portrait of Mikahla, Pillar of the Soul, taken during one of the Gatherings of the Pillars at the Palace of Hyx

Mikahla was a strong-willed, authoritative woman; her life, more than one of luxury, was governed by strict rules that her entire family was bound to follow.

She regarded wayward souls with disfavor, for she cared little for the physical or material: to her, only the hue of the soul of those daring enough to speak to her mattered.

Her firstborn, the Supreme Deity of Light, Hazele

Portrait of the Light Deity Hazele, taken before the Battle of Elisium

Hazele was born like any other primordial, yet she was blessed with the light of the universe, earning her the title of Supreme Deity.

Though indifferent to her divine station, she embraced her role with fervor, guiding those in need regardless of race or condition.

She sought to aid mortals and gods alike, offering them something to believe in or a path to follow in their lives.

Her existence, however, took a tragic turn during the First War of the Divinities, when she was compelled to lead men and women against an evil all too familiar at that time.

Her second daughter, the Primordial Goddess of Spirits, Markiela

Depiction of Goddess Markiela in the History books of the Republic

The young goddess possessed an incomprehensible affinity for the faintest traces of souls. She could see and speak with spirits who approached her, or even with those she simply encountered along her path.

Her compassionate and empathetic nature made spirits—often wandering and unrestful after death—feel a comforting warmth in her presence.

Yet that very sensitivity made her a melancholic soul, always surrounded by the whispers of the dead seeking her aid.

It was this spiritual burden that forged a profound bond between Markiela and the goddess of death, Rhazel, the only one capable of truly understanding her emotions.

Her third daughter, the Primordial Goddess of Justice, Kiela

Depiction of Goddess Kiela in the History books of the Republic

The youngest of the three sisters remained impartial in all things and was the only one to live and die with a sword in hand.

From childhood, she pursued equality above all, like her eldest sister, yet one key difference always set her apart: Kiela never doubted her emotions.

She held them so firmly in check that every decision she made was imbued with unwavering certainty.

She saw neither black in white nor white in black in the souls crossing her path; she judged each by their deeds in life, whether good or evil.

She was judge, jury, and executioner.

The Alhatomothir were a family that, for the most part, sought always a just judgment..

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

Excerpt:

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Dark Inheritance

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Synopsis

This book offers a comprehensive recapitulation of the dawn of life in the universe: from the creation of the primordial beings who shaped existence itself, to the rise and fall of the Kingdom of the Gods, manifested in the ancient Republic of the Gods.

Its collapse—after long years of war against the emerging Empire of Exquema, guided by a High Divine Being—marked one of the most momentous events in cosmic history.

What is written here constitutes a broad yet profound journey through the great universal events, compiled and studied tirelessly up to the present day.

All with one purpose: to understand what we were before… and what we are now.

Signed,

Great Father of the Church of Vitorias, Eduarht Neceo Thirharn

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Act 0: Introduction

• The Four Pillars
• Divine Families

Act 1: The Apex of the Gods

• Hixtalis, Capital of the Gods
• The Hixtalis Solar System
• Born and Raised to Rule
• The Supreme Deities of Light and Darkness
• Expansion Across the Cosmos
• A Living Universe

Act 2: Infinite Life

• Life Beyond the All
• Conquest of the High Republic
• Severed from the Divine
• Gods of Creation
• Expansionism in the Name of the Supremes
• By Devotion or by Force

Act 3: The Rise of Mortality

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ACT 0: Introduction

The Four Pillars

In the beginning, there was nothing—and nothing was all that existed: a perpetual void, as dark as trying to see with one’s eyes closed.

How it came to be is unknown, but from absolute nothingness a light was born, destined to illuminate a creation that did not yet exist. That light divided into four, and each fragment embraced a fundamental concept, staining this new canvas of black.

From that light emerged the stars, the galaxies, and the constellations. From it also sprang life, which would wander endlessly through infinity, carrying its warmth to every corner. And from that light, divided into four, were born the first beings to name themselves “alive,” the first to be aware of their own existence, the first to think—and then to exist.

Those who came after would call them the Pillars of Creation, for without them the universe would have remained dark and cold, barren to all living things.

In their primordial splendor, the Four Pillars sought to radiate even more life through their innate light. Each embraced what they wished to see reflected in future creations. They named themselves—not only as a sign of power, but as a warning: an eternal reminder of who they were, for when life would one day face what they would call death.

In their wisdom, they used their own light as fuel for existence, and each portion was imbued with a concept.

Davothir, the Pillar of Wisdom. His light shelters intellect and guides the thoughts of those who would come after.

Mikahla, the Pillar of the Soul. Her gift is what remains when death reaches the living: the soul, guardian of what once was in those who are no more.

Plazidux, the Pillar of Mortality. Where there is life, there will be death. Nothing is eternal, and his light marks the inevitable end, so that future beings may remember that all things have a limit.

Zhaxlor, the Pillar of Power. His flame is pure force—a searing light that grants the courage to advance, to impose will upon chaos, to transform the world through power.

From each of the Pillars would arise a divine family, direct heirs to their light and eternal purpose:

• The Royal Family of Wisdom, bearing the name Thirharn, descendants of the progenitor Davothir.
• The Royal Family of the Soul, bearing the name Ahlatomothir, descendants of the progenitor Mikahla.
• The Royal Family of Mortality, bearing the name Duxant, descendants of the progenitor Plazidux.
• The Royal Family of Power, bearing the name Lorian, descendants of the progenitor Zhaxlor.

These four primordial families gave rise to the Primigenial Gods—the first to carry the blood of the Pillars, the first to reflect their greatness.

Like their predecessors, the Primigenial Gods bore within them a vital essence of the universe itself, acting as guardians and protectors of that fundamental force...

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