chapter 1
Prologue
In the depths of darkness, a mushroom glows faintly, casting dim light up to about two meters around it. It grows from a crack in a rocky wall, surrounded by absolute blackness.
A small hand emerges from the shadows and grabs the mushroom. It belongs to a boy around five years old, who carefully tries to pull it out. Failing to do so, he sits on the ground, still holding it.
After a moment, a woman around twenty-four years old silently approaches. She places a hand on the boy's shoulder and whispers:
—Let go. I'll take it out.
The boy obeys without protest. She lifts him into her arms, holds him firmly, and while stroking his hair, asks:
—What were you doing, Thomas?
—I found a glowing mushroom, mom. Look —he says, pointing at the wall.
The woman follows the direction he's pointing. Just then, a bluish light begins to emerge from the darkness. It's faint, but growing with each step.
She immediately turns, tension on her face. A man's silhouette appears from the shadows.
When he stops a few meters away, he raises a hand and makes a gesture: index finger and thumb forming a circle.
The woman nods silently.
The man approaches and places a hand on Thomas's head.
—Well done. You found one —he says softly.
He wears a worn pouch on his waist, filled with dim mushrooms. He takes out one that still glows and shows it to the boy.
—This one will help us along the way.
He places one hand on the mushroom, grabs the stalk with the other, and twists its head in the opposite direction. The faint light goes out, as if it were a flashlight. The man stores the mushroom with the others in his bag.
Then, he puts a hand on the woman's shoulder:
—I'm leaving the rest to you —he says as he turns off the mushroom he initially carried, and also the one the boy found.
Once he rests his hand on the woman's shoulder again, they all close their eyes in the darkness. Their breathing slows until all sound vanishes and silence takes over.
An icy silence, unnatural, enough to make anyone's skin crawl.
In that silence, the adults slowly open their eyes—just slightly. In the pitch black, they can see. Not clearly, but they can see.
The couple moves with a particular rhythm, barely lifting their feet off the ground, gliding through the darkness until their silhouettes fade. And so, the three of them advance together, enveloped in shadow and mystery.
—So cold! —says a man around forty-five, shivering.
—Cold? You're seriously complaining about the cold when you're right next to the fire? —replies a young man of about twenty-three.
—It doesn't warm much if I wrap it in wind. Anyway, do you have the lid? —the older man asks, stretching his hands toward a flame that oddly emits little light.
—Lid? Nice way to call the stone —says the young man as he approaches with a flat rock.
He places the stone over what seems to be a pot made from a strange shell, where they're cooking some kind of soup. Then, placing one hand on the rock, he raises the other near his face with two fingers extended and begins muttering words the older man doesn't bother trying to understand.
Suddenly, the stone starts to glow with a yellow light tinted with white, like an outline that spreads from the rock and covers the makeshift pot as well.
—Quite a spectacle, that glow —comments the older man.
—Right, old man? I've got talent —the young one replies.
—I'm not old. But if you weren't stuck in this place, you might've had a bright future —the older man says, turning away.
The young man looks at him, surprised.
—Getting sentimental, old man? Want grandkids now? —he teases.
—What? —the older man turns to look at him— Did y—
Before he can finish, another voice rises from the darkness:
—Grandkids? My son doesn't count as your grandson now, old man —says a man who places a hand on the shoulder of a woman carrying a child.
—Look, I brought a good harvest —he says, holding up a sack filled with dimly glowing mushrooms.
—Also, old man, we call you that because you're the oldest in the group. It's an honorary title —he adds, pointing at the elder.
As he speaks, the woman sits on one of the rectangular stones surrounding the fire. She sets her son down and tells him to go practice hand signals with the young man.
The boy walks silently to the other side of the circle.
Once they face each other, the young man speaks:
—Thomas, I'll go over the signals from one to ten. You tell me what they mean.
The boy nods.
Open hand, palm forward. —Stop—
—Good. Next —the young man says.
Index and middle fingers in a "V", pointing forward. —Move forward—
Closed fist tapping the chest. —Silence—
Hand shaped like a "C", as if holding something small. —Light—
Index and thumb forming a circle. —Safe—
Blade-shaped hand slicing through the air. —Danger—
Flat hand, fingers together, waving side to side. —Explore—
Two hands crossed in an "X". —Retreat—
Open hand, fingers extended, touching the temple. —Observe—
Trembling hand over the heart. —Fear—
—Good, but some are a bit confusing by description alone. So remember them like this —the young man says.
Means use the mushroom or light source.
Alert to watch for movement or sound.
Someone senses a threatening presence.
The boy nods and begins practicing the gestures, murmuring their meaning. The young man watches, closes his eyes, and thinks they'll keep practicing until the last group returns.
The father sits by the fire next to the old man. The faint light flickers on their faces, casting long shadows on the stone walls. The wind whispers through the cracks, bringing the smell of mushrooms and damp earth.
—How long have you been here, old man? —the father asks, watching the boy and the young man rehearse silently.
The old man stares at the fire and sighs.
—Too long, I think. I'm starting to forget what the world was like… outside these walls.
The father falls silent, listening to his son muttering the meanings of each signal.
—Do you think we'll ever get out of here? —he asks quietly.
The old man rubs his hands in front of the fire.
—I don't know. Maybe, if we find more mushrooms like the ones you brought today. Or if the kids master the signals. But the darkness out there... it's different.
The father looks back at the path where he, the mother, and Thomas came from, then forward, where another trail vanishes into the darkness. There, the blackness seems to breathe, as if something alive waits beyond the reach of light.
The fire crackles, casting nervous shadows on the walls. A chill creeps up the father's spine from the unknown trail. He watches Thomas, focused on his practice, and thinks how much he wishes his son would never have to face whatever awaits in that lightless path.
—Sometimes I think Thomas deserves to know something more. Something beyond shadows and signals.
The old man nods slowly.
—We all want a better future for them. But for now, we teach them to survive. Though... sometimes I wonder if I'd even know how to live in the light again.
The father smiles, caught between hope and sadness.
—Maybe that's why we call you old man. Because you've seen things we haven't. And even if you don't say it, you always think about tomorrow.
The old man closes his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the fire touch his face.
—At least today we have a good harvest. And the children learn fast.
The father nods, and they fall silent, listening to the murmurs of practice and the crackling fire, accompanied by the promise of another day.
Elsewhere, in thick darkness, a light source is strapped to a waist. A drop of water falls on the mushroom, now slightly damp. A hand touches it and quickly pulls back. The person looks up, trying to signal their companion, a few meters ahead, also with a glowing mushroom at their waist.
The girl turns and sees the first young man, who clumsily tries to signal her:
—How's it going, Lisa? —is what he means to ask.
Surprisingly, the girl understands and responds with gesture 9: observe or stay alert. The young man gets it and remains watchful, checking behind and ahead.
After waiting a few minutes, the two meet and quietly agree to retrieve their last companion and head back to camp. They begin walking, approaching the corner where the third should be.
But just as they turn, their last teammate steps out from around the corner. They're so close they both flinch, almost letting out a scream. Yet two hands—one behind each—clamp over their mouths, keeping the silence intact. The girl pauses, uneasy about the second pair of hands she saw. It shows on her face. Without a word, she signals "10" to her companion: "fear" or "threat."
The young man understands. Without speaking, they move forward again—but something in the air has changed. An alertness surrounds them. Each step feels deliberate.
Suddenly, someone grabs their hands and spins them around.
It's the youngest of the three. Behind her stands someone tall, perhaps two meters or more, gazing silently at the others with deep eyes.
The girl looks at both, sensing their tension.
—Guys, are you okay? Why did you suddenly turn around like that? Did something happen back there? —she asks, letting go of their hands. The two stand frozen, staring behind her.
After a couple seconds, maybe three, they both lower their heads and avert their eyes toward her.
—Yeah, we're fine. We just didn't recognize you for a second, Walt.
The girl nods.
—You've grown so much, Walt. I hadn't realized how tall you are —she says, fidgeting with her fingers.
Walt opens his mouth as if to speak, but no sound comes out.
—Oh, that's great. Let's head back and tell them the path is clear —says the young man as he turns and takes a few steps.
Then, Walt "speaks"—still without sound. Everyone watches and nods in agreement.
—But don't take too long. We'll go on ahead a bit —says the young man.
And so, the group of three heads back first. A few meters behind them, Walt follows silently, his destination: the camp.
---
The fire crackled in the absurd silence and the unreal glow that didn't match the size of the flames.
At the camp, on the ground, the old man threw down several reddened hides he had been carrying in one of four makeshift backpacks.
He began unrolling one of the nearly twelve scattered across the ground.
—Let me help you, old man —said the father, kneeling to pick up one of the hides and begin unrolling it too.
Then the young man and Thomas joined in.
—We'll help —said the young man, with Thomas at his side.
The mother, who had been sitting apart, stood up and went to sit by the fire, keeping watch over the flames beneath the improvised pot.
After a few minutes, all the hides were unrolled. They were covered in scribbles and lines that looked like a poorly drawn map by someone with no experience. Some seemed to show paths, others meaningless markings.
—Now we just have to arrange them —said the father.
—Alright. Kids, pass us the hides from the lowest to the highest number —the old man instructed, glancing at the young man and Thomas.
They began turning over the hides, searching for the burned markings shaped like numbers. When they found the next in sequence, they laid it on the ground, unrolled.
Once lined up, both the father and the old man adjusted them according to the visible numbers on the outside and inside of each hide.
It went like this: 1–2, 5–6, 10–11, 21–22, 33–34.
—This is taking longer and longer, old man. At this rate, we won't be able to carry them all. We'll have to start getting rid of the lower-numbered ones…
—Yes, but that would mean we can't go back. Hmm… No, we won't do that. We've already spent five years moving forward. Going back would mean another five years —the old man's expression turned more serious.
—And that's no longer an option. Not with that thing in the way —he added, eyes shut tight, recalling a shadow.
—Besides, old man… this is getting harder to read. Even for us, don't you think?
The map looked like a tangle of straight lines and unfinished branches. As if the paths were cut off because something forced them to stop. Something that made them turn back.
—True —replied the old man after observing the massive map for a few seconds.
—But it's impressive how large it is, don't you think? —he added with a proud smirk.
The father let out an awkward laugh, eyes closed. The map was indeed far too big.
—All that's left is what the scouting group brings back, and then we'll decide which parts to keep. Ugh… —he sighed.
They waited for the group's return to decide which portions of the map —made from absurdly large hides— to keep.
"Five years and still no sign of an exit. Just walls, mushrooms, and monsters," thought the father.
The old man noticed his distress.
—Just from what we've covered, we can say this place is bigger than the city. And that was already massive.
The father looked at him.
—How big was the city?
—What?
—I'm joking… well, almost. But thanks. A little distraction helps.
"The city, huh… five years now. It was an immense place, still under construction but thriving, far from the problems outside. In its prime," the father thought, eyes closed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"But maybe not so prime… If this place exists beneath it… how deep could we be?" he wondered as he let his head fall to the side.
By the firelight, they continued waiting.
---
After training, Thomas played with his mother, who manipulated nearby objects —helmets with mushrooms that no longer glowed— making them levitate and spin around him at different speeds. Thomas had to dodge or strike them, but his small body could barely handle the sacks, which were the size of soccer balls.
The young man was also training, but at a more advanced level. This time with Thomas's father. He was the one throwing punches and, occasionally, dodging. Though most of the time, he blocked them with short movements: a turn of the arm, a shoulder thrust. Each gesture seemed casual, but they all served to deflect the young man's attacks.
A right punch, blocked by a right forearm. Then he grabbed the young man's clothing, pulling, breaking his balance. The young man tried to recover. His skin bristled. The father's right fist headed straight for his stomach.
But it stopped short.
They were both out of breath.
Without opening his eyes, the old man said:
—Wrap it up. Looks like they've arrived.
He remained still by the fire.
Then, from the darkness of a hallway, a foot emerged. Then the rest of the body: the other young man from the scouting party. With a simple gesture, he signaled he was back. Behind him, the other young woman. And finally, Lisa.
The three of them approached different members of the group. They greeted each other, shook hands, hugged. Thomas, on the other hand, received head pats from all three, one by one, messing up his hair. He didn't seem too bothered, but he did pout.
—Alright, pick a rock to sit on. Time to eat what we've made —said the old man, stepping away from the rock he had been sitting on.
The young man who returned approached the makeshift pot. He placed a hand on it and muttered something. Thomas's mother lowered the flame with a finger gesture. Then, with more gestures, she made the pot float.
Meanwhile, the young woman from the scouting party handed out improvised bowls —they looked like shells from some small monster.
One by one, she gave them to each group member.
Behind her, Thomas's mother, with surprising control, tilted the pot just enough to serve the stew. Without spilling. Without wasting.
Thus, everyone was fed, as much as possible.
Once they finished serving, the mother gently lowered the pot.
They ate in silence, careful not to make noise, but still enjoying the meal.
A while later, everyone fell silent.
—Good. Let's begin. We'll start after you —said the old man, pointing at the father with an open hand.
—Eilor Harbrick —said the father.
—Thomas Harbrick —said the boy.
—Elena Harbrick —said the mother.
—Sol Vila —said the young woman.
—Norlick Sítbold —said Thomas's young teacher.
—Ban Castro —said the explorer.
—Tamara Binlock —said the other young woman.
—Vin Casting —said the old man.
—Alright, we're all here. Even though we're few, it feels good to know the ones who remain —the old man said as the roll call ended.
"This has become a habit. Hearing the names brings some relief… but also reminds us we were once more. It's cruel, in a way… but it's mutual comfort," thought Eilor.
"Tomorrow I have to go out with the scouting team. Well… Ellen will stay with Thomas, so it'll be fine. Time to sleep. At least I'm not on first watch tonight," he thought as he got up along with the rest. Only Norlick remained seated. It was his turn to stand guard. His face showed he didn't want to, but he had already resigned himself.
---
The camp's darkness settled like a blanket over their exhausted bodies.
Eilor, after making sure Thomas was asleep, closed his eyes. It was a fast descent. Almost a surrender.
A little bronze bell chimed as the door opened.
—Do you have freshly baked croissants? —asked the man as soon as he crossed the threshold, with a soft, almost childlike smile.
He wore a white suit with golden trim. The morning sun made him shine inside the small bakery. His boots echoed on the wooden floor.
—Yes, we do —replied the woman sweetly, turning to prepare a paper bag. Her smile was unavoidable.
—How many would you like today? —she asked.
—Seven —he said, without hesitation.
She nodded, placing them one by one. The bag crinkled. He paid without hurry. As he left, the bell rang again. The door closed.
…
The man walked through the golden rays of dawn. The city was still being born: cranes, scaffolding, faceless structures.
With one hand, he held the bag. With the other, he took out the first croissant. He closed his eyes as he bit into it. As if capturing a memory.
He kept walking.
He got on a bus, sat by the window. Took out another croissant. Watched the city under construction. The structures passed like unfinished scenes.
Then he saw them.
Three figures walking in the opposite direction, beside a tower. Their suits were dark, with strange ornaments —part military, part ceremonial.
One of them looked up.
And time changed.
Everything slowed down.
Eilor —or what remained of him in the dream— felt his vision drawn to one of them. To his face.
But he couldn't focus on it. The image failed. Like a corrupted transmission. His mind resisted. The dream glitched. Reality tore.
His breathing quickened.
"Who are you?" his will screamed.
His mind, however, begged not to remember.
And everything collapsed.
He woke up.
…
But not completely.
He was still lying down. Motionless. He could only move his eyes.
Then he saw it.
Norlick. Sitting nearby. In profile. Too still. His head tilted backward. As if something held it up.
Hands. Gray. With fingers like blades.
Behind him, in the fire's dim glow, stood a figure. Gray. Thin. Like a solid shadow.
It looked at him.
Unmoving.
Eilor's gaze rose, searching for its face.
But there was no face.
Just skin. Smooth. Unchanging.
He felt like he was going to scream.
But just as the creature seemed to notice him…
It vanished.
And with it, so did his vision.
His eyes shut.
…
He woke up with a start. This time, for real.
Sitting up. Soaked in sweat.
The group was packing to depart. The hides were being rolled. The bags prepared.
Thomas, eyes squinting, came closer.
—Dad… are you okay?
Eilor swallowed hard. Looked around, as if needing to confirm reality. He felt dizzy.
He searched with his eyes.
Norlick was there, crouched, rolling a hide. As usual. As if nothing had happened.
"Was it just a nightmare…?"
Recalling the image of the gray figure behind Norlick made him nauseous.
He covered his mouth with his right hand, lowering his head a little.
"Gray, faceless, fingers like blades."
"What was that thing?"
He noticed the trembling in his hands. The chill hadn't left.
—Better… —he whispered, though his hand still trembled.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
"Better" —but the hand still shook a little.
Yet something in his chest didn't feel right.
And deep within his instinct, the chill remained.