Alaya watched the settlement in silence as she finished cooking. The steam rising from the vessels blended with the warm evening air, carrying simple aromas—grains, roots, herbs gathered with care. Nothing there was grand, yet everything was alive. Her eyes swept through the movement of the place with serene attention: children running between the dwellings, voices crossing the space in low tones, contained laughter, the tired steps of those who had survived the day. Life insisted on persisting.
There was something different about that late afternoon. It wasn't a presentiment, nor was it fear. It was the sensation that the settlement was being followed—not by visible eyes, but by echoes. As if every daily gesture left a trace in the world's memory. Alaya felt it on her skin, in her breath, in the way the silence stretched between one sound and another.
She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Then, she raised her voice—not as an urgent call, but as a firm, affectionate invitation: "It is ready. Come and eat."
The words spread through the settlement like a thread of warmth. One by one, movements began to slow down. Conversations ceased, and steps changed direction. Alaya left the fire under watch and walked among the simple structures, feeling the earth beneath her feet, recognizing every presence without needing to look directly. Those were not merely bodies gathered in search of food—they were stories trying to remain.
That was when she saw him.
Tribal was coming toward her, walking with steps too slow for someone who knew the weight of time. There was a contained sadness in his gaze, something deep and unsaid, like questions that had not yet found the courage to be born into speech. He seemed whole—and yet, distant.
Alaya slowed her pace. When their eyes met, the world around them seemed to lose its sharpness. No words were spoken. They were not necessary. She recognized in that instant that the conversation between Tribal and Avaranael was not over. It had merely been interrupted.
And the silence between them, dense and ancient, spoke more than any sentence could ever sustain.
Dinner took place as the oldest rituals do: without formality, but with respect. The people sat in irregular circles, sharing the food in silence or in low conversations, as if everyone, intuitively, knew that this meal was not just about nourishing the body. There was weariness in their gestures, but also gratitude. Hands reached out, portions were shared, and glances crossed with a wordless complicity. The settlement, for a brief moment, seemed in balance.
The fire crackled steadily, casting shadows that danced upon the simple walls. The smell of food warmed the air, bringing an almost forgotten comfort—the kind that is born not from the absence of pain, but from the certainty of not being alone within it.
Tribal ate in silence. His movements were contained, automatic. The food went down, but the weight in his chest remained. His eyes scanned the space without haste, absorbing everything, until they found two faces that stood out among the rest.
Avaranael and Saryah were sitting close to each other, but they did not touch. Their countenances carried something that went beyond ordinary guilt. It wasn't fear of punishment, nor shame before the others. It was a profound, absolute regret—the kind that does not ask for forgiveness, because it has already understood that some choices cannot be undone. The eyes of both avoided the center of the circle, as if they did not feel worthy of fully sharing in that moment.
Tribal held their gaze for a brief second. There was no judgment in his expression. Only recognition. He knew. He felt it. And that made everything heavier.
When he finished eating, Tribal set his container down and remained motionless for a few moments, waiting. Alaya was still helping the last few people serve themselves, her serene face contrasting with the invisible density accumulating around them. As soon as she stepped away from the fire, Tribal stood up and walked over to her.
Without a word, he gently pulled her away from the illuminated space, leading her to a point where the glow of the flames no longer reached with such strength. There, the sky opened in silence, dotted with stars that seemed to watch with infinite patience.
Tribal held Alaya's hands.
And then, without voice, without gesture, without time, everything opened up.
The story told by Avaranael. The choices made. The initial intentions, pure in appearance but corroded by haste and arrogance. The consequences seen and felt. What Tribal had witnessed. What he understood now. Every detail was transmitted as a continuous flow—not as isolated images, but as a living experience. Alaya felt the weight pierce through her consciousness, as if she herself had walked through every decision, every error, every unbroken silence.
She took a deep breath, her eyes welling with tears not out of surprise, but out of understanding. As she squeezed Tribal's hands, she made it clear that she had received it all. That she needed no words.
There, beyond the reach of the fire and the glances of others, the two remained bound—not just as companions, but as guardians of a burden that was now shared.
And the settlement, behind them, continued to breathe, oblivious to the immensity of what had just been revealed.
After everyone had eaten and settled into their tents, Tribal sought out Avaranael. He needed—no, he necessitated—to continue seeing his memories. He wanted to see Yeshua again. He wanted to know if there had been another encounter. But Avaranael carried an internal conflict that prevented him from proceeding.
When Avaranael and Saryah traveled, leaving their bodies behind, they had learned that certain beings could remain for decades outside of matter and, upon returning, would find their bodies at the exact instant they had departed. However, they lacked practical experience. They did not truly assimilate this knowledge. The several days they spent outside reflected directly upon their bodies, marking the very time they believed they had suspended.
Meanwhile, the Protector of Bodies remained. For far too long.
His function was to protect—and so he did. He changed the course of destiny for many who approached with malicious intentions. He interrupted violence, deflected armed hands, and silenced decisions that would have been born of hatred. On calm days, however, he limited himself to observing.
He observed Sodraya.
The daily life of the city, with its roughly six thousand five hundred inhabitants, passed before his eyes like an open book. He had enough time to see the life of each individual, their repeated gestures, their habits, their small and large choices. A mystical being of tens of thousands of years, accustomed to all kinds of wonders and horrors, found something there that disconcerted him.
Before Sodraya, he let his powers work freely.
The Protector of Bodies lived as a man while he waited. He felt as a man. He judged as a man. And the randomness of bad things was catalyzed by his own power. The balance between good and evil began to tilt, until it lost its equilibrium entirely. Wickedness, previously contained, unleashed chaos.
By the time the Protector of Bodies realized it, it was already too late.
Upon finding Avaranael on the other side of the rift, he did not ask for permission. He simply declared that the city had to be destroyed.
Meanwhile, after all the time the Protector of Bodies spent among the beings of Sodraya—and also outside the planet, in the dark and cold vacuum of space—stones began to gather. Errant fragments obeyed silent forces, until the formed body reached about forty meters in diameter.
Its fragments began to attract one another like destined lovers. The planet and the meteor called out to each other, bound by a gravity that did not judge, but merely fulfilled.
The end was inevitable.