Disclaimer:

  Dialogues in Portuguese are indicated by dashes (-).

  Dialogues in English are indicated by quotation marks ("").

  **

  The last effort of reason is to recognize that there is a multitude of things that go beyond it.

  – Blaise Pascal

  Chapter I.

  Run, daughter of despair. Run!

  Flee far away from me.

  Run with this futile hope

  Of escaping your destiny.

  Run without rest,

  But know this truth plain:

  That even in endless running,

  All your struggle will be in vain.

  Our fate is to fight this war,

  And in this fight, I'll end your light.

  Flee, daughter of despair. Flee!

  Flee far into the night.

  Year: 2007. London.

  The night is dark and full of secrets. Within it, new lives begin, stories are rewritten, existences meet their end. In a single night treaties are forged, wars averted, alliances broken, battles begun. And, on this particular night, three shadows run hand in hand with their souls bound to despair.

  Three shadows: two girls and one woman. All consumed by thoughts of those left behind. Surrendered to a fate not even the maddest mind could have foreseen. Why had everything changed so completely? How was it possible? So much destruction. So fast. How?

  They run with all their strength longer than they thought possible, slowing only upon reaching a quieter neighborhood, stopping before an old manor. No words are needed to announce that they reached their destination.

  They enter in silence, fighting impossible battles against their own thoughts. To them, the house carries a nostalgic air, with memories of better times. As the woman pushes the creaking door—left slightly ajar—they feel not just physical exhaustion, but psychological weariness far more debilitating.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  The eldest tries to bar the girls from entering, but their rebellious natures refuse to be left behind. In the darkness, they're distinguishable only by their hair: the younger's fiery red curls cascading down her back, the other's shorter, honey-brown waves brushing her shoulders.

  Inside, the silence strikes them immediately. Not that they expected some kind of welcome party, but the oppression of darkness and stillness sends chills down their spines.

  Somewhere nearby, a clock loudly ticks. The redhead swallows hard and squeezes her sister's hand. The woman moves ahead, methodically turning on lights—entryway, hallway, kitchen, then, finally, the living room. Prepared as she is, she still stifles a scream behind her hand. The girls rush in and freeze.

  On the three-seater sofa, facing the television, an elderly couple sits slightly apart, heads resting against the backrest. Their stomachs yawn open, bleeding.

  The stench of decay fills the room. The more they comprehend the scene, the worse it becomes. Gaping wounds expose internal organs even from where they stand paralyzed.

  Each takes time to quiet her churning mind. The silence, already heavy, becomes absolute.

  The woman recovers first. A hand on the honey-haired girl's shoulder and a glance—that's all it takes for her to understand and grasp her sister's hand. Wordlessly, they withdraw.

  Their footsteps lead to the master bedroom. The same silence prevails, but a strange aura now clings to everything—the dust on furniture, the ceiling moldings. This aura frightens them, whispering that their fate may soon mirror this one.

  It's time to leave. To follow war's fundamental commandment: know when to fight and when to retreat. Of all that's happened, one certainty remains—their entire family likely shares the couple's fate. This isn't the moment for battle. They need time to recover, to let consequences unfold for their enemies, and most crucially: to bring the puzzle's final piece to their side. Without it, any effort means fighting a lost war.

  The girls watch as the woman kneels beside the bed, pries up a floorboard, and searches for one of the family's traditional hiding spots—a secret known only to blood relatives, with others rigorously tested before learning such things.

  Her fingers find a loose plank, revealing a safe beneath. A six-digit combination, nearly faded from her sweaty palm, is entered with trembling care.

  "Aunt? Who gave you the code?" The older girl watches intently.

  "Your mother. This is actually her safe. Our grandparents let her keep our insurance here—they never knew the combination. She told me the code and made us leave before... that thing attacked our parents' house."

  "She foresaw everything, didn't she?" The redhead's voice breaks. She clutches a pendant attached to her neck. "And she stayed behind because of it."

  The woman and older girl exchange glances. They themselves struggle to process events—how could their youngest comprehend what she's learned these past months? When has she had time to understand that pendant? How could such a gentle girl fathom the bloodstained legacy of its power? Or the measures needed to keep it?

  The older girl signals for privacy, steadying her gaze on her sister.

  "Emily, listen." She feels the younger girl trembling. "Mom didn't stay behind for the stones or their power. She stayed to protect us. The people who attacked our family will come for us next, and she's buying time for us to grow stronger. To fight for ourselves." Her voice wavers. "She knew her strength wasn't enough. She decided we had the best chances."

  Emily's eyes flare with understanding. Retreat isn't the word. Neither is fear. Retaliation—that's what's needed. However difficult, she'll rise to it.

  "Ready?" The woman stands, holding a passport. In her other hand, a pouch contains two more, besides foreign currency, and a keyring. At their nods, she tucks everything away and gestures toward the exit.

  "Where are we going?"

  The woman holds up three tickets. "Your mother said to go to our old home. We're leaving Europe for a while."

  *