Tierras Salvajes: En

They were wrong. He was neither. He was a brother, and brothers didn’t leave bones to be bleached by a pitiless sun.

And it recognized itself.

Elías drew his revolver. The metal felt cold and childish. He pushed the cabin door open with his shoulder. En Tierras Salvajes

Elías raised the revolver. “You are not my brother.” They were wrong

With a final, silent implosion, it collapsed inward, folding into a point of absolute darkness no larger than a grain of sand, which then winked out of existence. The cabin shuddered. The breathing walls went still. And it recognized itself

The Esperanza’s cargo bay was open. Inside, he found the crew. They were not dead. Or rather, they were not just dead. Their bodies were mummified by the dry air, their skin the color of old parchment, but their mouths were open, locked in perpetual, silent screams. And from their eye sockets, growing towards a crack in the hull where a sliver of moonlight pierced through, were pale, white flowers. Flor de la luna . The flower of the moon. A species that, according to legend, only blooms when fed by the terror of the dying.

His heart hammered against his ribs. He clutched the compass. It still spun, but now it made a faint, high-pitched whine.