Samael turned completely and returned to the table with unhurried steps. The brown trench coat floated slightly around him with each movement, as if the air itself were escorting him.
He sat down across from Ed, who could barely contain his desire for the story to continue. His hands trembled on the table, but not from cold or alcohol. From anticipation.
There was a brief moment of silence. A pause for the moment to settle, for both of them to breathe, for the real world to come back into focus.
But that silence was immediately devoured by the determination in the air.
"Mr. Ed Tonor," the young man repeated, his voice regaining that dangerous calm, that natural authority that seemed to emanate from every pore of his skin.
Ed tensed, expecting a condition. A trap. A "but" that would send him back into nothingness.
"I recommend you order more beers. And food."
He paused.
Ed held his breath.
"Because I will not accept any more interruptions. From anyone. From now on."
The last words fell like a mystical and imperial seal. A decree that changed the rules of their small tavern universe.
Ed nodded vehemently. His head bobbed up and down like a crazed pendulum. He would do anything. Anything.
Well, Samael huffed mentally, watching the man in front of him. It's not like I'm going to do anything either. Just rest.
He allowed himself a small internal irony.
Worse, what am I saying? Resting is the best thing in the world. But still, Mr. Ed Tonor is very honest. Too honest. And I'll say it again: he is very naive.
He observed the man's expression, that mixture of relief and gratitude and anticipation.
But in this world, just as it's universal that the powerful and the weak exist, people like Mr. Ed must also exist. Otherwise, everything would be very flat. Very boring. Very… empty.
He sighed, a sigh that no one but him heard.
Anyway, this is also good. For me, a little, actually. But I think sometimes it's good to talk. Although I think it would be disrespectful to say this is "talking." Who talks for several hours?
The answer was obvious: someone who has something to tell. And someone who needs to hear it.
Well, then let's continue with this, Samael finally said, but only in his mind.
Without a visible gesture, without a murmur of an incantation, without any kind of ceremony, Samael reactivated the dome of silence around them.
The effect was immediate and profound.
The bustle of the tavern—which until a moment ago had been an annoying, omnipresent wall of sound—faded away. It became a distant, muffled murmur, as if they were listening to a party miles away, on the other side of thick glass.
The smell of food—roasted meat, spices, hot bread—diminished until it nearly disappeared. The aroma of spilled beer, sweat, and dust also vanished. They were replaced by the perceptual stillness of his bubble. A private space. A sanctuary.
Then Samael opened his mouth.
No words yet.
But Ed Tonor didn't just listen.
He submerged.
Not physically, of course. His body remained in the chair, at the table, his hands resting on the wood and his eyes fixed on the young man. But his mind, his consciousness, his entire being was dragged with such brutal force that his body reacted by reflex.
He felt chills run down his back. Goosebumps rose on his arms. The hair on his nape stood on end as if an electrical storm were approaching.
The sensory world of the tavern—the sound, the smells, the flickering lights—faded to near non-existence.
They were completely absorbed.
Devoured by the story that was about to begin.
---
Twelve years ago. In Samael's memories.
Dawn on the mountain.
The rising sun filtered through the cabin window.
It wasn't a sudden awakening, no. It was a stream of liquid gold, soft but insistent, that slipped through the small wooden opening and fell directly onto a curled-up lump in the bed.
That lump was Samael.
A sheep blanket covered him—not ordinary ones, no. The special kind, those with spiritual energy accumulated in their fibers. The flocks they come from are raised specifically for that purpose, and their hides are softer, warmer, more valuable than those of common sheep.
The light bathed his dark hair, the same hair that years later he would tie in a low bun. Now, at three years old, it was tousled from sleep, the strands tangled on the pillow.
The light also caressed part of his face, highlighting the curve of his long eyelashes against the softness of his still chubby cheeks.
Inside the room, the suspended dust—invisible in the gloom, nonexistent to the normal eye—was revealed.
Millions of particles danced slowly in the ray of light. Tiny, almost nonexistent, but now visible. They swirled and floated in the still air, like a miniature universe. Like captive stars in a pocket cosmos. Hypnotic. Fragile.
The child began to move.
First a foot, peeking out from under the blanket. Then a hand, searching for something that wasn't there. Finally, his eyes.
He opened his eyes little by little, blinking against the golden intrusion. The light was so intense that he couldn't open them all the way. He blinked once, twice, three times. He frowned, that expression already becoming characteristic of him.
With a sleepy grunt—a small, whiny sound, so childish that any adult who heard it would smile—he raised a hand to shield his eyes.
The shadow of his own hand fell over his face, and at last he could half-open his eyes.
"G-grandfather…" were his first words.
His voice, hoarse from sleep, still infused with the total innocence of his three years. That innocence that the world, over time, would erode.
"Where is Grandfather?"
Clap. Clap.
Dry, rhythmic sounds came from outside. Firm, measured, constant blows. Like an artificial heartbeat.
What are those sounds? he wondered, his small mouth half-open, his eyes still sleepy but now awake. Is there someone else here? Or is it Grandfather?
Intrigued—and for him, intrigue had always been stronger than fear—Samael stretched. He arched his back and stretched his arms above his head like a small cat. Then he stood up.
The bed was large for him, but his feet found the stone floor without trouble. The cold of the stone, accumulated overnight, tickled his soles. But he didn't complain. He was used to it.
He took his staff.
It was always within reach, even while sleeping. Leaned against the wall, next to the bed, like a wooden sentinel watching over his sleep. He gripped it firmly, feeling the familiarity of the wood in his palm, and walked barefoot toward the door.
The stone floor was cold, yes, but also smooth, worn by years of footsteps. Each step was a small thermal shock that woke him up a little more.
He reached the door. The wood, solid but worn, had a small latch he could easily manage. He lifted it.
And opened it.
The light of dawn enveloped him.
It was as if the sun had been waiting for that moment to pounce on him. The light was so intense, so golden, so omnipresent, that for an instant he couldn't see anything. Only whiteness. Only warmth.
Between blinks—blinded, but without fear—he made out a silhouette outlined against the pale sky and the violet mountains rising in the distance.