The silence after the flash was almost solid—dense enough to crush the lungs.
When Miguel opened his eyes, he could still see fragments of light flickering in the air, like suspended embers.
The floor was covered in shards of mirror, and in each reflection he saw a distorted piece of himself.
The halves of the medallion lay close together, pulsing in irregular intervals, like hearts trying to beat out of time.
Elisa knelt, her hands trembling on the cold stones.
The glow of the runes still permeated her skin, forming patterns that moved slowly, as if they were breathing.
Pedro, further back, mumbled incoherent words, his eyes lost in the darkness.
And Doctor Vasconcelos, pale, watched the walls with a sick fascination.
"The structure… has changed," he murmured, mostly to himself. "The space has been remade."
Miguel looked around.
The hall of mirrors was no longer the same.
The cracks in the walls formed lines, and these lines—he realized—were symbols, drawn with ancient precision.
Runes of connection, but also of commitment.
He approached one of them.
Beneath the dust and mold were inscriptions engraved with millimeter perfection.
Old but familiar words—similar to those they had seen in the forgotten building and in the library.
Elisa raised the flashlight and wrote quickly on her clipboard:
"They're dates... and names."
Yes. There were names.
Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, arranged in concentric circles.
Each circle seemed to represent a generation.
And in the center, surrounded by symbols of protection, a larger inscription, worn, almost erased by time.
Miguel ran his fingers over it, brushing away the dust.
The touch made the air vibrate—a deep, low note rang across the floor, and the flames of the torches flickered.
The runes glowed a dull red, like smothered embers.
Pedro stopped muttering.
His eyes fixed on the inscription, and he wrote with a firmness that was not his own:
"Pactum Custodiae—The Oath of the Guard."
Dr. Vasconcelos approached, his gaze devouring every detail.
"This is Latin... or something older."
An oath—perhaps the original.
The city's founders carved it here, sealing the Guardian to contain something.
Miguel frowned.
"Contain what?"
The Doctor didn't answer.
Elisa, however, pointed to one of the outer circles.
The names engraved there were familiar: Silva. Vasconcelos. Faria. Andrade. Lemos.
The city's ancient families.
And between them, a symbol identical to the medallion—incomplete, split in two halves.
Pedro gasped.
"It's the family tree of the curse," he wrote shakily.
"And all of us... are in it."
Miguel felt a chill run up his spine.
The medallion—now broken—pulsated in response to those words, and for an instant, he swore he heard voices whispering his name from within the stones.
The torches flickered and, with a sharp snap, went out.
In the darkness, something moved.
A faint light emanated from the walls, and figures began to form—translucent shadows, like specters trapped in space.
They were people. Ancient robes. Serene faces, hands raised.
They murmured in unison a phrase that was soundless, but echoed directly within Miguel's mind:
"We swear to keep. We swear to forget."
Elisa covered her ears, trembling.
Pedro began repeating the same words, his voice hoarse, as if he were a channel.
Dr. Vasconcelos took a step forward, fascinated.
"They are not cursed, Miguel." — They are the curse.
The figures turned toward him.
The faces changed—they took on familiar features: the baker on the corner, the schoolteacher, the old man in the square.
The townspeople reflected in their ancestors.
The truth began to form like a painful crack in Miguel's mind:
The town did not inherit the curse.
It is the continuation of the oath—the living body of an ancient pact.
In the center of the room, the shadows parted, revealing an ancient stone altar covered in dark veils.
The cloth seemed to breathe.
Miguel felt drawn to it, even without meaning to.
He placed the two halves of the medallion on the altar.
The sound of their contact reverberated like a deep bell note.
The walls began to move.
Runes rose in blue flames, and the shadows curved, forming a circle around them.
The Guardian's voice rang out then—clear, feminine, manifold.
"You called me.
You wish to remember what has been forgotten.
But memory is what destroys."
Michael looked up.
"Who did this to you? Who trapped you here?"
The veil moved over the altar, revealing a dim figure—pale hands, empty eyes, an absent face.
She didn't answer.
She merely pointed to the floor, where an inscription burned slowly, revealing new words.
It was the text of the original oath, engraved in a language mixed with Latin and something even more archaic.
Elisa translated fragments on her clipboard:
"We, the guardians, seal the name...
With voice and blood.
May the city never speak,
May memory protect what sleeps."
Dr. Vasconcelos gasped.
"This is not just a spell.
It's a bargain."
The spectral figures began to walk in circles.
The air grew heavy, the ground throbbed underfoot.
Peter, entranced, pointed to the center of the altar.
"One name is missing," he wrote.
"The name of the one who broke the pact."
Miguel approached.
There, where the words ended, was an empty space, a gap.
And, under the light of the runes, the broken medallion began to glow—completing, by itself, the invisible writing.
The letters appeared in fire.
MIGUEL DE ANDRADE.
The silence fell like a sentence.
Everyone looked at him—horrified, confused, helpless.
Elisa took a step back, tears streaming.
Doctor Vasconcelos dropped the notebook from his hands.
Miguel, breathless, tried to deny it.
But within him, memories that weren't his began to stir.
Images of a city in flames, of a veiled woman kneeling before him.
And a phrase—spoken in another life—burned on his lips:
"I promise to remember.
Even if the world forgets."
The Guardian inclined her head.
The veils parted, and for an instant her face was revealed—beautiful and terrible, human and divine.
She smiled sadly.
"The first who promised... must fulfill.
Silence is the price of the name he dared remember."
The runes faded, one by one, and the altar crumbled.
Michael fell to his knees, the medallion cracked between his fingers.
The echo of an ancient oath rang in the air—like a distant bell calling for oblivion.
The city above began to tremble.