It was a new day.
I opened my eyes slowly, with that strange sensation of waking up from a dream that had lasted far too long.
For a second, I truly believed it.
I believed that everything from yesterday had been nothing more than a dream. A nightmare. A bad day invented by my mind.
The truck.
The shouting.
Lauren.
The slammed door.
My mother on her knees.
Selene crying.
Me being taken away.
I thought… I thought it was already over.
I blinked again.
And then I focused.
The ceiling wasn't the one from my room in Medellín.
The light was different.
The air was colder.
And the silence… it was the kind of silence that doesn't comfort you. It just exists.
My throat tightened.
It wasn't a dream.
That nightmare had never been a dream.
It was my reality.
I slowly sat up.
The sheets smelled different. Not like home. Not like my mother. Not like the residence.
I looked around.
Two beds.
The table.
The wardrobes.
The window facing the forest.
And sitting on the edge of my bed was Sofía.
She was looking at me as if she had been waiting for me to wake up for a while, with a calm that felt strange for someone her age.
"Good morning," she said softly, as if she didn't want to scare me.
It took me a second to respond.
"What are you doing here…?" I murmured, my voice hoarse.
Sofía pointed at a neatly folded towel and a change of clothes she had prepared.
"I came to bathe you," she said simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "Marta told me I had to."
My body reacted immediately with discomfort.
"I… I know how to bathe myself," I said faster than I expected. "And I can get dressed on my own."
Sofía blinked, surprised.
Then she smiled—but not mockingly. It was that natural cheerfulness she seemed to carry effortlessly.
"Are you sure?" she asked. "My little brother still lets me do it. And he's not that small."
That annoyed me more than it should have.
Not because of her brother.
But because of what it implied.
Because here, from the very first day, they were already treating me as if I couldn't do even the most basic things without someone watching over me.
I pressed my lips together.
"I can," I said firmly.
Sofía opened her mouth to insist, but I was already getting out of bed.
"Really," I added, not looking at her too much. "I can."
She frowned slightly, clearly not liking being told no.
"But… it's my job," she murmured.
"And I don't want it," I replied, without raising my voice, but without backing down.
There was a brief silence.
Sofía looked at me for a few seconds, as if deciding whether it was worth arguing.
In the end, she let out a breath through her nose, half-giving up.
"Fine," she said. "But if you fall, don't blame me."
I didn't know if that was a joke or a threat.
I didn't answer.
I just grabbed the towel and walked away.
I bathed myself.
I got dressed on my own.
Sofía left the room a few minutes later.
I sat on the bed, hands resting on my legs, staring at the window without really seeing the forest beyond it.
I didn't know how much time passed.
The door opened again.
Sofía entered carefully, carrying two plates and a steaming cup. She closed the door with her foot and placed everything on the small table in the center.
"Breakfast," she said, as if that explained everything.
I looked at it.
Scrambled eggs.
A slice of bread.
And a cup of hot chocolate.
It was simple.
Normal.
Too normal for everything that had happened.
Sofía sat down without hesitation and started eating enthusiastically, as if nothing bad existed in the world. Every bite was taken with real appetite, with the kind of energy children have when they genuinely enjoy food.
I picked up the fork.
I looked at it.
But I didn't use it.
I wasn't hungry.
It wasn't that my stomach hurt.
It was as if it simply… refused.
And that was strange.
I always ate everything Liora cooked. Always. Even when I wasn't hungry. Her food always made me feel at home—something that was missing now.
This didn't.
Sofía was already halfway through her plate when she looked up at me.
"Aren't you hungry, Jhosep?" she asked.
I slowly shook my head.
"No."
She frowned slightly.
"Why?"
I shrugged.
"I just don't feel like it."
She looked at my untouched plate.
"You don't like breakfast?"
"It's not that," I replied. "I just… don't have an appetite."
She stayed quiet for a few seconds, finishing what little she had left. Then she suddenly stood up, grabbed my plate before I could say anything, and sat down in front of me.
I didn't understand what she was doing until she placed it on her legs.
She picked up the spoon.
"Come on," she said. "Eat."
I tensed immediately.
"I'm not hungry," I repeated.
"Just one spoonful," she insisted. "Or at least the chocolate."
I moved the cup slightly to push it away, but Sofía was faster. She held it with both hands and brought it closer to me.
"It's cold," she said. "This helps."
I looked at her.
I wanted to say no.
To tell her to stop insisting.
But the steam rising from the cup… the sweet smell… and the cold that was still stuck in my body from last night made me hesitate.
I sighed.
"Just the chocolate," I murmured.
Sofía smiled, satisfied, as if she had won something important.
I took the cup with both hands.
It was hot.
I took a small sip.
Then another.
It was delicious.
Sweet, thick, comforting.
The warmth slid down my throat and settled in my chest, loosening something I hadn't realized was so tense. With the cold climate of the unit, it felt… good. Really good.
I didn't say anything.
Sofía watched me in silence, a calm smile on her face.
"See?" she said. "It wasn't that bad."
I didn't answer.
But I didn't let go of the cup.
And even though I still wasn't hungry…
for the first time since waking up, I felt like the day could move forward.
Time passed.
I couldn't say exactly how long, but it felt slow, as if time itself wasn't in a hurry.
Sofía was the one who broke the silence.
"Do you want to go out and see the place?" she asked, sitting on her bed and swinging her legs.
I looked at her for barely a second.
"No," I replied indifferently. "I don't want to see it."
She exaggeratedly snorted.
"This place is huge," she said. "And it's beautiful, even if it doesn't seem like it at first."
I shook my head again.
"I don't want to go out."
Sofía insisted.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
She told me there were courtyards, paths, interesting buildings, that it made no sense to stay locked in the room all day. I kept refusing.
And while she talked, something caught my attention.
I didn't understand why she was being so… kind to me.
We had only known each other for one day.
Just one day.
And yet she spoke to me naturally, as if we had been friends for years. As if it were normal to insist, to take care of me, to want to pull me out of there.
It reminded me of Selene.
Of how she always forced me to go to the garden.
Of how she would pull me by the hand to follow her everywhere, even when I didn't feel like it.
Sofía sighed again.
"I'm seriously going to die of boredom here," she said. "I can't stay in the room all day."
I stayed silent for a few seconds.
And then an idea came to me.
"What if we go to the library?"
Sofía froze.
Too frozen.
Her expression changed instantly. It wasn't surprise. It was closer to rejection.
"Anywhere but there," she said quickly.
I frowned slightly.
"Why don't you like the library?"
She didn't answer right away.
She looked away.
"Because…" she hesitated. "Because the librarian is grumpy."
I blinked.
"The librarian?"
She frowned, as if just thinking about him annoyed her.
"He doesn't like kids," she continued. "Or at least, he doesn't like noisy kids."
She waved a hand dismissively.
"He's always serious, always quiet, always looking at you like he's counting how many rules you're breaking," she listed. "He has gray hair, wrinkled hands, and he gets mad if you speak loudly, if you laugh, or if you leave a book out of place even for a second."
She glanced at me sideways.
"My brother and I have been there several times," she added. "And… well, we're not very quiet."
That made more sense.
"Then I'm not going anywhere," I said. "I'll only go if it's the library."
Sofía looked at me, hesitating.
"Jhosep…"
"I won't go anywhere else," I repeated. "And not if it's only for a little while."
She sighed, clearly frustrated.
She thought for a few more seconds.
"Fine," she finally gave in. "We'll go to the library."
She paused.
"But on one condition."
"What is it?"
"That we don't stay there too long."
I looked at her.
"Why?"
Sofía swallowed.
"The librarian is scary."
I blinked.
"Scary?"
"Yes," she nodded. "Very."
"Did you do something to make him angry?"
She looked away.
That was answer enough.
"Did you make noise?" I pressed.
No response.
"Did you leave books lying around?"
She scratched her cheek.
"…maybe."
I sighed.
"Then we're going to the library," I said. "Or we're not going anywhere."
Sofía stared at me for a few seconds.
"You're stubborn for someone so small," she muttered.
But in the end, she nodded.
They left the room and followed the stone path leading toward the library.
With every step, the building grew larger.
More imposing.
More impressive.
When we stood before it once again, I felt the same emotion as before. It was enormous. Majestic. As if it guarded within it everything I needed to understand.
We went inside.
The atmosphere changed immediately.
Silence.
A heavy, deep, respectful silence.
A man approached from behind the counter.
He was older. Gray hair. Straight posture. An attentive gaze, but not a cruel one.
"Boy," he said, looking at me. "Where is your instructor or caretaker?"
I pointed at Sofía.
The man looked at her.
He sighed.
"So, Sofía…" he said. "How have you been?"
He didn't sound angry.
He sounded… tired.
Sofía smiled nervously.
"Fine, Mr. Luis."
So that was his name.
Luis crossed his arms.
"Let me guess," he said. "You and your brother came in running again, laughing, talking loudly, pulling books off the shelves… and leaving them where they don't belong."
Sofía shrank a little.
"It wasn't exactly like that…"
"It was exactly like that," Luis replied. "This is a library, Sofía. Not a playground."
He looked at her for a few seconds more, then sighed again.
"As long as you respect the rules, you may stay," he said finally. "But at the first unnecessary noise, you're out."
Sofía nodded immediately.
"I promise," she said quickly. "This time, really."
Luis then looked at me.
His expression softened slightly.
"Are you here to read?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Then go ahead," he said. "Books are for those who know how to respect them."
Luis stepped aside from the counter and raised a hand, pointing deeper into the library.
"The stairs at the back lead to the second and third floors," he said. "First floor: general reading and basic archive. Second floor: geography and history. Third floor: special records."
He paused, then looked directly at Sofía.
"And I repeat," he added. "No noise. No running. No books left out of place."
Sofía immediately lowered her head.
"Yes, Mr. Luis," she said softly.
Luis watched her for a second longer, as if making sure she understood, then shifted his gaze back to me.
"You may stay as long as you need," he said. "As long as you respect the rules."
I nodded.
Luis returned to his post behind the counter, and the silence reclaimed its weight.
Sofía let out the breath she had been holding since we entered.
"See?" she murmured. "Grumpy."
I didn't reply.
We walked toward the stairs at the back. They were wide, made of dark wood, with railings polished smooth by use. Each step barely echoed—just enough to remind us not to make noise.
We climbed to the second floor.
The atmosphere changed slightly. It was still quiet, but it felt more… open. The shelves were taller, the aisles longer. Large tables stood near the windows, from where part of the facility could be seen and, beyond it, mountains covered in mist.
A small sign marked the section:
GEOGRAPHY AND HISTORY
I stopped for a moment.
It felt like a good place to start.
If this world was different from the one I had left behind, I needed to understand how. What had changed. What hadn't. Even though, deep down, I knew it wasn't another world.
It was the same one.
The same Earth.
Just… not entirely.
I walked slowly between the shelves, reading the spines of the books. There were ancient maps, territorial records, volumes with names of regions I didn't remember seeing before.
Then I saw it.
A large, hardbound book, placed almost at chest height.
Atlas of the World
I stared at it for a few seconds.
I felt something close to curiosity.
And need.
I turned to Sofía.
"Can you get it for me?" I asked, pointing at it.
Sofía followed my finger, then looked back at me, surprised.
"That one?" she asked. "It's big."
"Yes."
She took it carefully from the shelf, weighing it in her hands.
"Are you sure you'll understand it?" she said. "These books aren't for little kids."
I looked at her.
"Just give it to me," I replied. "I already knew how to read from before."
She blinked.
"Before?"
"Before coming here," I clarified.
She studied me for a few seconds, as if deciding whether I was telling the truth. In the end, she shrugged.
"Alright," she said. "But if you get a headache, don't say I didn't warn you."
She handed me the book.
It was heavy.
Heavier than I expected.
I carried it with both hands to one of the tables near the window, sat down carefully, and placed it in front of me.
The cover creaked softly as I opened it.
Maps.
Colors.
Lines marking borders I didn't fully recognize.
Names that felt familiar… and others that didn't at all.
Sofía sat across from me, crossing her legs on the chair, resting her elbows on the table.
"So?" she whispered. "What are you looking for?"
I lowered my gaze to the atlas.
"I want to know," I said. "What the world is like."
She didn't answer.
I opened the book carefully, as if afraid that making noise might break something.
And as I looked at the maps for the first time, I knew it wasn't just curiosity.
It was necessity.
I began to read.
At first, it was… normal.
Familiar continents.
Oceans with the same names.
Countries I recognized without effort.
America.
Europe.
Asia.
Africa.
Everything was still there.
I read page after page—maps, borders, climates, mountain ranges, seas.
The more I advanced, the clearer a realization became.
The world hadn't changed in shape.
It was still Earth.
The same continents.
The same countries.
The same basic divisions.
That unsettled me more than if everything had been different.
So then… what had changed?
I kept reading.
I passed the halfway point of the book.
And that was when the tone shifted.
The maps stopped showing only countries and borders.
New markings appeared.
Symbols.
Highlighted zones.
The text now spoke of something else.
Of the Great Houses.
I read more carefully.
The book explained their functions, their influence, their power. How they didn't rule solely through politics or economics, but through the control of mana, strategic territories, and artifacts.
A small knot formed in my chest.
Great Houses…
Now that I thought about it, I belonged to one.
No.
To two.
The Arias, through my father.
And the Vides, through my mother.
The book continued, explaining how the Great Houses were distributed across the world. How each dominated specific regions. How territories, zones of influence, and responsibilities were divided.
The following pages were entirely dedicated to the Great Houses.
They weren't legends.
They weren't forgotten ancient families.
They were living structures.
Active.
Present across the entire world.
The book organized them by continent, marking their territories with clear symbols, impossible to confuse.
First, America.
There it was.
House Arias, based in Colombia, dominating much of South America.
The surname hit me harder than I expected.
Lower on the same continent appeared House Montesanto, established in Brazil.
And to the north, in the United States, House Stonefort, controlling North America.
I turned the page.
Europe.
House Vides, in Spain.
My mother.
The name was printed with the same seriousness as all the others, as if it didn't know—or care—what it meant to me.
Also there was House Falkenray, located in the United Kingdom.
I continued.
Africa.
House Nkosis, in Nigeria.
And House Wahab, in Egypt.
Two Great Houses. Two key regions. Both marked as pillars of stability for the continent.
Then Asia.
House Zhāo, in China.
And House Ren, in Japan.
The book explained that their influence wasn't only territorial, but also cultural, spiritual, and strategic.
Then came Oceania.
House Fitz, in Australia.
And House Wellington, in New Zealand.
Islands.
Oceans.
Maritime routes.
Zones of unstable mana.
Everything fit.
I reached the last section.
Antarctica.
There was no House.
Only a different text.
Antarctic Neutral Territory.
Protected continent.
Dedicated to science and balance.
Does not belong to any Great House.
No family symbols.
No emblems.
Only warnings.
I closed the book for a moment.
So that was the world.
Its shape hadn't changed…
But who truly ruled it had.
I opened the atlas again, more carefully.
The pages didn't just list names.
They explained what the Great Houses were.
They weren't simply powerful families or surnames preserved by tradition. The book made it clear that the Great Houses functioned as central structures of order—pillars sustaining the balance of the modern world. Each had assigned responsibilities, defined territories, and obligations that went far beyond politics.
They didn't govern countries.
They influenced them.
They managed resources.
They controlled zones of high mana concentration.
They intervened when natural balance was broken.
As I read, something caught my attention.
America.
I returned to that section and examined it more closely.
It was the only continent with three Great Houses.
House Arias in Colombia.
House Montesanto in Brazil.
House Stonefort in the United States.
Three.
No other continent had more than two.
Europe had two.
Africa had two.
Asia had two.
Oceania had two.
America was the exception.
That couldn't be a coincidence.
The book didn't explain it directly, but it left clues. It described America as a particularly unstable territory in terms of mana, with zones of high activity, natural rifts, and a history marked by major deviation events.
Perhaps that was why it required more control.
More vigilance.
More distributed power.
I kept reading.
The next pages clarified something important.
The Great Houses didn't limit themselves to politics, treaties, or decisions made behind closed doors. Each maintained active delegations across the world—even outside their continent of origin.
Delegations tasked with intervening in crises.
Protecting settlements.
Containing outbreaks of deviation.
They were response forces.
When a deviation appeared, when an area became unstable or dangerous, the Houses deployed specialized teams. It didn't matter if the territory didn't belong directly to them. Global balance was everyone's responsibility.
That explained why their symbols appeared scattered across maps that didn't align perfectly with political borders.
They weren't armies.
They weren't police.
They were something in between.
Something older.
Something more dangerous.
I turned more pages, nearing the end of the section dedicated to the Great Houses.
That was when I found something different.
A page that didn't speak of families.
It spoke of supervision.
According to the book, in addition to the authority of the Great Houses, each continent was under an additional layer of oversight—one that didn't answer to any Great House.
That supervision was carried out by specific individuals.
Not families.
Not lineages.
Designated figures.
The text called them…
Continental Sovereigns.
I closed the book slowly.
That was too much for one day.
But one thing was already clear.
The world wasn't divided only by countries.
It was divided by responsibilities.
I turned the page carefully.
The heading referred to the Continental Sovereigns.
I read more slowly.
According to the book, beyond the authority exercised by the Great Houses, each continent was overseen by a superior figure. They answered to no Great House, no government, no political alliance.
Their role wasn't to govern.
It was to watch.
They were called Sovereigns because their authority didn't depend on territories, borders, or governments, but on the very balance of the continent they protected.
Asia was under the guardianship of Eunhwa, the Sovereign of the Primordial Continent.
The text described her as a figure born from an ancient martial era, when the world was still ruled by physical strength, discipline, and direct combat.
She wasn't a symbol of mana's origin, but a survivor of an age where power was forged through constant training, war, and unbreakable will.
The Americas, on the other hand, didn't have a simple or fragmented sovereign.
They were unified under Veritus, the Vespucian Sovereign of the Three Americas.
The name made me frown.
Three continents treated as one.
Perhaps that was why America concentrated more Great Houses than any other place in the world.
Europe was overseen by Aureliana Verhoeven, the Sovereign of Ancient Judgment.
The book spoke of her in a severe, almost solemn tone, as if her very existence implied constant evaluation.
Not immediate punishment—but inevitable consequences.
Africa was under the care of Jabari M'Kasa, the Sovereign of Permanence.
That word appeared repeatedly on the page.
Permanence.
Stability.
Endurance.
Oceania, lastly, was ruled by Hina Vaiana, the Sovereign of Inevitable Change.
The text noted that her continent was the most dynamic, the most adaptable… and also the most unpredictable.
I found no sovereign for Antarctica.
Only a brief note.
Neutral territory.
Protected zone.
Dedicated to science and balance.
Not subject to continental sovereignty.
The section that followed the breakdown of the sovereigns was the one that sparked the most curiosity—and impact.
The atlas now spoke of their origin.
According to the text, the Continental Sovereigns had not arisen through human election nor through consensus among the Great Houses. They had been chosen personally by the Primordial Kings.
That name was written in a different, older typeface.
The book explained that the Primordial Kings selected each sovereign based on their abilities, talent, and affinity with the world's balance. It didn't describe them as mere rulers of the past.
On the contrary.
They were portrayed as something beyond human.
Beyond the world itself.
The way they were written about… almost made them seem like gods.
Entities that had walked the Earth when mana was still undivided, when living beings followed different laws.
That information made me frown.
And then… my head began to hurt.
It wasn't a mild ache. It was as if something were tightening inside my skull, as if an idea were trying to force itself out without space.
Kings…
Kings…
The word repeated in my mind.
And then I remembered.
In my previous life, my grandfather used to tell me a story before bed. Always the same one. A story about ancient kings who ruled not countries, but all living beings on the planet. He said they weren't good or evil.
They were simply… absolute.
At that moment, the voices returned.
The same ones I had heard before dying.
Clear.
Close.
"NOT YET, OUR CHILD."
The pain intensified suddenly.
It felt as if someone pressed against my head from the inside. I groaned, clutching my temple.
"Ah—"
Sofía startled immediately.
"I told you!" she whispered, leaning toward me. "That big book was going to give you a headache."
She looked at me worriedly, then closed the atlas carefully, without making a sound.
"We should go," she added. "Before Mr. Luis scolds us… please."
I didn't answer.
The pain slowly subsided, but the sensation remained, like a shadow.
Primordial Kings.
Voices.
And a story that no longer felt like just a bedtime tale.
Something told me that book wasn't done with me.
And that I… wasn't done with it either.