The soil turned red two days before they saw the walls.
Elías knew it wasn't blood—at least, not anymore. Whatever had been spilled here had been swallowed, then rejected, staining the ground with memory rather than flesh.
Aleya pointed to the horizon. "There. You see it? Towers—black, moving."
He squinted.
And saw it.
A city that should not have been alive.
It pulsed. Literally pulsed.
As if the stone itself had lungs.
"It's breathing," Rae murmured, still pale since the chapel. "Cities shouldn't breathe."
They approached slowly, cautious of the creatures lurking between the crimson hills. Twice they saw shadows with antlers, crawling backward on hands. Once, a boy made of teeth asked them for a mother, then disassembled himself into smoke.
But none came close.
The Scythe's presence kept them away.
Or perhaps they, too, feared the city.
---
At the gates, they found statues.
Twisted humanoid shapes. Each bore a crown made of screaming mouths and robes sewn from eyelids.
One had a plaque beneath it:
> "Here reigns the Legion of the Nine Hungers."
Rae touched it and screamed.
For a moment, her face melted into a thousand others—young, old, beast, divine.
Then it returned.
She fell back, shaking.
"They eat memory," she whispered. "That's what this place is. It feeds on forgetting."
Inside, the streets were made of bone glass—transparent, but brittle. The buildings moved when not seen directly. Elías turned his head for a moment and the shop behind him changed: it became taller, sharper, with a door shaped like a keyhole.
Aleya said nothing.
Her hands were on her blades, both drawn.
---
The people of the city were not people.
They were vessels—walking husks with masks instead of faces, all smiling. Their eyes were hollow. They chanted in a tongue none of them understood. But the sound hurt, like nails behind the eyes.
Still, no one attacked.
Not yet.
---
In the center of the city was a cathedral made of spines.
A choir stood before it, each singer held aloft by meat hooks. And yet they sang. Joyful hymns about the "Father of Teeth." About "Mordeus Who Devours." About "the Scythe That Will Kneel."
Elías stopped walking.
He understood.
They were waiting for him.
---
An old man approached them then.
Not masked.
Not twisted.
Just a man in robes too large for his frame.
He bowed.
"You are the one who carries the blade that remembers."
Elías said nothing.
The man smiled, revealing rows of mismatched teeth.
"I am Arch-Scribe Vell. I have waited twelve lifetimes to speak to you."
Rae clutched her head. "He's not alive," she whispered. "He's... written. That thing is a story given form."
Vell nodded. "Indeed. Mordeus writes well. I am His word. His will. His warning."
Elías raised the Scythe. "Speak quickly."
The sky trembled.
Vell did not flinch.
"You carry the Foice of Death. That which can kill what cannot die. That which ends not bodies, but fates. Mordeus sees you. He does not yet act—but He invites. You are to walk the Steps of Bone, to earn an audience."
Aleya stepped forward. "And if he refuses?"
Vell chuckled. "Refusal implies freedom. This place is not built of such things."
Then he turned to ash, blown away by no wind.
---
They slept inside an inn that changed shape every hour.
When Elías dreamed, he saw a spiral staircase made of skulls, leading into the ribs of a god. With every step, he forgot something—his village, his mother's voice, the first time he laughed.
At the top stood a throne made of mouths.
And it spoke:
"Will you trade your memories for clarity?"
He woke before answering.
---
The next morning, Rae could no longer remember her sister's name.
Aleya had scars on her arms she didn't recognize.
And Elías looked in a mirror—and did not see himself.
Just the Scythe.
Smiling.
---
They left the city.
But it followed.
Not in steps.
In thought.
Each of them now bore a mark on their shadow—three black lines, vertical, pulsing.
The Legion of the Nine Hungers had tasted them.
And they were not done.
---
Question for the Reader:lf you had to walk through a city that fed on your memories to find truth, how much of yourself would you be willing to lose before you were no longer you?