The bonfire—far more than a mere ring of burning debris—had become the epicenter of an ethical and moral debate about our convictions and beliefs. González's words, instead of clarifying the medical and scientific stance, seemed to divide us between those who helped out of duty and love and those who did it for glory and the aspiration to be immortalized.
—Boasting proudly that your involvement is nothing but selfish doesn't exactly do the "W.H.O." any favors, Polanco attacked.
—If it isn't for such a privilege, then what motivates you to risk your life? Taveras asked.
—The protection and salvation of the unfortunate within the country. To end any calamity that threatens the inhabitants of our glorious realm.
—Oh, sure! González shot back, citing the dark deeds of the guard—Is that why you mined the population of Azula until they died? Or why the endless wars in the north of Constanza have claimed hundreds of lives?
The heated discussion morphed into a circle of disputes and exploded into a physical fight. I would never defend my companions' actions, but with alcohol poisoning their blood, it was understandable that educated men could behave like animals. López intervened in the melee, pulling apart guards and doctors who refused to stand down.
—Damn it! Scientists acting like beasts, and men of law attacking unseasoned medics! López bellowed as he separated the combatants into two groups.
—They're not defenseless!!! Polanco shouted, bruised from González's blows.
—How can a doctor do that to a guard? López asked, fighting back a chuckle.
—Studies aren't just for showing off, González declared, laughing as he rubbed his knuckles.
—I can't believe you just fought a doctor, Polanco, López laughed at the absurdity.
Polanco also began to laugh, and in a chain reaction, everyone did. As laughter died down and the wounds lessened, we recognized the gravity of our situation. What began as a philosophical debate had become a visceral reminder of our differences and weaknesses.
The bonfire kept crackling, sending sparks into the night air. Tension still hovered, but there was a silent understanding: ideological differences would have to be cast aside if we were to move forward.
López, who had quelled the conflict, spoke with the voice of a vice-captain.
—We need to remember why we're here. We're not enemies, no matter how deep our differences. What lies ahead of us—this mission—is bigger than any personal fight. We cannot forget those we vowed to protect. If we let our internal battles defeat us, we fail our most sacred duty.
—You're right, López. Polanco, still smiling slightly, finally conceded. We must unite and work together. Only then can we overcome what lies ahead. Lamenting the fight, he apologized. —I'm sorry, González.
—I'll forgive you when you buy me a drink, González replied sarcastically.
—We should use this moment to review our strategies and make sure we're all aligned on our goals, López resumed.
—López, you're good at leading, but don't ruin our night, Polanco quipped.
López stepped away to stand beside the captain, letting the lively gathering continue—though he left us with a warning in case another fight broke out.
—Thanks for the assist, Captain!
—You always have everything under control, López.
—I hope I can keep it up once we cross that fog. Have you made contact with the María Wall garrison?
—They'll be waiting until two PM. After that… we're considered missing or dead in action.
After all the commotion, I found myself back in my reading—mentally removed from the tumult and poison—lost in investigations, searching for a thread to pull.
—I see you're the only one taking this seriously, Miguel Binet said, approaching. —The rest are gone—fighting, drinking, laughing. They forget what this mission means.
—They need rest and recovery. Alcohol is nothing but a distraction… the Achilles' heel of fools, I responded as I turned a page.
—They should relax. After all, who knows how many of us will return? Héctor Muñoz interjected.
—This doesn't bode well, Yeremi Santos interrupted, a chill running through his bones. —I don't like this theatrics.
—Here you go, Doctor! Almánzar interrupted my reading, offering me a warm cup of mead. —I understand your concern, but understand them! These men have nothing left to lose; many already lost everything beyond the walls, and those who haven't know they'll lose their lives soon.
—That's exactly why we need to stay clear-headed.
—Look at Polanco! Almánzar said, pointing out with sincerity. —He's doing this to make sure the disease doesn't escape the walls and threaten his family—and partly because his family hails from these lands and he hasn't heard from them.
—So it was true! Muñoz interjected. —A lot of those on the mission joined for personal reasons.
—It's hardly news that they share their stories while drinking, don't you think? Binet said.
—Still, they should cut them some slack. For instance—look at Juan Vásquez! He's my best driver. He has a wife and child, and that doesn't stop him from helping.
—Do you have a family? My question was imprudent but born of curiosity.
—Me… maybe I do, Doctor. Maybe…
His answer was unexpected, and so was the silence that followed, only broken by Binet, who resumed drinking and criticizing Almánzar's mead.
—This tastes awful, he exclaimed mid-sip.
—If you find that horrible, I can't imagine how sad your palate must be, Almánzar shot back, gulping another drink.
—When this is over, I'll buy you a good wine and teach your taste buds real flavor, I replied, sipping the modest fire-warmed drink that had become a symbol of our fragile camaraderie.
Like the flames consuming the firewood, the night disappeared into dancing and singing—morale soared, hearts lifted, and we reached our only moment of calm before the storm.
Torres never left the radio, sending messages to the capital of Santa Catha and the king's committee in Orion. López stayed firm at his side while the guards celebrated crossing into hell. We—doctors, medics, and scientists—experienced the earthy warmth of cheap wine and stale bread. The transporters, masters of makeshift instruments, played songs we'd never heard: the stories of men who live by wandering.
I could still hear my own labored breathing. My joints ached unbearably, and although my body had started to stiffen, it wasn't fully paralyzed. With great effort, I managed to crawl between the trees.
—Who are you lying to, Larel?—the voice—almost demonic—echoed in my head.
I no longer knew whether the drugs had broken my mind or I was truly living out this horrendous sentence. Their footsteps thundered through the forest, and the cry was more like an agonizing wail than the furious roar of an enemy.
—You can end Catha's suffering, Larel. You hold the answers. And you're hiding from them, it tried to convince me.
But I remained silent, tending my wounds and preparing for what I feared was inevitable—my presumed death.
At dawn, the hangover greeted me, and with it came a new day of investigation. Ten guards, Captain Torres, and four mounted scouts accompanied us. Almánzar drove five vans, each carrying two guards, a transporter, and one of us. The cavalry garrison at the wall became our shield against Catha's desperate citizens trying to escape.
At the foot of the Count's Gate, we armed ourselves to cross the mist that separated all we knew from the unknown—a country in chaos and mystery for an entire year.
Our camp, alive last night, would remain our memory of countless losses. But we were not here to mourn—we were here to change history, no matter the price. As Torres said: we are this country's last hope against the Rot. We cannot falter.
"Let me remind you," Torres announced as he ordered the gate to be opened toward Santa Catha, "once inside, there is no turning back, and may no God have mercy on our souls. If any want to pray, this is the moment. And for those who don't… better start believing."