Frío glacial gripped Gabriell. The engine coughed, sputtered, then died. A sudden, terrifying silence enveloped the Nieuport 11, broken only by the whistling wind and the thrum of enemy propellers closing in. Three German Albatros D.III fighters, painted in menacing greens and browns, tightened their formation. Gabriell’s breath hitched in his throat. No power. No escape. Bullets zipped past his wings. Sparks flew as a round punched through the fuselage, just inches from his head. He gripped the stick, knuckles white, eyes darting to the altimeter. One thousand meters, dropping fast. Panic threatened to overwhelm him. He thought of Judith, fighting in the trenches below. He pictured Leo, his best friend, who might be flying one of these very planes. He couldn't go down. Not like this. He pushed the stick hard, pulling into a desperate, uncontrolled barrena. The world spun. The horizon blurred into a dizzying vortex of blue and green. G-forces slammed him back into his seat, stealing his breath. The Albatros pilots, momentarily surprised, overshot. Wind shrieked through the biplane’s struts. The ground rushed up with terrifying speed. Fields, trees, a winding river – all grew larger, faster. Five hundred meters. Four hundred. Gabriell wrestled the controls, fighting the spin, trying to regain some semblance of control. His mind raced, a whirlwind of desperation and instinct. Restart the engine. *Now*. He pumped the fuel primer. Switched on the magneto. Hit the starter. The propeller remained stubbornly still. Another volley of machine-gun fire ripped through his tail. He felt the plane shudder, a dying bird. Two hundred meters. He could see individual trees now. The ground was a hungry maw. He hammered the starter again, a silent prayer on his lips. One hundred meters. Then, a cough. A sputter. A roar. The engine caught, shaking the entire aircraft. Black smoke belched from the exhaust. Gabriell felt a surge of raw, primal relief. He pulled back on the stick with all his might, fighting the dive. The Nieuport screamed as it leveled out, skimming the treetops. Barely fifty meters from the earth, he was flying again. Anger, cold and sharp, replaced his terror. They had pushed him. They had tried to kill him. He wouldn't just run. Not when Judith was down there, counting on him, counting on *them*. He banked sharply, turning into the path of the nearest Albatros, which was already circling back for another pass. His hands moved with an almost dreamlike precision, muscles remembering drills, instinct taking over. He lined up the enemy plane in his sights. The German pilot, confident in his prey, was slow to react. Gabriell squeezed the trigger. His machine guns chattered, spitting a deadly stream of tracer rounds. Bullets ripped into the Albatros’s fuselage. Smoke streamed from its engine. The German plane bucked violently, then dipped a wing. Gabriell kept firing, a relentless burst of lead. He watched, detached, as the enemy plane faltered, then plunged earthward. A trail of black smoke blossomed into angry orange flames. The world seemed to slow. He saw the pilot, a tiny figure, struggling at the controls, silhouetted against the inferno. A high-pitched shriek, carried on the wind, pierced the roar of his own engine. It was a human sound. A scream of terror, of agony, of finality. The sound tore through Gabriell, twisting his gut. The Albatros hit the ground with a sickening thud, erupting into a fireball. A cloud of black smoke billowed into the pale sky. The scream stopped, abruptly, completely. Gabriell stared at the rising column of smoke, his hands still gripping the stick. His own engine vibrated beneath him. The other two Albatros pilots, witnessing their comrade’s demise, hesitated. They broke formation, scattering. They wouldn't pursue him now. The initial surge of adrenaline faded, leaving a hollow ache. His heart hammered, not from the recent danger, but from the chilling realization that had settled deep within him. He had killed someone. He had taken a life. The scream echoed in his ears, a haunting whisper. His victory felt like ash in his mouth. He was a pilot, a soldier, yes. But he was also Gabriell, the boy from Venezuela, who had never hurt a soul. Now, he was a killer. He flew on, a ghost in the sky. The war had changed him. The war had taken a part of him he could never get back. He felt a profound, heavy remorse. The face of the pilot he had just killed haunted his peripheral vision, though he had never seen it. Below, the trenches stretched on, a scar across the land. The sound of distant artillery fire reached him, a grim reminder of the carnage. He had survived. But at what cost? The thought of Judith, still in the thick of it, spurred him on. He had to get back, report, ensure she was safe. He had to live, for her, for Leo, for Blünginda. He had to make it back to Venezuela, to find them all, and reconcile the broken pieces of their souls. But a dark stain had been added to his own. A stain of blood. The first drop. --- He nursed the damaged Nieuport back towards Allied lines. The engine coughed intermittently, a reminder of its near-fatal failure. The controls felt sluggish, the wings peppered with bullet holes. An emergency landing was inevitable. He radioed in his position, a terse, emotionless report. He had engaged three enemy fighters. One downed. Two fled. Engine compromised. Requesting immediate landing zone. The landing strip appeared, a muddy patch carved out of the scarred landscape. He brought the Nieuport down hard, bumping over uneven ground. The landing gear groaned, the plane veering slightly before he wrestled it straight. He cut the engine. Silence returned, even heavier than before. Mechanics rushed towards him, their faces a mixture of relief and concern. Gabriell unstrapped himself, his body stiff, his mind numb. He climbed out of the cockpit, the smell of burnt oil and fear clinging to him. “Are you alright, Lieutenant?” one asked, helping him down. “We heard the report. Close call.” Gabriell only nodded, his gaze fixed on the distant smoke plume marking the crash site of the Albatros. He had to see. He had to know. The face, the man he had killed. He needed to understand. “I need to go to the crash site,” he stated, his voice flat. “Someone needs to retrieve the wreckage. Identify the pilot.” The mechanics exchanged worried glances. “It’s too dangerous, sir. Enemy lines are close.” “I’m going,” Gabriell insisted, his jaw tightening. “Send a patrol. I'll go with them.” His resolve was unshakeable. He needed to confront what he had done. He needed to see the face of his victim. He needed to find a reason, an explanation for the scream that still echoed in his head. A small contingent of soldiers, armed with rifles, accompanied him. They navigated the cratered landscape, moving cautiously through the desolate no-man's land. The air grew heavy with the smell of scorched earth and something else, something metallic and sickening. They reached the site. The Albatros was a mangled wreck, a testament to the brutal finality of the crash. Twisted metal, splintered wood, and smoldering fabric lay scattered across a wide area. A dark, oily stain seeped into the ground. Gabriell approached the charred remains, his stomach churning. His eyes scanned the debris, searching for any sign of the pilot. He found nothing intact. Just fragments. One of the soldiers called out. “Over here, Lieutenant! We found him.” Gabriell walked towards them, his steps heavy. A body lay partially buried under a twisted piece of fuselage. The uniform was German. The face was obscured, but the shape, the size, it was a young man. Just like him. His breath hitched again. He looked away, then forced himself to look back. This was the consequence. This was the war. This was what he had become. “Check for any identification,” Gabriell ordered, his voice barely a whisper. One of the soldiers carefully sifted through the wreckage near the pilot’s cockpit. He pulled out a small, metallic object. It was blackened with soot, but its shape was distinct. “Looks like a compass, sir,” the soldier said, holding it out. “Silver.” Gabriell took it. He wiped away the soot with his gloved thumb. The silver gleamed faintly. Engraved on its surface, a delicate, familiar pattern. His heart pounded. It was a small, ornate compass. The same model. The identical design. His blood ran cold. This was the same kind of silver compass that Leonel had received from his father before they left Venezuela. He felt a profound sense of dread, a chilling premonition, knowing that he had just killed a man who held a piece of his past. He felt a sickening twist in his stomach. The war had brought them here, to this brutal, desolate place. And now, the war had brought him face to face with the ghost of his dearest friend. He stared at the compass, his fingers trembling. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t. But the evidence was cold, hard, and undeniable. The weight of it in his palm felt like a lead ball. He looked at the mangled remains of the pilot, then back at the compass. His mind raced, connecting impossible dots. The war was a cruel mistress, and it had just dealt him a hand he never anticipated. He felt a desperate urge to deny it, to throw the compass away, to pretend he hadn’t seen it, but it was too late. The truth, however horrifying, was right there. He had to know. He had to be sure. He turned the compass over in his hand, a chilling suspicion solidifying into an unbearable certainty. He felt a tremor run through his entire body. He had just killed a man, and that man held a piece of Leonel’s very soul. The world spun once more, but this time, it was not the dizzying barrena of his plane, but the sickening lurch of a horrifying realization. He had taken a life, and that life might have been inextricably linked to his own, to his past, to his deepest fears. His grip tightened on the compass, the silver cold against his skin, a stark symbol of a dreadful connection. His gaze darted back to the pilot’s body. He had to uncover the full truth, no matter how much it shattered him. The war, it seemed, was determined to strip him of everything, even his illusions. He had to know who this pilot was. He had to know the face behind the compass. He had to know the name of the man he had just killed. His hand trembled, holding the compass. It couldn't be a coincidence. It was too specific, too personal. A cold, dreadful certainty began to form in his mind. He had to verify. He had to see a face, a name. He had to look into the eyes of the man he had just downed. He had to know if the universe was truly this cruel, if fate truly played such monstrous games with their lives. He felt a deep, sickening dread, a premonition that chilled him to the bone, a fear that the war had just shown him its most devastating, most personal hand. He had killed someone today, and the silver compass in his hand hinted at a connection so profound, so devastating, that it threatened to unravel his entire world. He felt a desperate, urgent need to deny it, to scream, to reject the possibility. But the compass, cold and heavy in his palm, was undeniable proof that his nightmare had just begun. The war had just delivered its most personal blow, and Gabriell knew, with a certainty that froze his blood, that the man he had just killed was not just an enemy pilot, but someone far, far closer than he could ever have imagined.

La primera gota de sangre