Iker barely registered her words. “Nonsense, kiddo. It’s just the wind playing tricks. This whole place is a glorified sieve.” He ran a hand through his hair, a grimace on his face. “We’re not staying in this glorified pigeon coop tonight. I’ll find us a proper room. One that doesn’t double as a drafty chimney.” He had, of course, found the *proper* room. It was the High Priest Gorka’s personal sanctuary, a chamber of egregious opulence designed for a man who believed himself above the world’s decay. The floor was covered in plush, crimson velour rugs that swallowed footsteps. Wall hangings depicting the 'Holy Ancestors' – stern elders whose gazes seemed to follow them – draped the walls. A massive, four-poster bed, draped in glossy silk, dominated the center, looking absurdly out of place against the backdrop of a dying world. Nerea, curled on the bed beneath a mountain of silk quilts, clutched Bihotz to her chest. The minuscule reptile, now soundly asleep, let out soft, contented puffs of smoke that smelled faintly of burnt sugar. Iker sat in a velvet armchair, absently flipping through a thick, leather-bound book he’d found on Gorka’s bedside table – a treatise on the virtues of zealous self-flagellation. He frowned. “They actually read this garbage?” Outside the ornate, leaded-glass windows, the eternal ash-fall usually drifted with a melancholic, almost gentle pace. Tonight, however, it seemed to be accelerating. Gray motes struck the glass with a soft, insistent patter, not unlike a light rain. Then, the ash began to swirl, concentrating just beyond the glass, coalescing into a dense, shifting cloud. “Iker,” Nerea’s voice was small, a tremor of unease beneath her calm. “The window.” He looked up, already irritated. “What now? Is the glass going to crack just from a bit of dust?” But the ash wasn’t merely gathering. Within the swirling gray mass, something was taking shape. A form, indistinct at first, then slowly, agonizingly, resolving itself into a human silhouette. It was tall, slender, and seemed woven from the very particles of the desolate sky. As it solidified, a crushing sorrow filled the chamber, cold as river ice. The visitor stepped through the solid glass pane without a sound, leaving neither crack nor draft. It stood before them, an entity of living cinders whose features shifted like silt under a current. A crushing desolation rolled off its shoulders, and from its hollow sockets, streaks of crystalline gray powder spilled, crumbling into the air before hitting the floor. “My apologies for the intrusion,” the visitor spoke in dry rustles, like parched grass scraping flagstones. The greeting was directed not at Iker, but at Nerea, who shrank deeper beneath the quilts, clutching the blankets to her chin. “Little one, your world is a symphony of suffering. Its music grows discordant, its harmony fractured beyond repair.” Iker narrowed his eyes. Another one. Just when he thought he could get some peace. “Who are you? And how did you get in here?” The intruder ignored him, hollow gaze fixed solely on Nerea. “The grand design of Ohalza is collapsing. The magic, once vibrant, now poisons the very earth, the air, the souls of its people. Every breath is a gasp of pain, every beat of the heart a prelude to agony.” It extended a hand, ethereal and glistening, towards Nerea. “I offer a solace. A final, gentle peace. A painless sleep before the inevitable shattering. Your youth, your innocence… it should not be defiled by the world’s protracted demise.” Iker felt a cold fury bloom in his chest, sharp and sudden. He saw the figure not as a threat to himself, but to the one person he truly cared about. This wasn’t some grandiose threat to his being; it was a direct assault on Nerea’s fragile peace. “You,” he said, his voice dangerously low, “are not putting *anyone* to sleep. Especially not her.” He stood, stepping between Nerea and the ash-figure, his presence a stark, solid barrier against the ethereal being. The stranger shifted, mournful eyes now meeting Iker’s. “You do not understand. I am not an executioner, but a merciful end. This world, this broken realm, is an animal caught in a trap, gnawing off its own limb. I offer the kindness of a swift, clean cut.” “I understand perfectly,” Iker retorted, his voice tight with suppressed rage. He wasn't afraid, but viscerally offended. The sheer nerve of this pile of cinders to suggest such a thing to Nerea. He saw the agony etched into its silhouette, the crushing grief driving its gestures, and the sight only irritated him further. He didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want to acknowledge the broken reflection of his own buried sorrow. “You think you’re being kind? Offering ‘painless sleep’ to a child? That’s not mercy; it’s giving up. It’s cowardice.” The intruder recoiled slightly, its outline flickering. “It is the only path left. The suffering is too vast, the corruption too deep. There is no healing, only the lingering, agonizing collapse.” “Then you haven’t looked hard enough,” Iker snapped. He walked over to the closet Gorka had meticulously organized, pulled out a long, ornate broom – likely used for dusting the High Priest’s ridiculously high shelves – and returned, holding it like a weapon. “Now, I’m only going to say this once. Get out. You’re scaring my sister.” The visitor wavered, its outline blurring, baffled by Iker’s reaction. “You would condemn her to endure the final throes of Ohalza?” “I’d condemn *you* to clean it up,” Iker said, a new idea forming. He eyed the scattered ash around the figure’s feet. “Honestly, walking in here and shedding all over the place. Do you think I have nothing better to do than sweep up after uninvited guests?” He grabbed a small, antique silver receptacle from beneath a side table. “Here. Take this.” He shoved the metal pan into the creature's hand, which closed around the handle with a muted gleam. The Calamity stood gripping the scoop, its crumbling face slack with utter bewilderment. It looked down at the metal tray, up at Iker, then back down again, unable to parse the object. “Right,” Iker said, taking a firm grip on the broom. “Out. Now. Before I really get annoyed.” He began to sweep, not gently, but with firm, aggressive strokes, pushing the Calamity and the ash it was made of towards the door. The Calamity, still holding the dustpan, offered no resistance. It was being *swept* out of the room, like a particularly persistent dust bunny. “But… the suffering…” Hodei mumbled in genuine confusion as Iker herded it across the threshold and into the carpeted corridor. The Calamity turned, face a mask of baffled loss while gripping the little metal tray. It lingered for a breath, then dissolved into a swirl of loose soot that scattered down the hallway, leaving behind only chilled stone. Iker sighed, leaning the broom against the wall. “Finally. Some peace and quiet.” He turned back to Nerea, who was watching him with round, incredulous eyes, Bihotz stirring on her chest. “See? Nothing to worry about. Just a weirdo trying to sell us some… existential dread.” He walked over and gently stroked Nerea’s hair. “You okay, kiddo?” “He seemed… sad,” Nerea murmured, fingers buried in Bihotz's scaly hide. “Really, really sad.” “Yeah, well, some people deal with their sadness by trying to ruin everyone else’s day,” Iker said, though a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. He had seen the depths of Hodei’s grief, and it had resonated with a part of him he kept locked away. But acknowledging it now, in front of Nerea, was unthinkable. As he reached down to retrieve the silver pan the Calamity had dropped near the threshold, he noticed something. Where Hodei had stood, on the crimson velour rug, lay a single, perfect teardrop. It wasn’t ash, but a crystal of purest, darkest gray, gleaming with an inner, caustic glow. It throbbed with a faint, almost imperceptible pulse, radiating a cold, toxic energy that made the air around it feel heavy. “What’s this?” Iker murmured, poking it cautiously with his finger. It felt like compressed malice, a solid piece of despair. Bihotz, who had just woken up, suddenly perked its head. Its tiny nostrils flared, sniffing the air. With a blur of motion, the cat-sized dragon launched itself off Nerea’s chest and landed precisely on the crystallized tear. Before Iker could react, Bihotz swallowed it whole. A soft, contented puff hissed from the reptile's nostrils. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible ripple of energy passed through its tiny body, and it curled up again, purring like a miniature engine, its scales now glistening with a vivid, brilliant hue of sapphire. Iker stared, then looked at Nerea, then back at the spot where the toxic tear had been, now empty. A stark realization settled behind his ribs, cold and quiet. The world’s poison, the toxicity that withered Ohalza… it wasn’t just magic. It was grief, corrupted and made manifest.

The Euthanasia Protocol