THE UNBROKEN

The next morning, Niegal's eyes snapped open.

Something stirred in the thicket. A shift in the wind. A heartbeat too loud.

He listened, then moved. Swift, silent. One hand went to Elena's shoulder, the other already reaching for his weapon. Elena blinked awake, groggy for only half a second before her instincts kicked in. She felt it too. The presence.

Niegal didn't speak. He didn't have to.

He crouched and, with well-practiced ease, strapped a sleeping Esperanza to his chest. Her warm breath puffed against his collarbone. Elena's fingers twitched with magic, eyes glowing faintly with silver stormlight.

But then she stopped. Her eyes narrowed.

The tension shifted. The mana in the air changed.

Elena lifted her hand and gently touched Niegal's arm, grounding him. The magic in her eyes faded. Something, someone, was approaching, but not with violence.

From the shadows of the trees, a young man emerged.

Dressed in earth-toned robes, his skin deep and dark like fertile soil. Around his neck: a charm of carved bone and twisted copper. He walked with quiet confidence.

Elena bowed, a single motion of peace and respect. "Hahom. We are-"

"Come, mi Doña y mi León Negro," the young man said gently, stepping aside to reveal the winding path behind him. "Our Behike has been expecting you."

Niegal and Elena locked eyes.

A breath passed between them.

A silent vow.

Fingers laced together.

They nodded once, then followed.

What began as a narrow trail slowly smoothed into a winding cobblestone path. The land had been shaped, loved, and lived in. Along the road, thatched-roof cottages bloomed like wildflowers between towering trees. The stonework in the walls was sturdy, warm, touched by time. Clay lanterns glowed faintly with blue fire. Mana.

And then came the people.

One by one, they stepped from doorways and shaded porches, heads tilted, eyes wide.

A child dropped his stick and pointed. "They're here!" he cried, breathless. "The Lion and the Storm!"

Whispers rippled like wind across water.

But Elena and Niegal didn't flinch. They knew how to walk through crowds. Knew how to ignore the staring. Their focus never wavered from the path ahead.

At the end of it stood a cathedral.

Tall, dark stone. Gothic arches climbed high into the clouds. Twisting spires kissed the sun. Moss clung to its base like memory. Vines curled around the buttresses in slow reverence.

And above the grand wooden doors, etched in glowing silver: a triple spiral.

The same spiral branded into Elena's chest.

Inside, the cathedral was like stepping into a myth.

Nature had swallowed the altar. Vines wrapped around cracked marble, leaves fluttering in sunlight pouring through broken stained glass. The pews weren't rows, but a great circle, surrounding a massive fire pit at the heart of the temple. The flames roared, golden and blue, as if welcoming them.

Inside, the cathedral was like stepping into a myth.

Some familiar—Coabey, Boinayel, Guabancex.

Some ancient and unknown, vibrating with old power.

A small woman sat near the fire, hunched over a twisted wood cane. Her skin gleamed with magic, silver and gold shimmering beneath every wrinkle. Her dreaded salt-and-pepper hair was tied into a low bun, her eyes steady and kind.

She smiled.

"Welcome," she said. "I am the Behike of these people. For simplicity's sake, call me Señora Behike. They all do."

She motioned for them to sit. "You are safe here. No harm will come to you or your child."

At that, Niegal and Elena exhaled. Deep. Relieved.

The conversation stretched for hours.

They shared everything, from Elena's awakening to her storm magic, to Niegal's transformation into the Lion. Señora Behike listened, rarely interrupting, her eyes glinting with quiet knowing.

She only raised a brow once, when Elena admitted she nearly married Niegal's nephew first.

The blush that bloomed on Elena's cheeks was furious. Niegal just laughed, ruffling her curls with shameless glee.

They spoke of the blades, Boinayel and Marohu. Of visions. Of wounds and wars. Of the child who now slept curled against Niegal's chest.

When Niegal scoffed at the term "holy" for his beast form, Señora Behike only smiled.

"It is holy, León. That spirit has been passed through bloodlines older than names. You were always meant to carry it."

Eventually, as the fire burned low and Esperanza stirred with soft cries, the couple were led to their new home.

A thatched-roof cottage nestled near the cathedral, painted in charms and murals of gods both old and forgotten. Inside, warm stone walls and thick blankets. Herbs hung from the rafters. Carved wooden animals rested on the shelves. Everything felt sacred. Loved.

One room held a small bed just for Esperanza.

The other- one bed, huge, soft, stacked high with hand-stitched quilts.

Elena nearly cried from joy at the sight of it.

Niegal teased her gently, and she shoved him with a smirk.

They changed the baby, tucked her in. She curled up with her blanket, her soft breaths evening out.

And then, finally, finally, Elena and Niegal collapsed onto their bed.

They didn't even take their boots off.

The exhaustion of weeks, fleeing, fighting, fearing, washed over them like a tide.

Together at last.

Safe.

For now.