reader.chapter — El Rugido Bajo la Piedra

Lea Vinter

Descending into the abyss of the Mansión Vinter feels like stepping into a living nightmare. My boots echo on the worn stone steps, each sound swallowed by the suffocating darkness of the sótano. The only light comes from the erratic flicker of the crescent-shaped cicatriz on my left wrist, its silver glow pulsing like a heartbeat, casting ghostly shadows on the damp, cracked walls. The air down here is thick, heavy with the scent of ancient earth and something sharper, metallic, that prickles at the back of my throat. I clutch my abuela’s diario against my chest, its leather binding rough under my trembling fingers, while my other hand grips a cold llave de hierro, its surface etched with runas that seem to writhe if I stare too long. My breath rasps in the oppressive silence, too loud, too fast, betraying the fear I’m trying to bury.

I’ve never been down here before. Not like this. Not with purpose. The stories abuela used to whisper—tales of magia and lobos under the moon—never mentioned a sótano that feels like it’s watching me. But since her death, since inheriting this crumbling relic of a mansión near Hexenberg, I’ve felt it. A pull. A whisper in my bones that drags me to places I don’t want to go. The diario, with its cryptic entries about Sangre Plateada and forgotten rituals, only deepens the mystery. And this llave—I found it in the ático, hidden in a box with my broche de luna creciente, as if it was waiting for me. It fits something down here. I know it.

The staircase ends, and I step onto a floor of uneven stone, slick with moisture that seeps from nowhere and everywhere. A low hum vibrates through the soles of my boots, resonating in my chest like a warning growl. My cicatriz flares brighter for a moment, silver light spilling over a massive altar de piedra negra in the center of the cavernous room. It’s ancient, carved with symbols I don’t recognize, and it pulses—actually pulses—with a darkness that seems to suck in the light around it. My stomach twists, a cold sweat breaking out on my pale skin as I edge closer, unable to resist the tug in my core. It’s like the altar knows me. Like it’s been waiting.

“Qué eres…” My voice tremors, barely a whisper, as if speaking too loud might wake something I can’t handle. The diario slips slightly in my grip, and I tighten my hold, needing the weight of abuela’s words to anchor me. Her handwriting, all sharp loops and urgent warnings, flashes through my mind—something about a sello, a sacrificio, a maldición tied to our linaje. I didn’t understand it when I read it upstairs by candlelight, but now, standing here, I feel the truth of it creeping into my veins. This place isn’t just a sótano. It’s a cripta. A cage for something I was never meant to find.

My cicatriz throbs, sharp and hot, and I gasp, nearly dropping the llave. The silver in my ojos grises flickers brighter—I catch it in the faint reflection on the piedra negra, like moonlight trapped in a storm cloud. My cabello oscuro, streaked with those eerie mechones plateados since the ritual at the Santuario-Cripta, falls messily over my shoulder as I lean forward, drawn to the altar despite the screaming in my head to run. There’s a crack in its surface, jagged and deep, and as I stare, it widens with a grinding sound that scrapes against my nerves. A sombra líquida oozes from the fissure, thick and black, moving like ink spilled in water, but alive. It writhes, curling toward me, and I swear I hear a susurro, low and guttural, forming a word. My name.

“Lea…”

My heart slams against my ribs, a wild thing desperate to escape. I should back away. I should bolt up those stairs and never look back. But my hand—the one holding the llave—lifts on its own, trembling as it reaches for the sombra. It’s cold, so cold, but there’s a pull, a hunger in it that mirrors something inside me. The void I’ve felt since discovering my poder, since ordering lobos with nothing but a word and feeling a piece of myself slip away each time. My dedos hover just above the sombra, and the air thickens, pressing against my skin like a thousand unseen eyes. The hum in the walls crescendos into a rugido, primal and raw, vibrating through the stone and into my bones.

I jerk back, gasping, my cicatriz flaring so brightly it stings. But before I can retreat, a grieta splits wider in the altar with a crack like thunder, and more of that sombra líquida spills out, pooling on the floor. It doesn’t just sit there—it moves, slithering toward me with purpose. My breath catches, terror clawing up my spine, but beneath it, there’s something else. Fascinación. A dark, dangerous curiosity that roots me to the spot. What is this? What did abuela hide from me? What did my linaje sello down here, under the very roof I’ve called home?

The rugido deepens, and now I’m sure it’s saying my name, over and over, a chant that hooks into my soul. “Lea… Lea…” It’s not just sound—it’s a sensación, a hambre that tugs at the edges of my mind, promising conocimiento, poder, if I just reach out. My dedos twitch, so close to the sombra now that I can feel its icy breath against my skin. My cicatriz pulses faster, and for the first time, its luz shifts, streaks of rojo bleeding into the silver, hot and angry. Pain lances through my muñeca, up my brazo, and I bite back a cry, staggering back a step. The rojo in the luz mirrors the carmesí I’ve seen in the luna on cursed nights, a color of advertencia, of sangre.

A sudden aullido tears through the night outside, sharp and desgarrador, echoing from the bosque de Hexenberg beyond the mansión’s walls. It’s not just any howl—it’s urgente, furioso, as if something out there felt this despertar too. My cabeza snaps toward the sound, my corazón racing even harder. Lobos. The manada. Kyle. The thought of him, of those ojos ámbar burning under the luna, sends a different kind of heat through me, but it’s drowned out by the pánico as the puerta del sótano slams shut above me with a resounding thud. The sound reverberates through the chamber, final, trapping me in this darkness with whatever I’ve unleashed.

“No, no, no…” My voz shakes as I spin toward the stairs, but the sombra líquida surges forward, faster now, cutting off my path. It ripples, forming tendrils that lash out, and I stumble back, tripping over uneven piedra. The diario slips from my manos, hitting the ground with a dull smack, pages fluttering open to reveal abuela’s frenetic escritura. My cicatriz burns, the rojo overtaking the plateado now, casting a bloody luz over everything. The rugido from the altar swells, and that susurro inhumano slices through the chaos, clearer now, chilling me to the marrow.

“Lea… ven a mí…”

I freeze, my aliento hitching as the words sink in. Come to me. It knows me. It wants me. The sombra tendrils creep closer, and I scramble back, my espalda hitting the frigid pared. My ojos dart to the llave still clenched in my puño—does it open something here? Close it? I don’t know, but the peso of it feels like a lifeline, even as dread coils tighter around my pecho. The aullido from outside rings again, closer, and I wonder if Kyle feels this too, if our cicatrices, synced since the ritual, are pulsing in tandem right now. But there’s no time to dwell on him, on the forbidden calor of his touch or the way he grounds me when I’m spiraling. Not when this… cosa… is awake.

My mirada locks on the sombra, on the grieta in the altar still spilling its oscuridad. Realization hits like a golpe—my linaje did this. Sealed this. Whatever this Voraz is, whatever abuela warned about in coded frases, it’s tied to me, to the Sangre Plateada in my venas. I’ve desatado something antiguo, something my ancestors died to contain, and the terror of that mingles with a sick, obsessive need to understand. What am I? What have I done?

The susurro calls again, hungry, relentless, as the sombra inches closer. My cicatriz flares, a beacon of rojo in the dark, and I know, deep in my gut, that this is only the beginning.