reader.chapter — El Pueblo en Caos

Rafa

Descending into the bowels of the Vieja Iglesia de San Isidro, the air grew thick with the scent of stale incense and creeping mold, a miasma that clung to the back of my throat like a curse. Flickering candlelight danced across the damp stone walls of the basement, casting shadows that writhed as if alive, mirroring the unrest that gnawed at my bones. The distant toll of the church bells echoed down here, a mournful dirge that seemed to lament the state of our town. My boots thudded against the uneven steps, each sound a hammer strike in the oppressive silence, as I surveyed the gathered faces of my cazadores. Hardened eyes met mine, etched with fear and grim resolve, their hands twitching near knives and crossbows. The cicatriz on my cheek itched under the dim glow, a constant reminder of battles fought and losses endured. Tonight, though, it burned hotter, fueled by the chaos I’d witnessed in the bosque from afar—a red light, a scream of the earth itself, and the certainty that the bruja was to blame.

“Escuchen bien,” I barked, my voice cutting through the heavy air like a blade. I stood at the center of the dank room, a crude wooden table before me littered with maps and vials of ungüento bendecido. “The mal in the forest has grown teeth. I saw it with my own eyes—a cielo rojo bleeding over the trees, a stench of rot that reached even the outskirts. And at the heart of it, la bruja, Alina Morales, stirring up hell itself.” My fingers tightened around the hilt of my cuchillo, the familiar weight grounding me as rage simmered beneath my skin. The image of that light, that unholy glow from the altar, seared into my mind. I’d stayed hidden, watching from the ridge, but the tremor in the ground had nearly knocked me flat. It wasn’t just the forest anymore; it was coming for us, for San Isidro, for everything human.

Murmurs rippled through the group, uneasy glances exchanged under the flickering light. A young cazador, Javier, barely old enough to grow a proper beard, shifted on his feet, his knuckles white around a loaded ballesta. “Rafa, we’ve all felt it. The nightmares—sombras crawling out of the walls, lobos with human eyes. My sister woke screaming last night, saying she saw a woman with black veins in the mirror. Is it… is it her?” His voice cracked, betraying the fear I saw in all of them, the same fear that had spread through the pueblo like wildfire since the sky turned sick.

I fixed him with a stare, my ojos grises cold as the steel I carried. “Sí, it’s her. La bruja unleashed something in that bosque, something older than any of us. And now it’s seeping into our homes, our dreams. But we end this. Tonight, we plan, and soon, we hunt.” My words were iron, unyielding, even as a sliver of doubt wormed its way into my chest. I shoved it down, deep where it couldn’t touch me. Doubt was a luxury I couldn’t afford, not after what I’d lost, not after mi hermana bled out under claws that weren’t human. Alina would pay, whether by blade or by whatever the secta demanded.

At the mention of the hunt, tension thickened. An older cazador, Miguel, his face carved with lines of too many fights, leaned forward, his voice low but sharp. “And what of this alianza you’ve whispered about, Rafa? With those fanáticos in the church? I’ve seen them skulking around, carrying libros antiguos that smell of death. What do they want with la bruja?” His question hung heavy, eyes narrowing as if he could see the cracks in my resolve.

I straightened, jaw tight, the cicatriz pulling taut against my skin. “They want her alive,” I admitted, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. A ripple of unease passed through the room, boots shuffling against the cold stone. “Their reasons are their own, but they’ve given us herramientas—runas de protección, ungüentos that burn through maldiciones. Without them, we’d be walking blind into that forest.” I didn’t tell them the whole truth, couldn’t. The secta’s líder, a man with eyes like empty wells, had spoken of sangre and sacrificio, of a propósito mayor tied to the bruja’s linaje. It unsettled me, more than I’d admit, but if it meant ending this nightmare, I’d play their game. For now.

Javier frowned, his youthful face twisting with confusion. “Alive? Pero, Rafa, if she’s as dangerous as you say, why not kill her on sight? Why risk more of us?” His defiance sparked a flare of anger in me, but I saw the fear behind it, the same fear that had driven men to question me before. And every time, I’d crushed it.

“Because I say so,” I snapped, my tone a whipcrack that silenced the room. I stepped closer to him, looming, my shadow swallowing the candlelight. “You think I don’t know the risks? You think I haven’t buried enough of my own to understand what’s at stake? We follow the plan, or you’re no use to me. Entendido?” My gaze swept the others, daring any to challenge me further. None did, though Miguel’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes dark with unspoken thoughts. I turned away, hiding the flicker of uncertainty that gripped me. The secta’s demands gnawed at me—why alive? What did they see in her that I didn’t? But I couldn’t let it show. Weakness was death in a fight like this.

Beyond the church walls, I knew the pueblo was fracturing. I’d heard the susurros as I walked through the dusty streets earlier, under a cielo rojo that seemed to drip blood. Campesinos huddled in doorways, their faces pale, muttering about visiones—lobos stalking through the mist, sombras whispering names in the night. Some cursed Alina’s name, branding her a monstruo, a plague on San Isidro, their fear stoked by every nightmare that clawed its way into their sleep. Others, though, spoke of Elena Morales, her madre, with a quiet reverence. “She’s healed us before,” an old woman had murmured, clutching her rebozo as I passed. “Maybe la niña isn’t what they say. Maybe she’s our salvación.” I’d scoffed, spitting into the dirt, but the words lingered, a thorn in my mind. Elena’s influence still held sway with some, and it split the town down the middle—those hungry for vengeance, and those clinging to foolish hope.

I moved to the table, my hands rough against the worn parchment of a map, tracing the bosque’s edge where I’d seen that infernal light. “We’ve tracked their movements before,” I said, voice steady now, pointing toward the heart of the Bosque Prohibido de Tenango. “The manada hides deep, and la bruja with them. But the corruption spreads—niebla roja creeping closer every night, stench of podredumbre in the air. It’s a sign. They’re weakening, and we strike while they’re broken.” I lifted a vial of ungüento, its contents shimmering faintly under the candlelight, blessed by the secta to burn through magia negra. “We arm ourselves with everything we’ve got—plata for the lobos, runas for the maldiciones. No mercy, no hesitation. But remember—she comes back breathing. Anyone who disobeys answers to me.”

The cazadores nodded, grim-faced, as they inspected their armas—balas de plata glinting deadly, cuchillos etched with crude symbols of protección. The basement felt smaller now, the walls pressing in with the weight of what we were about to do. I could feel the pueblo’s despair seeping through the stone, every crack in the walls weeping a dark humedad that chilled the skin. The campanas above tolled again, slower, heavier, as if mourning the blood yet to spill. My chest tightened, not with fear, but with the certainty of purpose. I’d seen too much, lost too much, to turn back. Alina was the key, the root of this mal, and whether by my hand or the secta’s design, she’d answer for it.

As night deepened, we emerged from the sótano, the cold bite of the evening air a slap against my face. The cielo rojo hung over San Isidro like a wound, casting an unnatural glow over the adobe houses, their whitewash stained sickly by the light. My cazadores fanned out behind me, weapons slung across backs, their breaths fogging in the chill. I stood in the portal of the iglesia, gazing out at the quiet streets, where lanterns flickered weakly against the encroaching niebla roja from the bosque. The town felt like a grave, waiting to be filled. I murmured under my breath, more to myself than to any god, “Lo haré. Whatever it takes.” My eyes lingered on the mist, on the shadowed horizon where the trees loomed like sentinels of hell. A weight settled in my gut, not doubt, but something heavier—an echo of my hermana’s last scream, a promise I’d made on her blood.

The campanas tolled one final time, a shuddering peal that vibrated through my bones, sounding less like a call to prayer and more like a herald of muerte. The hunt was coming, and with it, a reckoning that would drown this pueblo in crimson if I failed. I turned to my men, my voice a low growl. “Preparense. We march at dawn.” But as I spoke, my gaze drifted back to the niebla, to the darkness beyond, where I knew la bruja waited. And for the first time in years, I wondered if the price of this fight would be more than I could bear.