The Serpieri dining room is a space that exudes a dusty, heavy dignity. The bare stone walls of the Castle are draped here with faded tapestries—relics of the Artists' Guild—depicting bucolic scenes of an extinct world. At the center, a long table of dark oak supports a chipped ceramic tureen from which rises the thick steam of bean soup. It is a scent that speaks of earth and privilege; in the High King’s Castle, legumes are liquid gold, a Sunday luxury that separates the "Leaders" from the masses who subsist on nutrient-poor sludge.

  Joseph Serpieri sits at the head of the table, his back rigid, his High Officer’s uniform perfectly starched, ready for whatever duty the day demands. Beside him, his beautiful wife Marianna maintains a composed posture, her surgeon’s hands clasped in her lap. Across from Elian, his half-siblings Gian and Fania seem to radiate a different light: they are elegant, confident, possessing the agile fingers of those who master violin strings or piano keys.

  Joseph breaks the silence, his spoon tapping rhythmically against the plate.

  ?Gian, where do we stand with the compositions for the end-of-season festival?? he asks, his deep voice filling the room.

  ?Nearly finished, Father,? Gian replies with a complacent smile. ?It will be a hymn to the rebirth of civilization. Something to make the very stones of this Castle vibrate.?

  Fania adds, with a touch of pride: ?And my pupils are no less. The Guild is forging talents that the old world would have envied.?

  Marianna intervenes, attempting to soften the atmosphere. ?The health of the colony is excellent. We have no grave cases, and not a single injury or contamination has been reported among the scouts for months. We are a perfect gear.?

  At those words, a sudden silence falls over the table. Attention shifts, like a cold spotlight, onto Elian. Joseph sets down his spoon and looks at him with a resignation that stings sharper than an insult.

  ?And you, Elian? How is... the work at the Library progressing??

  Elian raises his gaze, accustomed to that condescension. ?Master Silas is a formidable man, Father. There is an entire world within those books. My new occupation sincerely deiglights me.?

  Joseph sighs, exchanging a glance with Gian. ?At least you have found a place. But be careful, Elian. Silas Durand is a man who traded real life for a cemetery of paper. He was an explorer, a man of action, and he chose to lock himself in a tomb. Do not take him as a model. He is no longer fit for the times we live in.?

  Marianna intercedes gently, meeting her son's eyes. ?Perhaps Elian is simply following a longer path. It took years even for me to realize my vocation as a doctor. A superior culture might reserve an unexpected role for you, one day.?

  The meal ends abruptly. Joseph demands Gian’s scores while Fania begins to tune her violin; the sharp sound of the tightening string is the signal for Elian that his space has run out. With an excuse, the boy takes his leave and flees toward his lifeline.

  ***

  The Library is a vast environment, the air saturated with dust, old leather, and the pungent tang of dried ink. The shelves rise to the vaulted ceiling, shrouded in an obscurity that the oil lamps struggle to pierce. Elian sits at his usual table, surrounded by the chronicles of the explorers, when a calm voice pulls him from his thoughts.

  ?Spending Sunday among the ghosts of the past? An unusual choice, Elian.?

  It is Master Silas. He wears a simple robe over his usual dusty sweater, his face marked by wrinkles that look like maps of unexplored territories. Elian hesitates, then opens up: ?I feel like a failure, Master. Not just among my peers, who are now scouts, but within my own family.?

  Silas sits beside him, his gaze sympathetic. ?Many began to see me as a madman when I chose these books. But what they think does not matter. What matters is what you have inside. If this labyrinth of paper fulfills you, make it your pride.?

  Elian seizes the moment. ?Master... why does everyone hate or ignore this place??

  Silas’s response is a heavy whisper: ?Fear. Those who lead the Castle fear that the truth—or a ‘well-constructed lie’—might destroy everything again, as it did in the old world. The Church acts as a stopper. The clerics follow the scouts not so much out of faith or altruism, but for control. It is a pact that has always existed between the Archbishops of the Castle and the Generals: to give every scouting party a cleric. They fear our society will be swept away like our wicked ancestors if the people stop believing blindly.?

  The Master pauses, looking at a wooden cross on the wall. ?I believe in God, Elian. I attend the services because I believe in a complex design, not in chance. But I do not accept those who fight fear with dogma. That was the error that destroyed the past.?

  ?But what is so heretical about asking questions regarding the Luminous Forest or the Cursed Marshes?? Elian insists, emboldened. ?And why does no one dare name the Dark Witnesses, if not to curse them??

  Silas smiles bitterly and pats him on the shoulder, standing up. ?You still have much to study, my boy, before you can challenge the taboos of this colony. For now, let the mystery rest. There is a time for every question.?

  As Silas retreats among the shelves, Elian remains alone with the silence of the Library, feeling the stone floor of the Castle beneath his feet begin to seem less solid than he ever imagined.

  Just as Elian reflects on Master Silas’s heavy words, the silence is shattered.

  A metallic toll, deep and vibrating, shakes the stone walls and makes the thin glass of the oil lamps tremble. It is the third toll of the bronze bell from the south tower: the unmistakable signal that an expedition is returning from the Wastelands.

  

  For the Castle, that sound is a mixture of hope and terror, but for Elian, it has only one name: Giada.

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  Without even a formal farewell to Silas, the boy bolts to his feet. The Master watches him leave with a faint, melancholy smile, knowing that none of his books can compete with the fire of youth. Elian sprints through the damp corridors, leaping down the spiral stairs two steps at a time, and crosses the inner courtyard where daily life has ground to a halt. Artisans set down their tools, militiamen straighten their posture, and common folk huddle at the edges of the main walkway.

  He reaches the great iron gates just as the heavy winches begin to rotate with a shrieking groan.

  The cold, stagnant air from the outside begins to filter into the Castle’s microclimate. Elian pushes through the crowd, ignoring the annoyed glances of the guards. His heart quickens as he sees the first silhouettes appear in the gloom of the entry tunnel. They are men and women covered in greyish mud, their light armor stained and pitted by the acid dust of the Wastes. Their faces are masks of exhaustion, their eyes marked by an effort that is not merely physical, but spiritual.

  He searches frantically among the raised hoods. Every scout that passes is a needle of anxiety: he sees Captain Vargo Cortez followed by Julien Martel and Dax Stern; he sees Kael Wald, supported by Don Thomas out of sheer fatigue. Then a female figure... it is Mira Vance, advancing alone.

  Then, finally, he sees her.

  Elian stands motionless among the crowd, his breath caught. His eyes are drawn like magnets to a single figure emerging from the dust cloud raised by the gate: Giada. He watches her advance, a diminutive silhouette that seems almost to succumb under the weight of her service rifle—that black, merciless steel assigned to every scout of the Wastes. The contrast is painful. The face Elian loves, the face that within the safe walls of the Castle was always a reflection of candid, solar light, now appears unrecognizable. Her skin is coated in a greyish patina; her ash-colored hair, once silky, is matted by the heavy dust that the winds of the Desolate Waste carry like a shroud.

  Giada appears tired—a millennial tiredness, as if she had been walking without pause for an entire lifetime. She has grown thin, and this makes her seem even more small and fragile in his eyes. Yet, just as she crosses the threshold, a sudden fire ignites her gaze. A weak smile, swollen with indomitable pride, curls her earth-stained lips. It is the smile of one who has returned from hell and reclaims the right to exist.

  The Wolf Squad does not stop. They march straight, with a rhythmic pace, toward the medical facilities of the central sector. Elian knows the protocol well: every returning scout must pass under the surgeons' lenses for biological clearance. In that instant, the silence of the crowd around him fills with sinister echoes. Every history book, every testimony of death he has studied in the Library, resonates in his mind like a funeral knell. Anxiety assails him, a cold claw gripping his stomach, but seeing her move with such naturalness, despite the fatigue, acts as a balm. He forces himself to breathe.

  Elian tries to make his way through the curious onlookers, following the group at a distance. None of his old companions notice him; he is just a face among many, a shadow watching his mother, Dr. Marianna Serpieri, receive the veterans with the cold professionalism of a white coat. Shortly after, he sees Elena and Edoardo Ricci arrive—Giada’s mother and older brother. Their faces are masks of pure terror. They stop before the armored doors of the clinic, the insurmountable border between the colony and biological risk.

  Driven by a need for answers and a desire to offer comfort, Elian approaches the Ricci family. Elena recognizes him immediately.

  ?Elian!? she calls out, her voice cracked with hope. She looks at him as if he were an oracle, hoping his connection to Dr. Serpieri has provided him with privileged information. Edoardo, his eyes reddened, presses him without leaving space: ?Some soldiers say the Wolf Squad stumbled into a Silent Waste. Please, tell me it isn't true.?

  The term strikes Elian like a blow. In his mind flash the macabre images of those who have received the "Silent Kiss"—the poetic euphemism the Castle dwellers use for death by radiation. Elian turns visibly pale, and the anguish on the Riccis' faces doubles at his reaction. It is his rational nature, however, that saves him. He shakes off the nightmare.

  ?Do not worry,? he declares firmly, forcing his voice. ?If they were truly contaminated, there would be evident signs, like a clear reddening of the skin. I ran to the gate the moment they arrived; I saw them pass up close. Giada is fine.? Then, he adds with a merciful lie: ?If there were real danger, my mother would have warned me instantly.? He knows perfectly well this is not the case—Dr. Serpieri would never violate protocol for him—but Elena’s face relaxes. She embraces him tightly, whispering a thank you. Among them all, Elena is perhaps the only one who sincerely hopes something might blossom between Elian and her daughter; she has always appreciated the gentle ways of that boy who defended Giada at every turn and demonstrated an unshakeable faith.

  But Giada is different. Beneath that appearance of a delicate, petite girl beats a stubborn and proud heart that has never accepted the will of others. Even Elian’s love, for that very reason, was surgically transformed into a trusted friendship to avoid facing feelings that might have slowed her ambition.

  ?How long must we wait?? Edoardo asks, still tense.

  ?If there are no symptoms, you will embrace her by evening,? Elian replies, drawing on his knowledge of the protocol.

  As they wait, Elena Ricci begins to vent, bitterly criticizing her daughter’s choice to pursue such a cursed career. Elian listens in silence, but within him grows a bitter truth: it was precisely that maternal oppression, that constant attempt to fence in Giada’s horizons, that pushed her beyond the Castle’s borders into the Desolate Waste. And it is here that the perverse mechanism of the High King’s Castle emerges: by enlisting, Giada has guaranteed her family privileges and rations they would otherwise never have dreamed of. An expedient calculated by the leaders to send people to the slaughter with a smile on their lips.

  The thought of General Valerius overlaps with Master Silas’s lessons. A surge of pure rage crosses Elian’s chest. He sees the classism disguised as welfare, the manipulation that tames the citizens, making them complicit in the sacrifice of their own loved ones.

  Elian bids the Riccis farewell with a nod and heads toward the Library. He needs silence, books, answers. Along the way, he realizes his life will forever be this: a hell where he must fear every instant that the girl he loves might fall victim to the horrors of the Desolate Wastes. Since he was a child, his heart has always raced before that seemingly sunny and delicate girl, who was in reality full of rage and strength—enough to want to undertake the hardest path of all to prove to her family that she would never be a burden to anyone. Elian understood from the start that his feeling for her, which over the years transformed from a simple crush into love, would make his life difficult and painful. Yet, he was never able to suffocate those feelings. When, in the early years of adolescence, Giada declared she wanted to become a scout, that became his dream too, for he would never have allowed anyone to stop him from defending her—even if, knowing her well, she would never have asked for help. Indeed, the fact that he had failed the final test to become a scout likely removed a heavy weight from Giada: the relief of not having dragged into a life of danger and grave responsibility the only boy who had shown her a disinterested love.

  ***

  He crosses the threshold of the Library—a dark wooden portal beneath gothic vaults. Waiting for him, sitting on a dark wooden stool, is Zech Murphy. His smile is mischievous, his appearance familiar: a green sweater, pale complexion, a slight build, and curly red hair.