Chapter 3: The Guide's Invitation

The freezing winds of the Andes carried a thin, starving oxygen that pricked at Santiago’s skin like needles. By the time he reached Arequipa, the sky had turned a sickly shade of grayish-purple, looking as if it might collapse at any moment. His notebook had been picked clean during the search; all that remained was a single pale page and the ink that hadn't yet dried.

He pushed at a phantom bridge of glasses on his nose, trying to shake the fog from his eyes and find a shred of clarity. Then, he pushed open the heavy oak door of "Old Thunder" Tavern. The hinges shrieked in the silence of the street, a jarring sound that felt like a warning to the intruder that he was disturbing some ancient peace.

Right then, the faint scuff of leather boots echoed from the depths of the shadows. Pablo stepped forward, smelling of the mountain's signature blend of pine resin and dry hay. He was younger than Santiago, with an alert, fluid gaze—like a leopard coiled and ready to spring. He leaned toward the counter, nostrils flaring, as if scenting a crisis in the air.

"Those markings aren't Lima craftsmanship," Pablo whispered. "The serrations on the edges look like they're meant to slot into a lock."

His voice was barely a breath, audible only to the two of them. "Whatever this thing is tied to, it's stronger than every bottle of tequila in this bar."

Santiago looked up, his eyes meeting Pablo's. He didn't offer an excuse; he just stared back coldly, as if weighing the gravity of the statement. His fingers subconsciously rubbed the collar of his coat, where the rough texture of a long journey still lingered.

Santiago didn't haggle. His breath hitched for a split second before he forced it back down. He opened his leather wallet and pulled out a thick stack of bills—Euros and Swiss Francs layered together—and stacked them neatly beside the Silver Tablet. The corners of the notes were softened from use, but every bill was crisp and clear, smelling of ink and leather.

This kind of cold, contractual spirit carried more pressure than any oath. Mateo looked at the pile of money, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his eyes. He didn't take the cash immediately; instead, he picked up a charcoal pencil and scratched a winding line across the rough wooden tabletop.

The line was sloppy but precise, sketching a hidden path deep in the Andes leading toward an unknown land shrouded in mist. The sound of the charcoal scraping against the wood was piercing in the quiet tavern, sounding like the precursor to a bone snapping.

"Sofia said before she died that the key to the core was hidden here," Santiago said, his voice deep. "I didn't come here to loot, and I didn't come for stories. I came to end this hunt."

His voice was steady, without a hint of a tremor—the kind of restraint born from a long military career. Mateo finally set down his glass with a sharp *clink* that shattered the dead silence.

He let out a cold sneer, his fingers tapping the edge of the counter in a slow, dangerous rhythm, like a countdown. "If you take the Guild escort routes, you won't even see the first stone of the mountain pass. The White Crow Society has already cast a net over everything. Your only chance of survival is to rely on the wild dogs of the mountains."

He paused, then added, "But wild dogs have a price."

Santiago’s fingertip lightly touched the charcoal line, his gaze following its path. He moved slowly, as if reading a complex musical score. Suddenly, his finger stopped at a mark indicating a steep cliff, and his brow furrowed.

He looked up at Mateo, his voice laced with icy irony. "This path collapsed during the rainy season. Do you want me to die at the bottom of a cliff, or are you planning for the White Crow Society to ambush me there?"

He pointed to the route. It looked plausible, but it was a carefully designed trap—misleading information Mateo had intentionally left to lead him to his death. The surrounding noise seemed to vanish instantly, leaving only the rhythm of Mateo’s finger tapping the counter. *Tap. Tap. Tap.*

The shock in Mateo's eyes vanished in an instant, replaced by a deeper, more opaque darkness. He stared at Santiago for a long time without speaking; the air around them seemed to solidify. In the shadows behind Mateo, Pablo shifted slightly, blocking half the door—both to cut off any potential escape and to shield the conversation that followed.

Finally, Mateo exhaled a cloud of stale breath, a complex, bitter smile tugging at his lips. "You're more troublesome than the rumors suggested. If you were the only one who was going to die, this deal would still be worth making."

He snapped the charcoal pencil in half with a clean, decisive motion, as if cutting through his own hesitation. The broken piece rolled across the counter and stopped at the edge of the Silver Tablet.

The tavern smelled of aged tequila and damp wool—warm and cloying, a sharp contrast to the biting cold outside. The dim yellow light cast flickering shadows on the walls, making them look like living things.

Behind the bar, Mateo was mechanically polishing a crystal glass. His movements were slow and elegant. He didn't look at the intruder immediately; instead, he kept his eyes on the condensation on the glass, using the silence to build an invisible wall, forcing the intruder to prove his sincerity.

Dust motes floated in the air, tumbling through shafts of light, recording the long-suppressed restlessness of this high-altitude city.

"This line," Mateo's voice sounded like sandpaper, "only I know that it reveals its true face on the seventh day after the rains. Any other guide will just lead you into a graveyard of avalanches."

He stared at Santiago with a nearly cruel sense of testing. "But there is a price. Not money—I told you, money can buy a horse, but it can't buy the road. I want your judgment. From this moment on, your eyes no longer belong to you; they belong to Pablo.

When he points left, even if you see a cliff, it is a cliff. Even if you see flat ground, it is an abyss. Do you dare bet on that?"

Pablo picked up the corrected map—or rather, the sketch full of lies and traps—and gave Santiago a complicated look. His gaze drifted between the Silver Tablet and the cash before finally settling on Santiago’s expressionless eyes.

The moment of choice had arrived: trust the eyes that could read the map, or gamble his life on this cunning tavern owner? Mateo gripped the unpolished crystal glass again and raised it to his lips, but he didn't drink; he simply let the liquid swirl against the glass.

Santiago’s gaze shifted to Pablo. The man had remained in the shadows like a silent statue, but now, he took a slow step forward, his boots making a soft, wet sound on the dirt. Pablo didn't speak; he simply drew a short knife from his waist, the blade glinting coldly under the dim oil lamp.

He walked to the table and used the tip of the knife to flip over the Silver Tablet, which was damp with spilled liquor. On the back was a tiny engraved symbol—Mateo's mark, and the symbol of a bloody contract.

"The Guild escorts will track you three steps after you leave the city gates," Pablo finally spoke, his voice low and raspy. "They'll protect your body right up until they're sure you're dead. But I'll protect your life, provided you follow my every command—including the ones that sound like suicide."

He looked up, a flicker of madness dancing in his clouded eyes. "Mateo gave me the most expensive reward of all: a dead man's name. Now, it's your turn to pay."

Pablo interrupted, his tone blending unmasked greed with pragmatism. "To get into the mountains, you need to pay a proper fee. Not just to bribe me, but to cover our rations and gear wear-and-tear for three months at high altitude. The air is thin here; every breath is a cost, and every meter climbed is money."

He looked Santiago straight in the eye, without a shred of pity. "If you can't afford it, you can turn around right now and go die in the Andean snow."

The sound of the rain outside seemed to freeze in that moment. The air in the tavern grew as thick as over-fermented mash. Mateo didn't drink the wine; instead, he set the glass down gently, the base hitting the wooden counter with a dull thud. He raised his hand, and without touching the Silver Tablet, his rough finger scratched a hurried, jagged line across the table.

The line extended from the depths of the tavern, pointing toward a fold in the Andes mountains on the map known as "Dead Man's Throat."

Santiago clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm, bringing a sharp spike of pain. He stood up, his silhouette stretching long and distorted. Without a goodbye or a word, he turned toward the heavy wooden door. As his hand touched the knob, he looked back.

Mateo was still sitting there, that complex smile lingering on his lips, while Pablo had already retreated into the shadows, leaving only a pair of glowing eyes staring intently at him.

Mateo sneered, sinking back into his worn leather chair as if none of this concerned him. He raised his glass again and this time actually took a sip, his Adam's apple bobbing as he let out a satisfied sigh.

"Deal done. Pablo will wait for you on the city wall at midnight. Remember, Santiago, on that road, your faith is more dangerous than the air. The ghosts of the Andes don't listen to a priest's prayers; they only listen to the sound of fearful footsteps."

"One more thing," Mateo added suddenly, his fingers tapping the table in a rhythm entirely different from the rain—urgent and lethal. "The missing official didn't just get lost. He was looking for something, and Pablo knows where that thing is.

When you find the official, you'll face a final choice: bring him back, or leave him on the mountain in exchange for the map you actually want."

The midnight bell had not yet tolled, and the lights in the tavern flickered. Santiago felt a bone-deep chill rise from his feet—not fear, but the weightless sensation of falling into an abyss. He looked at Pablo, then at the nearly empty glass in Mateo's hand.

Outside, the rain turned violent, drumming against the tin roof like a thousand angry palms beating on a coffin lid.

"Contracts last longer than promises," Mateo whispered, his voice raspy and low, like stones grinding in the back of his throat. "But first, you have to survive the night." With that, he slammed the glass onto the counter. Liquor splashed, soaking a corner of the Silver Tablet. Santiago didn't flinch; he just stood there silently, waiting for the endless darkness that follows when the beast opens its maw.

The door closed behind him, cutting off the stagnant air of the tavern. The night rain poured down, completely submerging Santiago's world. He took a deep breath, the air thick with the smell of rotting earth. He knew that from this moment on, he was no longer a diplomat searching for a man, but prey waiting to be devoured.

And on the other side of the mountain, waiting for him, was not just a missing official, but a secret capable of overturning all of South America.