El palacio del emperador se alzaba sobre la llanura como algo inevitable, no como una construcción, sino como una conclusión. No dominaba el horizonte por exceso ni arrogancia; lo hacía por precisión. Cada proporción parecía calculada con paciencia ancestral, como si la estructura hubiera sido dise?ada para existir cuando todo lo demás ya no existiera.

  Sus muros, de color oro pálido y blanco marfil, captaban la luz del día y la devolvían sin deslumbrar, en reflejos suaves y controlados. No brillaban para impresionar, sino para afirmar su permanencia. El edificio ascendía en tres niveles escalonados, cada uno más restringido que el anterior, como un filtro silencioso que separaba el mundo común de lo que yacía en su núcleo. No había torres erigidas por vanidad, ni adornos innecesarios que distrajeran la vista. Columnas rectas, amplias terrazas y altos ventanales formaban un dise?o sobrio y sólido, pensado para resistir no solo el tiempo, sino también la erosión del mundo mismo.

  Al acercarse, una sutil presión se apoderó del pecho. No era miedo ni advertencia, sino una silenciosa certeza: este lugar no necesitaba defensa. Su sola presencia bastaba.

  Daverion llegó al palacio acompa?ado de Lyra. Varias personas entraban en ese momento, con pasos marcados por la costumbre y la obediencia. Sin embargo, al verlo llegar junto a la princesa, el flujo se detuvo. Las conversaciones se fueron apagando una a una, y sin que nadie diera órdenes, todos se hicieron a un lado. Las miradas se deslizaron hacia él con curiosidad contenida, evaluándolo, preguntándose en silencio quién sería quien caminaba a su lado.

  Daverion cruzó el umbral sin cambiar el ritmo.

  Lyra caminó medio paso adelante, girando ligeramente la cabeza mientras hablaba.

  "Siguiendo por aquí, llegaremos al gran salón", dijo con naturalidad. "Todos pasan por aquí".

  Su voz rebotaba suavemente en la piedra, clara y vivaz. Siguió hablando mientras caminaban, como si el espacio mismo la invitara a llenar el silencio. Daverion no la interrumpió. La dejó hablar cuanto quisiera, escuchándola sin apresurarla, sin dirigirla.

  Ella es muy extrovertida, pensó.

  A medida que avanzaban, los muros se cerraban con una fría perfección. Pulidos hasta un punto casi antinatural, devolvían a cada paso un eco limpio, distante y mesurado. No amplificaban el sonido; lo examinaban, como si el propio palacio registrara la presencia de quienes lo atravesaban. El pasillo se extendía recto, sin curvas ni desvíos, largo y monumental, impulsando el avance sin distracciones ni escape visual.

  Lyra levantó el brazo y se?aló las paredes mientras caminaban.

  "Mira, todo esto son símbolos y retratos de nuestra gloria".

  Las pinturas estaban alineadas con absoluta precisión, una tras otra: representaciones de conquistas, figuras imperiales, momentos congelados en el tiempo. No estaban colocadas para conmover, sino para recordar. Para imponer continuidad.

  Daverion los observó en silencio, leyendo más allá de la pintura, sintiendo la intención detrás de cada imagen.

  Lyra sonrió levemente mientras agregaba, con un tono que mezclaba orgullo y repetición aprendida: "Eso es lo que dice mi abuelo".

  A medida que avanzaban, el final del pasillo se abría ante ellos. La luz se intensificaba con cada paso, filtrándose desde el gran salón como una promesa silenciosa. Ya no era solo brillo; venía acompa?ada de sonido. Voces superpuestas, pasos cruzados, risas breves y conversaciones entrecruzadas los alcanzaban, aumentando su intensidad a medida que se acercaban.

  Incluso el aire parecía cambiar, llenándose de movimiento y presencia.

  Al cruzar el último tramo del pasillo y entrar en el salón, la sensación de amplitud se impuso de inmediato. La luz descendía de los altos ventanales, abiertos y naturales, en amplios haces que se fundían con el cálido resplandor de las lámparas. Ambas fuentes se fundían sin competir, ba?ando el espacio con una claridad serena y constante que no deslumbraba, sino que lo revelaba todo.

  El salón era amplio y lleno de vida. La gente se movía en diferentes direcciones, algunos hablando, otros caminando con determinación, creando un flujo continuo que daba al espacio una sensación de actividad constante. El salón se sostenía sobre cuatro columnas a cada lado, sólidas y simétricas, cada una adornada con detalles dorados que reflejaban la luz al pasar la gente.

  El mismo material se repetía en cada adorno, sin excepción. Molduras, relieves, símbolos: todo era oro. No como un exceso caótico, sino como una afirmación constante, presente en cada rincón, recordando a quien entraba dónde estaba y a quién pertenecía el lugar.

  En el centro del salón, Lyra se volvió hacia Daverion con una expresión expectante y sus ojos brillantes de entusiasmo.

  "?Y bien?", preguntó. "Es grande y bonito".

  Daverion examinó el espacio con calma, evaluándolo sin prisa.

  "Sí, es bonita", respondió, "pero es muy grande".

  Lyra frunció el ce?o ligeramente.

  "Para una ni?a como tú."

  Daverion dejó que el comentario surgiera con naturalidad, una provocación ligera, casi descuidada.

  Lyra se detuvo en seco. Plantó los pies, puso ambas manos en la cintura y lo miró con la barbilla en alto.

  "Soy más alta que todas las chicas de mi edad", dijo con firmeza. "Y además, todavía no he terminado de crecer".

  Ella giró la cabeza ligeramente hacia un lado.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "?Verdad, Lila?"

  Lila inclinó ligeramente la cabeza, su voz tranquila y respetuosa.

  "Sí, Princesa. Seguramente crecerás más que tu hermana."

  Lyra asintió, satisfecha, como si eso zanjara cualquier posible discusión.

  Sin perder más tiempo, se dio la vuelta nuevamente y avanzó con decisión.

  —Ven —dijo—. Te llevaré a la cocina. Iremos directo allí, compraremos unos pasteles con jugo y luego podremos ir al jardín.

  With every step she took, people parted. It was not an order or a demand; it simply happened. Bodies shifted, conversations paused briefly, forming an invisible corridor in front of her. Meanwhile, those arriving at the grand hall were directed to the left by the attendants managing the flow, guiding them with precise, repeated gestures.

  Lyra glanced that way and gestured with her chin.

  "Over there is the reception hall," she told Daverion. "And also the room where everyone will gather."

  Lila, observing the opposite side, added in the same neutral tone as always, "And over there is everything related to the guard. Barracks and such."

  She said it generally, without emphasis, as if those places held no interest for her at all.

  Lyra kept walking.

  "When they serve the food, we can also go to the event hall."

  Daverion's group stood out immediately from the rest. While most were absorbed to the left, they advanced straight ahead, directly through the center of the hall, breaking the established flow. The difference did not go unnoticed. One by one, heads turned to follow their path.

  Some watched with restrained attention. Others with open annoyance.

  Many had tried to gain the princes' favor with gifts of every kind, rehearsed words, calculated gestures. Nothing had worked. And now they saw Daverion walking beside the princess, with a closeness none of them had achieved. Envy and jealousy accumulated in tense silences. Several young men looked at him with evident disdain.

  At the same time, not all gazes were hostile.

  There were young women who watched him with barely restrained boldness; others looked away only to glance back seconds later. Daverion drew attention effortlessly. His beauty stood out even when restrained, impossible to fully conceal.

  Daverion sensed the emotions around him like a subtle tide: resentment, discomfort, poorly hidden desire. When he caught the looks from the young women, he sighed softly and murmured, almost to himself, "I should at least indulge them with a glance. The price of my beauty is hard to bear."

  He lamented with a touch of irony.

  "Perhaps I should speak about beauty," he continued, "so it can be preserved and recited throughout the world, and people won't be ignorant… and won't be led by it."

  Daverion lifted his gaze and looked at each of those who had been captivated. When they realized he was looking directly at them, many blushed, lowered their heads, or turned away awkwardly.

  At the entrance of the hall, a woman dressed in red had arrived. Her presence was striking, elegant. When she saw Daverion casually adjusting his hair and then directing his gaze toward so many women, her expression changed.

  She stiffened.

  As she noticed them blushing, an unexpected irritation ran through her. She nearly wrinkled her dress with her fingers, without fully understanding why it bothered her so much.

  Then, suddenly, a voice echoed throughout the hall.

  It came from Daverion.

  He could not stop the words from taking shape.

  Daverion's voice spread through the hall naturally, without effort, as if the silence had been waiting for it.

  "Beauty does not stay," he said.

  He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.

  "It is a breath. It appears, it is felt… and it goes. And when one tries to look at it again, it is already gone."

  Some people held their breath without realizing it.

  "It is a moment," he continued. "It happens once. It does not last long enough to promise anything."

  His gaze passed slowly over the attentive faces.

  "What is beautiful ends," he said calmly. "Always. Not because it is flawed, but because it was never meant to last."

  The silence deepened.

  "That is why beauty stumbles," he went on. "Because it is not something you can hold in your hands. It is an emotion."

  No one moved.

  "It is not the person," he said. "It is not the object. It is not the form that pleases the eye."

  He paused briefly.

  "It only awakens something."

  Several gazes fixed on him.

  "What is truly beautiful," he continued, "is not out there."

  His tone was serene, certain.

  "It is in what one feels," he said. "In that emotion that appears without permission, that confuses, that draws us in."

  Some frowned. Others could not look away.

  "That is why beauty calls to us," he added. "Because it cannot be held… and yet, we desire it."

  The hall fell silent.

  It was not discomfort. It was attention. Admiration.

  Daverion let the words settle, seeking no reaction. And those who watched him did not know whether they wanted to understand him better… or simply keep looking at him.

  For another moment, the silence held.

  It was not emptiness. It was restraint.

  Then a single sound broke the stillness.

  Clap.

  Slow. Isolated. Measured.

  It did not come from the center or from any obvious place. It rose from a point few were watching, from someone who had been there all along without being noticed. The applause did not seek attention, and precisely because of that, it drew it. It was not enthusiasm or courtesy. It was recognition.

  Clap.

  The rhythm did not change. It did not quicken. Each palm met the other with exact spacing, as if the one applauding were marking something more than approval, weighing the value of what had just been heard.

  Some began to turn their heads, searching for the source. Others did not know why, but felt that the applause carried a different meaning.

  Clap.

  Then it happened.

  A second applause joined the first. Then another. And another. The sound spread like a wave, extending through the hall until palms met from every corner. It was no longer slow. It was full. Continuous.

  The hall filled with applause.

  Lyra was among the first to react. Her eyes shone wide, fixed on Daverion. She did not clap out of obligation or ceremony. She did so with clean admiration, almost pride, as if she had just discovered something even greater in someone she already found special.

  Valeria, dressed in red, did not join immediately. She observed. Her eyes shifted first toward Daverion… and then, almost unconsciously, searched for the place from which the first applause had come. She did not fully understand what she had heard, but something had sparked her curiosity, not only because of the words, but because of what lay behind them.

  The leader of the place inclined his head slightly before applauding. He did not clap loudly. He did so with respect. His hands moved with the serenity of someone who recognizes wisdom when he hears it, even if he does not fully grasp its origin.

  Lila took a second longer than the others. When she reacted, it was with evident astonishment. Her eyes had widened, her posture tightened slightly, as if she had witnessed something she had not expected to see. She applauded, yes, but more than that, she looked at Daverion as if she had just confirmed something she did not know she had been questioning.

  Somewhere in the hall, the slow applause continued for one last moment, keeping its original rhythm before being swallowed by the rest.

  No one pointed it out.

  No one named it.

  But for those who knew how to look closely, it was clear that Daverion was not the only one who understood the weight of those words.

  While the applause still echoed, not everyone reacted with their hands.

  In different parts of the hall, there were those who did not take their eyes off Daverion for even a second. People who, instead of being carried away by the sound, lowered their gaze quickly and pulled out scrolls, thin tablets, carefully folded pieces of paper.

  Pens slid.

  Ink touched the surface with contained urgency.

  They did not copy word for word clumsily. They wrote attentively, pausing only to recall the exact order, the cadence, the meaning. Some murmured silently as they traced the lines, as if afraid the phrases would dissipate if they did not fix them immediately.

  Others did not write everything. Only fragments. Loose sentences. Ideas that had burned more deeply than the rest.

  "Beauty does not stay."

  "It is a breath."

  "It is not the form… it is the emotion."

  No one gave them instructions. No one asked them to do it.

  And yet, they did.

  Because there were words that were not meant only to be applauded. There were words meant to be kept.

  Daverion did not look at them. He did not need to. His expression did not change as pens moved and hands hurried, as if he knew that once spoken, those ideas no longer fully belonged to him.

  Con el tiempo, mucho después de aquel día, esas mismas palabras se repetirían en otros salones, en patios abiertos, en lugares donde su nombre no estaría presente. Serían recitadas con diferentes voces, interpretadas de maneras que él jamás oiría.

  Algunos los entenderían.

  Otros sólo los admirarían.

  Pero continuarían viajando.

  Sin embargo, esto no ocurrió allí.

  Esa… es otra historia.

  Daverion percibió el suave roce de las plumas, el tenue sonido de la tinta extendiéndose sobre el papel. No necesitó girarse para saberlo. Algunos escribían, intentando fijar sus palabras antes de que se desvanecieran, como si temieran que el momento se les escapara si no lo captaban de inmediato.

  Por un instante, su atención se detuvo allí.

  ésa es otra historia, pensó.

  Una historia que quizá nunca se cuente.

  No había arrepentimiento en la idea. Solo una tranquila certeza, una comprensión nacida de cosas que aún no habían sucedido... y de otras que ya no podían evitarse.

  Cuando los aplausos comenzaron a desvanecerse, Daverion levantó la mirada.

  No lo dirigió hacia la multitud ni hacia quienes aún lo observaban con abierta admiración. Su mirada se dirigió precisamente al punto de donde había surgido ese primer aplauso lento.

  Allí estaba él.

  Un hombre de rasgos llamativos, piel pálida, cabello negro como una noche sin luna y ojos aún más oscuros y profundos, como si miraran desde un lugar que no pertenecía del todo a ese mundo. No hacía nada para llamar la atención, y sin embargo, había algo en él que no encajaba del todo.

  Su postura era firme, contenida. No tensa, sino controlada. Una calma que no parecía adquirida allí. Su presencia transmitía una extra?a sensación, como si las reglas de aquel lugar solo lo reconocieran a medias.