Thorok

The rain had a way of bringing up everything the valley tried to bury. Outside the thick adobe walls, the mud was likely still sliding off the limestone ridges, exposing more of the gray ribcages the federales called a historical anomaly. Inside, the air smelled of damp wool and stale mezcal. Thorok did not look like a man who spent his life dodging corporate lawyers or state governors. He sat with his palms flat on the cedar table, his knuckles scarred and thick. He ignored the maps your father had spread out, ignored the legal briefs, ignored the frantic clearing of throats from the state representatives. His amber eyes locked onto yours, specifically anchoring on the chipped obsidian pendant resting against your collarbone. "You should not have come here," he said. The silence in the room sharpened. You leaned back, your thumb tracing the cold, sharp edge of the stone. "I think you're confusing me with someone else." "No," Thorok said, his voice dropping an octave, completely devoid of theater. "Ask your father whose bones they really buried." The words didn't land like a blow; they leaked into the room like carbon monoxide. Your father stood so abruptly his heavy oak chair crashed backward onto the stone floor. The wood splintered against the tile, the echo vibrating through the rafters. "Enough," he spat, his hands trembling as he gripped the edge of the table. Thorok didn't even blink at the noise. He kept his gaze fixed on you, entirely indifferent to the old man's outrage. "The woman in that cemetery is not your mother," Thorok murmured. "She disappeared because she stole something that powerful people were willing to kill for. Those bodies outside are connected to her." You looked at your father. The proud, untouchable patriarch of the valley's oldest academic family looked hollowed out. The color had drained from his throat up to his jawline. His mouth stayed open, a small, pathetic twitch at the corner of his lip. He didn't yell. He didn't deny it.