Nighttime on the Veterinary campus usually holds a respectful silence, broken only by the sound of crickets and the occasional lowing from the Large Animal Sector. To me, it's the only place in São Paulo that smells like home. The smell of alfalfa, sawdust, and manure. It might seem gross to someone living in an apartment, but to someone raised in the countryside, it smells like life.
After Anatomy class, I went straight to the stalls. It's my ritual. No matter how tired I am, or how heavy my arm of light weighs on my conscience, I need to see Goiás.
The barn was dimly lit. Security lights buzzed, casting long shadows against the stall bars.
"Hey there, boy?" I whispered, resting my forehead against the metal bars.
Goiás, my Mangalarga horse[1], snorted. But it wasn't that wet, relaxed snort of welcome. It was dry. Tense.
He was at the back of the stall, eyes wide, the white sclera visible in the darkness. His ears swiveled frantically, trying to pick up sounds that my human ears—and even my Chosen ears—couldn't register immediately.
"What is it, boy?" I unlocked the door with my left hand and entered slowly. "Seeing ghosts?"
The irony of my own question hit me. Hauntings were literally my day-to-day now.
I touched his neck. The muscles were rigid as stone. He was trembling. Goiás wasn't a magical animal; he had no Gifts or Fervor. But animals, especially those who have stared death in the face, feel the Spiritual Frontier brushing against reality. They know when the physics of the world is... wrong.
That was when I felt it too.
It wasn't the sharp, greasy presence of a common Evil Spirit, like the one on the subway. It was something subtler. A trail. Like the smell of ozone after lightning, but mixed with something metallic. Dried blood and entropy.
My right arm, hidden in the jacket sleeve, reacted on its own. Golden light flared beneath the fabric, illuminating the inside of the stall like a muffled lamp. Goiás recoiled, startled by the sudden glow.
"Easy, easy... it's just me," I murmured, trying to control the Gift. Aureus, I need light, but not now. I need to see what he's seeing.
I forced my vision to focus on the overlay of reality. The hay on the floor looked normal, but in the corner of the stall, near the water trough, the "texture" of the world was torn.
I moved closer, kneeling in the sawdust.
There, drawn on the old wood of the wall, was a crude symbol. It wasn't paint, nor was it carved. The wood seemed to have rotted instantly into that specific shape, as if time had passed a thousand years in a single second just in that spot.
A chill ran up my spine.
This wasn't the work of a random spirit generated by the city. Spirits are instinctive, chaotic. This was deliberate. It was a mark.
I hovered my fingers (of my left hand) near the mark, without touching it. The air there was freezing.
"Umbra," I whispered.
Someone had been here. Someone who serves the Malevolent. Someone who uses entropy as a tool.
Goiás whinnied loudly, kicking the opposite wall. He was in panic. His instinct told him the predator hadn't totally left.
I stood up suddenly, scanning the barn. The shadows between the stalls seemed denser. Was this a test? A warning? Or was the "predator" hunting for fuel to evolve their Circle?
I remembered what Lucas said: "They evolve by dominating enemies or fulfilling selfish desires."
If a Chosen of Umbra wanted to gain Fervor quickly, a stud farm full of vibrant life, far from the eyes of the police and the public, would be a banquet. Sacrificing the vitality of these animals would be an easy shortcut to power.
"Not a chance in hell," I growled.
Aureus's benevolence demands protection. And protection, sometimes, requires establishing a perimeter.
I took off my jacket. Standing in a short-sleeved t-shirt revealed my secret: an arm made of pure light geometry, from shoulder to fingertips. The golden glow flooded the barn, chasing away the shadows. Some neighboring horses stirred, but the feeling I emanated wasn't a threat; it was a Barrier.
I walked to the barn entrance. I raised my hand of light and touched the main doorframe.
"Sanctum."
The word wasn't magical on its own, but the intention charged with faith was.
I let a little of my Fervor drain out. Threads of golden light spread through the wood, creating a fence invisible to humans, but one that would burn anything made of shadows that tried to enter. It wasn't a perfect barrier—my Circle was still low—but it would serve as an alarm.
I went back to Goiás. He had stopped trembling, bathed in the warm light of my arm.
"No one touches you again," I promised, stroking his mane. "Even if I have to light up this whole city."
But while I soothed my horse, a bitter certainty settled in my stomach. They weren't just "coming." The enemy had already been here. And if he marked the place, he intended to come back.
The war had just entered my home.
[1] The Mangalarga horse, especially the Mangalarga Marchador, is a renowned Brazilian breed known for its distinctive, exceptionally smooth, and comfortable four-beat gait called the "marcha".