Chapter Four: The Gathering
By the next weekend, word had spread.
It wasn't that my father had announced it. But in families like ours, news travels faster than any phone call. The moment my uncles heard he'd bought land on the finca, they all made plans to "drop by" and see what was going on.
And so, the great asado was born.
My mother pitched it as a reunion. "We haven't all been together in so long," she said, pretending it had nothing to do with the sudden land purchase or the strange activity near the woods.
Both sides of the family came.My father's three brothers arrived first—Miguel, always frowning; Diego, loud and nosey; and Martín, quiet but observant. All of them skeptical. All of them curious.
Then came my mother's side. Her two sisters, along with their husbands and kids. And, of course, my maternal grandparents, who never missed a chance for drama.
By noon, the backyard was filled with folding chairs, chatter, and the scent of slow-roasted meat. My grandmother Carmen moved around like a general, handing out plates and directing seating. My grandfather stayed by the grill, pretending not to listen while listening to everything.
And my parents? They were calm. Too calm. Which, of course, made everyone more suspicious.
"So," said Uncle Diego, balancing a beer in one hand and a plate of steak in the other. "You just randomly decided to buy land in the middle of nowhere?"
My father smiled. "What can I say? I missed the countryside."
"You hate insects," Uncle Miguel grunted.
"And humidity," added Martín, dryly.
My mother jumped in. "It's not like we're moving in tomorrow. We just wanted a little space to disconnect. Do a bit of gardening. Maybe build a cabin one day."
My maternal grandfather snorted. "That's the first time I've heard you talk about plants without threatening to kill them."
Everyone laughed—but not everyone relaxed. The questions kept circling, like vultures looking for something rotten beneath the surface.
"What are you building, exactly?""How much did you pay?""Why now?""Is it true you hired workers already?"
Each answer led to more curiosity. My uncles drifted dangerously close to the edge of the woods, but we had sealed the entrance to the basement tight, hidden under boards and fresh soil. The tarp and tools were stashed away.
"Just a bit of groundwork," my father said. "To level the area for future plans."
And then, my Aunt Lorena asked the question that had been hanging in the air since the first steak hit the grill.
"Who are you really building this for?"
The table fell quiet. Even the kids paused between bites.
My father looked around. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Then he said, "For all of us. For those who want something different."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to.
Something shifted in the atmosphere.
The suspicion didn't disappear, but it transformed into something more dangerous: curiosity. You could see it in their eyes—those calculating stares, those whispered side conversations, that glint of possibility.
The seed was planted.
And by the time dessert was served, I knew. Some of them would want in.
Some of them would become allies.
And some... would become problems.
The barbecue was a success on the surface, but no one was truly fooled. The meat was tender, the beer cold, and the children ran wild through the fields, but the conversations were full of pauses and sidelong glances.
"So, you bought part of the old farm?" asked Uncle Elías, the eldest of my father's brothers, with a half-smile. "All on your own? Without saying a word beforehand. Odd, isn't it?"
My father shrugged, feigning innocence."I just wanted something of my own. A little place, nothing big. Didn't want to bother anyone."
"And what's this about hiring workers to dig at night?" added Aunt Rosa, theatrically pulling a toothpick from her purse.
Kalits shifted in his seat. My mother busied herself pretending to pour more lemonade.
My maternal grandparents observed in silence. Quiet, reserved people, but their eyes missed nothing. Even the youngest, like cousin Isaías, were already whispering to one another.
By then, it was obvious: the whole family knew something strange was going on.
My father stood and tapped his glass with a spoon. The clinking rang out, and silence fell. The smoke from the grill lingered like a soft fog between us.
"Tonight," he said, "I want the adults to meet in the basement. There's something we need to share. The children stay upstairs—playing, eating dessert, or sleeping."
Grandma Carmen, who was rarely caught off guard, frowned. But said nothing.
That night, after tucking the children in, the family gathered in the basement.
There weren't enough chairs, so some sat on buckets, others on the steps. The lighting was dim. The walls still unfinished. At the far end, covered by a thick gray tarp, stood something that clearly didn't belong in an ordinary cellar.
My father and mother stood in front of it.
"Thank you for coming," my father said, serious. "We know you've felt something strange going on. And you're right. But everything has a reason. A big one."
He nodded. My mother stepped forward, took hold of the curtain… and pulled.
Behind it, a wide vertical slit lit the room with a soft amber-golden glow, almost liquid in its quality. There was no sound, yet the air tightened, as if the world itself held its breath.
"This is what we found," said my father plainly. "Or rather… what found us."
And then he told them everything—how the ground reacted when they began building, how they bought the land to protect it, and how the glow never faded. He didn't mention beasts or expeditions. Just enough for them to grasp the scale of it.
One by one, their faces changed. Aunt Rosa crossed herself. Grandpa simply muttered, "May God bless this madness." Uncle Elías paced slowly around the glow, never quite getting close.
"And what do you want to do with this?" asked Grandma Carmen, her voice low and steady.
My mother took over.
"We want to build something new. But not alone. With you. With family. This isn't about gold or fame. It's about a better beginning. A place where we can achieve what we never could. A place where our children can grow without fear."
"But it must stay secret," I added. "Until we're ready."
Truthfully, I had my doubts. But it was necessary—to tie this to something real, something that offered benefit, purpose, and hope.
Silence.
Then Grandpa Carpellan stood. He removed his hat and held it to his chest.
"If we're going to do this, then it won't just be an adventure. It'll be a pact. Something to be passed down. Respected. Protected."
As if rehearsed, everyone stood.
My father spoke again, his tone calm and solemn.
"Let's mark our names in this moment. This is only the beginning—not as citizens, but as founders."
My mother nodded."I am Carpellan. You are Dustyrin. And together, we create something new."
My youngest aunt, with a talent no one had known of, pulled a sketchbook and pencils from her bag. Within minutes, they were sketching symbols.
Proposed Symbols and Mottos
1. House of Dustyrin (father's line)Symbol: A split shield with a deep root beneath and a five-pointed star above a horizon.Motto:"Where we take root, the future grows."
2. House of Carpellan (mother's line)Symbol: A circle entwined with spiraling branches, like an ever-watching eye.Motto:"Wisdom before conquest."
3. The Founders' Seal (union of both lines)Symbol: Two clasped hands beneath a mountain split open by a portal.Joint Motto:"We do not flee from the world. We begin it again."
The Founders' Oath(Spoken softly, all standing before the uncovered rift)
"Before the rift and beneath this earth, we vow silence, unity, and vision.We vow this portal shall not be a weapon, nor a market, nor an altar.It shall be seed.And we shall be the gardeners of a new world.Where one falls, the others will carry.Where one doubts, the others will guide.And when the time comes,the world shall know our names.We are the Founders.And this… is only the beginning."