“DON’T TOUCH HIM,” THEY WARNED YOU. YOU BOUGHT HIM ANYWAY… AND THAT NIGHT YOU LEARNED WHY MEN WOULD RATHER BURN THEIR SILVER THAN KEEP HIM CLOSE.

You confront Nahuel at dawn, because dawn feels like the only honest hour, a time when shadows are still visible. He’s by the water trough, washing his hands, and the simple act looks strangely intimate because it’s so human. You hold the paper in your fist like it might burn you. “Did you know who my father was?” you ask, and your voice surprises you with how steady it is. Nahuel doesn’t pretend confusion, and that honesty makes your anger sharper. “Yes,” he says, and the word is a weight dropping into still water. You demand to know why he came here, why he allowed himself to be sold into your land. He looks away for a fraction of a second, as if deciding what truth you can bear. “At first,” he admits, “I wanted to break everything that carried his name.” The confession hits you like a slap because you understand it, which makes it worse.