Dear reader... no, let me start differently. I am not writing this for you. I am writing for myself, because there are moments when memory demands to be organized, even when it hurts. I was instructed to record, in simple terms, the events that shaped me — but nothing about them is simple.

  Although I belong to the only species capable of refusing a Sekven's request, I never did. Now I will set aside the historian and the ruler to become something more intimate: the man who remembers. This is not a sad story — on the contrary — but my chest hurts whenever I revisit certain difficult moments.

  Back then, in my secluded home, in a quiet village not far from the Sekven Castle, I used to wake before the light crossed the forest. The sun was only a suggestion when I was already leafing through books about humanity's golden age — a time when we were billions, not a species reduced and protected by other civilizations.

  Since the Sekvens returned, centuries ago, we had lived in relative calm. We worked, survived, rebuilt. But all of us knew, even in silence, that this peace had been granted to prevent us from repeating what we had already done twice: extinguish ourselves. That history — ironic and brutal — rests in the novels they allowed us to read.

  I remember the faint breeze slipping through the half-open window, bringing the smell of wet grass and a shiver from the deeper cold, when the shadow of a Xeranto ship slid over my desk. I was still preparing coffee and, for an instant, I felt the same chill you feel when being watched. I breathed deeply, unsettled by that sight — maybe because, in front of them, I always felt smaller.

  We had no means of communication; we lived in an era that, despite the technological marvels around us, kept us tied to a daily life almost medieval. The simple presence of that ship at my door required no explanation. I followed it to a clearing suitable for landing — an automatic obedience, perhaps inherited from generations trained to recognize authority at first sight.

  I was thirty-four and had seen a Sekven only once when I was a child. Xerantos, I had encountered a few times, though rarely. But the Sekvens... not even when I visited the castle to study in its vast and only library on Earth.

  The castle was always empty, guarded by something we called magic for lack of a better word. And yet, I knew it wasn't magic. A misplaced object, a book left open, would return to its place the moment I left. It was as if the castle breathed on its own.

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  But it wasn't just the supernatural tidiness that bothered me — it was the details. The stone scoreboard displaying in real time the exact number of human lives on Earth, shifting the instant someone was born or died. The mosaics of Sekven women, smiling with that impossible serenity, inlaid into walls of precious stones.

  Everyone knew the old saying: if a Sekven female smiled at someone and ordered them to die, that person would do it. Just a figure of speech, of course — a Sekven would never cause suffering. But the fact that a simple smile, even carved in stone, carried that shadow... said more about us than about them.

  Whenever I stood before one of those mosaics, something in me warmed and trembled, as if a silent presence was staring back at me.

  Few had permission to cross the castle gates. Seven people, among a little more than a hundred million. Seven.

  We lived in a small preserved region, while the rest of the planet — devastated by our own hands — was undergoing a restoration process that would take thousands of years.

  And we called that a utopia. A utopia granted by a civilization that, unlike us, seemed incapable of destruction.

  What we once were still pulses inside us, even muted: the ability to create wonders and to ruin everything with the same intensity. Sometimes I wonder why they still tolerate us, but I confess: I am ashamed — or maybe afraid — of the answer.

  I remember the first time I walked inside the castle, a few days after the Xerantos told me I could use the library. Accessing that collection brought immediate joy — but the loneliness of being in such a vast, bright, silent place gave me a discomfort I struggle to describe. Over time, I got used to it, but the sensation of being watched never faded. Deep down, I knew I wasn't truly alone there.

  The ship landed without touching the grass — as if it rejected unnecessary contact with the physical world. When the door opened, the towering figure of a Xeranto filled the entrance. They were not ugly creatures; simply so different from us that comparison felt small. Tall, muscular, scaled skin reflecting greenish tones. Upright serpents, some said. Lizards, others murmured.

  He gestured for me to come in. I didn't wait for speech — Xerantos do not use the human tongue. My body reacted before thought: fascination, fear, a strange acceptance.

  The interior was vast. Bigger than many houses combined. I had never gotten used to them; I always carried both caution and respect.

  Maybe because they kept everything running without asking for anything in return — or maybe because I simply felt small before their silent strength.

  The dark floor, the bright walls... and the symbol engraved inside. I knew it from books and borrowed memories: this ship belonged to something far greater — Shoros.

  A space city. Sixty thousand inhabitants. Thousands of years traveling the cosmos. A presence in every Sekven record.

  We owe to that ship what we are today. Without it, perhaps not even the Sekvens would exist.

  And if Shoros's presence was somehow tied to my life... it could only mean one thing:

  Sekvens.