Tierras Salvajes: En

“Mateo,” he whispered, his voice swallowed by the oppressive air. “Mateo, where are you?”

The thing wearing Mateo’s face stopped smiling. The hum grew louder, and the walls of the cabin began to breathe . The wood pulsed. The charts curled. The moonlight from the crack in the hull turned a sickly amber. En Tierras Salvajes

“You don’t belong here,” Elías said, holding up the stone. “You are not the land. You are a parasite. And a parasite has no name.” “Mateo,” he whispered, his voice swallowed by the

And it recognized itself.