Chapter 1 Shattered Glass And Silence

• (POV: Isabela Montoya, Age 11)
• The sunbeam was warm on the page. A thick, lazy stripe of gold, full of dancing dust motes, it bisected the illustration of the knight facing the dragon. Isabela traced the edge of the light with one finger, the paper smooth beneath her skin. Outside the tall library window, the estate grounds slumbered under the afternoon heat; the only sounds were a distant drone of bees in amongst flowers and a soft sigh as velvet curtains stirred in a gentle breeze draft from the hallway. Quiet. Safe.
• She was deep − deep into enchanted forest rustle and gleam somewhere between when sound erupted raw through that quiet.
• CRACK!
• Not thunder. Sharper. Louder. A violent shattering noise punched through the drowsy peace, echoed harsh and ugly off the high, vaulted ceilings.
• Isabela started violently, her book toppling from her lap to hit spine-up on the Persian rug. Her breath caught. Her heart gave a sickening lurch and began to pound against her ribs like an entrapped bird. What was that? It sounded wrong, jagged. Like the world tearing.
• CRACK-POP-POP!
• More sounds, closer this time. Followed by a shout – sharp, alarmed. A man’s voice, but too far away, too distorted by distance and walls, to recognize. It wasn’t Papa’s deep rumble or Quino’s gruff command. Panic, cold and slick, flooded her veins. This wasn't a car backfiring. It wasn't fireworks left over from some distant fiesta. This was something else. Something dangerous.
• Mama.
• The thought was an instinct, sharp and painful. Mama was in her study down the west wing corridor. Was she alright? Did she hear it?
• Isabela scrambled up, legs wobbling beneath her. Mama! Run to Mama—that was her first instinct. But then, from the main hall—CRASH! Glass shattering—that awful, unmistakable sound, so loud the floorboards rattled right under her—froze her mid-step.
• Hide. The word wasn't even a thought, just pure, gut-level instinct screaming louder than the noise. Forget Mama. Survive. Her eyes darted wildly around the too-familiar library, searching, desperate. Where? The tall bookshelves offered nothing, just long, open rows. No hiding place there. The window seat was too exposed.
• Then she saw it – the massive, dark mahogany table where Papa sometimes spread out his maps. That heavy velvet runner, the gold thread catching the faint light—it hung low, almost sweeping the floor. There. Dark underneath. Deep. Safe.
• Heart hammering against her ribs, Isabela dropped, palms hitting the cool polished wood. She scrambled forward—too fast. Pain! Her head cracked against the underside of the table, sharp and sudden, but the throb barely registered. Deeper. She pulled her knees in tight, worming into the darkest shadows beneath the heavy slab of wood, jamming herself hard against a thick, carved leg. A shaky hand shot out, fingers snagging the velvet edge, tugging it down just enough to close the gap. Hiding her. Creating her own small, dark cave.
• Here, the world muted slightly, but the sounds were still horribly clear, amplified by the enclosed space and her straining ears.
• Pop-pop-pop! Closer now. Distinctly gunfire. She’d heard it before, once, when Papa took Quino hunting, but this was different. Faster. Angrier.
• A man yelled, closer this time, his voice tight with pain or fury. Then another voice, barking orders – unfamiliar, guttural, cold. The sounds were coming from the direction of the entrance hall, maybe moving deeper into the estate. Towards Mama’s study? Towards her?
• Her gut twisted. Bile burned her throat. Ugh. Eyes squeezed shut, head pressed hard against her knees. Smaller. Get smaller. Invisible. The sharp tang of lemon polish filled her nose—familiar, stinging—but then… something else slid underneath it. Thin, biting, acrid. Wafting low, right through the gap under the door. Smoke? Something burning? It clawed at the back of her throat.
• She strained her ears, trying to filter the chaos, desperately seeking something familiar. Papa was away, on one of his long business trips. But Mama was here. And Quino, head of security, always watchful, always close to Mama. Antonio, Ricardo – the guards whose familiar smiles usually greeted her. Where were their voices?
• THUD! Heavy, right outside in the hall. Then a grunt—cut off sharp. Silence.
• Isabela’s hand flew to her mouth, cutting off the whimper before it escaped. She started shaking, a tremor rattling deep inside her small frame. Tears burned hot behind her eyes—stinging—but she refused to let a single one fall. She would not cry. No noise. Any noise could get her caught.
• Think. The word was a sharp command inside her head. Think like Mama. Calm, like during the thunder… think!. Stay quiet. Stay hidden.
• But the sounds kept coming. More gunfire, a short, sharp burst. A crash, like furniture overturning. Shouting, muffled but angry. And under all the fear, something else grew: a cold, heavy dread pooling deep in her stomach. Then, closer still, almost directly outside the library door, she heard it.
• “Let go of me!”
• Mama.
• Relief warred violently with terror. Her mother was alive. But her voice… it wasn't the gentle cadence Isabela knew. It was sharp, edged with something brittle. Defiance.
• “Where is Montoya?” A harsh, unfamiliar male voice demanded. Deep, rough. Like gravel dragged over stone.
• “He's not here,” Mama’s voice shot back, still strong, though Isabela could hear the tremor underneath. “Leave us. Take what you want and go!”
• “We want more than your silver, signora,” the voice snarled back. A muffled sound, a scuffle.
• Then Mama's voice changed. The defiance cracked, splintered into fear. “Please… Please, don't. My daughter… Isabela…”
• Hearing her own name spoken aloud in that terrified plea sent a spear of ice through Isabela’s chest. They knew she was here. Or they knew of her. Were they looking for her too? Should she run? But where? Jiggle-rattle. The library door shuddered—someone bumping it from the other side?
• Isabela went stock-still, rigid, breath caught tight in her throat. Don't breathe. Any second. Any second now, that door would swing open… They'd see her. Small. Curled up.
• Then—Mama! A sharp cry, instantly choked off. Mama's voice. A gasp, choked and final.
• Silence.
• It slammed into Isabela with the force of a physical blow. The shouting stopped. The gunfire ceased. The scuffling sounds vanished. All that remained was a sudden, absolute, and terrifying void of sound. Silence slammed down, pressing thick against her eardrums. Heavy. Suffocating. Somehow louder than the crash, than Mama’s cry. That bitter smoke smell… stronger now? Or just nothing else cutting through it?
• Listen. Ears straining, desperate. Anything. A footstep? Breathing? Mama's voice…? Even that awful rough rasp…?
• Nothing. Just the frantic thump-thump-thump of her own heart drumming her ribs raw. Blood roaring like a storm in her ears.
• The silence hung there. Heavy. Waiting. Seconds felt like hours. Had they gone? Was it over? Or was this something worse? A waiting?
• Frozen. Cramped under the table, still shaking. Her own hand dug into her mouth, pressing back any sound.
• Held her breath—held it, held it—till her lungs burned. Had to let it go. A slow, shuddering gasp, completely silent. Dust filled her mouth. Tasted like terror itself.
• Mama? The name screamed inside her skull.
• No answer came back. Just… horrifying silence.
• Tears finally escaped, hot and silent, tracking paths through the dust on her cheeks. She didn’t dare wipe them away. She didn’t dare move. She just huddled in her dark, cramped cave, small and utterly alone, listening to the terrible weight of the silence left behind where her mother’s voice used to be. The world had cracked open, swallowed the sunbeam, and left only suffocating darkness and a quiet that felt like the end of everything.