The gates of Sorriso had closed, but the people’s hearts opened once more. Before the Patriarch rose the true demonstration of power: the Ten Wives of Kyros Fernandes.

  The air grew heavy. Every step they took carried the weight and grandeur of entire realms. They were not just women — they were symbols.

  The first was Luiz’s mother: hair the color of embers, eyes that burned like fire. A simple mantle gained authority with the red heart stamped on its back — the crest of her house. When she opened her arms, Luiz ran. He was received in a warm embrace, and tears glittered in her eyes.

  The second, Alex’s mother, appeared in a sober, dark-brown dress, her hair pinned into a flawless bun. Her eyes were severe but steady. Alex bowed his head in respect; she answered with a small, discreet smile — full of pride.

  The third, Marcos’s mother, seemed carved from the same mold as her son. White, messy hair; a lazy posture; an almost bored air. She walked slowly, yawning, but when she extended her arms the hug was heavy and true. The crowd murmured and laughed — the two were reflections of one another.

  The fourth lit up the festival: Helena’s mother — a radiant blonde in a golden dress studded with sparkling gems. Each jewel chimed as she moved. Her eyes held the glow of ambition and vanity. Helena smiled adoringly, mirroring that same aura of living gold.

  The fifth made the people shiver: Valquíria’s mother. Tall, imposing, clad in black ceremonial armor with a black trefoil engraved on the back. She was the very queen of the Valkyries. Her blonde hair braided for battle, her gaze cold as steel. When Valquíria found her, the exchange of looks was so intense the crowd held its breath.

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  The sixth brought silence: Selene’s mother. Skin pale as the moon, voluminous curly hair falling to her lower back, green eyes that glittered like emeralds beneath a black mask covering mouth and nose. The Olho Sombrio emblem on her outfit gleamed with authority. Selene dropped to her knees; her mother placed both hands on her shoulders — a priestess’s gesture crowning a successor.

  The seventh was Dariam’s mother. The festival shook. She wore tight black clothes, high boots; the left side of her head was shaved, the remaining hair straight and falling to her right shoulder. Her red lips curved in a lascivious smile. Her predatory eyes scoured the crowd, forcing nobles to look away. Known for humiliating men of other races, she was a serpent in human shape. She embraced Dariam, and together they seemed like two different venoms of the same origin.

  The eighth, mother of the twins Maicon and Lincon, paraded as if she owned the festival. Refined dress, expensive jewels, movements practiced to display her nobility. The twins bowed; she lifted her chin in approval, not even offering a consoling embrace.

  The ninth, Arela Anapelum, drew tears even from the crowd. A spring elf, hair the pink of angelim flowers, elder sister of Flora. When she opened her arms, Leli ran to her and leapt into her lap. Arela held her, crying, while the festival applauded, moved.

  And then… silence.

  Everyone looked. There was no one for Lukas.

  No mother. No embrace. No symbol.

  The emptiness weighed like iron.

  It was then that Dariam, with a venomous half-smile, leaned close to his ear and whispered low, just for him to hear: — “Filho de chocadeira. Continua sozinho.”

  Lukas’s blood boiled. César roared inside him: — “Kill that bastard now!” But it was Morgana who reacted first, her voice echoing in the back of his mind, full of hatred: — “If he humiliates you again, I’ll make his throat rot myself.”

  Lukas lifted his chin. He did not yield. The contrast was brutal: embraces, tears, pride… and him, alone. Deep inside, he swore: — If you treat me like nothing, I will turn that nothing into legend.

  End of Chapter 2