The soft glow of candlelight flickered against the tiny home's walls, casting gentle shadows as Alma rocked one of her newborns in her arms. The rhythmic creaking of the wooden floor echoed softly as Pedro paced, cradling their other child while Julieta slept soundly in the bassinet. Their hearts were full of love for their tiny miracles—their precious triplets.

Pedro chuckled, brushing a finger along Pepa's tiny hand as she curled her fingers around his. "Can you believe it, Alma? Three of them. Three little blessings."

Alma smiled, exhaustion weighing heavy on her features but joy shining in her warm gaze. "I can already see it. Pepa, Julieta, and Bruno... growing up together, running through the fields, laughing, playing..."

Her voice trailed off as a distant sound reached her ears. At first, she thought she imagined it—the distant crackle of wood breaking, the faint murmur of voices outside—but then, a scream rang through the night—a woman's voice, raw with terror. Then another. And another.

Pedro stiffened, his body going rigid as he turned toward the door. The cries grew louder, with shouts and the heavy clatter of boots against the earth. The scent of smoke drifted through the air, thick and suffocating.

Alma's breath hitched in her throat. "Pedro... what's happening?"

Pedro rushed to the window, carefully peeling back the thin cloth covering it. His blood ran cold. Outside, their once peaceful village was in chaos—people running in every direction, the warm glow of their neighbors' lanterns now replaced by the angry flicker of torches. Men on horseback charged through the streets, weapons drawn, striking down anyone who stood in their way.

His grip on the window tightened as he saw a group of soldiers setting fire to a nearby home. He recoiled, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"They're here," he whispered. "Soldiers. They—they're attacking the village."

Alma clutched Bruno to her chest, instinctively rocking him as he began to cry. Pepa soon followed, her tiny wails joining the rising panic. Julieta stirred in the bassinet, her face scrunching up before she, too, began to sob.

Pedro turned to his wife, his hands shaking. He could see the terror in her eyes, mirroring his own. They didn't need to speak to know what the other was thinking—this was no ordinary raid. These soldiers weren't here to steal food or supplies. They wanted land. They wanted to take everything.

And if they stayed, they would not survive.

Pedro swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay calm. "We need to go. Now."

Alma, despite the fear constricting her chest, nodded. There was no time to hesitate. There was no time to grieve the home they were about to leave behind.

There was only time to run.

She wrapped Bruno in a woven blanket with trembling hands, securing him close to her body. Pedro did the same with Pepa while Julieta remained nestled in his other arm. Alma threw open the wooden door, her heart clenching at the sight before her—flames licking at the sky, people fleeing with whatever they could carry, the air thick with desperation.

Pedro grabbed her hand, pulling her close as they darted into the night. "Stay with me," he urged, his voice firm despite the terror in his eyes.

Alma didn't need to be told twice. She held onto his hand as tightly as she could, their children's cries muffled against their chests.

They had no idea where they were going.

They only knew they had to keep running.

The scent of freshly baked bread still lingered in the air, mixing with the warm glow of the bakery's oven. Santiago Rodríguez wiped his hands on his apron, preparing for another busy evening of kneading dough, when the first scream pierced the air.

He froze.

Then came another. And another.

He saw them through the bakery's open window—soldiers dressed in dark uniforms storming through the village. People ran in every direction, their terrified cries blending with the crackle of flames consuming nearby homes.

His heart pounded.

María José. Lucia.

Without hesitation, Santiago bolted from the bakery, not caring to lock the doors or secure his belongings. None of it mattered. His only thought was of his wife and daughter. He pushed past panicked villagers, his legs moving before his mind could catch up.

As he rounded the final corner to his home, his stomach twisted into a painful knot.

Flames roared from the roof of his house, the wooden walls collapsing in on themselves as smoke curled into the night sky. The fire painted the world in hues of orange and red, a hellish glow that made everything look like it was burning.

No. No, no, no.

Santiago stumbled forward, his breath shallow, his mind refusing to process what was before him. He barely registered the hands that grabbed his arm, a fleeing neighbor's desperate voice cutting through the chaos.

"Santiago! You need to run! They're killing everyone—"

He yanked his arm away, his entire body trembling. "My wife! My daughter!"

"Santiago—"

But he was already moving.

The heat hit him like a wall when he stepped into the burning house. Smoke filled his lungs, making him cough violently as he shielded his face from the embers drifting through the air. His eyes stung, but he forced himself forward, his mind racing.

"María José!" he shouted, his voice hoarse.

Then he saw her.

Slumped beside a wooden closet, her body limp against the floor.

"María!"

He stumbled to her side, falling to his knees as he cradled her against him. Her once vibrant brown eyes fluttered open, weak and unfocused. A pained smile touched her lips.

"S-Santiago..." she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire.

He cupped her face, his hands trembling. "I'm here, mi amor. I'm here. I'm going to get you out—just hold on."

She exhaled a shaky breath, her fingers reaching weakly for his.

"Our... light... she's in... the closet."

Santiago barely registered her words before her hand slipped from his grip, her body going still.

His heart shattered.

"No, no, no, please—María—" His voice broke as he shook her, but her warmth faded.

Tears burned down his soot-covered face, but the fire around him roared louder, reminding him that he couldn't fall apart. Not yet.

Lucia.

His hands trembled as he turned toward the closet. He fumbled with the door handle, his vision blurred with smoke and grief. With a grunt, he forced it open.

Inside, nestled beneath a thin cloth, was his infant daughter.

Lucia's tiny chest rose and fell steadily, her warm brown eyes closed as she suckled on a damp rag. The realization hit him—María had done this. She had hidden Lucia away, given her something to soothe her, and ensured their daughter had a chance.

Even as the world burned around them, she had protected their child.

A sob tore through Santiago's throat as he scooped Lucia into his arms, holding her tiny body close. Relief and agony swirled inside him, but there was no time.

The house groaned, the wooden beams above them threatening to collapse.

Coughing, Santiago staggered to his feet, cradling Lucia as he stumbled through the suffocating smoke. The front door was barely standing, but beyond it, the cool night air beckoned him.

With one final push, he burst from the flames and collapsed onto the ground outside, gasping for breath.

Lucia stirred in his arms but remained peaceful, unaware of the horror they had just escaped.

Santiago held her tighter, pressing a trembling kiss to her forehead as tears slid down his cheeks.

His world had burned, his love was gone—but his daughter lived.

And for her, he would endure.

The acrid scent of smoke filled the air as Pedro and Alma pushed forward, their steps urgent yet careful as they maneuvered through the chaos. The cries of their newborns mixed with the screams of the villagers, the destruction of their home unfolding before them. Flames devoured rooftops, and embers rained like fiery stars, casting long shadows against the burning village.

Alma clutched Bruno tightly, her eyes darting around, searching for danger. Pedro held Julieta and Pepa close to his chest, shielding them from the scorching heat as they ran.

Then, amid the flickering glow of fire and despair, Pedro spotted a lone figure.

Santiago Rodríguez sat motionless on the ground, his body trembling, his arms wrapped protectively around his infant daughter. The light from the burning wreckage of his home flickered against his tear-streaked face, the weight of grief heavy on his slumped shoulders. Behind him, what remained of his house gave way with a deafening crack, collapsing into itself, taking the last traces of María José.

Pedro slowed, his heart twisting at the sight.

"Santiago," he called, his voice firm yet gentle.

Alma hesitated, scanning their surroundings with wary eyes. She knew they had no time to waste, but she trusted Pedro's heart—he wouldn't leave a friend behind.

Pedro knelt beside Santiago, keeping his daughters close. The heat of the fire warmed his skin. "Are you hurt? Is the baby okay?"

Santiago didn't respond at first. He stared at the ground, his breath shallow and uneven. The world around him was a blur of fire and screams, but in his arms, Lucia slept peacefully, blissfully unaware of the horror surrounding them.

For a moment, he couldn't speak. His throat burned—not just from the smoke but from the grief clawing at his chest.

She's gone.

His wife, the love of his life, the mother of his child—gone.

A shuddering breath escaped him. He looked down at Lucia, tiny and fragile yet still alive. He nodded weakly and rasped, "She's... she's okay." His voice was barely above a whisper, broken and raw. He coughed, his lungs still filled with smoke. "I'll be okay."

Pedro placed a steady hand on Santiago's shoulder. "Come with us." His tone left no room for argument. "We have to get out of here."

For a second, Santiago didn't move. The weight of loss made his limbs feel heavy, but then he felt Lucia's warmth against him, the gentle rise and fall of her tiny chest.

He couldn't die here. Not while she still needed him.

Taking a deep breath, he nodded.

Pedro stood, offering a hand. Santiago took it, his grip weak but determined.

Alma tightened her hold on Bruno, her gaze sweeping the burning village again. The soldiers were still out there. They had to move—fast.

"Let's go," Pedro urged, shifting Julieta and Pepa in his arms.

Santiago adjusted his grip on Lucia, protecting her small form against him. His heart still ached, but he forced his legs to move, following Pedro and Alma into the unknown.

They didn't look back.

There was no home to return to.

The night air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and the faint cries of those left behind. Pedro, Alma, and Santiago moved swiftly but cautiously through the dense underbrush, their steps careful, their breaths hushed. Around them, the dim glow of distant flames flickered against the dark sky, a cruel reminder of the home they were leaving behind.

Ahead, the shadows of their fellow villagers moved between the trees, their figures barely visible in the faint moonlight. The survivors clutched what little they could carry—bundles of clothes, baskets of food, cherished possessions hastily grabbed before fleeing. Fear weighed heavy on them, but their silence was their most excellent shield.

Pedro held Julieta and Pepa close to his chest, feeling their tiny bodies' soft rise and fall. Alma pressed Bruno to her heart, gently rocking him with slow, deliberate movements. Santiago, his arms wrapped protectively around Lucia, walked beside them, his face pale but set with quiet determination.

Occasionally, a muffled sob or a whispered prayer broke through the silence.

Then—

Gunshots.

The sharp crack of bullets rang through the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the ground. Raw and desperate screams pierced the night before fading into eerie silence.

Pedro clenched his jaw, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. He knew those voices—people he had grown up with, neighbors who had shared their harvests, friends who had once laughed beside him.

Alma's breath hitched, but she held Bruno closer, rocking him slightly to ensure he remained calm. She didn't dare let her grief show. Not now.

Santiago squeezed his eyes shut briefly, pressing a trembling kiss to Lucia's forehead. He felt sick. His stomach churned with helplessness and guilt. He wanted to turn back, fight, and help, but he couldn't.

None of them could.

All they could do was keep moving.

Pedro tightened his grip on his daughters, his resolve hardening. The past was burning behind them, but the future—their children's future—still lay ahead.

With one final glance toward the smoldering ruins of their village, he turned his eyes forward and stepped deeper into the forest, never looking back.

The river was ice-cold against their skin, its strong currents rushing around their trembling legs as Pedro, Alma, Santiago, and the other survivors waded carefully across. The night's terror still clung to them, but they pressed on, their arms wrapped protectively around the swaddled infants.

The only sound was the water's soft splashes—until the distant pounding of hooves shattered the fragile quiet.

Gasps spread among the survivors. Shadows flickered through the trees, torches illuminating the grim faces of soldiers charging toward them.

They weren't safe.

Not yet.

Pedro's breath caught in his throat. He turned, his gaze sweeping over the terrified faces of the villagers, Alma clutching Bruno tightly, Santiago cradling Lucia, and his own daughters nestled in his arms. His heart ached as he realized what had to be done.

He looked at Alma, his expression soft yet full of resolve.

She knew.

A choked sob escaped her lips, her grip on Bruno tightening as panic settled into her bones.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head, already sensing his unspoken goodbye.

Pedro's hands trembled as he carefully transferred Julieta and Pepa into her arms, his fingers lingering on their small, warm bodies as if memorizing the feeling. He gently kissed their foreheads, then turned to Bruno, running his fingers through the boy's curls before kissing his forehead.

"Pedro—" Alma's voice broke as tears streamed down her cheeks.

He lifted his hand, caressing her face, his touch full of love. "You have to go," he murmured, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes.

Alma clung to him, desperate. "Please—don't do this," she pleaded, her voice barely more than a breath.

Pedro kissed her softly, a lingering, aching kiss that held every promise he would never get to keep.

Then, he turned away.

Alma's body shook with silent grief as she watched him step back.

Pedro's gaze shifted to Santiago.

For a moment, neither man spoke.

But Santiago understood.

Pedro didn't need words to say what was in his eyes—Protect them. Keep them safe. Don't let her follow me.

Santiago swallowed hard, nodding as he braced himself.

Then, Pedro turned and strode toward the approaching soldiers.

Alma screamed, her raw, desperate wail barely audible over the roaring in her ears. She tried to chase after him, but Santiago grabbed her, holding her back as she fought against him.

"Let me go!" she sobbed, struggling in his grasp.

Santiago gritted his teeth, his own eyes wet with grief. "He's doing this for you! For them!" he said through clenched teeth, his arms like iron around her.

They both watched in horror as Pedro reached the riverbank, standing tall as the soldiers surrounded him, their weapons raised.

But Pedro did not cower.

He lifted his arms, his eyes to the heavens.

"Dioses, please," he whispered. "Protect them. Keep them safe. Let them have a future."

The soldiers charged.

Alma screamed as a blade was thrust into Pedro's chest.

His body jerked, but he did not fall. He only gasped, his lips parting in quiet pain. But then—a serene smile touched his face, his final thought filled with love, not fear.

And then—the world shifted.

The ground rumbled beneath their feet. A blinding golden light erupted from the river, engulfing Pedro in its radiance. The soldiers stumbled, shouting in confusion as the air around them seemed to crackle with divine energy.

The Gods had heard Pedro's plea.

The earth roared, and before Alma and Santiago's eyes, an enormous mountain rose between them and the soldiers, pushing their enemies away as though an unseen force had cast them aside. The soldiers screamed, their bodies flung backward as the land itself rejected them.

Pedro, bathed in golden light, slowly fell backward into the river. His eyes fluttered closed, and his face was peaceful.

His last breath carried no regret.

Only love.

And as the waters carried him away, the mountain stood tall, shielding his family and people from harm.

The night fell silent once more.

Alma collapsed to her knees, clutching her children as sobs wracked her body. Santiago held Lucia close, his own heart breaking as he gazed at the towering rock that now stood where Pedro had made his final stand.

They were safe.

But the price had been far too high.

The silence was heavy as the two survivors knelt beside Pedro's still form, carefully pulling him from the river's edge. His body was motionless, yet his expression remained serene as if he had merely drifted into a peaceful slumber rather than endured the pain of his sacrifice.

Alma stood frozen, her arms wrapped protectively around her triplets, her breath shaky. Still cradling Lucia, Santiago stood beside her, his grip tightening as they took in the sight before them.

Grief warred with gratitude in their hearts.

Pedro had saved them.

But he was gone.

The survivors whispered among themselves, their voices hushed with sorrow and disbelief. They had lost their homes, their loved ones—but they were alive. And it was all because of Pedro.

Then, through the quiet, a flicker of gold danced in the air.

A single golden butterfly fluttered past Alma, its delicate wings shimmering under the pale moonlight. It moved purposefully, drifting gently toward Pedro's chest before settling just above his heart.

Alma's breath caught.

The murmurs of the villagers ceased, their eyes fixed on the small, radiant creature.

And then, as if answering a silent call, a beautiful candle materialized beside Pedro's body.

It was white, unblemished, with a golden butterfly etched into its surface.

A soft, warm glow radiated from within it, its light steady and unwavering.

Alma's knees trembled as she slowly stepped forward, drawn to the candle by an unspoken force. Santiago followed close behind, his protective instincts guiding him as he ensured her safety while holding little Lucia.

With a reverence she didn't fully understand, Alma knelt beside Pedro, her free hand hovering over the candle's glow. It was warm, comforting, and alive.

Tears welled in her eyes as realization struck her.

Pedro was here.

Not in body but in spirit.

She could feel him—his love, devotion, and unbreakable will—woven into the very essence of the candle.

Alma exhaled shakily, lifting the candle in one hand while clutching her triplets tightly. She turned to face the survivors, her gaze meeting Santiago's before sweeping over the rest of the villagers.

They were looking at her.

Waiting.

Pedro had chosen her.

She would lead them.

With silent understanding, two villagers stepped forward, gently lifting Pedro's body. His face remained peaceful as they carried him with care, ensuring he would be appropriately honored.

The survivors pressed forward into the unknown, walking for what felt like hours, guided only by the stars above and the unwavering glow of the candle in Alma's grasp.

Then, as they reached a clearing, Alma felt it.

A deep, resounding sense of home.

The land before them stretched out in lush greenery, bordered by towering mountains that provided shelter and protection. It was untouched and pure—a place where they could begin again.

The candle's glow brightened as if in agreement, and the air around them shimmered with golden light.

Magic pulsed through the earth.

Before their eyes, the landscape shifted. A small village rose from the ground as if it had always been there, waiting for them to arrive.

And at the heart of it, perched upon a gentle hill, stood a house.

It was colorful, warm, alive—a place of refuge, of hope.

Alma's lips parted in awe as she stepped forward, the candle's glow reflecting in her tear-filled eyes.

This was their new beginning.

This was Encanto.

And at its heart stood their new home—Casita.