Echoes of Tales. Part 1

Two years had passed since Wild came into this world—two years filled with cold, silence, and gazes that cut deeper than any blade. His body, still frail and ungainly, had finally begun to obey him. He had learned to walk—if one could call it that. His steps were uneven, his legs—long and thin like a spider's—trembling beneath the weight of his gaunt, disproportionate frame. Each time he stood, his knees buckled, and his branch-like arms flailed for support. He fell often, leaving scrapes on his pale, almost translucent skin, but he rose again. Not to prove anything to others, but because he knew Tekra watched him with a smile.

The Dakota estate, majestic and somber, was both his home and his prison. Towering walls of black stone, streaked with silvery veins of runes, loomed over him like silent wardens. The courtyards, where warriors honed their swordsmanship and mages murmured over their spells, were forbidden to him. Servants, clad in dark green tunics embroidered with the clan's crest—two crossed blades above a flame—averted their eyes as he passed. Their whispers, hushed but venomous, reached his ears: "Freak," "Dakota's shame," "Why was he allowed to live?" Even the servants' children, playing in the yard, fell silent when he appeared, staring with a mix of fear and scorn.

Lirena and Xavir scarcely acknowledged him. His mother, whose footsteps echoed through the corridors like the tread of fate, passed by without a glance. Her face, beautiful and cold as a marble statue, remained impassive, but Wild felt her disgust—it lingered in the air like the stench of ash after a battle. His father was seldom home, often departing with warrior bands to distant frontiers, but when he returned, his presence weighed heavily. Once, Wild crossed his path by chance in the great hall—Xavir stopped, looked down at him, and something akin to anger flickered in his eyes. "You are not mine," he said quietly before walking away. Those words reverberated in Wild's mind whenever he sought even a drop of strength within himself.

But there was Tekra. Now nine years old, she had grown—not just in stature, but in confidence. Her dark, thick hair was now woven into a messy braid, and her eyes, bright as embers, shone with mischief and warmth. She hadn't abandoned him, despite the family's glares, the servants' whispers, or the growing demands of her own lessons in magic and combat. Tekra came to him every evening, bringing tales, laughter, and crumbs of bread she'd偷偷 slipped from dinner. She would sit beside him on the cold, tiled floor and begin to speak, and he would listen, forgetting the ache in his legs and the heaviness in his chest.

His voice remained weak, raspy, like the creak of old wood in the wind. Words came with difficulty, sounds tangling into incoherent mumbles. He tried to speak calmly, but his tongue rebelled, and his throat tightened with effort. Once, he attempted to say "thank you"—for not turning away, for seeing him as a brother. But all that escaped was a choked rasp, like a cough. Tekra laughed—not cruelly, but softly, kindly. "Don't strain yourself, Wild," she said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I understand you without words. You're my brother—I'll always understand."

That evening, she told him a new tale—one he hadn't heard before. They sat in his small room, where the only light was the faint glow of a torch seeping in from the corridor. Tekra crossed her legs, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress, her voice dropping as if sharing a secret. "Listen," she began, leaning closer. "This is about the Author of the Apocalypse."

Wild froze. The name struck his ears—not just for its oddity, but for something familiar, buried deep in his memory. He didn't know why, but the word "Author" sent a shiver through him, an echo from his past life.

"The Author of the Apocalypse is one of the gods," Tekra continued, her eyes gleaming in the dimness. "He's not like the Dragon God who rules the skies, or the King of the World who holds the earth in his hands. Nor like Laplace, who sees all that was and will be, or the Goddess Medusa, who turns foes to stone. The Author of the Apocalypse is different. They say he crafts the end—not just destroys, but writes it, like a story. He takes the fates of people, gods, entire worlds, and weaves them into his tales. And when he's done, everything crumbles."

Wild stared at her, his breath faltering. He didn't understand why this tale felt more than a childish fancy. Images flashed through his mind—scattered manuscripts, the sound of an explosion, his own words unread by anyone. "Author," he croaked, struggling to form the word. His voice broke into a hoarse cough, but Tekra only smiled.

"Yes, Author," she nodded. "Strange name, right? I asked my mentor why he's called that, but he just shrugged. Said it's an old legend, no one knows for sure. Maybe because he writes the end, like you scribble your doodles?" She winked, gesturing to his hands—he sometimes traced patterns in the dusty floor, unconsciously mimicking the motions of a pen on paper from long ago.

Wild fell silent. His heart beat faster than usual, a strange sensation swelling in his chest—a blend of curiosity and unease. It felt as though this tale wasn't just a story. It was a key—to something greater, something tying his past life to this one. He didn't know what "mana" was, as Tekra spoke of it, nor if he could ever conjure a flame like hers. But for the first time in two years, he felt something stir within him—not mere survival, but a spark that might grow into something more.

Tekra, meanwhile, kept spinning her tale, her voice weaving patterns in the air like threads of a spell. And Wild listened, clinging to every word, as if they might reveal who he was now—and why he was here.