Echoes of Tales. Part 2

Tekra leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, as though she feared the walls of the Dakota estate might overhear her words. The room was still, save for the faint crackle of the torch in the corridor breaking the silence. Wild watched her, his uneven eyes catching the glints of light on her face, his raspy breath escaping his chest. She began to speak, and her words wrapped around him like a warm cloak on a cold night.

"More than two hundred years ago," Tekra said, her fingers unconsciously clenching into fists, "the Author of the Apocalypse descended upon humankind. This isn't just a story, Wild—it happened. They say the sky thickened—not with mere clouds, but with something heavy, black as tar. It pressed down on the earth, and people fell to their knees, unable to lift their heads. Then a figure appeared. Massive, spanning the entire continent, taller than mountains, higher than clouds. No one saw its face—just a shadow, blurred yet chilling to the bone. And in its hands, it held a quill."

She paused, her gaze drifting into the distance as if she could see the scene herself. Wild held his breath, his mind clinging to every word. He pictured that quill—not the small one from his past life, when he scribbled his futile novellas, but a colossal, majestic thing carved from the air itself. Tekra continued, her voice deepening, almost reverent.

"The quill was so vast and sharp that everyone on the continent could see it. It hovered above the ground, its lines glowing like lightning. Then, from its tip, a clot fell—dark as night, heavy as fate. It crashed into the earth, and the whole continent trembled. They say even the seas beyond the land churned, and nearby islands sank beneath the waves. Where the clot struck, everything changed. The air grew thick, time twisted, and from cracks in the soil crawled monsters. Beasts no one had ever seen: claws that tore through steel, eyes burning like coals, bodies that yielded to neither sword nor magic."

A shiver ran down Wild's spine. His frail hands trembled, but he couldn't tear his eyes from his sister. Her tale was vivid, almost tangible, and there was something terrifying in it—not just the monsters, but the Author himself. Why was he called that? Why did he write endings? Images from his past life flickered in his mind—stacks of manuscripts, his unread stories. Was it coincidence that this god's name resonated so deeply with his former self?

Tekra fell silent for a moment, her expression softening. She looked at him, a flicker of worry in her eyes. "It was a cruel, bloody battle," she said quietly. "People, mages, warriors—they all fought. Many died. But you know, Wild, I think even in stories like that, there's hope. Because we're still here." She smiled, and that smile was so warm it chased the chill from his bones. Then she did something he hadn't expected—she hugged him.

Her small but strong arms wrapped around his thin shoulders. She pulled him close, heedless of his grotesque skin, his crooked bones, his weakness. Wild froze, his heart pounding. He wasn't used to this—to warmth, to love. In his past life, no one had embraced him without fear or disgust. But here, in this world, only Tekra saw him not as a freak, but as a brother. He breathed in her scent—herbs mingled with the smoke of her magic training—and for the first time in ages, he felt he wasn't alone.

"You're my Wild," she whispered in his ear. "And I'll always be here." Her words were a promise, and he believed her.

But the next day, she didn't come.

Morning dawned with a silence—too deep, too empty. Wild waited for her, sitting on the floor of his room, his eyes fixed on the door. He was accustomed to her footsteps, her voice, her laughter that banished the gloom. But the door remained shut. He waited all day, until the light outside faded to dusk and the shadows in the room stretched long. Tekra didn't come. He tried to stand, leaning against the wall, his legs shaking with effort. Perhaps she was busy? Magic lessons, sword training—he knew her days were full. But something inside told him that wasn't it.

On the second day, he resolved to ask. His voice, hoarse and brittle, barely broke through his throat. He caught the servant—the one who brought his food—and croaked, "Where… Tekra?" The words jumbled into a garbled sound, but the woman understood. She looked at him—for the first time in ages, directly in the eyes—and her face hardened. "Not your concern," she snapped, then left him with a bowl of watery gruel. Wild clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to scream, but his voice failed, releasing only a stifled groan.

The days dragged on, each heavier than the last. He didn't see his sister, didn't hear her voice. The estate, usually alive with sound—the clang of swords, the rustle of cloaks, the murmur of voices—felt hollow. Servants were silent, averting their eyes, while his mother and father, as always, were distant, lost in their own world where he had no place. He tried to search for her himself, hobbling through the corridors, clinging to the walls. His steps echoed in the emptiness, but Tekra was nowhere to be found. He peered into her room—small, with a wooden bed and scattered scrolls—but it was empty, cold as an abandoned tomb.

A week later, the silence shattered with a sound—a deep, resonant tolling of a bell. It came from afar, from the hill where the Dakota clan's monastery stood. Wild froze, his heart constricting. Chanting followed the bell—low, mournful, chilling him to the core. He knew that sound. It was a farewell. Someone had died.

The estate emptied. Servants, warriors, even the shadows seemed to vanish. Everyone had gone to the monastery, leaving him alone. Wild stood in the center of the great hall, his weak legs trembling, his mind screaming. He had to know. He had to find her. With effort, clutching walls and furniture, he began to make his way through the estate. His breathing was labored, each step a stab of pain in his bones, but he pressed on. Corridors, stairs, empty rooms—he searched for Tekra, calling her name with his broken, rasping voice, but only silence answered.

He reached her room again and pushed the door open. Empty. The bed untouched, the scrolls on the floor dusted with a thin layer of grime. His gaze fell on the small wooden table where her knife lay—the one she used in training. It was still there, but Tekra was not. Wild collapsed to his knees, his hands shaking. Where was she? Why hadn't she come? And that bell… that sound of death… He didn't want to think it, but fear gripped his heart like a vise.