Echoes of Tales. Part 3

Wild could wait no longer. The silence of the estate, the tolling bell, the emptiness of Tekra's room—it all pressed down on him like a slab of stone poised to crush his fragile frame. He didn't want to acknowledge what his mind whispered. He refused to believe that the mournful chants drifting from the hill could be tied to her. But ignorance was worse—it gnawed at him from within, corrosive as acid. He had to know. He had to see for himself.

He resolved to go to the monastery—not by the main road, where servants or warriors might spot him, but through back paths of tangled thorns and narrow stone passages behind the estate. His weak, trembling legs snagged on roots and rocks, his hands grasping at branches to keep from falling. His coat, old and tattered, caught on brambles, leaving scraps of fabric in his wake. He didn't want to be seen—didn't want those contemptuous stares, didn't want to hear whispers about his deformity. But fear drove him forward, fear of losing the only person who saw him not as a monster, but as a brother.

The journey was arduous. The sun, veiled by gray clouds, dipped toward the horizon, and a sharp, cold wind lashed his face. His breath came in ragged puffs, his heart pounding so fiercely it seemed it might tear through his chest. Then he felt it—a strange warmth blooming within. It started in his chest, faint, almost imperceptible, but grew brighter with each step. Sparks—tiny, quivering, like the ones Tekra had shown him on her fingertip—flickered in his palms. They were barely visible, but he felt their heat, their pulse. Mana. It surged within him, responding to his anxiety, his refusal to surrender. He didn't understand what it meant, but he clung to the sensation as proof he was still alive, that he could do something.

His thoughts tangled. He pictured Tekra—her smile, her voice, her arms around him—then saw her lying still, eyes closed, surrounded by those mournful chants. No. He clenched his fists, the mana sparks flaring briefly before fading, leaving only cold. He wouldn't lose her. He couldn't. She'd promised to stay by his side, and he believed her. Yet the bell still rang in his ears, each toll striking his chest like a hammer on an anvil.

When he finally reached the monastery, the main crowd had dispersed. The path led him to the rear of the building—a low structure of dark stone, draped in ivy, with narrow windows leaking faint candlelight. In the courtyard, only priests remained, their long gray robes swaying in the wind. They stood by a grave—freshly dug, its loose soil ringed with wreaths of dry flowers. The chants had faded, replaced by soft prayers. Wild hid behind a tree, his heart thudding so loudly he feared they'd hear it. He wanted to step closer, to see who was being buried, but his legs refused to move. What if it was her? What if Tekra…

He took a step forward—and was spotted. One of the priests—a tall man with a wrinkled face and gray hair tied in a knot—turned toward him. Wild froze, bracing for a shout, a scornful glare, a command to leave. But instead, the man approached, his movements slow, almost gentle. Then he did something Wild never expected: he knelt on the damp earth and embraced him.

Wild went rigid. The priest's arms, warm and strong, encircled his thin shoulders, drawing him close. It was so sudden, so foreign, that he didn't know how to react. His body, accustomed to rejection, cold stares, and isolation, suddenly felt warmth—not just physical, but something deeper, almost forgotten. After Tekra, no one had touched him like this. The priest's voice, low and soothing, cut through the clamor in his mind: "Don't worry, little one. Your sister is visiting. She's alive. Don't worry."

The words hit like thunder. Visiting? Alive? Wild trembled, his mind struggling to accept it. He wanted to ask, to croak out something, but his throat tightened, releasing only a faint moan. The priest didn't let go, holding him steady, and that warmth began to melt the icy knot of fear in his chest. Relief mingled with something else—doubt, unease. Why hadn't she told him? Why had she left without warning?

Then he heard her. A voice—clear, bright, so familiar it stole his breath. "Wild!" Tekra called from behind, her footsteps pounding the earth. The priest released him, and Wild turned, nearly collapsing from weakness. There she stood—alive, unharmed, her braid disheveled and dress smudged with dirt. Her eyes sparkled, her smile wider than ever. She rushed to him, wrapping him in a hug so tight he could hardly breathe, her voice ringing in his ear: "I looked everywhere for you! I'm sorry I didn't come—they sent me to Aunt's in the next valley. I wanted to tell you, but it all happened so fast… I'm sorry, Wild!"

He couldn't respond. His trembling, feeble hands clutched her dress. Tears—hot, unfamiliar—stung his eyes, but he held them back. She was here. Alive. Not dead, not buried, but warm, real, embracing him. The terror that had gripped his heart dissolved, giving way to something new—a blend of relief and a strange, almost frightening joy. A sweet truth stronger than all his nightmares.

"I thought you were at the estate," Tekra went on, pulling back to look at his face. "And here you are! How did you even get here?" She laughed, and the sound was like music. Wild only nodded, his raspy voice refusing to cooperate. He couldn't tell her about his fears, how the bell had nearly killed his hope. But she was here, and that was enough.

The priest stood, brushing off his robe. "Someone else passed today," he said quietly, nodding toward the grave. "One of the warriors. You came just in time, little one." Wild barely heard him. All he saw was Tekra, all he felt were her hands on his shoulders. The mana sparks that had surged within him settled, but he knew they'd return. And maybe, with her help, he'd learn to wield them.