Voice of the Past. Part 1

Wild returned to the estate, his steps slow and uneven, like those of a man bearing a burden he couldn't shed. The amulet rested in the inner pocket of his tattered coat, cold and heavy, like a shard of ice pressed against his chest. He felt its presence—not just physically, but deeper, in that part of him where mana sparks quivered in response to his thoughts. The puppet, her creaking form, her grin, her words—they swirled in his mind, an echo of the dream-god's voice. He wanted to understand what this amulet was, what it meant, and the only person he could trust was Tekra.

The estate greeted him with its familiar silence—cold, oppressive, steeped in the scent of old stone and dust. He passed through the great hall, where torchlight shadows danced on the walls, and headed toward Tekra's room. His legs trembled, his back still ached from the fall, but he pressed on, clinging to the walls like a lifeline. The amulet burned against him through the fabric—not literally, but as a reminder: "Squeeze it, and you'll be by her side." He hadn't squeezed it. Not yet. But the thought pulsed within him, a second heartbeat.

Tekra was in her room, hunched over a table cluttered with scrolls and herbs. Her hair, now longer than in their childhood, fell across her face, her fingers stained green from mixing some potion. When she saw him, she looked up, and her eyes—bright as embers—lit with joy. "Wild!" she exclaimed, rising. "Where have you been? I was worried!" She stepped toward him, enveloping him in a hug, heedless of his trembling hands and crooked posture. Her warmth was familiar, soothing, but this time it couldn't banish the chill within him.

He opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to ask about the amulet, the puppet, what it all might mean. But as the thought shaped into words, his throat constricted. Not just a lump—it was like a hand, invisible yet strong, squeezing his neck. Pain flared, sharp and suffocating, as if something choked him from within. He rasped, his already feeble voice reduced to a stifled groan. Tekra recoiled, her face twisting with alarm. "Wild, what's wrong?" she cried, grabbing his shoulders. "Are you hurt? Say something!"

He couldn't. The pain intensified with every attempt to force out words about the puppet, the amulet. It wasn't just a physical barrier—it was magic, a curse binding his silence. He crumpled to his knees, his hands clawing at his throat, trying to tear free of invisible shackles. Tekra dropped beside him, her fingers glowing with a faint greenish light—she'd been studying healing magic, but her skills were still raw. "Hold on, I'll help," she said, her voice trembling with desperation. She pressed her palms to his chest, whispering spells, but the light flickered and died before it could take hold. Her magic was too weak, too unrefined to break whatever held him.

Wild gasped, not from the pain, but from the inability to speak. His mind screamed, words from two lives clamoring to escape, yet his throat remained mute. In desperation, he reached for the floor, his shaking fingers digging into the dust. He began to scratch—clumsily, unevenly, like a child gripping a pen for the first time. He meant to write: "The puppet gave me an amulet. What is it?" But the lines beneath his finger formed differently. Not runes of this world, not the Dakota tongue, but letters—Latin, from his past life. "Help me," he scrawled, then: "I'm lost." These were words from the world where he'd been a hikikomori, where he'd written his futile novellas, where he'd died under gunfire. They didn't belong here, and Tekra, staring at them, furrowed her brow.

"What's this?" she asked, her voice thick with confusion. "Wild, I don't understand. This isn't our language." She traced a finger over the letters, but they remained alien, fragments of his past lodged in the present. He wanted to scream, to explain, to tell her everything—his death, his rebirth, the god in his dream, the amulet in his pocket. But the magic strangled him, and the words on the floor were the only cry he could muster—a cry she couldn't hear.

Tekra gripped his hand, her eyes glistening with tears. "I'll help you," she said softly. "I don't know what's happening, but I'll find a way. Listen—I've heard of teachers, wandering mages who know more than the clan's mentors. They could lift this, could teach you. I was looking for them for myself, but now… now it's for you." Her words spilled out quickly, trembling with determination. "We'll figure it out, Wild. Together."

He stared at her, his chest heaving with labored breaths. The amulet in his pocket felt alive, pulsing like a second heart. He could squeeze it—right now, vanish, find the puppet, seek answers. But something held him back. Tekra. Her warmth. Her faith in him. It wasn't a lie, not an illusion—it was the only truth he knew. Yet the amulet whispered, beckoned, and the choice loomed again, heavy as stone: trust his sister or trust the unknown?

His fingers brushed the floor once more, tracing another word from his past: "Why." Why was he here? Why was he silenced? Why was his life an endless battle with futility? Tekra didn't understand, but she squeezed his hand tighter. "I'll find them," she repeated. "Prove you're stronger than this." And in her words, he heard an echo of the dream-god: "Write it yourself." But how could he write when even his voice was stolen?