The Cave of Writings. Part 2

The figure on the throne remained motionless, but its aura grew denser, heavier, like the air before a storm. The mana emanating from it began to pulse, rolling through the cave in waves. The flickering lights along the walls trembled, the books on the shelves rustled, and the quills floating in the air spun faster, their elements—fire, ice, wind—merging into a chaotic dance. Wild felt the force pressing against him, seeping into his skin, his bones, the faint sparks of mana smoldering within. His throat tightened further, his breath rasping, almost painful, yet he didn't retreat. He met the figure's red eyes, awaiting something—a verdict, an answer, an end.

Then the mana condensed. It gathered before the throne, a black mist swirling into a vortex that crackled and sparked like lightning. From this chaos, a form emerged—blurry at first, then sharpening. Metal, wood, rotting flesh—pieces fused together like a puzzle torn from a nightmare. It was the puppet, the one who'd knocked him down, given him the amulet, saved Tekra. Her goggles glinted in the flickering light, her wooden mouth twisted into a grin, and her body creaked with each motion, sustained by the magic leaking from her like breath.

The figure on the throne raised a hand—or whatever lay beneath the cloak—and the puppet stepped forward, advancing straight toward Wild. He stumbled back a step, his weak legs buckling, but he didn't fall—she halted a pace away, her head tilting, her eyes behind the goggles fixing on him with that same mocking sharpness. The air between them shivered with mana, and Wild felt his own sparks respond, trembling like strings beneath a musician's fingers.

"Now," the puppet said, her voice rough and grating, like the scrape of a rusted mechanism, "your training begins." She straightened, her metallic hand creaking as it pointed at him. "Prepare yourself. Magic. Mana control. You wanted this, didn't you? Here it is." Her words weren't an invitation but a command, tossed carelessly, as if she had no doubt he'd obey. Her grin widened, baring her nail-like teeth, a gesture both terrifying and taunting.

Wild froze. His mind spun like the quills in the air. Training? Magic? This was what he'd wanted—or thought he'd wanted. He recalled his novellas, his dreams of a masterpiece, his feeble attempts to ignite mana sparks like Tekra. He remembered the dream-god's words: "Write it yourself." And the puppet's: "Prove you're not useless." Now it stood before him—real, tangible, but heavy, a stone he wasn't sure he could lift. His heart beat unevenly, his throat still gripped by that invisible hand, but he nodded—hesitantly, yet resolutely. He didn't know what lay ahead, but he knew one thing: he was tired of being nothing.

The puppet snorted, her creaking frame turning toward the obelisk, then back to him. "Good," she said, her voice dipping lower, almost menacing. "Then watch." She raised a hand, and the mana flowing from her surged forward like a river. It brushed a quill—the one burning red—and it flared brighter, morphing into a sphere of fire that hovered in the air. Then she directed the stream to another, the icy one, and it solidified, becoming a sharp icicle that thudded to the floor. "This is mana," she said, her grin unwavering. "Yours is inside you too. Find it. Control it. Or it'll burn you."

Wild stared at the fire, the ice, the puppet, feeling his own sparks tremble harder. He extended a hand—slowly, clumsily, like a marionette with tangled strings. His fingers shook, and a faint light—pale, nearly invisible—flickered at their tips. It was his mana, his power, but so small, so pitiful compared to what the puppet wielded. He clenched his fist, trying to strengthen it, but the light blinked out, leaving an emptiness in his chest.

The puppet laughed—short, sharp, like the snap of breaking wood. "You're weak," she said, her goggles flashing. "But this is the start. Learn. Or perish." She stepped back, her body creaking, the mana around her thickening like a shadow. The figure on the throne remained silent, but its eyes watched, piercing through him, and Wild felt this wasn't just the puppet speaking—it was something greater, something that knew his past, his futility, his fear.

He stood in the cave, surrounded by books, quills, and flames, staring at his hands. Training had begun, and with it came a choice—to grow stronger or break. He thought of Tekra, her blood beneath the rubble, her warmth, and gripped the amulet in his pocket, still hot. He didn't know if she lived, didn't know if he'd return to her, but he knew one thing: he had to try. Even if it consumed him.