The Cave of Writings. Part 3

The puppet stood before Wild, her goggles glinting in the glow of the flickering lights, her grin twisting like a crack in wood. She tilted her head, as if studying him—hesitant, weak, with trembling hands and extinguished mana sparks. Her creaking frame tensed, the mana around her thickened, and she spoke again, her voice sharp as a whip's crack. "You waver," she said, her tone dripping with contempt. "Indecision is death. With that body, you're feeble. Dead weight. Want magic? Learn to stand first."

Wild didn't have time to respond. Didn't even have time to breathe. Her metallic hand, swift as lightning, slammed into his stomach with such force that the air was knocked from his lungs. Pain erupted through his body, sharp and blinding, and he flew backward like a rag doll discarded by a child. The cave's corridor blurred into a streak—books, quills, lights merging into a whirlwind of colors as his frail form hurtled through the air with terrifying speed. He crashed into something—or against something—and consciousness snuffed out like a candle in the wind, plunging him into darkness.

His flight wasn't mere falling—it was a bullet fired from an unseen gun. The kilometer-long corridor streaked beneath him, the walls humming from the pressure, the mana in the air sparking in reaction to his motion. He didn't feel it—his mind had shut down the instant the puppet's fist met his gut—but his body kept moving, obeying laws of physics that seemed warped by magic here. The uselessness she'd spoken of manifested in this flight: he was baggage, dead weight, unable even to control his own path.

Then he was caught. Hands—strong, unyielding—seized him, halting his momentum. Wild came to, his eyes fluttering open, and the first thing he saw were faces. Not human. Pointed ears, skin dark as charred wood, and hair pale as ash cascaded over their shoulders. Elves—but not the ones from fairy tales or his novellas, not graceful or kind. These were primal, dangerous, their eyes glowing with a cold light like stars in a moonless sky. Their clothes were rough, fashioned from hides and bark, and bone-carved daggers hung at their waists.

They held him, but not with care—their grip was harsh, almost painful. One, with a long braid slung over his shoulder, sneered and shouted, his voice snapping like breaking branches.

"Ava sin'thalas, kwe vadis tar'esh!" (Stop tossing trash down here!) he roared, glaring upward into the corridor's darkness whence Wild had come. His words were Elvish, melodic yet rough, like unpolished stone.

"Il'eth nara sin'vethar!" (He's wearing us out with this!) added another, his face marked with dark scars, releasing Wild so abruptly that he crumpled to the floor. His weak legs buckled, and he fell to his knees, gasping for air. Pain throbbed in his stomach, his back ached from the impact, but he heard them—their anger, their disdain.

"Tel'quar esh'vani, sin'tara vel!" (This pitiful scrap of flesh isn't our burden!) spat a third, a woman with a dagger in hand, her ash-colored hair bound in a tight braid. She spat on the ground beside Wild, her gaze brimming with disgust.

He lay on the cold stone, his raspy breaths mingling with their voices. These elves weren't the heroes of legend—they were guardians, or prisoners, or something else tied to this cave, to the figure on the throne. Their words cut like knives, though he couldn't grasp their language—only the tone, the fury. He was trash, dead weight, as the puppet had said, and now even these beings saw the same. His mind reeled: he wanted to prove otherwise, wanted to stand, but his body refused. Futility cloaked him again, a shadow, but it carried a new hue—anger. Not at the elves, not at the puppet, but at himself.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, and faint mana sparks flared at his fingertips—tiny, but alive. The elves fell silent, their eyes narrowing as they watched. The scarred one stepped closer, his hand resting on his dagger's hilt. "Kwe vadis, sin'eshar?" (What are you, wretched thing?) he asked, his voice quieter but laced with menace.

Wild didn't answer. Couldn't. But he lifted his head, his uneven eyes meeting their stare. He was weak, he was trash, but he was here. And he would learn—even if it killed him.