The Cave of Writings. Part 4

Wild lay on the cold stone, his body trembling with pain and exhaustion, the elves' gazes sharp as the daggers at their waists piercing him. The air at the corridor's end carried the scent of dampness and something ancient—perhaps moss, perhaps blood soaked into the rock over centuries. The flickering lights along the walls cast shadows across their dark faces, highlighting sharp cheekbones and ash-pale hair that contrasted starkly with their charred-wood skin. They didn't move, but their tension was palpable, a bowstring drawn taut. The scarred elf's hand still hovered over his dagger, his question—"Kwe vadis, sin'eshar? (What are you, wretched thing?)"—hanging in the air like a challenge.

Wild didn't know how to answer. His throat was gripped by that invisible hand, his voice a raspy whisper barely audible even to himself. He clenched his fists, mana sparks flaring briefly at his fingertips before fading, but it was enough to make the elves exchange glances. Their eyes—cold, glowing like stars in the void—narrowed, yet a new glint flickered within them. Not respect, no, but curiosity laced with disdain. They saw him as trash, yet trash that stirred, that dared to reach for something more.

The silence didn't last. From the corridor's shadows, beyond the elves, another figure emerged—smaller, more graceful, yet bearing the same wild elegance. It was a girl, an elf, roughly his height, though her age was hard to guess. Her skin was a shade lighter than the others', a dark walnut hue, and her ash-pale hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, unbound unlike the rest. Her face was beautiful—not the ethereal perfection ascribed to elves in tales, but a standard that set her apart among these primal beings. There were elves with sharper features and brighter eyes, yet she was normal, alive, with a slight asymmetry in the curve of her lips that made her almost human.

She stopped, her gaze landing on Wild, and fear flashed in her eyes. Not the averted glances of the estate's servants recoiling from his deformity, but a genuine, childlike fear, as if she'd never seen something so alien. Her pointed ears twitched, she stepped back, then froze, as if wrestling with herself. Wild watched her, and something in her reaction echoed Tekra—the same look of surprise and warmth when she'd first called him "funny" as a child. But here, there were no words, no shared tongue to bridge them.

The elves around her whispered, their voices sharp as wind through leaves. "Sin'vethar esh'tal! (He's scaring her!)" snapped the scarred one, his grip tightening on his dagger. "Tel'quar vadis nara! (Let him get out, we don't need him here!)" added the woman with the braid, her tone venomous. But the girl raised a hand—a small, firm gesture—and they fell silent, though their glares remained cutting.

She stepped closer to Wild, her movements cautious, like a beast approaching a stranger. Her eyes—pale gray, nearly silver—studied him: his warped face, one eye larger than the other, thin, trembling hands. She didn't know human speech, that much was clear, but her fear slowly gave way to something else—curiosity, almost like Tekra's on that first day. She leaned nearer, her hair falling across her face, and raised a hand, palm open—a gesture free of threat. Then she pointed to herself, then to him, and clasped her fingers together, as if linking something. The motion was simple but clear: she wanted to connect.

Wild froze. His heart, pounding unevenly from pain and fear, faltered. He hadn't expected this—not here, not from elves who branded him trash. He looked at her hand, then at his own body—weak, ugly, useless. Why? Why did she, like Tekra, see something more in him than the rest? His mind whirled: was this a trap? Another mousetrap, like in his past world, where kindness always bore a price? Or was it a chance—a chance not to be alone, even here, in this cave of dread and magic?

He raised his hand slowly, his fingers trembling as always, but he extended it toward her, mirroring her gesture. His palm was cold, pale, with crooked joints, but he clenched it into a fist, then opened it, showing vulnerability. The elves around them tensed, their whispers growing louder—"Kwe sin'tara esh'vani? (What's she doing with this refuse?)"—but the girl ignored them. Her lips twitched into a faint smile, hesitant yet warm, and she nodded, as if agreeing to something.

In that moment, Wild felt something stir within—not mana, not power, but hope, bitter and fragile. He didn't know her name, didn't know why she was here, but her gesture was a light in this darkness. Yet he couldn't forget the puppet, her strike, her words: "Learn. Or perish." Training awaited him, but now, perhaps, he wouldn't face it alone.