Special Chapter: Days with Tekra

Memories of his time with Tekra surfaced in Wild's darkest moments—in the elves' cave, under the puppet's blows, in the solitude of his frail body. They were a light that refused to dim, even beneath the weight of his new life. These were days before he knew of the puppet, the amulet, or the Author of the Apocalypse—times when he was simply her brother, and she was his world.

One day, when Wild was about eight and Tekra fifteen, the summer at the Dakota estate turned unbearably hot. The sun blazed, heating the stone walls until they radiated warmth, and the air in his small room grew thick as soup. He lay on the floor, his thin body slick with sweat, his crooked legs trembling even at rest. Tekra burst in like a whirlwind, her disheveled hair sticking to her cheeks, her dress—light and thin—clinging to her frame from perspiration. "Wild, you're soaked!" she exclaimed, her voice brimming with laughter and concern. She leaned over him, her face so close he could see the beads of sweat on her forehead. "Come on, I'm bathing you!"

He wanted to protest—his raspy voice would only muster a groan—but Tekra gave him no chance. She hooked her arms under his, her palms warm and slightly sticky, and dragged him to an old wooden tub in the corner of her room. The tub was rough, its paint peeling, but she'd filled it with well water—cool, with a faint earthy scent. "Take off that rag," she ordered, pointing at his tattered shirt, and began pulling it off herself, ignoring his feeble attempts to resist.

Her hands moved quickly but gently, and soon he sat in the water, his bony legs dangling over the edge, his crooked back hunched. Tekra rolled up her sleeves, her dress hiking above her knees to reveal tanned legs, and got to work. She splashed water over his head, her fingers tangling in his matted hair, her laughter ringing through the air. "You're like a wet kitten!" she teased, flicking water into his face. It ran down her arms, dripping from her elbows, and her dress grew damp, clinging to her body and outlining her slender form. Wild watched her, his uneven eyes catching every motion, feeling a warmth—not from the heat, but from her presence.

She grabbed a chunk of rough, herb-scented soap and scrubbed his back, her palms gliding over his bony skin. "You're so skinny, Wild," she said, but there was no judgment in her tone, only tenderness. She leaned closer, her chest brushing his shoulder by accident, and he froze, his face flushing though he didn't know why. Tekra didn't notice—she kept humming something cheerful, dousing him with water from a ladle. Droplets slid down her neck, leaving shimmering trails, and she laughed as he tried to dodge, his weak arms flailing like a puppet's.

Then she pulled him from the tub, wrapping him in an old blanket that smelled of dust and her scent—a mix of herbs and the faint smoke of magic. "Sit here," she said, plopping him on the floor, and flopped down beside him, her wet hair sticking to her face. She was a mess, her dress spotted with water, but she looked alive, vibrant, like the tiny flame she'd shown him as a child. "See how nice this is?" she asked, hugging him through the blanket. Her warmth seeped into him, and he nodded, his raspy "Yes" barely audible.

Such days were rare but unforgettable. Sometimes she'd make him sit while she combed his hair, her fingers snagging on knots as she grumbled, "You're like a wild animal, Wild!" Other times, she'd bring him food—bits of bread or apples pilfered from the kitchen—feeding him by hand, laughing when he clumsily snapped at them with his mouth. Her care was simple, but it held everything he knew of love. Even now, in the elves' cave, under the weight of their loads and the puppet's strikes, he clung to those memories like a lifeline.