The Cave of Writings. Part 6

The fire crackled, casting flickers of light across Kaelka's face—her dark skin seemed to glow warmer in its embrace, and her silver eyes shimmered like moonstones. Vild watched her, his rasping breath mingling with her laughter, and his thoughts drifted to Tekra—her tousled hair, her warm embraces.

He clenched his fist, feeling the muscles, honed over the past year, tense beneath his skin. His body had grown stronger, yet his face—crooked, with one eye larger than the other, a mouth like a jagged scar—remained the same deformity.

"I don't want to be this," he thought, realizing for the first time that he might change not just his strength, but his appearance. The magic the doll had spoken of could do it—erase the ugliness, remake him into someone new, no longer Vild the Freak.

Kaelka nudged him in the side, her ashen hair falling across her face, and said, "Sin'vethar esh'tal vadis kwe? (You're quiet again—what's wrong with you?)" Her voice was bright yet soft, and Vild rasped in reply, "Tel'quar sin'eshar… nara. (Thinking… about a lot.)"

His mind spun around the throne in the cave—that cloaked figure whose mana choked the air. Who was it? A god? The Author of the Apocalypse? Or merely the master of the doll that had sent him here?

He feared that being—its red eyes, its aura—but the fear gnawed at him from within, like a worm. He wanted to overcome it, to learn who sat there—not for power, but for himself.

Kaelka spoke again, her tone growing serious: "Tel'vani esh'tar nara sin'quar. Dae'kota vadis tel'eshar sin'tara. (There's a gathering soon. They say the Dakota will be there.)" Vild froze, his heart tightening—Tekra, his family, perhaps alive, perhaps he'd see them.

He pictured her—grown now, with long dark hair, clad in the clan's green tunic, fire in her hands. The thought struck him like a blow—hope tangled with dread that she wouldn't recognize him, that he was still useless.

"Kwe sin'tara esh'vani? (What's this gathering?)" he rasped, his voice breaking, but Kaelka understood. "Tel'quar nara sin'eshar vadis tel'vani. Sin'tara esh'tal Dae'kota nara. (A big event, all the clans. The Dakota are coming too.)" She shrugged as she answered.

Vild stared at his hands—thin but sturdy, with crooked fingers—and thought, "I could go there." But fear whispered, "What if you fail again? What if she turns away from your face?"

He recalled the doll—its creaking frame, its metal hand, its words: "Learn. Or perish." Perhaps magic could grant him not just strength, but a new face—one that wouldn't terrify, wouldn't shame him.

Kaelka teased him, nudging him again: "Sin'eshar vadis kwe tel'quar? (What's with your talking—did your tongue break?)" He frowned, but her laughter was kind, and he rasped back, "Nara esh'tal… sin'vethar. (Learning… slowly.)"

The elves around them—tall, dark-skinned, with pointed ears—sat by the fire, their daggers glinting at their belts. The village was cramped, its homes of root and stone pressed close, the air thick with the scent of forest and magic.

Vild thought of the world beyond—the forests encircling the cave, the mountains where the Dakota monastery stood, the sky the Author of the Apocalypse had seen. He didn't know how that world had changed in a year, but he longed to see it—and himself within it.

Fear still clung to him, but something else was growing now—a desire not just to survive, but to prove himself. He gripped the amulet in his pocket, feeling its warmth, and glanced at Kaelka—her curiosity an anchor in this darkness.

She didn't know his past, didn't know Tekra, but her warmth gave him strength. He wanted to ask her about the throne, the figure, but the words caught in his throat—for now, he simply listened to her laughter.