The Cave of Writings. Part 7

The day of the gathering arrived swiftly. Vild walked alongside the elves—three of the village's mightiest, their dark faces etched with scars, their ashen hair woven into tight braids.

They were masters of hand-to-hand combat—their sinewy, root-hard hands capable of shattering bones with a single blow. Yet mana flowed within them too—cold and sharp as a blade, ready to flare at a moment's notice.

Kaelka had stayed behind in the village, her silver eyes following him with a smile. "Tel'vani sin'tara esh'tal! (Come back alive!)" she called out, and Vild nodded, his rasping voice too slow to reply.

They emerged from the cave through a narrow tunnel, and the world unfurled before him—dense, shadowed forests and mountains smoking on the horizon. The gathering took place on a plain at the foot of the cliffs, where hundreds of figures had already assembled.

Vild stared, his uneven eyes widening at the sight—elves, humans, orcs, dwarves, even winged beings with feathers for hair. They were all different, yet united by a strength that hung in the air, thick with mana.

The elves beside him—the tall one with scars, the woman with a braid, and the silent one with a dagger—strode with confidence. Their dark skin gleamed in the sunlight, their sharp ears twitching as they caught the murmur of the crowd.

Vild spotted the Dakota clan—the main branch—standing at the center of the plain. Their green tunics, emblazoned with a crest of crossed blades above a flame, fluttered in the wind. Their warriors, tall and sturdy, gripped rune-carved swords.

He searched for Tekra, his heart pounding faster, but she wasn't among them—only unfamiliar faces, stern and cold. Tarvek, his uncle, stood at the forefront—his sharp features and icy eyes striking even from a distance.

Other clans ringed the plain—orcs with bark-like skin and axes the size of men; dwarves, short but broad, their beards braided with metal, muttering over their hammers.

The winged ones—called Aeri, as the scarred elf whispered—hovered above the crowd, their feathers glinting gold and blue. Vild felt small, weak; his crooked face and trembling hands seemed alien amid such power.

He clutched the amulet in his pocket, its warmth a reminder of the doll, the throne, the question—who sat there? Fear still lingered, but now he pressed forward, flanked by the elves whose steps thundered like drums.

The scarred elf—Tal'vir, his name was—slapped him on the shoulder, his voice rough: "Sin'eshar vadis tel'quar! (Don't stand there like trash!)" Vild nodded, his rasping exhale his only reply, and straightened as best he could.

The gathering began—voices rumbled, mana trembled in the air, and Vild gazed at the Dakota, thinking of Tekra. He longed to find her, but he knew: first, he had to endure this.