The hut door creaked, a sigh of tired wood. ZE-RAK didn't light a torch, letting the protective darkness swallow him. The gloom was a balm on his invisible wounds, a shield against the accusing stares and the whispers that, since the spirituality lesson, had settled inside him like parasites.
"You... will... die."
The Priestess's words still echoed. But here, muffled by the silence, they lost their deadly power. He collapsed onto his mat, his back pressed against the packed earth. In this absolute blackness, the outside world ceased to exist. The wind, the voices, life itself—everything seemed to belong to another plane.
He breathed deeply, eyelids closed. No images came. No simulations. His mind, usually so sharp, remained strangely empty. As if something inside him had broken, leaving a gaping space where a flame once burned.
"If you break this taboo, it is inevitable that you will die. It is not a punishment. It is a consequence."
The words had shaken his beliefs. What if his father had truly broken a taboo? This idea had seeped into him like a slow poison, corroding his faith. Part of him wanted to reject this thought, but another—colder, more lucid—whispered that it might all be true.
Suddenly, a strange sensation ran over the back of his neck. Faint. Like a draft that didn't exist. He opened his eyes in the dark, listening intently. Nothing. Only the crackling of the thatched roof and the beats of his own heart, steady, muffled, almost foreign.
"Hallucinations..." he breathed.
But the sensation persisted, subtle like a low note at the edge of hearing. Something floated in the air, a soothing presence that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. It was as if the darkness was whispering to him that everything would be alright. That all was not lost.
He let himself be soothed. His eyelids grew heavy, not from fatigue, but as if he was surrendering to a silent melody. The hut slept with him that night, understanding his need to disappear from the world. Even the earth beneath him seemed to breathe slowly, at his own rhythm.
...
A cool breeze seeped through the cracks. Dawn was slowly rising, but ZE-RAK resisted its call. His body felt twice its weight, as if he had slept under an invisible slab. The memories of the previous day floated on the surface of his mind, but whenever he tried to grasp them, they vanished like smoke.
When he finally opened his eyes, the morning light seemed aggressive, almost hostile. Every ray filtering through the thatch felt like a command to get up, to face this world that had betrayed his father. A dull rage rose, quickly smothered by an even deeper weariness.
He sat up slowly, his muscles numb from more than just sleep. The sounds of the camp waking up seemed distant, as if separated by a thick pane of glass. Outside, life was reclaiming its rights, but he felt disconnected, a spectator of his own existence. An intruder in his own tribe.
He closed his eyes, trying to find refuge in his imaginary world. But the mental landscape remained blurry, its outlines distorted in a thick fog. The images that usually appeared with clarity now slipped away, elusive. His sanctuary was escaping him. The silence, once comforting, suddenly became unsettling.
"Well..." he sighed, rubbing his face. "No choice."
His hand brushed against the spear leaning against the wall. An almost imperceptible vibration ran through his fingers, different from the soothing sensation of the night. Harsher, older. For a moment, he thought he felt the beat of a sleeping heart inside the wood.
His empty stomach finally pulled him towards the canteen. Maybe hunger explained these strange sensations. Maybe everything would go back to normal once he had eaten. But on the way, as he crossed the still-sleeping camp, that same strange tingling ran over his neck again. This time, the feeling was different—less soothing, more insistent. As if the day that was beginning carried a demand that the night had not.
--
Arriving at the canteen,confusion overwhelmed him. The meal was unusually light—a simple, clear soup, very different from the substantial rations of previous days. The steam rising from it formed pale, almost living patterns that climbed towards the roof.
In the ZORA tribe, one did not eat for pleasure. One ate to survive. To harden the flesh and the will. But this morning, the meal seemed designed to maintain hunger rather than satisfy it. A kind of silent test.
He didn't think about it for long, too absorbed by his unease. After swallowing the bland soup, the warmth of the liquid provided meager consolation. Enough for a semblance of motivation to be reborn.
He stood up, forcing himself to move.
"Right, can't be lazy," he murmured. "I'm going to go train a bit."
A thought emerged, clear and sharp despite the mental fog: he wanted his spear. Not as a training tool, but as a presence. As if the weapon, from absorbing his sweat and blood, had become a part of him. An extension of his being.
"What could I do? I want my spear. Maybe I should go practice with the spear."
On these words, he left the canteen, unaware that he was perhaps heading towards that sensation he had begun to perceive—that strange connection with the world around him.
---
Back in his hut, his fingers closed around the familiar wood of the spear. The vibration he had felt earlier was still there, more distinct now. It wasn't just a physical sensation, but something deeper, as if the weapon itself had a memory, a history that was trying to speak to him.
He stood still for a moment, spear in hand, listening to this silent presence. The fog in his mind seemed to thicken, but paradoxically, this connection with the weapon brought him a strange comfort.
Perhaps in this confusion, in this loss of bearings, something new was beginning to emerge. Something he didn't understand yet, but which, in an inexplicable way, made him feel like he wasn't completely alone.
The spear in his hand was no longer just a tool. It was becoming a bridge to something he was only beginning to perceive, a whisper from the world that was only waiting for his attention to reveal itself.
And ZE-RAK, in his state of fragility and involuntary openness, was finally ready to listen.