The sun was already beating down on the training yard when ZE-RAK began his movements. Few apprentices had gotten up this early, enjoying their four days of rest. The solitude suited him; it spared him the heavy looks and the whispers that had followed him since his fight with MASSI.
Here, there was only dust, heat, and the regular sound of his breathing.
He performed the movements with unusual slowness. Lowering, stepping stealthily, turning his wrist, thrusting without ever releasing the spear. The repetition became a language in itself, a rhythm that calmed the inner turmoil left by the Priestess's words. The wood sometimes creaked under his fingers, like an ancient breath.
During a feint, the spear pivoted in his palm with a fluidity that surprised him. And then, it was more than a vibration, more than a morning sensation.
A fleeting image crossed his mind: different hands on the same wood. Wider, more calloused fingers, gripping the shaft with a confidence that belonged only to seasoned hunters. The smell of dried blood, the breath of the wind in the savannah, the tense vigilance of a man on the watch.
The movement ended. ZE-RAK stood frozen, his fingers clenched on the spear, as if he feared this connection would evaporate. He looked at the weapon with a mixture of confusion and growing respect.
"That movement earlier..." he murmured. "And this sensation... Since this morning, I've felt strange."
He frowned, an old wariness waking within him.
"Don't tell me that witch talking about the supernatural cast something on me..."
But even as he said it, he knew that wasn't it. The sensation was too intimate, too deeply rooted. As if the wood, aged by generations of hands, was entrusting him with a memory. Not a curse, but a transmission.
"But for now... I'm curious."
The words fell on their own, almost ashamed.
He resumed his stance, heart pounding, attentive to the slightest tremor. But this time, nothing. Just the wood, the sun, the silence of the yard.
Yet, he didn't get discouraged. His curiosity was slowly taking over his fear. He started again, over and over, varying the postures, repeating each sequence until sweat blurred his vision.
---
Time flew, swallowed by the rhythm of the movements. Fatigue weighed on him, but excitement consumed it. Every heartbeat seemed to answer the beat of the wood. At times, he thought he could perceive pulses that were not his own.
An almost manic smile stretched his lips—the expression of a hunter who senses his prey is near.
Night fell without him noticing. He only noticed the darkness when he saw the shadows merging with his own body. Reluctantly, he went back. But the next day, he was up before dawn, spear in hand, repeating the same ritual.
Day after day, the routine set in: meager meals at the canteen, persistent hunger, then long hours of solitary training. With each session, he felt the boundary between him and the weapon thinning, as if their wills were harmonizing.
---
The last day of rest arrived. This time, ZE-RAK did not move. He sat cross-legged in the dust, the spear resting on his knees.
He closed his eyes. No more movements, no more force. Only breath, presence, and that buried whisper he wanted to understand.
The silence around him became almost liquid. He felt the heat of the sun transform into a soft weight on his shoulders. His hands trembled slightly, but he knew this tremor wasn't his own. Something was vibrating through him.
In his head, it was chaos at first: shards of images, disconnected sensations—worn leather, rain, muffled cries, a distant campfire. Then, slowly, everything fell into order. The fragments came together, tracing a rhythm, a pulse.
A pattern formed. Not words. Not images.
A melody.
Simple, repetitive, almost childish. A long note, followed by two short ones, like the beat of a patient heart.
"A melody?" he whispered, incredulous.
The obviousness struck him with cruel irony. After all these days of effort, he only got a song?
"Seriously? I did all that for this?" He grimaced, annoyed. "Tss... I hate my brain."
He stood up abruptly. "I was so close, and now it starts playing music in my head. Great."
He picked up the spear with a sigh.
"Alright, I'm going back. If I had known, I would have tried to clear this fog in my parallel world, not play musician with a piece of wood."
But as he turned his back, an imperceptible breath brushed the back of his neck.
The melody, faint but stubborn, continued to vibrate—no longer in his head, but in the air itself.
One note, two, three. Then silence.
ZE-RAK stopped without turning around. His instinct screamed that something had answered.
And yet, he kept walking, as if ignoring the call was the only way not to sink.
Behind him, the yard remained empty.
But the spear, still warm from human touch, seemed to hold an invisible echo.
An ancient memory, buried in the wood.
Was it really a trick of his mind, as he thought?
Or was something much deeper beginning to awaken—a memory that, for the first time, had agreed to sing for him?