THE BEARER OF SILENCE
The air in the village seemed still, as if even the wind knew that there was something that night it shouldn't disturb. Oil lamps flickered in every corner, casting long shadows across the wooden and stone huts. From the cabin where Zyrion rested, light escaped through the cracks in the door, dimly illuminating the damp earth of the central passageway. The distant murmur of the villagers gradually faded, leaving only the crackling of the fire and the muffled chirping of insects at the edge of the forest.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick, heavy with something none of those present could name. The scent of herbs, medicine, and dried blood still lingered in the air. Zyrion's body lay on the makeshift bed, and each of his breaths seemed a miracle after what had happened.
Miranth stood up, adjusting the dark cloak that always enveloped him. His pale, almost translucent eyes fixed on Psyrion, who observed him with the serenity of one who always weighs every word. The Mindbearer seemed to analyze the situation from every angle, his pupils vibrating slightly with a psychic glow.
"We must leave now," Miranth said softly, as if afraid even the walls could hear. "If we wait any longer, we'll lose our only chance to contact him. We need that bearer's help before Zyrion's injury leads to something worse."
Psyrion nodded calmly, though there was concern in his voice. "I know. But before we leave, there's something we need to make clear. Quindarion, Velkran… you understand what it means to guard him. He's not just a companion, not just another wielder. If he fully awakens, if he begins to remember, even we don't know what the consequences will be."
Velkran, sitting against the wall with his arms crossed, raised his head with a wry smile. "I don't like riddles, Psyrion. But I like it even less when people talk about him as if he were a danger. Zyrion is strong. I saw it on the battlefield, I felt it in the way he moved. If he's still breathing after that wound, it's because he doesn't intend to fall just yet."
Quindarion, ever calculating, spoke in his calm, deep voice. "Velkran is right, but we cannot ignore what we have seen. Its power... it doesn't belong solely to the shards. There is something more. And that something makes it unpredictable. But don't worry. While you search for that wielder, I will ensure that Zyrion is not left alone in the darkness."
Psyrion narrowed his eyes, as if trying to read Quindarion's thoughts, but refrained. He simply nodded, turning toward the door. "Then there's nothing more to say."
Miranth placed his hand on his companion's shoulder, and they exchanged a silent glance, heavy with responsibility and a weight that seemed greater than the world. Then, without another word, they stepped into the darkness of the village, disappearing into the shadows.
Outside, Kyrahna walked slowly along the wooden walkways that connected the cabins. The silence of the night weighed heavily on her, and although she tried to remain composed, the image of Zyrion bleeding out in her arms returned to her mind again and again. Caelithra caught up with her, placing her hand on her friend's arm.
"We need to talk, Kyrahna. Just you and me."
They entered one of the secluded huts, lit by a single lamp. The atmosphere was stifling, as if the secret they shared with Zyrion had materialized within those walls.
Caelithra spoke first, her voice cracking with duty and fear. "I know he told you, just as he told me. And we can't carry this burden forever. You don't know what it means to hear a name like that, one that even the oldest wielders don't understand. Umbraek… Kyrahna, what if what beats within Zyrion isn't just strength, but something that destroys it from within?"
Kyrahna lowered her gaze, her fingers clutching the fabric of her dress. "I don't know, Caelithra. I only know that if anyone finds out what we heard from him, everything will change. We'll lose him... and I can't bear that thought."
There was a long silence, broken only by their breathing. Caelithra moved a little closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. "What if the silence is what kills him? What if the weight he carries becomes unbearable, even for him?"
Kyrahna raised her eyes, bright with suppressed tears, but did not answer.
Elsewhere in the main cabin, Karion sat by the fire, Taliena watching him from the corner. She didn't know Zyrion as well as the others, and yet she had spent the last few nights watching over him.
"It's strange," she murmured, stroking the edge of the dagger at her waist. "I don't understand why I do it. I barely know him, and yet I feel I must protect him. As if his life held more than his own."
Karion didn't look at her, but her words were cold, though inside she burned with worry. "Perhaps because you already know him, even if you don't realize it yet. He marks people that way. And even if he won't admit it, he needs that loyalty. But don't expect me to say it out loud."
Taliena raised an eyebrow, noticing the edge of contradiction in his tone. "You're more transparent than you think, Karion."
He looked at her then, and for an instant, the hardness of his face broke.
Finally, Kyrahna returned to the hut where Zyrion lay. The place was dimly lit, barely illuminated by the flickering flame in a clay bowl. The others had left, leaving absolute silence, broken only by the faint sound of Zyrion's breathing.
She approached slowly, her footsteps almost inaudible on the wood. She sat beside him, observing the young man's face. His skin was still pale, marked by the wound that had left him on the brink of death.
Kyrahna spoke softly, as if afraid of waking him, though deep down she desperately wanted him to hear her. "Zyrion… you always leave me out, you always hide what's inside. You treat me as if I might break if you told me the truth. But the only thing that breaks me is this silence. I can't bear the thought of losing you, not after everything we've been through."
Her fingers trembled as they brushed against his hand, seeking the slightest contact. Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
"Let me carry you, even just a little. Let me into that darkness you fear. Because if you don't... that darkness will consume you, and I'll be left here, alone, unable to save you."
Zyrion, between sleep and wakefulness, barely moved his lips. His voice was a broken murmur. "I can't, Kyrahna… if I do, you'll fall with me."
She leaned her forehead against his, closing her eyes. The contact was intimate, painful, deeper than any physical wound. The silence between them became so dense it seemed an unbreakable bond, charged with a love and a fear that burned simultaneously.
In that gloom, in that closeness that both hurt and healed, Kyrahna understood that this battle would not be fought on the field, but in Zyrion's soul. And she was willing to lose herself if it meant saving him.
The silence of the cabin was shattered within Zyrion's mind, not by outside voices, but by the memory that had consumed him since his eyes closed that time. Though his body lay wrapped in cloths and bandages, his consciousness burned in a dark scene, reliving again and again the moment the steel pierced his chest.
The sensation returned with a brutal intensity: the cold metal penetrating his flesh, tearing at muscles, severing nerves, carving a brutal path to the very depths of his being. The muffled sound of the blade sliding inside him still vibrated in his memory, like a cursed whisper that refused to leave his mind.
"Is this what dying feels like?" he had thought at that moment, as his vision began to blur and blood gushed uncontrollably. But what had paralyzed him was not the physical pain, but the presence that accompanied him.
The Man in the White Mask.
There she was, before him, as still as a statue, with that smooth, cold mask that concealed any trace of humanity. Her eyes—if she even had them—didn't shine, showed neither hatred nor pity. It was an absolute void, a face impossible to read. And yet, Zyrion had felt her gaze pierce him even deeper than the sword.
"Who are you?" he managed to murmur, his voice breaking with the blood that filled his throat.
The man barely inclined his head, as if the question didn't deserve an answer, or as if he had heard it a thousand times before. And then he spoke. His voice had no echo, but it possessed a weight that seemed otherworldly.
"I am that which you cannot remember. I am the beginning of your end."
The words entered Zyrion with more force than the sword. He felt as if something inside his mind had been ripped away, a door he had never seen suddenly opening onto an abyss. And there, deep within that abyss, he heard a name he had never uttered, but that his soul knew.
Umbraek.
The blade twisted inside him, as if seeking more than his life, as if trying to delve into his very essence, to sever the root of his existence. Blood spurted and stained the ground, but Zyrion barely felt the physical world. What tore at him was this impossible certainty: the man in the white mask hadn't come to kill him… he had come to remind him who he was.
Zyrion tried to cling to his strength, to his shards, to his unyielding will. But the pressure was unbearable, as if the mask itself radiated a power that defied the laws of shards and magic. It was something else, an ancient power, predating even the wars that had divided the kingdoms.
"Why me?" he managed to think, as the sword sank deeper, piercing skin and soul at the same time.
The man brought his masked face close until it was almost touching his. And in that instant, Zyrion felt the most absolute cold, as if he were standing before an eternal void that could devour everything.
"Because you are the bearer of silence. Because within you sleeps what should never have awakened."
The vision dissolved with a heart-rending heartbeat, and Zyrion returned to the gloom of the cabin, panting, his eyes wide open and a cold sweat beading on his forehead. His hands trembled, and although he was surrounded by companions, in his mind he still saw the white mask, motionless, watching him from the darkness.
For a moment he couldn't move. The memory of the sword made him clutch his chest, as if expecting to feel the blade pierce him again. And although all he found were bandages soaked in herbs, the pain was still there, untouched, burning him from within.
But the worst part wasn't the physical pain. It was the certainty it brought with it. That man knew who she was. That man had spoken words no one else should ever hear. And the name Umbraek… a name not even the oldest bearers remembered, had flowed from his mouth like poison.
The weight of the secret was unbearable.
Zyrion closed his eyes for a moment, clenching his teeth. "I can't tell him. I can't." The memory of Kyrahna's gaze, of Caelithra's concern, of Karion's silence… they all deserved answers, but if he gave them, if he spoke aloud what he had heard, perhaps everything would crumble.
Inside, the last words of the man in the white mask still echoed:
"I am the beginning of your end."
And Zyrion understood, deep within his being, that that encounter had not been a simple fight. It had been a warning. A promise. And that sooner or later, he would face that mask again.
And next time, it wouldn't just be his life that was at stake.
Its destruction was not defeat—it was containment.