Chapter Text
The figure stopped before the staircase that led to the tower’s door. Her eyes remained raised for a few seconds, searching for some sign from the window at the top of the tower. But the elf was no longer there.
Desperate, Marcille was seized by a contradictory wave of fear and desire. She tried to stand, supporting her body against the cold stone wall, but her body refused to move more than her courage allowed.
“It’s just another one…” whispered the cautious voice in her mind. “Like so many others. Same face. Same smile. Same coincidences.”
But the rhythm of her heart beat differently. In a forgotten way, a cadence Marcille recognized immediately. Hope. The cruelest of spells.
That is why she did not go to meet her. Not yet.
From behind the curtain, she observed the young woman. She felt the delicacy in her exploration, a respectful curiosity. She ran her fingers over the stones as if listening to a song whose refrain she almost recalled. An impossible familiarity to ignore, every gesture brought forth a strange serenity.
When she finally decided to knock at the door, it was as if each touch reverberated through her body.
Marcille hesitated. Took a deep breath. Then began to descend.
Each step was gentle, as if the slightest effort would undo this fantasy. With every stair, more and more questions arose in her mind. What if she was just a lost mage with an innate talent wandering through the forest? Perhaps it was a coincidence. Nothing more.
Her body moved as if in a trance.
Before she knew it, she was facing the great oak door. She rested her forehead against the wood and, with one last breath of courage, opened it.
The creak of the heavy door gave way to a world bathed in gold. The light filtered through the petrified treetops made the elf half-close her eyes against the strange reflections on the stone floor. But there she was, before her, the young woman.
That tall figure. Dressed simply, but with magical details embroidered on the cuffs and collar. Brown eyes, yet with an amber glow that almost burned under the light, gazed at her with calm intensity.
“Are you… Marcille?” asked the young woman.
Her voice was not identical. The tone was different, but something in its musicality struck the elf like a sharp blade.
“Yes. And who are you?” she nodded slowly.
The young woman smiled. A burning sensation consumed her being. The smile that had so often soothed her heart, carrying a calmness, now struck her like a great fireball.
“My name is Faeryn,” she replied. “I am searching for ancient records. I am a student of the art of soul fragmentation, specializing in transfer magic and…” She hesitated for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. “Spiritual reconnections.”
Marcille did not respond immediately, her throat felt dry. Each syllable seemed to reopen a wound long since scarred.
“And you crossed the forest for this?” she said in a tone bordering on incredulity.
Faeryn raised her shoulders slightly and held her backpack closer to her body. “Yes. I felt something guiding me… as if I needed to revisit this place despite the resistance. As if something was waiting for me.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Marcille turned her back and whispered with a small sigh. “Come.”
While the elf was lost in a storm of thoughts, Faeryn’s enthusiasm was evident, and the tower seemed to resonate with the girl. As the door opened, it was as if a flow of magic had shifted. Each stone became aware of a new presence.
The tower revealed itself to the young woman as a monument to forgotten ages. Magic was imbued in every corner, in every shadow. The air carried the weight of a sacred tomb.
Marcille led her to one of the tables in the hall with some books. “Are you looking for something specific?” Her voice careful, as though treading on thin ice. Her eyes searched for a clue, some trace in the newcomer.
“Not exactly.” Faeryn walked with contained admiration, almost reverent. “I… have some dreams. Places I’ve never visited. People I’ve never met. But the feeling of familiarity never leaves me. For years I’ve lived with these visions, but only recently I began to suspect that… maybe they aren’t just mental echoes.”
The elf observed her in silence as the young woman marveled at the place.
Her way of walking, the way she turned the pages, even the intonation when pronouncing some titles in Elvish. Everything reminded her of her . And yet… Even wanting to deny it, to say it was all just a coincidence. Just a cruel joke of the universe. Her heart refused to let that hope die.
The young woman was examining one of the scrolls opened on the table when she decided to ask:
“What do you expect to find here?”
“A piece of myself,” Faeryn replied, without hesitation.
Marcille swallowed hard.
The silence returned to hang between the two.
“Perhaps you will find it,” she said, her voice lower than she intended.
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With Marcille’s reluctant permission, it was decided that Faeryn would stay in the tower. Despite countless thoughts reminding her of how terrible an idea this was, the very thought of abandoning the young woman in the forest brought such a tightness to her chest that she preferred to avoid it for now. Besides, she had said she needed only a week, maybe less.
But with each passing night, Marcille felt a change in the air between them. As if something ancient was filling the spaces between words. A forgotten perfume. An almost familiar gesture.
Marcille continued observing from a distance. She slept poorly. The memories more vivid than ever. She avoided questions she lacked the courage to answer. The sanctuary, untouched since her departure.
On the fourth day, while walking toward the reading room, she found Faeryn asleep over the first volume of Falin’s diaries. A pang of anguish struck her at the sight. She had never forbidden her to search for works of interest, but this particular choice left her unsettled.
As she drew closer, she confirmed the pages were open to a specific passage.
“Today I almost died. Again. But Marcille saved me. Again. I pretend not to notice how much it frightens her, but it is impossible to ignore the way she looks at me after every battle. As if she were waiting for it to be the last time.”
Marcille’s eyes lingered on the words with sorrow. In the end, the last time had truly come.
Before she could follow this line of thought, she heard Faeryn murmur in her sleep. “Don’t leave me… not again…”
Marcille froze.
It was not just the voice. She recognized the tone of despair. The same she had heard on difficult nights, when Falin thought no one else could hear her pleas.
She slowly approached the young woman, delicately touching the tip of her fingers. Her skin, now flushed, burned at the touch and her pulse was strong, yet her eyes moved restlessly beneath her closed lids. As if resisting something.
Suddenly, Faeryn’s eyes opened wide, and she sat up with heavy breaths.
“I… I saw…” Her breathing erratic, chaotic. “A cave… a fire… someone crying… you…”
The amber-brown eyes locked onto Marcille’s with visceral astonishment.
“I know you.”
Marcille did not answer. She could not.
Because at that moment, everything within her was on the verge of collapse. It was everything she had hoped for all those years, she was back. But deep inside, a cold, harsh voice warned of the danger of reviving the past.
And there, in the silence that stretched between them, the first abyss was born.