Chapter 2: Voices from a foreign world

When I truly regained consciousness, my head throbbed as if someone had driven a knife into it. I remembered… barely. Fragments, blurred images. A desperate flight through the trees, the ragged breath of some beast behind me, a feral howl. My child’s legs had tangled, the wet earth had given way, and I’d crashed down into the ravine. After that—nothing. A black void.

I sat up slowly, scanning the steep walls around me. How was I supposed to climb out of here, with this fragile body?

Footsteps. Voices.

I froze. The crackle of dry grass drew closer, accompanied by strange, guttural speech I couldn’t understand.

Suddenly, a shadow appeared above me. Several figures leaned over the edge of the ravine. When their eyes landed on me, a cry burst from their lips.

“Ruliel!”

The name rang out, filled with astonishment and mingled relief. Then a phrase followed, shouted with urgency.

“Samdak veno dale thorashke fotadeve!”

I didn’t understand a word. These sounds meant nothing to me, yet in their tone I heard concern, joy, surprise.

One man descended confidently, sliding down a rope. Tall, dark-skinned, his features were hardened by life. His eyes shone with a worry that set him apart from the others. When he reached me, he placed a firm hand on my shoulder and studied me closely.

“Sodoha? Tumeli? Genlopihuve?”

I stared at him, mute, unable to respond.

His face tightened with anxiety. Without hesitation, he lifted me onto his back and called out a word to the others—a word they received with solemn silence.

“Utejame Filthara.”

I had no idea what it meant, but the way he spoke it… it felt like a vow, a prayer.

They carried me back to their village.

As we approached, I saw homes that were simple yet colorful, built from dried mud with thatched roofs pierced by smoke vents. The air was rich with the scent of herbs, earth, and something sweet I couldn’t name.

They brought me into a house larger than the others. As soon as we crossed the threshold, a woman rushed toward me, sobbing. She wrapped her arms around me, pressed her face to my forehead, and covered me in tender, desperate kisses.

I stayed still, stunned. I didn’t understand a single word she whispered, but I could guess what she was to me. My… mother?

They laid me on a bed covered in thick layers of cotton and sheep’s wool. The comfort was rustic, but surprisingly warm. The woman crushed herbs and gently applied them to my wound, her breath trembling with each motion. Between tears, she repeated the same phrase again and again.

“Utejame Filthara…”

I began to understand. It wasn’t just a word. It was… a title? An invocation? Something sacred.

Later, the man and woman spoke in hushed tones. Their faces, though relieved to see me alive, remained tense, almost troubled. I couldn’t grasp their words, but my presence clearly unsettled them.

Suddenly, a little girl entered. She carried a wooden bowl, steam rising from it in fragrant swirls. She approached shyly and offered me the soup. Her eyes, wide and curious, sparkled with childlike affection.

I took the bowl and brought the spoon to my lips. It was… delicious. A rich taste, full of vegetables and spices I’d never known, warming my tired body instantly.

The girl smiled, visibly relieved, then ran back to her mother. And then I understood. This man and woman—my parents now. And this child, my sister.

That evening, the whole family gathered. They knelt before the hearth, hands clasped, and began to pray. Two statuettes, placed in a small alcove, received their full devotion. Their voices rose in a deep, sincere melody.

I watched in silence. This world was steeped in religion. Faith was etched into every gesture, every glance.

Later, lying in bed, I studied the wooden walls painted with colorful patterns, the statuettes nestled in their niches, the woven ornament hanging above me. A blend of poverty and sacredness, of art and survival.

I closed my eyes, hoping for sleep.

But I found myself once again before her.

Tenanké.

Seated on her throne, the same inhuman beauty, her black eyes fixed on me with intensity.

“Everything went well. The transfer was successful.”

I clenched my fists. “This isn’t right. I’ve ended up in the body of a poor boy who never asked for this!”

She let out a soft, amused laugh. “That boy had already died from the fall. I merely borrowed an empty vessel.”

I said nothing, disturbed. “And my mission? I haven’t seen anything of value in that house. What am I supposed to find?”

This time, she burst into laughter. A crystalline laugh, but cruel. “Be patient. I’ll show you the way when the time comes. For now, just discover this world. Watch. Learn.”

I gritted my teeth. “How am I supposed to do that when I don’t even understand their language? I can’t speak, can’t respond…”

She tilted her head, mock-thoughtful. “Oh… that’s true. Forgive me, I can be so forgetful sometimes.”

With a snap of her fingers, reality cracked. A searing pain shot through my skull, and I collapsed. Images, sounds, words—all foreign—poured into my mind like a thunderstorm.

Tenanké watched me, unmoved.

“There. What I needed to do is done for now. You’ll receive my guidance when the time is right.”

And her voice echoed, fading into the void.