I stopped for a few seconds, observing the silent sculptures as if they could speak. I don't know why, but I felt small there. Not like a failure—that wasn't it. It was more like standing before something greater, something built over generations. A strange peace came over me. It had been a long time since I had felt something like that. Maybe never.
I continued walking, leaving the memorial behind me, in silence. At the end of the path, I found the back entrance to the school. It was open. I walked through it, crossing the threshold of a new chapter without knowing exactly what awaited me inside those white walls.
"These things are more work to maintain than they look," commented Felipe, standing at the entrance, arms crossed and a welcoming smile on his face.
"I don't even want to imagine the maintenance costs," I replied, laughing briefly.
We hugged like old friends. It was comforting to see him. There was something about his presence that made that strange environment a little more bearable.
"It's awful," he said, shaking his head in disgust, before leading me inside.
We walked side by side through the school corridors. We passed the student areas and headed straight for the teachers' wing. We didn't care about the stares—and there were quite a few. With every step, I noticed people making way without a second thought. The black suit I was wearing was a little too tight for my build, but it still made an impact. My body was large, and my presence tended to be... overwhelming. It was something I had learned to use to my advantage.
We went up to his office. It was a large, quiet room that smelled of old wood and fresh paint. We sat across from each other in comfortable armchairs as the late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows.
Felipe reached out and, with a discreet gesture, pulled a book from the shelf—with invisible force. It was a dark-covered grimoire, marked with symbols I didn't recognize. He handed it to me with a certain weight in his gaze.
I furrowed my brow, staring at those incomprehensible words. Something about that book seemed... strange.
"What's the problem with just translating it?" I asked, feeling a slight pain throbbing in my head just from trying to decipher the characters.
"It's complicated," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "You'll understand when you try. The book... is alive. Well, technically. Its creator's intent is printed there. The reading experience can be completely different for each person. That's why I prefer not to influence yours. I'll keep quiet about the content."
I looked at the book again. There was something pulsing there... as if those pages were breathing.
"At school... are all books written in different languages?" I asked, frowning.
"Yes," he replied with a slight nod. "Learning a new language and becoming familiar with it takes about two to three months. There's a lot of knowledge out there, so you need a development plan. That can give you some advantages."
"Giving me this... won't get you in trouble?" I asked, hesitating, my voice a little lower.
He smiled slightly, as if he had already considered the question before I even asked it.
"This isn't from the academy," he said in a low voice, almost as if he were afraid of being heard. "It's an old find, from when I was still exploring the world. That's why they can't stop me from selling it. I've never been able to use this book. It never... accepted me. But it seems to like you. Since it has some value, I asked for the coins in exchange."
I frowned. I looked at the tome once more. The cover seemed to pulsate slightly, as if it were breathing—as if it were alive.
"I see..." I muttered. "But what exactly is this book about? And... what do you mean, it likes me?"
The old man smiled. But it wasn't a normal smile. It was small, tense... almost uncomfortable. I realized then that his eyes weren't looking at me. They were fixed on the book. And there was fear in them.
"Find out for yourself," he said. "I have no idea. Different wizards have different souls. What works for me may be useless—or fatal—for you."
He turned and walked over to one of the shelves behind the counter, absentmindedly touching an empty glass jar, but clearly with his mind elsewhere.
"I noticed that this book began to resonate with you the day you first set foot in this school," he continued. "That's why I watched you, got to know you. This tome... is extremely compatible with you. It belonged to a wizard who was lost to our organization. One who disappeared long ago, and whose name has been erased from all records."
I furrowed my brow.
"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice coming out lower than expected.
"As I said..." Felipe began, his voice low, almost as if he were talking more to himself than to me. "Different souls have different properties. No two magicians are alike. Sometimes, certain ancient grimoires simply... resonate with someone. They recognize you for some reason that doesn't always make sense. And then they choose you. Other times, they reject you completely."
He paused, staring intently at the book on the table, as if it were a living creature.
"This book... has been contacting me through necromancy since you first set foot in this school. That's why it caught my interest."
I was silent for a few seconds, trying to absorb what he had just said. A book... calling someone through necromancy? Since my first day here?
(Could there be something... trapped inside it?)
That thought bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
I nodded without saying anything else. I turned and started to leave the room with the book in my hands. As I walked away, I heard a long sigh from Felipe—a relief that didn't match the calm he was pretending to have.
I furrowed my brow.
Why would a bunch of bound papers make someone so... scared?
—•—
Four months later.
Udrik Territory.
(If I could replace the word Okaf with omen... no, it won't work. The grammatical structure of Rurh falls apart every time I try to force that parallel.) I furrowed my brow and rubbed my temples with my fingers, feeling the tension pulsing in my skull.
I sighed loudly. My mind was scrambled.
(The choice of words was terrible... I'm mixing up the language structures again)
I opened my eyes suddenly and started all over again, more calmly this time.
"It's not an omen, it's igniting... The root of the word is closer to originating than to predicting."
The soft late afternoon light streamed through the tall windows of the stone library. The birds outside sang as if mocking my frustration. Still, for the first time in a long time, I had time—real time. Four months had passed since the chaos, and I had finally managed to establish a routine of training, rest, and study. Enough to feel... almost human again.