Finn slowly looked around the room, gathering his thoughts. The previous questions had been important, but one troubled him the most, had been gnawing at him from the very beginning.
"Tell me what was... before..." he faltered, trying to formulate the thought correctly. "Tell me about the past... what happened in those times..."
Eva sat motionless for a while, as if plunging into the depths of memory. When she spoke, her voice sounded just as even, but it now carried a certain special depth.
"The first centuries after our emergence we dedicated to ourselves. We mastered the art of the sword, learned to survive in this world. Our nature gave us advantages—we did not require food or water, our metabolism is so slow that we need a negligible amount of air. We could stay underwater for hours, survive in places where an ordinary creature would perish in minutes."
"When we grew strong enough and settled in, we turned our attention to humans. By that time, there were more of them; they lived in tribes, creating the first settlements. We observed their struggle with the great drought. Rivers dried up, lakes turned into salt deserts. Many tribes disappeared, but some... some seemed to receive knowledge from nowhere. We still cannot explain how they found underground rivers without any tools or prior knowledge."
"When the diseases came, we were sure it was the end of humanity. The plague mowed down entire cities, turning flourishing settlements into cities of the dead. But something inexplicable happened—individual communities not only survived but learned to fight the diseases. They used herbs whose properties were not even known to us, applied treatment methods we could not comprehend."
"In those times, Adam often wandered, trying to understand the nature of these phenomena. How could a people, lacking our endurance and longevity, find a path to salvation again and again? We sent observers, gathered information, but never found an answer."
"Then came the great floods. Entire continents were submerged, coastal cities vanished into the abyss. And again we witnessed the inexplicable—people seemed to know in advance where to move, where to seek salvation. They built ships from blueprints whose origin remained a mystery, found paths across the seas, following maps that could not have existed."
"But the most amazing thing happened when people started waging war on each other. We thought it would lead to their final demise, but the opposite occurred. War forced them to unite, share knowledge, create what is now called civilization. They developed at such a speed that even Adam could not predict their next move."
"In those times, great empires were born. We watched them erect cities of stone, lay roads through mountains, build aqueducts and temples. Every trial, every catastrophe made them stronger, wiser, more united. And every time we thought we had unraveled the secret of their survival, they surprised us with something new."
Eva fell silent, as if collecting her thoughts, and then continued in the same even voice:
"You know, observing humans all these millennia, I've come to a certain conclusion. They are like rats—and I don't mean that in an offensive way. Rats are amazing creatures. They find a way to survive where life seems impossible. They adapt to the harshest conditions. People are exactly the same. They discover paths to salvation in the most hopeless situations, find ways to exist where it seems impossible."
Finn, who had been listening intently, shifted uneasily in his seat. His next question was quiet, almost a whisper:
"Then where... did the monsters come from?"
Eva tilted her head slightly, and something thoughtful flickered in her gaze.
"We don't know for sure. Perhaps they are the consequences of the departure of divine entities—as if the world began to fill the resulting void with something distorted and dark. Or perhaps they existed here from the beginning, long before the appearance of the first humans, simply hiding in the shadows, biding their time." She made a small pause. "But one thing we know for certain: they have always been a threat to humanity. Like a counterbalance to their incredible capacity for survival, a constant trial, making every day a struggle for existence."
Eva sat silently for a while, watching the boy. When the silence became almost tangible, she unexpectedly broke it with her own question:
"Who do you think you are?" Her voice was soft, but it held a note of insistence. "Why did the Tree choose you? Why do all events now seem to revolve around your fate?"
Finn's eyes widened, caught off guard by these questions. His hands involuntarily clenched into fists as he tried to piece together scattered fragments of memory into a coherent picture.
"I... I don't know," he began uncertainly, his voice trembling slightly. "But the last few months... I remember them. At the inn... they were talking about a group of people. They... they went into the mountain."
He paused, trying to formulate his thoughts correctly:
"They were looking for a passage... under the mountain. They wanted to get to the other side. But... something happened. Many... many died."
Finn rubbed his temples, as if trying to dispel the fog in his head:
"Maybe... maybe I was there? With them? I don't... don't remember exactly. It's all like a fog."
His voice became very quiet:
"And the Tree... I didn't even know such a thing could exist. I didn't know it was real. The trial... I don't understand. Why me? How did I end up here? It's all... it's all too much for me."
Eva asked no more questions, as if understanding that the boy needed time to process everything he had heard. Finn slowly rose and, nodding goodbye, headed for the exit.
On the way home, he walked through the wide corridors of the houses, in the cave where semi-darkness reigned at night, broken only by the light from the windows of the dwellings. His thoughts continued to circle around Eva's words—floods, plague... These words sounded frighteningly unfamiliar. He wanted to ask what they meant, but something held him back. Perhaps shame for his ignorance, or maybe an intuitive understanding that the answers might be more terrifying than his own trials in the dark caves.
Passing the central square with its majestic fountain, around which the identical elven huts were arranged in a semicircle, he headed towards the farthest dwelling—his home. Here, on the outskirts of the settlement, it was quieter; people rarely passed by, and that suited Finn just fine.
Entering the hut, the first thing he did was go to the table where his oil lamp stood. Taking it in his hands, he felt its familiar, calming warmth. Without lighting the other lamps, he went to his favorite corner between the bed and the wall. There, where the space was bounded on three sides, he always felt calmer. He sat down, drawing his knees to his chest, and pressed the lamp close to him.
The oil lamp crackled softly, casting soft reflections on the stone walls. Its light and warmth acted on him like a lullaby—familiar, reliable, unchanging. Gradually, thoughts of strange words and mysteries began to dissolve in a sleepy haze. Finn's head bowed to his knees, his breathing became even and deep. And so he fell asleep—in his sanctuary, in the company of the only friend he trusted completely—the old oil lamp, whose light guarded his sleep.