I suppose following the venue is my best bet for now, I think to myself. I gather my thoughts and continue walking alongside the travellers around me.
The cavern is supernaturally large, almost like a man-made subway tunnel, only that the ceiling is multiple times higher and the sides wider apart. Occasionally, smaller pathways extend from the sides of the cavern.
The venue stays silent, as if preparing to get ambushed by something. It appears this cavern isn't entirely safe.
The travellers are wearing olden robes, tunics and other garments – faded fabrics heavy with dust. at first glance I think of them as pilgrims but the closer I look, the more they resemble vagrants seeking refuge.
From the subtle feeling of stiffness in my legs and the weary steps of the vagrants, I can tell they've been walking for a while.
One of them approaches me and lowers her hood. Strands of dark hair tumble free, framing a face worn by travel but not yet aged. She offers a faint, sympathetic smile — a fragile gesture in this cavern of silence, but it carries more warmth than the cold lantern light. She looks to be in her late twenties, half a head taller than me.
"Are you alright, Alastaire?" The woman asks.
Alastaire? Is that my new name? "I'm fine." My voice clips as I reply flatly. "I suppose I'm just tired from the walk, as everyone else." The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth. Feelings that weren't mine made my voice waver. I deduce that the previous person from the body I now inhabit had some deep trauma that caused it.
"If you need anything, feel free to ask me," she continues, her tone gentle but firm. "I was close to your mother."
"What's your name, then?" I ask with a blank face.
"You don't remember? That's alright, it's Marielle," she says softly, offering a faint, reassuring smile.
"Marielle, how old am I?" I continue.
"Seventeen," she says without hesitation, warmth and familiarity in her tone. "Almost eighteen. You've always been clever for your age, even if a bit reckless sometimes."
I nod, letting the words settle. Clever, reckless…
The shout of a man echoes from the head of the venue. I can't see the announcer, but the cavern amplifies the sound: "We're stopping here to rest! We'll continue after 12 hours!"
Around me, the vagrants shift, some lowering themselves to the cold stone floor, others leaning against the cavern walls with quiet sighs. The long halt stretches before us like a pause in time, heavy and uncertain. I remain standing, muscles stiff, scanning the cavern's immense ceiling and the shadowed side paths that branch into darkness.
Twelve hours. Long enough for rest — or for danger to stir. I feel the familiar chill of vigilance settle over me, the borrowed memories of Alastaire whispering caution into my thoughts. The cavern is silent, but unnerving.
I take a moment to analyze the surroundings. Once again, we are encircled by a reef of crystalline formations and jagged rock. The crystals catch the faint light from the lanterns, scattering it into fractured patterns across the cavern walls. Some jut sharply upward like frozen spires, while others lean precariously, forming natural arches that cast long, sinister shadows.
The air is cool and dry, carrying the faint tang of minerals and dust. Every footstep echoes against the cavern floor, reminding me of its vast emptiness.
I take off my backpack and look inside. It's heavy, the absence of weight on my shoulders feels almost unreal, a fleeting lightness that makes the stiffness in my legs more noticeable.
I unzip the backpack, letting the flap fall open. Inside are only the bare essentials: a small, dented water flask, a stub of stale bread wrapped in paper, a frayed scrap of cloth that doubles as a blanket, a dull knife with a chipped edge, a coil of rope, a stub of candle, a few bandages, and a tattered journal with half-faded writing. Each item is worn and utilitarian, nothing more than what can be carried, used, and survived on.
I open the journal, brushing off the dust on its cover. The pages are yellowed and worn, the handwriting jagged in places, smudged in others.
Year of Itormuie, Day 47 of Lumir
It was really cold this morning. The wind made the shutters bang. Mother was humming while making breakfast. Father was outside with the goats. He said we have to check the fences again.
I helped him carry some firewood. I almost slipped on a rock but didn't fall. Mother laughed at me. I laughed too.
After that I went to check the traps. Nothing in them. The mountains are really quiet. No other villages close by. I drew the valley from the ridge. The fog made everything look like a cloud.
For dinner we had bread, cheese, and stew. We talked about the harvest.
It was a fairly regular entry except for the date and time. It looks like a tribal-esque system that uses mythical creatures as years, like how they use animals for years in China. I browsed the journal to see if there was anything interesting. I stopped at a diary entry from the Year of Kasque, Day 28 of Surnel.
The system utilized mythical creatures to depict years in decennial cycles. From first to last, the order was: Itormuie, Yurog, Krionus, Kasque, Bohuam, Dhaufse, Brenost, Bino, Chidus and lastly, Lamngeos.
Itormuie: River Snake of Itor. Itor symbolizing the river of time. Yurog: Fairy of the Mountain. Krionus: Frozen Constellation of the Fox. Kasque: Colossal Shell of Earth. Bohuam: Jewel of Bohu. Bohu symbolizing paradise after death. Dhaufse: Petty Liar Between Realms. Brenost: Stag of Char and Brimstone. Bino: Heavenly Guardian / Hero. Chidus: Bringer of Light. Lamngeos: Sluggish Leviathan.
The smaller time unit was seasons, most likely interpreted from cultivation cycles. Same as winter, spring, summer and autumn, with the addition of another season; Lumir (Winter), Surnel (Spring), Joihl (Summer), Szalcl (Autumn) and Belegos. Each season was split equally, with about 72 days maximum per season.
This diary entry was about 3 years later than the previous one. From the writing in the entry, I could tell it was written with haste. Hm... I could feel the remnants of the previous owner of my body trembling and finally collapsing. The entry wasn't wordy, it was short, but written with emotion — that much I could tell.
I closed the journal and put it back in my bag. About 45 minutes had passed since I started inspecting the journal. I still had over 11 hours until we started marching again.
I shifted my weight, trying to ease the stiffness in my legs. The cavern around me was still, the lantern light flickering against jagged crystal spires.
Marielle had settled a few paces away, her hood still shadowing her face. She didn't speak, but I could feel her eyes on me.
I pressed my palms against the stone floor. The cold reminded me sharply of what I had lost — or rather, what I had left behind. Small comforts I'd taken for granted, like floor heating or the softness of a bed, now felt impossibly distant. If there was a way to return, I would.
I pulled some cloth from my backpack and spread it across the cold floor. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. My legs ached, and the weight of my eyelids made every blink feel like a battle.
I settled onto the makeshift bedding and sank into sleep immediately. Thoughts raced through my mind one last time before scattering into the darkness of unconsciousness.
...
"Alex? World's calling, Alex."
I opened my eyes to see a girl in a school uniform standing just inches from my face, her hand raised as if trying to get my attention. It was the student council member, Avery Chen.