As you turn the page, you are distracted by a note that falls to the floor, slipping from between the sheaves. You are swept by a strange unease as you lift the paper and bring it under the soft candlelight there in the tavern’s nook.
The note reads:
It is so hard, now, to continue to follow this journey, when it has come to involve one who was so dear to me. I knew not how precious she was, until she was gone. I met her but once, and that is my greatest regret.
A plethora of memory crystals hang in my study, bright colors sparkling, waiting, but my hands are heavy with pain straight from my heart. My half-sister’s death changes this work for me, from an interesting project to a personal spiritual test which I have failed. If only I had intervened sooner, perhaps I could have changed the outcome, saved her, kept the boy from undergoing such trauma. The tale we have lived grows dark, down the road, and I cannot see my way through to put it down, get it out of my soul.
I saw the light growing in her heart, reflected through Rakhanar’s eyes, and still I stayed in the shadows. If only I had stepped forward then, I could have known her, perhaps we would have grown close. She was my only remaining family.
But no, I let the ethics of a “journalist” keep me from acting for the highest good of all. I stepped forward too late to save her. That is my regret. That is my shame.
I see hope for Rakhanar, now, but as for me… I wonder, now, if this story has any value. I wonder if anything matters.
The rest of the pages of the book glow with a strange light, and though it seems there are letters printed there, they shift and shimmer to your sight, as if only half in existence here, half in some other dimension of possibility.
There is also another sheet of paper, clipped to the note, with a translucent sheen across its face. This one is blank, but for one word in Druzaic. You think it means something like “Reply,” and it has a wing symbol across the top. The page has a sense about it, expectant, waiting, as if it will dart across dimensions to the hands of the wizard scribe if only … something… would happen.
((Do you want this story to continue? Please contact Diaman if so… ))
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Wizard of Wildfire & Shadow Walker Wordsmith ((a/k/a The Real Me ))