Nerun and the Voices in the Stone

More about Nerun and the Voices in the Stone

Evening hung heavy over the cliffs as Nerun and his companion reached the entrance to the cave. The sea thundered against the rocks behind them, and the spray burned in the air like salt on an open wound. Nerun, small yet unflappable, adjusted his backpack. His blue face, marked by wind and travel, reflected a mixture of curiosity and tension. Beside him stood his companion, the blond woman, whose eyes were always alert, always watchful. She placed her hand on the damp stone wall, as if testing whether the mountain itself welcomed her. "Here it is," Nerun said softly. His voice was almost lost in the thunder of the waves. "And they're waiting inside," she replied, nodding into the darkness of the passage. The cave swallowed the light from their lantern as soon as they took their first steps. Drops fell from the ceiling, and the floor was uneven, shaped by millennia of silence. But after just a few steps, it began—a whisper, barely audible, like the breathing of a sleeping creature. Nerun stopped, his small body tense. His companion stepped beside him, her hand on her bow, not out of fear, but out of habit. "Do you hear that?" she whispered. "It's the voices," he answered. "They're speaking in the stone." The deeper they went, the clearer the sounds became. They weren't words of a known language, but rather memories lost in tones. Sometimes it sounded like crying, sometimes like singing, then again like the dull pounding of a heart. Nerun felt something invisible touch him—not on his skin, but in his soul. After an endless time, the cave opened into a vast hall. Crystals sparkled in the twilight of the lamp, and in the center stood a monolith, black and smooth, tall as a tower. From it emanated a humming that shook the ground. Nerun approached hesitantly, his companion at his side, his eyes wide with wonder. "This is her heart," she said. "Or her grave," Nerun replied. As soon as he placed his hand on the stone, the silence broke. Shadowy figures emerged from the walls, fog forming faces—ancient, full of sorrow, full of memory. The voices swelled into a chorus. "You hear us," they said, and this time the words were clear. "But whoever hears must bear. Will you shoulder our weight?" Nerun gasped for breath, but before he could answer, his companion stepped forward. "We are two, not one. We bear what you give—and we do not forget." The chorus fell silent. A moment of silence, then the figures bowed, one by one, and dissolved into the monolith. But something remained: a soft whisper that no longer sounded foreign, but familiar, like a melody that echoed within them both. As they began the return journey, the light of their lantern burned brighter than before.