Kaelen and the Tongue of the River

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The river lay like a winding thought in the valley, a shimmering ribbon between mist and moss. Kaelen stood on the bank, the water at her feet murmuring no ordinary melody—it was language. Not a human one, not a familiar one, but a rhythm of meanings more tangible than audible. Varaan remained behind her, motionless like a statue made of slate and memory. He hadn't moved for hours, since they had entered the valley, which was unmarked on any map. It was said that a stream flowed here that didn't even know where it belonged—a living tongue that spoke truth before it became reality. Kaelen crouched down and let her hand slide into the clear water. It was warm, almost pulsing. Luminous threads trailed within it—fine lines of light that formed into symbols, then dissolved again, like thoughts lost in sleep. She knew what that meant. This was a river that carried stories. But not from the past. "The tongue speaks before the world hears," said a voice behind her. An old woman, barely taller than Kaelen's shoulder, stepped out of the thick ferns. Her skin was as gray as the mist, her eyes colorless and deep as still water. Around her neck hung a ribbon of dried flowers, each withered within itself yet luminous as memory. "Those who drink of it," she continued, "understand what might come. But knowledge is a curse if one cannot bear it." Kaelen was silent. A hunger tingled within her that didn't demand food. It was a desire to meet herself—not as she was, but as she might become. She filled a shallow stone bowl with the water. The smell was reminiscent of rain before a storm. Then she drank. The world wasn't crumbling. It was only becoming more permeable. The forest disappeared, the valley paled, even Varaan grew paler, until everything resembled a translucent veil. And then she saw: She saw herself with a map whose lines were made of heartbeats. She saw a lost word lying in a library of sand. She saw herself leaving Varaan behind to save a child she had never borne. And she heard her own name dying and being reborn—different, strange, yet familiar. A tremor ran through her body as the image dissolved. Tears streamed down her cheeks, not knowing whether they were born of pain or comfort. The Old One's voice reached her. "What have you learned?" Kaelen stood shakily. "That truth is not just a blade. It is a path that is still inventing itself." Varaan stepped closer now. His eyes were dark, knowing. "And will you follow him?" "Not yet," Kaelen said. "But I will not forget him." The old woman nodded slowly. Then she raised a fingerless glove and pointed at the riverbed. "Tomorrow he'll be gone. It's always like that." Kaelen looked one last time at the water, which still bore signs. One of them stuck to her gaze—a single word: "If." Then she turned away. Varaan followed her, silently, but his gaze lingered on the river for a long time, as if listening to the future they would never fully comprehend together.