Suta, A Weaver Of Tales

Suta guided the last floating tome into place, the ancient book settling into its rightful spot with a soft whisper of parchment against wood. He collapsed into his chair with a deep, labored sigh, his breath escaping in short gasps. Time, once a steady and unyielding companion, now felt like a tightening noose around his neck. The end of his tale was drawing closer, and he could feel the weight of it crushing his chest. His bloodshot eyes fluttered closed, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to bask in the warm, golden sunlight streaming through the high windows. Foolishly, he hoped the bright rays might somehow lift the darkening weight in his heart, but all they did was illuminate the deepening shadows of his failure.

The tales, once his pride, now whispered to him with a thousand voices, their words sharp and biting. The scenes he had woven so carefully danced before his mind's eye, each one more painful than the last. His heroes—his beloved creations—were powerless now, kneeling before the very forces they were meant to vanquish. The darkness, blacker than a starless night, had crept into every corner of his stories, corroding the light until nothing remained but ash and despair. And there, amidst the ruin of his narrative, stood the villains—laughing, triumphant, their malevolent smiles a twisted reflection of his failure.

Suta sat in stunned silence, his hands trembling at his sides. He had failed. There would be no hero to rise from Minaak to challenge the coming darkness. The codes of Basar dictated that he should have informed the order long ago, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. It wasn't cowardice that held him back—no, it was something much deeper, something he had been trained to guard against.

"Never fall in love with your characters. You're not their father. Your task is to push them to their final goals," his mentor's words rang in his mind, harsh and unyielding. At the time, they had seemed so simple, so easy to follow. But now, as he sat in the remnants of his shattered creation, he understood the gravity of those words. His soul felt as though it were being crushed under the weight of his guilt, the burden of his affection for the characters he had brought to life.

A face—young and bright, full of curiosity—appeared in his mind's eye. Ayaan. The boy who had sat rapt with attention, absorbing every word of his tale. The boy who had grown into a fine young man, who had fallen in love with a beautiful girl, and together they had a child. The family had been so happy, so full of promise. It was a happiness that belonged to Nyasa, the city where no sorrow could enter.

But then came the call of duty. The man had to leave, as so many before him had, to confront the evil in the west. The wife, heartbroken, stood at the threshold, her eyes brimming with tears as she sent doves into the sky, hoping each one would bring news of her husband's safe return. Winter arrived, and with it came the emptiness—the doves never returned, and the wind carried no promises of hope. The scorching summer heat was replaced by a dry, lifeless wind, the howling loo that whispered of despair.

Then one day, the wife, now pale and frail, heard the soul-shuddering howl of her husband—a cry of agony, the last sound he would ever make. Tears streamed down Suta's wrinkled face as he remembered, as he wept for the fate he had written for Ayan. The cruel twist of fate that had denied him the dignity of a proper death, leaving only a dark, twisted tale of death and loss. 

Bhadra had ruined everything. Or perhaps he had changed it all. The last death-worshipper, the hooded figure who had slipped unnoticed into Suta's story, had been the one to change the course of history. How had Bhadra survived the purge of Mora? How had he evaded the all-knowing eye? These questions gnawed at Suta's soul, but he kept them secret. 

The league of tale-weavers, the sacred order that had once guided the flow of stories, was now gone. There was no one left to guide the tale of Mazia. There was no one to steer the ship now that Suta had breached the ancient codes by burying the soul book. The tapestry of Minaak had unraveled, and Suta sat alone, the last of his kind, watching as the story spiraled into chaos.

But still, no one from the order had come to check on him. Perhaps they, too, had given up. After all, they had tried for so long to close the loose threads of Nikumba's tale, only to fail. Writing an ending seemed like an impossible dream.

A soft cough snapped Suta from his reverie. He looked up, blinking away the last remnants of his sorrow. A bright face greeted him, filled with concern. Onish stood in the doorway, his brow furrowed with worry. "Ah, you've come," Suta whispered hoarsely, fumbling for his handkerchief to wipe the tears from his long silver beard.

"Are you all right, Suta?" Onish asked, stepping closer.

Suta forced a smile, though it barely reached his eyes. "Yes...yes... I'm fine. It's just something in my eyes," he lied, wiping at his wet face with trembling hands.

Onish seemed to accept the excuse, his gaze softening. It was already rude of him to have barged in, and he didn't want to press further. "Lord told me you needed help with your amnesia. You didn't forget all the tales I told you, did you?"

Suta's bushy eyebrows arched in surprise, but he quickly hid his emotions behind a playful smirk. "Ah, you've forgotten, have you?" he teased, though the sorrow in his voice betrayed his lighthearted words. "Now, how is this old man supposed to teach you everything before Inna's feast?"

"Inna's feast?" Onish asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. He had heard of the festival, but the details were shrouded in mystery. All he knew was that it was fast approaching.

Suta's expression grew serious as he pointed to a scroll case, which floated effortlessly into his hand. "The whole city of Minaak will be watching you. Not to mention your maternal uncle will be here too. His visits never go well," he added, tracing the intricate vine-carved patterns on the scroll case.

"Why?" Onish asked, his curiosity piqued more by the strange copper tube than by the mysterious uncle.

Suta's eyes glinted with a hidden sadness. "I don't think I'm the right person to tell you this," he whispered, as the scroll case clicked open to reveal an ancient scroll inside. The librarian's fingers brushed the edge of the parchment before he spoke again. "But enough about that. We have more pressing matters to attend to."

He unfurled the scroll, revealing intricate symbols and diagrams. "Tell me, lad, have you mastered the memory diagram yet?"

Onish felt a wave of embarrassment. "I'm afraid not," he admitted. He had been so focused on mastering the cleansing path that the memory path had been pushed aside.

Suta sighed, disappointment heavy in the air. "The Lord has requested to give you Medha Vati( memory pill) ," he said, his voice low. "But without mastering the memory path, you won't be able to assimilate the pill. We must focus on that first."

Onish nodded, understanding the gravity of the task ahead. "I'll try again."

With that, Suta's demeanor shifted, the playful teasing vanishing. He handed Onish the scroll, his gaze sharp and intense. "You must awaken your memory path before it's too late. The Lord is counting on you."

Feeling the weight of Suta's words, Onish left the library empty-handed, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. He needed rest, time to clear his head before tackling the next challenge. Deciding to take a stroll through the orchard, he sought solace in the peaceful beauty of the blooming flowers.

The orchard, usually alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, was eerily silent. As Onish wandered along the flower-lined path, the sweet fragrance of the blossoms filled his senses. He found himself beneath a large tree with pink tendrils of blossoms draping down like curtains of silk. He sat on the soft grass, leaning back against the cool trunk, allowing the quietude of the orchard to wash over him. 

For the first time since his arrival, Onish felt a sense of peace. The tension in his chest loosened, and his mind quieted. But just as he began to relax fully, he heard it—a soft murmur, barely audible at first, like a whispered secret. He tensed, his senses sharpening. The hushed voices came again, drifting through the air, too soft to understand but insistent. Something was stirring in the orchard, something that would not let him rest.