A fingertip traced carved stone, coating its print with moonlit dust.

  The hermit’s lips parted, but no sound came. Their hand hovered over grooves where time had long since whittled meaning from their edges.

  Smoke curled around their knuckles, twisting from the pipe hanging forgotten between their fingers. As the cold fumes billowed along the cave ceiling, their finger pressed into the stone, steadying.

  The pipe’s embers flickered a soft glow, catching the edge of a weathered page somewhere behind them.

  Their voice, at last, followed.

  “…Dust.”

  The word stretched quiet. The hermit raised the pipe to their lips and took a slow drag.

  Dust lifted. They brushed at the first inscription, sweeping away lettered grime. The hewed lines felt deeper beneath their touch.

  Smoke thinned.

  They spoke again—certain this time.

  “A gust of…”

  The words took hold.

  The cave seemed to shrink, its walls retreating into shadow, and as their finger moved, the world around them stilled.

  ???

  A gust of stale air stirred long-settled films of dust thickset upon the rocks below.

  Surrounding, a profound silence seemed to hang in the air, its weight seeping into the very essence of the space. Such disturbance felt unnatural, as if an affront to the sacred hush bestowed by silence.

  Another gust hove near, setting grime to waltz in swirling eddies, unable to cling to the rubble.

  Muffled groans echoed from deeper within.

  Emberlight caught in their eye as they lingered on the next phrase. Their voice dipped lower into the passage.

  “Blasphemy, mounding.”

  Rusted chains strained against their bond. As if bark of coiled trees long-rotted, their outer skins peeled, age-soured dust wafting up an overdue sigh of relief.

  Intertwining links creaked in anguish, pulling against unyielding stone which itself bore the scars of many a struggle.

  Grooves deep-carved, punctures gaping, cracks jagged marred the rock, their wounds reaching toward stalactites plunging from the gorge above.

  Tugging tumbled down into crumbling and sparking, rumble after rumble resounding as of thunder pent within the earth.

  As witness to the bound storm, the earth quivered in convulsion.

  “Let me out!”

  A voice reverberated throughout the draft, fierce with rage, yet tinged with despair.

  The groans escalated into defiant shouts–the mounding rumbles into merciless pounding as mist rose like smoke of a forge. They pulled, yanked, tore at the fetters until fire coursed through their limbs.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Anguished wails lay muted by the crushing din, echoing feebly as the pounding began to intensify.

  “Why must I remain here!?”

  Dust heaved as if a sandstorm.

  Boulders cascaded like meteors.

  “Why do you damn me to this place!?”

  With a thunderous crash, the dust finally found rest upon shattered rock, ‘neath which broken links of chain clawed their way out, aged and begrimed.

  Yet loosed from the filth below, the chains found their glow, slick with a heat of their captive’s own creation. The chains began to reform, shackling a scalding hiss upon the motionless limbs within their clench. Now reattached to an unscathed wall, every stinging rattle of their links a mockery.

  And there, riddling the prisoner’s limbs, were written tales of futile toil, for the chains bit deeper where they bound. A torment born of ages.

  After a momentary pause, the prisoner’s words reverberated once more, dripping with an air of humiliated defiance.

  “Enough!” Their voice began to quaver, cracking helplessly into an entreaty most piteous.

  “You want of my agony, an example?” The words rang out, laden with chastened fury.

  “You covet my strength?” As they spoke, their cadence slowed, gradual revelation clouding their visage.

  “Take it,” the prisoner spat out after a pause, closing their dirtied eyes tightly.

  As these words left the prisoner’s mouth, ghostly light spurned from within their chest.

  Jettisoned from their body, it set forth. Fleeing into caverns deep, buried in shadow alike a trick of the dark.

  Lasting absence flickered through the prisoner's countenance, as if their offering had been—

  “…rent from their grasp,” the hermit said, their breath parting a window through smoke. The embers of their pipe burned weaker now, casting a weary shadow through the haze.

  After a moment’s silence, words began their spill, void of their anchor.

  “You can wrest away my power, but you may not rob me of my will.”

  “In your possession is merely an asset—a script! My freedom is now assured, but what have you?” Their words were despondent, deluged in the drift of their breath–lost to all save stone, silent as it was.

  “Hear me!”

  “Your foul contract will be torn asunder, and I will be returned!"

  The final echoes of the prisoner’s declaration lingered in the air as if dripping along the fractured ground–their slithering streams only severed by the sound of chains mending themselves, golden light receding into their cracks.

  ???

  The hermit exhaled, running a hand over their face. Their pipe had gone cold.

  Half-heartedly, their fingers drifted over the last lines of the plaque, thumb hovering over the final phrase—but their gaze had already strayed, drawn further down the cave’s entrance.

  There, resting atop a floor of shattered stone—

  A lone chain, broken in two.

  Their pipe slackened between their teeth. Their gaze flickered. A quiet, almost imperceptible sound escaped them,

  “…Huh.”

  Their thumb stilled. A moment passed. Their eyes traced the dust-laden inscription beneath their hand.

  The letters seemed sure now—too sure, as if they were carved within the hour. Something moved in their expression—recognition, moonlight lidding their eyes.

  Their breath grew unbidden, sending cold ash parading through the air.

  But then—

  “I must be mistaken.”

  They closed their tome. Papers fluttering as they were tucked away, fresh ink drying in the cold air.

  The leather strap tightened. A pack was slung over one shoulder. A careful glance at the inscription—only the inscription—before leaving it unfinished.

  Their footsteps faded into the dark. The wind followed.

  The cave settled. Sound stilled. Light waned.

  Cold ash hung, waiting.

  The inscription remained, its edges cast dark against the moonlight.

  Bleeding through the grime.

  ‘Ter-thi li’ihk an’ōhn.’

  “Silence reigned once more.”