The Mal’aks

“D’jorak silin,” the child said again in a strange language.
    Jazz stepped forward, his sword still in hand but lowered. “We don’t understand,” he said, hoping the boy might catch his meaning.
    The boy smiled, pointing to himself. “Z’ari,” he said, then gestured towards them, awaiting their response.
    Jazz stepped closer, eyes fixed on the boy. “We are friends,” he said slowly, hoping the boy might recognize the intent behind his words.
    “Syrilin,“ Professor Mackenzie said as he walked near Jazz.
    The child smiled, a light of understanding in his eyes. “Syrilin,” he echoed, clearly recognizing and comprehending the Professor’s word.
    Professor Mackenzie looked at the group with a beaming smile, his eyes filled with excitement. “The boy is speaking in the language of the manuscript.”
    “What does Syrilin mean, Professor?” Leeland asked.
    “It means music,” Professor Mackenzie replied.
    “Mackenzie,” the Conductor said as he turned to the boy again, pointing to himself with a deliberate gesture, as if introducing his name.
    “Z’ari,” the boy replied, tapping his chest lightly with his fingers to signify himself.
    Professor Mackenzie slowly placed his bag on the ground, being careful not to upset the tamed beast near the boy. He opened the bag, his hands moving quickly as he searched through its contents.
    His fingers flicked through the items inside with urgency, as if each second counted, until he finally pulled out a pile of stapled papers. He scanned them swiftly with his eyes, then pointed at Jazz’s sword and said, “Vylor.”
    The boy’s eyes widened as if suddenly recognizing the sword in Jazz’s hand. He then placed his fingers to his mouth and let out a long, whistling sound that echoed through the air.
    At the sound, the creature slowly began to move away, its massive form shifting with a graceful slowness, as though understanding the boy’s signal.
    The boy turned, motioning for the group to follow him. He took a few steps forward, his gaze never leaving them, awaiting their response. Without a word, he began to move ahead, his small figure darting through the tall grass, leading the way as the group followed behind.
    “What does Vylor mean, Professor Mackenzie?” Jazz asked.
    “Resonant,” Professor Mackenzie replied.
    “This is getting interesting,” Leeland said.
    “Interesting and tense,” Gabe replied. “What if the boy is leading us to his village, and they are cannibals?” Gabe suggested.
    The group was about to chuckle when Professor Mackenzie raised his hand in a silent gesture, signaling for the group to stop. He pointed ahead, his expression tense.
    Ahead of them lay a vast expanse, an enormous sea of white clouds that seemed to stretch endlessly. The clouds swirled and billowed in the distance, their edges glowing faintly in the soft light. The air around them grew cooler as they neared, the clouds seeming to breathe with a life of their own, moving and shifting like an ocean of mist.
    The boy, standing at the edge of the cloud barrier, turned toward them. He raised his hand and signaled for them to follow. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and vanished into the thick, swirling clouds.
    As the group followed the child, they drew closer to the spot where he had entered the clouds. At first, they thought he had simply disappeared into the mist, but as they neared, they saw it clearly: a hanging bridge, suspended in midair, arching precariously across the sea of swirling clouds. The bridge was ancient and stretched endlessly before them, its wooden planks worn smooth by time, with thick ropes stretching across the expanse like giant tendrils, anchoring it to the distant sides. The bridge seemed to vanish into the sea of clouds ahead, its length almost impossible to fully take in at once.
    The air grew colder as they stepped onto the bridge, the dampness of the clouds soaking into their skin. Tiny droplets of moisture clung to their clothes, the faint chill settling against their bones. The bridge creaked under their weight, its ropes groaning with each step they took, the movement beneath their feet unnerving but steady.
    As they walked, the distant sound of rushing wind mixed with the quiet creak of the bridge, each step an echo in the eerie silence. The sense of being suspended between worlds—between the solid earth and the shifting, dream-like clouds—made them feel both insignificant and oddly weightless, confirming that they were no longer in the world they had known.
    As they continued across the bridge, the dense fog began to thicken, and the path ahead grew darker. Soon, the cloud-covered expanse began to narrow, and to their surprise, the bridge led them toward an opening in the side of a towering mountain. The air grew heavier, and the sound of the creaking bridge was muffled as they neared the entrance.
    The once vast, open space around them was now closed in, and they found themselves walking into what seemed like the mouth of a cave. The bridge stretched into the darkness, disappearing into a jagged hole in the rock face, as if the mountain itself had opened to swallow them whole. The ground beneath them became more uneven, the mist swirling around them, the temperature dropping as they entered the shadowed interior.
    As the group stepped off the last of the bridge’s wooden planks, the mist thickened, obscuring the path ahead. The mist parted just enough to reveal a narrow opening in the stone, barely noticeable from the outside. It was a jagged gap in the rock face, dark and uninviting, but as the boy led them forward, it became clear that this was the entrance.
    The closer they came to the opening, the more the surroundings seemed to shift. The air grew thinner, the temperature warmer, and a faint glow began to pulse from within the mountain, casting an ethereal light along the walls. They stepped into the gap, and the world around them seemed to fall away. The darkness consumed them briefly, until the ground beneath their feet gave way to smoother stone. They were inside.
    What lay before them was nothing short of breathtaking.
    The cavern expanded before their eyes—vast and open, yet hidden within the very mountainside. The walls of the cavern were alive with veins of glowing crystals, casting a soft, blue-green light that danced across the cavern’s jagged surface.
    As they moved further into the cavern, they saw that stone platforms jutted out from the cliffs on either side, connected by delicate bridges of wood and rope, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of use. Some of the platforms held small homes made from the same stone as the cavern, each one adorned with ivy and strange, luminous plants that seemed to pulse with an inner light.
    Above them, the ceiling arched high, but it wasn’t just rock. Through gaps in the stone, the open sky could be seen, stretching endlessly, a sea of clouds far below them. The ground beneath their feet was solid, but it felt as if they were suspended in midair, part of a world that existed somewhere between earth and sky.
    The boy, who had led them so far, turned to face them now. His eyes sparkled with a mixture of pride and mystery as he motioned toward the sprawling community within the cavern. He didn’t speak—his gesture said it all. This was his home.
    As the group moved further into the skyward caverns, the air around them seemed to stir with sudden energy. From the platforms above, figures began to emerge, seemingly from every direction. At first, they were little more than shadows, blending into the misty, glowing surroundings. But as they stepped forward into the light, it became clear that they were not ordinary villagers.
    Each one of them, male and female alike, carried a glowing bow—its form sleek and ethereal. The shafts glowed with a soft light blue hue, their tips pulsing with the same light that illuminated the cavern walls. Echoes.
    The moment they appeared, their movements were synchronized. Without a word, each of them pulled their bows taut in perfect unison, their arrows aimed directly at the group. The tension in the air grew thick as the group realized the gravity of the situation. These people weren’t just guardians—they were protectors, and they saw something in the group that made them a threat.
    The group raised their hands in a gesture of surrender.
    “Do not move,” Professor Mackenzie silently instructed the group.
    One figure, unarmed, slowly approached them. He stood tall, his presence commanding respect. Like the boy, he had blond hair, but his hair was longer, tied back in a simple yet dignified braid. He wore a tunic similar in style to the boy’s, but more elaborate, with patterns that shimmered like gold filigree against the fabric. His eyes were a piercing blue, filled with wisdom and a hint of suspicion. His movements were deliberate and cautious. He shouted in their language, his voice firm and directed at the boy.
    He then turned to them and said, “Zy’tar si’ra?”
    “Vylor,” Professor Mackenzie replied.
    The figure studied them intently. After a pause, he said, “You are not Mal’aks.”
    The group, still with their hands raised in surrender, exchanged surprised glances, taken aback that the figure spoke their language.
    “We are humans,” Professor Mackenzie replied. “My name is Mackenzie.”
    The leader raised a hand, signaling to his kin holding arrows to lower their weapons.
    “My name is S'jarre,” the Mal’ak leader said. “How did you manage to enter the Eternal Resonance realm?”
    Professor Mackenzie lowered his hands and said, “I am a professor—a teacher. I am studying a manuscript from our world, and that study led us to yours.”
    “You are all Resonants?” S'jarre asked.
    “Yes,” the Conductor replied.
    “Show me.” S'jarre said.
    Professor Mackenzie and the group summoned their Echoes, swiftly morphing them into weapons, each manifestation glowing.
    S'jarre smiled, a look of approval crossing his face as he observed their Echoes. He then pointed at Leeland’s weapon and said, “That one, was weaved here.”
    S'jarre shouted in a commanding tone to the other Mal’aks in their language, his voice firm and authoritative. The other Mal’aks quickly dismissed, stepping back as if obeying an unspoken order. He then turned to the boy, his demeanor softening as he brushed his hand gently over the boy’s head. After a moment, he straightened, turned back to the group, and motioned with a nod of his head for them to follow.
    They followed S'jarre, their eyes darting around, mesmerized by the beauty of the Skyward Cavern as they walked deeper.
    After a short walk, they came upon a large wooden bridge, its roof crafted from sturdy timber. The bridge spanned a deep chasm and led directly to a grand structure—an ancient building made of weathered stone and wood, its exterior adorned with intricate carvings and wooden beams. It resembled a large, timeworn manor, its weathered appearance hinting at a long and storied history.
    As they crossed the bridge, they entered the building, where the warm glow of softly lit crystals illuminated the dark interior. S'jarre led them through a series of hallways and into a spacious room. At its center was a large round stone table, surrounded by simple yet elegant seating. With a motion of his hand, S'jarre gestured for them to sit, his expression calm yet commanding.
    S'jarre nodded thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping over the group. “I know you have many questions,” he said. “Feel free to ask yours first. Once you have spoken, I will ask mine.”
    “Thank you very much for welcoming us,” Professor Mackenzie replied, bowing his head slightly. “First question, how did you learn to speak our language?”
    “Not all of us speak your language,” S'jarre said. “A long time ago, portals from your world allowed Men to enter ours. Some of the first Men learned music and warfare from us. We taught them how to craft musical instruments and how to play them. We also taught them how to make weapons, how to hunt, and how to fight.”
    “Mal’aks like me, who lived during that time, know your language,” he continued.
    “That time was?” Leeland asked, intrigued.
    S'jarre smiled and replied, “That was at the beginning of the human race.”
    “So yes, I have lived thousands of years already,” S'jarre added with a soft laugh.
    “But you look just like Professor Mackenzie,” Keilee chimed-in.
    “Mal’aks are timeless beings,” S'jarre answered. “There were humans back then who knew our language, and over time, it was passed down through generations, though eventually it was almost forgotten. Some of it was probably preserved by Men—perhaps in the manuscript you studied,” he nodded toward the professor.
    “Mal’aks are messengers of Al’aric, the ruler of all,” S'jarre continued.
    “But…” His expression darkened, shifting into a grave one. “One day, the heart of a Mal’ak became corrupted—At’tar. He is called the Light-Bringer. His corruption spread to all his subordinates, and they rose in rebellion.”
    “Al’aric closed the portal between Men and Mal’aks to protect Men from the corrupted Mal’aks,” S'jarre explained.
    “There was a war in Eternal Resonance. At’tar and the corrupted Mal’aks were defeated, and Al’aric confined them in the Negative Harmony.”
    Professor Mackenzie and the group exchanged uneasy glances at the mention of the Negative Harmony, their minds racing with the weight of the story.
    “Why do the portals of Negative Harmony appear when Echoes manifest in our world?” Jazz asked curiously.
    “No,” S'jarre replied, shaking his head. “It’s the other way around. Echoes appear when a Negative Harmony portal opens in your world.”
    “About twenty years ago,” S'jarre continued, his tone growing more somber, “At’tar managed to deceive another Mal’ak. The barrier between Eternal Resonance and Negative Harmony nearly broke, causing disruptions. At’tar found a way to open portals to your world.”
    “But those portals are still too weak for them to enter your world directly,” he added. “However, they still affect your world, bringing illness and death. To combat this, we Mal’aks began weaving Echoes and sending them to Earth wherever a Negative Harmony portal appeared. These Echoes are tied to humans who possess the gift of perfect pitch.”
    “How do you know when a Negative Harmony portal opens in our world?” Professor Mackenzie asked.
    “The Echo Weavers. They are Mal’aks who are attuned to the Negative Harmony. They act as guides, helping us detect if something is happening in the Negative Harmony, like if a portal is being created or if it’s being compromised.”
    “Can you enter our world?” Gabe inquired.
    “No,” S'jarre replied. “You—the Resonants—are our way of helping humanity close the Negative Harmony portals in your world.”
    There was a long silence as the group absorbed the weight of the story they had just heard. Each member seemed lost in thought, processing the gravity of what S'jarre had shared—realizing the depth of the conflict between the Mal’aks and the Corrupted, the existence of the Negative Harmony, and their own unexpected role in it all.
    “Now my question is..” S'jarre said, his tone steady, yet curious. “How did you manage to enter our world?”
    “The manuscript led us to a hidden ancient place,” Professor Mackenzie replied, his voice calm but filled with the weight of his discovery. “The Resonance Key, a golden tuning fork, opens the portal from ours to yours.”
    S'jarre quickly leaned forward, his countenance shifting to one of grave seriousness. His piercing gaze fixed on Professor Mackenzie.
    “The Resonance Key has been missing for a long time,” S'jarre said, his voice heavy with concern. “It might have been hidden by a human during the time the portals were closed. Where is it?”
    Professor Mackenzie’s hand instinctively went deep into his pocket, his face shifting suddenly to one of shock and disbelief—the Resonance Key was missing.