“The feather hides me,” Tamblin went on, curling his tail closer around his body. “So long as I carry it, the storm can’t scent me. But now you’ve touched it…” His voice faltered. “…it may have your name as well.”
A crash of thunder, nearer than before. The windows trembled in their frames. I clutched the feather tighter, though part of me wanted to fling it far away. Tamblin’s gaze didn’t leave mine. “If it comes inside,” he whispered, “don’t look at its eyes. Promise me.”
The lights flickered. Somewhere in the walls, a low hum began, not electrical, but alive—like the sound of wings too vast to belong in this world. The hum in the walls deepened, a slow vibration that set the books shivering on their shelves. The feather in my hand pulsed once, then twice, as though it knew what pressed closer.
Tamblin had drawn in on himself, paws tucked beneath his chest, eyes fixed on the dark seam where the closet door didn’t quite meet the floor. His ears flicked with every roll of thunder, but it wasn’t thunder he was listening for.
I tried to breathe quietly. Each inhale sounded too loud, each exhale a flare in the silence. The storm outside no longer felt outside; it was pressing against the windows, against the walls, whispering through the seams. And then—just beneath the thunder—I heard it. A scrape. Long, deliberate, like a claw across stone. Not from the closet, not from the room, but somewhere above, as though the ceiling had begun to remember something it had forgotten long ago.
Tamblin’s tail twitched once. His eyes, wide and unblinking, shifted from the crack beneath the door to me. No words this time. Just that stare, gold-dark and solemn, as if to say: stay still. Stay silent.
The lights trembled again. For a breath, they steadied. And then the house seemed to hold itself the way I was holding myself—rigid, waiting, dreading the moment when waiting would no longer be possible.
The silence cracked before the windows did. A sound like a scream threaded through the thunder, high and thin, and every bulb in the house burst into darkness. For a heartbeat, only lightning lit the room—white, merciless. In that flash I saw the closet door swell outward, as though a vast breath pressed from the other side. The boards groaned. Dust sifted down from the frame. Then it came.
Through the seam below the door, a line of black seeped inward, not smoke, not shadow, but something heavier—liquid darkness dragging itself across the floor. The hum in the walls sharpened, like the cutting edge of a blade dragged along bone.
I tightened my grip on the feather. It flared with a sudden blue light, the colors along its barbs alive now, streaked with fire and storm. The darkness recoiled, hissed, then pushed harder, spilling across the wood toward my feet.
Tamblin moved at last. No longer small and still—he sprang between me and the creeping black, fur raised, teeth bared. His growl was low, but it carried more weight than his body should have allowed. The shadow paused, as if recognizing him. Then the lightning lit again, and in that brief white world I saw the shape rising in the closet: tall, faceless, its eyes twin voids burning with storm-fire.
“Don’t look at them,” Tamblin cried. His voice was sharp, urgent. “Look at me!”
The thunder broke, and the house shook as the storm finally stepped inside.
The air split like cloth tearing, and the storm’s shadow unfolded into the room. Not all at once—first its voice, though it had no mouth. It was not a sound so much as a thousand whispers layered, the hiss of rain, the crack of branches, the static that crawls over skin before lightning strikes. Every syllable carried weight, pressing against my chest until my breath stuttered.
“He is ours.” The words were not directed at me. They aimed at Tamblin.
The little creature’s fur bristled, his golden eyes narrowing to slits. His body shook, but he stood between me and that rising void as though his bones were iron.
“He ran,” the storm murmured again, its voice sliding down the walls, “he stole what was not given. The feather carries our name, and whoever bears it belongs to us.”
The feather in my hand burned brighter, so bright the veins of color inside it swirled like living rivers. My instinct was to drop it—but my fingers would not obey. It felt fused to my palm, each pulse syncing tighter to my heartbeat.
Tamblin glanced back at me, just once. “Don’t answer it,” he whispered. “It lies by truth. That’s how it binds.”
The storm leaned closer, its shape almost human, but unraveling at the edges, like a body made of torn sails. I felt its gaze, though I dared not meet its eyes.
“Give him to us,” it whispered, softer now, coaxing. “Or we will take you too.”
The feather blazed like a brand. Tamblin’s tail lashed once, and then he spoke—not to me, not to the storm, but to the feather itself. His voice was quiet, a single word, guttural and strange, and the moment he said it the storm reeled back as though struck.
The closet door slammed shut on its own. The darkness recoiled like smoke whipped away by a sudden wind. But the whisper didn’t leave. It hung in the air, curling around my ears like breath: “The name is on you now. The hunt will not end.”
The lights flickered back, weak but steady. Tamblin collapsed beside me, chest heaving. His gold eyes met mine again, tired but fierce. “Now,” he said, “you know why I came.”
Tamblin sat hunched, fur clinging damp to his small frame, but his eyes burned clear. He nodded to the feather in my hand. “That isn’t just a feather,” he said. His voice was hoarse, but steady now. “It’s a shard of sky. Once, long ago, the storm had wings. Great wings, bright as fire, wide enough to cover the earth. When it was broken, pieces scattered. Most were lost, but some…” He touched the glowing vane with one paw. “…some became this.” I felt the pulse of it, alive, still beating to a rhythm that wasn’t mine.
“The storm hunts its broken pieces. Anyone who holds one, it marks. It wants to be whole again, and it will tear through walls, through time, through the living and the dead to take it back.” His gaze lifted to me, fierce in its smallness. “That’s why I hid behind your books. I thought I could keep it away from me. But now it knows your scent too.”
A tremor passed through the floorboards—just the fading echo of thunder, or a promise it wasn’t gone.
Tamblin curled his tail around his feet. “We can’t give it back. If the storm gathers its wings again, it won’t just hunt me. It will hunt everything.” He looked up, gold eyes unblinking. “So now you and I, we keep the shard safe. Or we don’t survive the next storm.”
The storm rolled itself back into the night, grumbling, but I knew it hadn’t gone far. The windows rattled once more, then fell quiet. Tamblin climbed onto the shelf, dripping and weary, but still watchful. “It won’t stop,” he murmured. “Not until the sky is whole again.”
I set the feather on the table between us. It glowed faintly, steady now, like a heartbeat that belonged to neither of us. We listened to the silence together. For the first time, I wasn’t alone in it. And though the storm had passed, I knew this was only the first night of many.
Several scrolls have been identified as belonging to this strange creature
If you are interested in investigating more, here are the links to the so called "Leaf Papyrus"
Scroll 1 Scroll 2 Scroll 3More will be added to this website as soon as the translations become available