4.2.25 - The One to Become the Third pt 1

PARABLE I: The Case Beneath the Marsh

Zarash opened his eyes—bleary, sunken, ringed with the bruise-like shadows of too many sycles spent beneath the dome of Free Port. The wet air curled around him like a second skin, thick with rot, heavy with unseen things.

“Damp… I hate it here.”

His voice barely rose above a murmur. But the disgust in it was real. He trudged through the marsh, boots sloshing in the muck, sweat soaking through the seams of his worn armor. The stink of it—moss, decay, stagnant water—clung to every breath he took.

Zarash wasn’t scavenging for glory. He needed something to eat. Something to sell. Hunger gnawed at his insides like a blade, a pulse in his belly he couldn’t shake. His movements were methodical: high knees, wide steps. The marsh could steal a foot, a leg, a life, if you weren’t careful.

He scanned the muck with sharp eyes. Discarded tech. Dropped salvage from the scavenger crews above. The shimmer of something valuable could be anywhere.

And then—under the wide fan of a low-rooted fern—he found it.

A case.

Emerald-lined. Thin as a handspan but heavy in presence. A sapphire jewel at its clasp. Carvings spiraled around it like a language of old: waves breaking into mouths, tendrils grasping, a god of water raging across its surface. It didn’t hum like active tech—but it felt alive.

He knew immediately it was valuable.

Zarash slipped it into the secret compartment beneath his shoe—a slot carved painstakingly from a broken federation shard.

He moved on, about to investigate another glint when a voice cracked across the trees.

“Za’ar! Let’s go!”

Epsul.

She waved from a distance, standing on drier ground. Her voice had that impatient edge it always carried when she had to wait for him.

He stuffed the case into his bag and etched a quick rune across his calf.

His weight lifted. He moved.

Three steps, and he stood before her, having skimmed the marsh’s surface like vapor.

“I’m never going to get used to that,” she muttered, eyes narrowed. “Do you only work out your legs or something?”

She reached for his thigh in mock amusement, as if to squeeze it.

Zarash barely reacted. “Not my name. And I’m fast.”

Flat. Distant. The usual.

Epsul scowled. “Well, ZA’AR, if you’d tell us your actual name, we wouldn’t call you that.”

She traced an X over his chest with her fingers.

“Delusion,” he replied, eyes forward.

They walked together. Quiet at first.

Zarash imagined the taste of fried kozhaka, the feel of shalts in his hand, the weightlessness of lying on his cot—alone. Mostly, the absence of Epsul.

But Epsul smiled to herself as she walked ahead.

You’ll be mine, Za’ar. I’ll pay Cauma. I’ll own you proper.

The trees wept above them. The island was always wet, always hungry.

They reached the hyperexpress zone—a patch of salvaged federation tunnel, now used as a drying bay for soaked gear. It hissed with steam from the heat vents below.

They both peeled off their armor. Boots dropped with a wet thud. Zarash stayed behind as Epsul moved toward the drop zone.

When he was sure she was gone, he dug the gem and case out of his boot. Moved them up, deeper into his waistband, behind the folds of his pants.

But as he walked, the gem shifted. It rolled. Clinked faintly.

He reached down to silence it—

“Need help?”

Epsul.

He yanked his hand out quickly. Too late.

Her eyes gleamed. “Za’ar the Pervert. Has a ring to it, don’t you think?”

She laughed and skipped ahead, repeating the name in singsong.

Zarash ignored her, slipped the gem into his mouth, and pressed forward.

The noise of the fire reached him before the light. The scavenger camp was alive.

They clustered around Cauma’s bonfire, the scavengers lining up to deliver their hauls. Each handed over their salvage. Each received a kiss from a concubine. Then another. Then a shared kiss with Cauma himself before joining the celebration.

Zarash watched from a low-hanging branch.

It always went like this. The youngest scavengers—him among them—went last. A silent reminder of rank. Of worth.

When Cauma and his women left for the factory’s upper tier, Zarash slipped from the tree.

He approached the fire—but a figure intercepted him.

An aydham girl. Dazed. Laughing. Reeking of vyp0r.

She caught his face in her hands and pulled him into her chest.

He staggered. Pushed back. Her dress caught and slipped. Her chest exposed.

His eyes widened. His mind screamed something between fear and awe.

Paroma.

She giggled. “Come back! You’re so lovely!”

He bolted. The image still burned behind his eyes.

He dumped his pack near the fire.

I hate this place. I don’t belong here.

He turned and walked away.

The Port’s outer district loomed ahead.

“First stop: Baba’s,” he muttered.

He spat the gem from his mouth, held it to the starlight. Swirls of emerald and sapphire churned inside it like a frozen storm.

Maybe it’s worth more than just food.

He pocketed it.

He stuck to the streamside, avoiding the main road. Too many lights. Too many eyes.

Baba’s shop didn’t have a sign. It had bones and moss and blueroot vines hanging like drapes over a hollow.

He sat outside, back against a stone.

A panel of dirt shifted.

A door opened.

Baba.

Her eyes squinted to focus on him. She said nothing. Just stepped aside.

He entered.

He placed the gem on her slab—a chunk of repurposed airship debris balanced atop an old federation wheel.

She lit a rune in her hand—her fingertip caught flame—and touched the gem. The heat pulsed, scorched a line into the table, before she blew the flame out.

“Good find, Za’ar. But I can’t sell it.”

Her voice was molasses and ash.

“Federation’s watching. Their tech’s tagged. They’ve got eyes in the sky. Anyone who moves this will be burned.”

Zarash didn’t respond.

“You kids gotta stop this. It’s getting too loud out there. Too many disappearances.”

She pushed the gem back to him.

“Go find a better life. The leagues are forming. Real work. Hunt. Build. Something with roots.”

His stomach growled.

Baba smiled.

“Take meat. Roots. I know you’re mad. I know you’re starving. But you’re alive. And that’s more than most. I remember you from three sycles ago. Thought you were already dead. You weren’t.”

He bowed. Took the food.

Left.

The gem pressed warm in his palm. He tucked it back into his pocket.

Maybe Cauma will trade for it. Or maybe… it’s meant for something else.

A thread. A key.

He walked on.

The island whispered. The marsh sighed.

And so he walked on, shoulders hunched, toward the decaying glow of Port Bausae.