4.2.25 - The One to Become the Third pt 2

PARABLE II: The Choice Beneath the Surface

Zarash’s stomach continued its violent protest as he left Baba’s home—but guilt slowed his steps. He turned back. The words she’d said weren’t warm, but they stuck. He returned and grabbed a bundle of blueroot and a cleaned dox from her outside rack. As he packed the food away, he moved the ornate case and gem to the top of his bag, careful not to scratch either.

I’ll give it to Cauma, he thought. Maybe he’ll give me a better position… more food.

He had barely made it a few sics down the old trail toward the sect when Epsul stumbled into his path, reeking of vyp0r water. Her gait was uneven. Her eyes too bright.

“I was looking for you, Za’ar,” she slurred, her arm lazily wrapping around him. “You’re always so mean to me… come give me a kiss.”

She leaned in and planted one, forcefully. Zarash’s arms stiffened. He shoved her gently, and the motion sent his bag askew. The case and jewel clattered to the ground.

They both stared at the items.

Zarash froze.

Florida… what do I say? He scooped them up quickly.

Epsul’s grin widened. She twirled a strand of his hair between her fingers. “You’re stea-ling, Za’ar. Wonder what Cauma’ll say?”

She stepped close again, brushing against him. “Want to go back with me? Or want a head start?” She licked his ear. “You're mine now. Cheaper than I thought. Bet I already have enough saved.”

She tightened her grip in his hair.

I could kill her. The thought came unbidden. Snap her neck. No rune. Cauma wouldn’t care. We already fight. I could say I found her.

But he inhaled instead.

“Found it. On the way home. For Cauma,” he said flatly.

He bumped her with his shoulder and kept walking.

Epsul let him pass, but then darted ahead.

She’s going to tell him, he thought, breaking into a run.

Pain lanced his gut like a jagged fang. His body screamed for food, but he ran harder, invoking a speed rune through the pain. He leapt into the trees and launched forward, outpacing the marsh trail until he saw the bonfire clearing.

Epsul was nearly there, vomiting beside the Guarjin.

Zarash dropped to the ground before them, hands clenched, breath ragged.

“I seek attendance with Cauma!” Epsul called out, voice shrill. “Zarash found a gem worth ten concubines. I helped him. I want shalts. I want him.”

The Guarjin shoved her back as she lurched forward again, bile on her lips.

Zarash’s stomach twisted violently.

“Gem. For Cauma. Not thief. Found near Baba. Dropped maybe,” Zarash said, calculated and cold.

The Guarjin watched his face. His silence. His exhaustion.

“Come with me. Both of you.”

Zarash helped Epsul up. She swatted him away.

They entered the factory.

The entrance was warped—vines of sapphire oak threading through shattered windows, wrapping rusted beams. Inside, the stairway was fused with overgrowth. The upper floor opened into Cauma’s court: a scavenger’s kingdom of beds, stolen artifacts, tents, and hoarded gems.

Sun hymn crystals lined the rafters, casting warm light over the throne.

Cauma lounged in the center, concubines dancing before him. Two fed him meat soaked in root spice. Another smoked vyp0r and leaned on his shoulder.

The Guarjin bowed low.

“Oh great Cauma, Herald of Decadence and Love,” he intoned. “I bring you Epsul and Za’ar. She has a tale.”

He shoved Epsul forward.

Cauma rose, looming. He pulled Epsul up by the back of her gear, lifting her until she dangled.

“Do you believe in truth, Epsul?” he asked.

She nodded quickly, mouth dry.

“Because I do,” he continued. “It’s why I sit above, and you kneel.”

He lowered her, stepped to Zarash.

Without a word, Cauma reached into Zarash’s backpack and emptied it.

Roots. A knife. Scrap. A dox. The ornate box. And last—the gem.

He crouched, pressing his ear to Zarash’s stomach.

The growl that answered was primal. Hollow.

“A starving boy would have traded this for meat,” Cauma said, eyes never leaving Zarash.

“Guarjin Soet. What did he say?”

“He said he found it on the way to the port,” Soet replied. “That he came back to give it to you.”

“As expected,” Cauma murmured.

He turned to Epsul. “You, who lied—what’s the punishment?”

Epsul knelt, head low.

Zarash stood.

Cauma gestured toward a knife.

“Sell her, gut her, or own her,” he said. “You choose. She wanted to trade your life. That earns consequence.”

Zarash picked up the blade.

The fire cracked.

“Own,” he said.

Cauma smiled.

“Truth always chooses itself.”

Epsul didn’t speak.

But in her silence, something far more dangerous settled.

A promise, perhaps.

Or a plan.