4.2.25 - The One to Become the Third pt 3

PARABLE III: The Fire in Quiet Places

Zarash guided Soet and Epsul down the alleyways of the Port. His hand brushed against the slimy bricks and warped wood of old buildings, each layered with years of decay and runoff. The scent of brine, fish guts, and burned root oil hung in the damp air.

Two shadows followed behind him—Soet, hulking and cautious; Epsul, light-footed but wary. None of them spoke.

The building ahead had no markings aside from a faded yellowroot-painted door. Behind it: shelter. Drujina Mowa’s.

Zarash opened it.

“Zarash, ya home,” came Mowa’s gravelly voice, as three young children squealed and raced to him. “Hope ya brought fed. Da babies are hunger.”

“Rash! Rash!”

“Waa, another Rash—and a big dog!” said the smallest, Creeto, pointing at Soet.

Zarash dropped his pack on the table—scraps, roots, the dox. Mowa nodded approvingly and ushered the children to the back.

Epsul and Soet hesitated by the door until Mowa’s glare reminded them this was home, however temporary.

Zarash wordlessly built a fire with cracked bricks and dried root chips. His fingers sparked a quiet rune—blue flame danced at the edge of control. Soet sat nearby, watching.

“I cooked kozhaka for Cauma before,” Soet said, stepping in. “Butchering’s the same. Kozhaka’s longer—you split it straight. Dox? You go across the stomach.”

He drew a knife and began the work—arms to arms, splitting the belly neatly so the organ sac slid out intact. Then around the limbs, peeling back the skin, cracking the ribs by hand. The tail stiffened in death, perfect for a ground spike.

He scraped fat from the hide and mixed it with kamak dust.

Epsul handed him prepped roots—redroot, blueroot, and a purple variant from the southern port. “All clean. I dried them earlier.”

Soet nodded. “Fat and kamak’ll crisp them. Might actually taste like street food.”

The scent wafted heavy in the room. Warm. Sharp. Comforting.

The children ran back in.

“Food, Meshi! Food, Deshi! Food, Bleshi! Fooood!” they chanted, circling the fire.

Mowa clapped her hands. “Sit, little beasts, or starve!”

Zarash plated six bowls. Kids first, then Mowa, then Epsul and Soet. His own was last—mostly broth and fibrous scraps.

“You need to eat too,” Epsul said quietly, cleaning her bowl.

“He won’t,” Mowa replied. “Been hungry since I met him. Says it reminds him he’s alive.”

Soet leaned back. “We need food, not philosophy. Cauma’s not paying us ‘til after the mission. That’s two weeks. If we leave the kids like this, you’ll be distracted the whole job.”

Zarash nodded slowly.

“There’s a gruhana camp. Old nest. Shells fetch high value. We hunt. Bring back meat and coin. Enough for Mowa and the kids.”

“And their tokens?” Epsul asked, staring into her bowl.

Zarash reached into his pocket and dropped two shells onto the table.

Not replicas. Real tokens.

Soet blinked. “You’re giving us our true shells?”

“I didn’t ask to own you,” Zarash said. “I just want to feed… family.”

Epsul’s hand hovered before she touched the shell.

He doesn’t remember, she thought. Last sycle, he saved me—lied to Cauma, said we helped with that haul. Saved three of us. He never even asked why.

She picked up the shell gently.

Zarash looked toward the back. “Mowa has her token. The kids don’t.”

Soet’s brows furrowed. “That’s why they never leave.”

“I’ve saved enough for two. Still need one more.”

Silence.

The fire crackled.

Epsul stood. “We should train. Every moment counts now.”

Zarash watched the tokens.

Not as chains.

But as promises.

He stood and followed her outside, into the gathering dusk.