4.2.25 - The One to Become the Third pt 7

PARABLE VII: Beneath the Eye of the Beast

Soet marveled at his creation—the dox-a-bob, a skewer packed with seasoned meat, fat, and root. The preparation was ritual by now, familiar steps passed down from Cauma’s kitchen.

With kozhaka, the cut started from neck to tail. Doxes were different—rounder, their malformed arms like stubby guards for the stomach sac. Side to side. A clean path across the belly, from one arm to the other, let the sac fall away without tearing.

He remembered the technique clearly: skin peeled away by circling the arms and neck, the tail left stiff in death—perfect for planting. He separated each limb with a practiced rhythm, peeling the spine bone by bone to preserve every edible strand.

With the fat scraped and mixed with kamak and salt, he rubbed it over chopped redroot, blueroot, and the rare purple root from the edge of the port.

The skewers sizzled, each one placed upright around the fire.

Soet took a bite, eyes half-closed. The meat cracked beneath his teeth, flavor thick and smoky. Epsul's voice cut into the moment.

“So,” she said, “the gruhana nest may be abandoned—or diseased. We get in, gather shells, and leave. If we see one, we run. No fights. Agreed?”

Her tone was level, but her mind raced. What if they’re fast? What if they hunt by scent? By heat?

She bit into her skewer and continued. “We don’t know enough about them. If one sees us, we’re done. This mission is for scraps. The kamak field is the real score. We focus there.”

Soet nodded silently, chewing.

Zarash stared into the fire. “I saw one last sycle. Looked old. Round like a gem, or a kozhaka egg. Sunlight bounced off its shell. Slow. But there were others—smaller—at the cave mouth. They’re probably gone now. Epsul’s right. No risks.”

“We use the kamak to buy our way out,” he added. “No more missions. No more Cauma.”

“For how long?” Soet asked, mouth full.

“Three sycles of protection,” Epsul answered. “If we don’t buy the kids’ tokens right away, we can use what we have to start doing our own jobs. Maybe even hire out.”

They ate in silence. Their thoughts a swirling fog.

After the meal, they cleaned methodically. Soet and Zarash dug a central heat-trap beneath their beds—three tunnels connecting back to a single firehole. Epsul dropped embers inside, then covered it with bark and dry root. Slow heat would spread to each sleeper without revealing their location.

An old clan trick. Necessary in wild terrain.

Night deepened. The cold pressed in. The trio slept.

Then came the sound.

Zarash sat up first. The noise wasn’t just loud—it was dense. It hummed into his chest, his bones. The water in the cave rippled in perfect concentric rings.

Soet and Epsul sat up next, disoriented.

“What in the holy florida is that?” Epsul asked, rubbing her eyes.

Zarash stood immediately, back rigid, hand instinctively flexing. “Ebek.”

The name silenced them.

“Not good.”

They’d heard the stories. The way its obsidian beak gleamed even in pitch black. The tendrils—fluid and soft, then suddenly harder than kamak. They said the Ebek could unhinge its throat and swallow prey whole—or slice it open in a heartbeat.

“Get moving,” Soet said. “I packed rootbred for the trek.”

He doused the fire pit with water and earth. The others followed, rolling up their beds, stuffing their bags. They worked quickly, silently.

“Too dangerous…” Zarash muttered. “Ebek eats gruhana. It’ll feed for days.”

Nobody knew if the Ebek truly existed. But if it did—it ruled the Isle’s deepest wilds. Entire hunting parties were said to vanish in its wake.

“Ebeks don’t fly,” Soet whispered. “Not like gruhanas. We could stay above the tree line.”

“They’ll still smell us,” Epsul said.

“Mud,” Zarash offered.

He remembered the swamp. How doxes ignored him when he was fully coated, how even the noisy kozhakas barely flinched until he moved.

“Smart,” Soet said. “We’ve smoked ourselves with dox fat. That scent’ll cling. If we don’t mask it…”

He turned to the others. “Let’s leave all extra gear. Just packs. Lighter, cleaner, less risk. Coat everything.”

Epsul nodded. “Don’t use the spot where you cleaned the dox, Soet. Blood’s still fresh.”

He blinked. “Right… florida, you’re right again.” He scratched the back of his head and chuckled nervously.

Zarash didn’t wait. He dove into the pond outside the cave entrance, coming up dripping with thick mud. He scooped armfuls into his backpack.

The others joined him, smearing it across clothes, packs, arms, faces.

Their breaths were shallow.

The sound still echoed faintly through the trees.

Above them… something was watching.

And hunting.