4.2.25 - The One to Become the Third pt 8

PARABLE VIII: Branches and Scars

The walk to the forest was rough. The heat had baked the mud onto their skin, and as the wind scraped across their bodies, flecks of dried shimmer-dirt lifted off like dust from old stone. They climbed upward, following twisted branches into the high canopy that veiled the forest floor.

Zarash led in silence, eyes fixed forward, his movements confident. Soet had asked earlier where exactly they were going. Zarash had simply shrugged, gestured to follow, and kept moving.

The trees grew like ancient staircases. The intertwining branches bent to the ground and spiraled upward, forming paths so dense with sapphire-leafed cover that visibility was a constant battle. Light filtered in sharp, blinding shafts. Each leaf reflected the sun like shards of glass, making it difficult to look below.

Epsul took up the rear, methodically sketching their route in her notebook. She smeared chunks of wet mud from her pack along trunks and stones to mark their path. The team had agreed to carry extra mud in case their camouflage wore off—which it had, the wind and climb tearing through it with ease.

Soet carried the heaviest pack, loaded with water and surplus mud. The weight didn’t bother him. He had spent years as a beast of burden under Cauma’s command—hauling armor, weapons, corpses, spoils. This was nothing new. Still, he found himself watching Zarash’s back intently, wondering what exactly moved the boy forward.

Zarash couldn’t explain it. He didn’t know where the Gruhana nest was, only that he would know it when he saw it. There was a pressure behind his eyes, a weight in his skull—something that pulled him toward inevitability. He had stopped questioning it long ago.

“Well, alright,” Soet said, breaking the silence. “I wanted to save this for after our first real success, but how about we get to know each other? One question for each person. We take turns. Little facts and mysteries, yeah?”

Epsul grinned. “I’m in.”

Soet chuckled. “Shouldn’t Zarash agree first?”

Zarash turned briefly to glance at them. “We’ve got two, maybe three hours left. Quiet is better.”

“No stutter,” Epsul teased. “Very nice. Alright. I got here when I was three years old—that’s my fact. Zarash, why don’t you have a shell scar? Soet, why do you have three scars on your face?”

Zarash didn’t respond. Soet took a breath and spoke.

“The one across my crown’s from my shell. The two on my cheeks? That was Cauma’s doing, indirectly. First mission. Some village with weird tech—Cauma talked to this glowing thing before we entered. Everyone inside went wild, like something took their minds. We made it to the target, but the village elder almost killed Cauma. I got thrown in the way by another Guarjin. Took the hit for him. Cauma killed the elder, but…”

He trailed off.

“That’s how I got the scars. Also got paid. Ate like a beast, grew fast, and Cauma kept feeding me. Said I was a good shield. Became his ‘Guarjin and professional door holder.’ Since I can’t fight and all.” He laughed, then quickly stifled it at Zarash’s glance.

“My questions: Epsul, why were you trying to buy Zarash? And Zarash—why did you spare her? And why did you pick me from all of Cauma’s men?”

Epsul’s face flushed red. She opened her mouth, then closed it.

“Zarash first,” she said.

Zarash didn’t slow his pace. “Drujina’s. I woke up there, naked, bleeding, with a note. Found the kids in a nest. You helped. So I picked you. You seemed kind. Epsul’s just loud. Probably hungry. She’s not bad. No scar? I dunno. I’ve got a shell.”

Epsul grumbled. “You asked two questions for each of us, Soet.” She scooped a lump of mud from her pack and flung it at his shoulder. “And your pack’s leaking.”

Soet bowed dramatically. “Apologies, m’lady.”

As the laughter faded, his expression shifted. The humor drained from his voice. “Zarash… Epsul… have either of you ever killed someone?”

The laughter vanished.

Epsul looked away, eyes downcast.

“No,” she said quietly.

Zarash turned his head slightly, waiting.

Soet hesitated longer, then added, “Me neither.”

Zarash nodded slowly. “Almost there. Epsul—why?”

She hesitated. Her voice dropped. “Cauma has tomes. One had a description: an aydham without a scar who would one day bear the scars of all others. Lead a revolt against the Afalozians. My Drujina used to tell me stories like that. When I met you, and you had no scar, I got scared. I knew Cauma would recognize the signs. And I knew he’d kill you.”

Soet perked up. “Wait, I know that story! But the one in Cauma’s lair is only half the tome. The version I’ve read says the scarless aydham becomes marked by Andahka to protect the Zser-seal tree—but doesn’t succeed. The story ends without resolution. There’s supposed to be more volumes.”

“You read?” Epsul asked, eyebrows raised.

“We should talk books more,” Soet replied.

But the trees ahead were changing. The wind shifted. The path narrowed. And whatever destiny waited for them was no longer in stories—it was waiting, just beyond the branches.