The water smelled of salt, root, and something older.
Zion crouched at the edge of the black-sanded shore, watching as long, narrow canoes glided silently across the surface. The river was wide here—wider than any he had seen—its far bank hidden in morning mist. It pulsed with a slow, ancient rhythm. Beside him, Thalia stood still, eyes locked on the giant shadows swimming just below the surface.
"They're not attacking the boats," she murmured.
"No," Zion replied, "because they're not beasts. Not here."
From beneath the water, a pair of massive yellow eyes rose—unblinking, ancient, intelligent. A broad snout broke the surface next, revealing a creature longer than any hut in Nouvo Lakay. It exhaled with a sound like a bellows, then slowly submerged again.
"We are being watched," Zion whispered.
"By the people?"
"By the god."
The People of Kétòdan
The tribe called themselves Kétòdan, which meant "Those Who Dream With the River."
Their village was a wonder—built atop woven mats of living reeds and anchored by colossal water-logs. Homes floated like lilies. Rope bridges linked platforms that drifted gently, adjusting to the river's moods. Children swam as easily as they walked, and every adult bore tattoos of fish, spirals, or teeth along their arms and backs.
Zion and Thalia were welcomed not with ceremony, but with ritual silence. A silent procession led them to the center of the village: a platform wrapped in pale blue banners, beneath which the tribe's god spoke through its vessel.
And the god did speak.
Voice of the Deep
The vessel was a woman named M'bali—her skin the color of wet earth, her voice layered as if two spoke at once.
"Zion of the blood-fire, you ride the winds and carry new songs. But this is the river's domain. And the river is not yours."
The air thickened. Thalia instinctively stepped closer.
Zion did not flinch. He bowed—not in submission, but in respect.
"I come to trade. To learn. To offer peace."
M'bali tilted her head. Her pupils flickered—briefly slitted.
"Peace is a current. It can be crossed… or drown you."
From the edge of the platform, six giant alligators rose halfway out of the water. Their scales shimmered with bluish moss. Each bore a carved sigil on its brow, glowing faintly with divine light.
These were M'Gwami, the Spirit Teeth, sacred guardians and oracles of the god Ezenwa, Lord of the Riverbed.
Trade and Temptation
Over the next few days, Zion walked among the Kétòdan, learning:
They harvested pearls, river-root bark that dulled pain, and scalefruit that shimmered like silver.
They brewed a tonic called Kawano, said to give visions of the future.
Their fishermen sang low chants that calmed both water and beast—Zion saw a child wade beside a massive alligator with no fear.
But he also saw submission.
Every offering, every decision, was made only after consultation with Ezenwa, who spoke through M'bali or stirred the water with signs. The people loved their god—but also feared it. Their eyes held awe, not agency.
When Zion asked a young boy what he wanted to become when older, the boy replied:
"Whatever Ezenwa chooses."
And that troubled him.
Thalia's Warning
That night, Zion stood near the shallows, watching moonlight ripple over scale.
Thalia approached, quiet as always.
"They live well," she said.
"They live beautifully," Zion agreed.
"But not freely."
She hesitated before continuing.
"If a god asked you to give me up… would you?"
He turned to her, startled by the question. Her eyes searched his—not for romance, but for truth.
"No," he said at last. "No god, no Lwa, no voice from the sky would ever decide that for me."
She nodded once, and for the first time, reached out and took his hand.
The Beneath Stirs Again
In the final days of their stay, Zion sat with M'bali in meditation. The god spoke through her again, but this time its voice trembled—not with anger, but concern.
"Something wakes. Something not born of river or sky. It eats offerings. It drinks blood not meant for it. It remembers… your name."
Zion's heart slowed.
"Where is it?"
"Not here. Not yet. But it drags shadows toward you."
The alligators around them hissed. The water grew dark at their feet.
Zion stood and bowed again—not from fear, but resolve.
"Then we'll be read