The darkness before dawn was not black; it was a deep, bruising blue. The world held its breath, suspended between the death of the night and the birth of the sun.
On the muddy banks of the Tigris, Ayon sat as still as a stone statue.
In his hands, he held a fishing rod made of splintered bamboo, the line vanishing into the ink-black water. To any passerby, he would look like a desperate man praying for a meal. But Ayon was not praying. He was listening.
He could hear the heartbeat of the river. He could feel the ancient silt shifting on the riverbed, the currents weaving through the roots of trees, and the slow, rhythmic breathing of the creatures in the deep.
Come, he whispered in his mind. Not a command, but an invitation. The cycle must turn.
A tug.
It wasn't the frantic jerk of a frightened animal. It was a heavy, deliberate pull, like a handshake from the abyss.
Ayon didn't struggle. He didn't grunt or strain like other fishermen. He simply stood up, his movements fluid and economical, and began to reel the line in. The water churned, frothing white against the dark.
When the fish broke the surface, it was not just a fish. It was a monster of the deep. A River King. Its scales were silver coins the size of a man's palm, flashing in the dim starlight. It was thick with muscle, a creature that had survived nets and hooks for a decade.
Ayon hauled it onto the mud. It thrashed once, a powerful slap of its tail that echoed like a gunshot, and then lay still, its gills gasping for the air that would kill it.
Ayon knelt beside it. He placed a hand on its cold, slick flank.
"You have fought well, old friend," Ayon whispered, his voice carrying a vibration that seemed to calm the creature instantly. "Your war in the deep is over. Your energy will sustain another. There is no shame in this."
The fish's frantic eye seemed to fix on Ayon's, and for a second, there was a moment of understanding. Then, the life faded.
Ayon felt no triumph. Only the heavy, familiar weight of necessity. He wrapped the magnificent silver king in a damp cloth, lifted it into his arms—it weighed as much as a small child—and began the long walk to the market.
The market at dawn was a beast waking up. The air was already thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, animal dung, and the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood.
Ayon moved through the crowd like a ghost. He didn't shout his wares. He didn't push. He simply walked to the busiest section, where the smell of fish guts was overpowering.
This was the domain of Salim.
Salim was a man carved from grease and greed. He stood behind his stall, a large, bellied man with eyes that darted around like flies, always looking for something to steal or someone to cheat. He was chopping a small fish with a rusted cleaver when Ayon approached.
"Greetings, Salim," Ayon said.
Salim looked up, sneering. "The Clay Doll? What do you want? I don't sell scraps to beggars."
Ayon didn't speak. He simply lowered the bundle from his arms and unwrapped the cloth.
The silver scales caught the first rays of the morning sun and exploded with light.
A collective gasp rippled through the nearby shoppers. Even Salim froze, his cleaver hovering in mid-air. It was the finest catch the market had seen in months. A fish this size, this fresh, was worth a small fortune. It was fit for the Governor's table.
Salim's eyes narrowed. The greed in them flared like a match struck in a dark room. He licked his lips.
"Hmm," Salim grunted, trying to mask his excitement with disdain. He poked the fish with a thick, bloody finger. "It's big, I'll give you that. But look at the eyes... cloudy. And the scales are dry. How long have you been dragging this carcass around? It smells of rot."
It was a lie so blatant it was almost impressive. The fish smelled of nothing but the clean, cold river.
An old fisherman standing nearby shook his head, his eyes filled with pity. He signaled to Ayon—Don't do it, son. He is robbing you.
Ayon saw the signal. He knew the fish was worth fifty silver coins. Maybe sixty.
"I will do you a favor," Salim said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Since you are a simpleton and you will only let it rot... I will give you ten copper coins. And I am being generous."
Ten copper coins. It wasn't just a low offer; it was theft. It was an insult to the life of the River King Ayon had caught.
The crowd waited for Ayon to argue. To scream. To bargain.
Ayon looked at Salim. He looked past the grease and the sweat, deep into the man's small, shriveled soul. He saw a lifetime of petty thefts, of lies told to widows, of weights tampered with.
Greed is a heavy burden, Ayon thought. He carries more chains than a prisoner.
"Very well, Salim," Ayon said softly.
Salim blinked, stunned by the easy victory. He let out a bark of laughter. "You agree? Ha! The man truly has no brain!" He quickly snatched the fish and threw it behind his counter before Ayon could change his mind.
"But," Salim added, a cruel glint in his eye, "I don't have small change right now. Come back at sunset. I will pay you then."
Another lie. His purse was heavy at his belt.
Ayon nodded. "A promise is a debt, Salim. It is heavier than gold. I will return at sunset."
He turned and walked away, leaving Salim laughing with his cronies.
"Did you see that?" Salim roared, slapping his thigh. "I just robbed a ghost and he thanked me for it!"
Ayon walked out of the market, his hands empty, his pockets light. But his step was steady. He didn't feel cheated. He felt... patient.
By midday, the sun was a hammer striking the anvil of the earth. The heat was a physical weight, distorting the air, baking the dust until it felt like breathing fire.
Ayon stood at the construction site of a new mansion for a spice merchant. It was a hellish place. Dust choked the air. The sound of hammers and shouting overseers was deafening.
"You! Clay Doll!" The foreman, a man with skin like leather, pointed at a massive pile of red bricks. "If you want work, move that pile to the roof. Two coppers for every hundred bricks. Break one, and I break your head."
It was mule work. Work that killed men young.
Ayon nodded. He stacked the bricks onto a wooden hod, balancing it on his shoulder. The weight was crushing—enough to make a strong man's knees tremble.
Ayon began to climb the rickety ladders.
Up. Unload. Down. Reload.
An hour passed. Then two. Then four.
The other workers, strong men with muscles like knotted rope, were gasping for air. They took breaks every twenty minutes, pouring water over their heads, cursing the sun. They moved slowly, dragged down by the heat.
Ayon did not stop.
He moved with a terrifying, rhythmic consistency. Step. Step. Step. His breathing didn't change. He didn't sweat like the others; his skin merely glistened with a faint sheen. He looked not like a man working, but like a machine made of flesh.
The other workers began to watch him out of the corners of their eyes.
"Look at him," one whispered, wiping grit from his eyes. "He hasn't taken a drink of water in four hours."
"He's not human," another muttered, making a sign against the evil eye. "He's a Golem. A thing of clay."
Ayon heard them. He heard the fear in their voices.
He felt the heat, yes. But to a being who had walked through the burning ruins of the Pearl City, the sun was just a warm lamp. To a being who had carried the weight of a thousand years of guilt, a pile of bricks was lighter than a feather.
By sunset, the pile was gone.
He stood before the foreman, his hand outstretched. The foreman looked at the empty pallet, then at Ayon, who didn't even look winded. A flicker of superstitious dread crossed the foreman's face.
He counted out the coins. He tried to shortchange Ayon by two coppers, but when he looked up and met Ayon's dark, abyssal eyes, his hand shook. He added the extra coins.
"Take it and go," the foreman muttered. "Don't come back tomorrow. You... you unsettle the men."
Ayon took the coins. "Work is worship," he said simply, and walked away.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in the color of a bruise. Ayon made his way back to the fish market.
It was closing time. The stench of the day had settled into a thick, heavy fog.
Salim was packing up his stall. He looked happy. He had sold the River King piece by piece for a total of eighty silver coins. A massive profit.
He saw Ayon approaching and his smile twisted into a sneer.
"Salim," Ayon said, stopping in front of the stall. "The sun has set."
Salim looked around. Most of the other shopkeepers were gone. It was just them and the gathering shadows.
"What?" Salim barked, wiping his bloody hands on a rag. "What do you want?"
"My ten copper coins," Ayon said. "For the fish."
Salim laughed. It was a loud, ugly sound. He leaned over the counter, his face inches from Ayon's.
"What fish?" Salim spat. "I didn't buy a fish from you. I've never bought anything from you. Get out of here, beggar, before I call the guards and tell them you're trying to rob me."
The lie was complete. The theft was finalized.
Ayon stood there. He looked at the fat purse hanging from Salim's belt. He looked at the bloodstains on the chopping block—the last remains of the magnificent River King.
For a second, the air around Ayon seemed to drop in temperature. The shadows in the corners of the stall seemed to stretch, reaching towards him like loyal dogs waiting for a command.
If Ayon spoke a single word of power, Salim's heart would stop. If he lifted a finger, the coins in Salim's purse would turn to molten lead and burn through his flesh.
But Ayon remembered Ilma. He remembered the promise of penance.
To be human is to suffer injustice, he reminded himself.
The shadows retreated. The chill lifted.
Ayon looked at Salim, and a smile slowly formed on his lips. It was the same smile he had given the butcher—empty, serene, and terrifyingly final.
"My apologies, Salim," Ayon whispered. "It seems I made a mistake."
Salim grinned, showing yellow teeth. "That's right. You made a mistake being born. Now get lost."
"I did not mean that," Ayon said, his voice soft as smoke. "I meant... I made a mistake thinking you were a merchant."
"What?"
"You are not a merchant, Salim," Ayon said, turning to walk away. "You are a man eating his own future. Enjoy your meal."
He walked into the darkness.
Behind him, Salim laughed, but the laughter sounded hollow, quickly swallowed by the silence of the empty market. Salim shivered. He looked down at his hand. The knife he was holding slipped from his sweat-slicked grip and clattered to the floor, narrowly missing his toe.
"Clumsy fool," he muttered to himself, his heart beating a little too fast.
Ayon walked home. He had worked all day. He had caught a king. He had moved a mountain of bricks.
And he had seven copper coins to show for it.
He bought a single, dry loaf of bread from the baker. He walked to the edge of the town, to the ruins of an old wall where the stray dogs gathered.
He sat down in the dirt. He broke the bread into pieces.
"Here," he whispered, tossing the chunks to the starving animals. "Eat. The world was unkind to us today."
He ate nothing himself.
He sat there, hungry and tired, while the dogs ate his dinner. And as he watched them wag their tails, a strange peace settled over him.
He was Ayon. The man who could turn sand into gold, but who chose to sleep hungry.
Because he knew something Salim didn't. He knew that the hunger of the stomach was easy to bear. It was the hunger of the soul—the hunger that ate men like Salim and Kasim alive—that was the true curse.
But tonight, the stars were shifting.
Ayon looked up. Far away, in a dimension made of smokeless fire, a decision was being made. A decision that would bring two moons into his orbit.
"Come," he whispered to the wind. "I am ready."
The Djinn were coming. And the Clay Mortal was waiting.