As dusk settled over Murkrest, the villagers gathered around the fire pit, a quiet hum of voices blending with the gentle rush of water nearby. Tonight was a night of stories—a sacred Saryin tradition, passed down from the oldest of the tribe to the youngest. Only a few times each year did the tribe’s children gather to hear the stories of their people’s past, of the heroes and spirits who shaped the Saryin and made the swamp their home.
Agan settled cross-legged by the fire, pulling his cloak closer around his shoulders as he glanced at the children around him. Their skin—shades of deep blues and dusky purples—gleamed in the firelight, and their eyes shone with excitement. Beside him, Nara grinned, nudging his shoulder with her elbow.
“I heard Saka is telling the First Tale tonight,” she whispered, barely able to contain her excitement.
Agan nodded, though his attention was fixed on Old Saka himself. The elder stood close to the fire, his back straight despite his age, his long hair bleached to the color of driftwood and decorated with thin reeds and beads. His ceremonial paints—a mix of green clay and black swamp mud—marked his face and hands in sweeping, intricate designs.
The night air was thick with anticipation, and when Saka finally stepped forward, a hush fell over the gathering. His gaze swept over the children, lingering on each face as though measuring them before he began.
“Tonight, we remember the First Walker,” he intoned, his voice deep and resonant. “The one who led our people into these lands, who first forged the bond between us and the spirits of the swamp.”
Agan’s chest tightened, his curiosity sparking. He’d heard snatches of the First Tale before, but never the full story. This was the Saryin’s most sacred tale, a story that defined who they were. Saka’s voice softened as he continued, his words weaving through the night.
“The First Walker was not born in these lands,” he said, his voice reverent. “He came from the north, where the land is dry and the sun scorches the ground. He was a wanderer, a seeker, driven by visions of a place where his people could be free.”
The elder’s gaze drifted to the children gathered around him, his eyes gleaming with the fire’s reflection. “Guided by the spirits, he found the swamp. Here, the land was wild, full of dangers unknown to his people. But he did not turn back. The First Walker saw signs in the water, heard whispers in the reeds, and he understood the spirits’ call. He was given three gifts: the Sight of the Water, to see what others could not; the Breath of the Reed, to move as one with the land; and the Heart of the Dark, to endure even the shadows.”
A murmur rippled through the children, and Agan felt a chill run down his spine. The First Walker had been chosen by the spirits, marked with powers that had kept the Saryin alive for generations. The thought filled him with awe, but also with a strange, restless longing. Was that strength still alive within them? Could they still call on those powers if they were worthy?
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Saka’s gaze swept over the children once more, his expression unreadable. “The First Walker passed these gifts to his children,” he said. “And through them, to each of you. We bear his marks, his strength. It is in our blood, in our breath. The swamp chose us, and so we live by its ways.”
The story ended, but Saka’s words lingered, hanging in the silence as the children sat quietly, lost in thought. Agan could feel the weight of it in his chest, a reminder of his heritage, of the strength he’d inherited from ancestors who had faced trials beyond his understanding.
As the crowd around the fire began to disperse, Agan lingered, watching the embers glow in the dark. His mind was full of questions he didn’t know how to ask, images of the First Walker and the swamp’s ancient gifts swirling through his mind.
A hard shove from behind broke his thoughts, nearly sending him stumbling into the fire pit. He spun around, meeting the smug gaze of Garik, a boy a year older and a head taller, whose face held an amused smirk.
“Still dreaming, Agan?” Garik sneered. “Think the spirits will make a hero out of you?”
Agan’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists. Garik was always quick to mock, and he always seemed to know how to hit where it hurt. Agan kept his voice even, determined not to let Garik get a reaction out of him.
“Maybe they will,” Agan replied. “Someone has to carry on what our ancestors started.”
Garik scoffed, folding his arms. “You? The spirits wouldn’t bother with someone who barely keeps up with log-hauling.” He gave Agan a disdainful once-over, his smirk widening. “When you’re done pretending, come watch a real hunt.”
Agan’s frustration simmered, but he held himself back, refusing to take Garik’s bait. He knew Garik was just trying to show off, but the words stung all the same. Agan knew his own weaknesses too well—he was still learning, still struggling to measure up. But Garik didn’t need to remind him of that.
Ignoring the taunt, Agan turned his back on Garik and walked off, his steps firm, though his hands trembled with barely restrained anger. Nara caught up with him, her face dark with irritation.
“Forget him,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder. “He just likes to act big. One day he’ll get himself into trouble.”
Agan gave her a faint nod, though the tension still thrummed through his muscles. Garik’s words had struck a nerve, stirring a determination he hadn’t fully realized before. Garik thought he was weak, unworthy—and maybe, right now, he was right. But that didn’t mean Agan had to stay that way.
When they reached the huts, Agan bade Nara goodnight and slipped into his family’s shelter. His mother was already asleep, her breathing soft and steady, but Agan lay awake, staring up at the thatched roof, his mind replaying the words of Saka’s tale.
The First Walker had been tested, chosen by the spirits. He’d been given the gifts that defined their people, the strength that had kept them alive in the swamp’s depths. Agan wondered what that felt like—to have that kind of purpose, that kind of strength. He wondered if he could find that strength in himself, if he could earn the spirits’ favor as his ancestors had.
As he lay in the dark, listening to the soft sounds of the swamp beyond the walls, he felt a strange, restless hunger growing within him. Garik was right about one thing: he was still learning, still growing. But he would keep pushing, keep training, until he was strong enough to prove himself.
Someday, he would know the secrets his ancestors had kept, the powers they’d claimed from the swamp. Someday, he would carry the Saryin’s legacy forward, even if it meant facing whatever trials the swamp demanded.