🌿Chapter VI — The Son of the Swamp 🌿

"He was born in the swamp. And the marsh had waited for him."

The marsh remembers. It doesn't speak. It doesn't shout. It shows nothing. But it keeps. It preserves. It watches over. And sometimes, it transmits.

Years have passed since the fall of the Obsidian. Since the silent vigils of Elias Thorn and Maëra Lys on the heights of the marsh. Since the nights when the mist rose like a reversed tide, and the Watchers appeared silently.

Maëra had felt. She had known. Something was growing inside her. Not just a life, but a memory. A seed planted by the marsh itself. And Elias, for his part, had understood. He hadn't fled. He had accepted. For he knew that what was about to be born didn't belong entirely to them.

And so, The Child came into the world.

Not in a house. Not in a hospital. But in a hidden clearing, at the edge of a stretch of black water, beneath the branches of the Heart Cypress. Maëra had given birth to him alone, Elias watching from a distance, the lantern placed on a stone, casting a soft green light. The Watchers were there. They didn't move. But they were watching.

The Child didn't cry. He opened his eyes. And the marsh fell silent.

The Child grew up in silence. Not the silence of absence, but the silence of listening. He didn't speak much, but he understood. He knew where to walk quietly. He knew when the mists would rise. He knew that certain reeds sang, and that certain trees dreamed.

Maëra taught him the maps. Elias taught him about shadows. They hid nothing from him. They told him about the crash, the whispers, the Watchers. And above all, they showed him the lantern. Elias always kept it close to him, like a fragile flame in his hands. It didn't belong to the Child, not yet. But already, it seemed to be watching him, as if biding its time.

The marsh, however, watched the Child. It tested him. It guided him. It showed him things even Elias no longer saw: shapes in the water, voices in the roots, memories of a time when men and Watchers lived together, before the heart was disturbed. The Child didn't ask questions. He listened.

Years passed, the Child grew, and one day he set out alone to explore the marsh. Without warning his parents, he followed the mists, advancing as if his steps already knew the way. After long hours of walking, perhaps days, he reached a place no one spoke of: the Cave of Waterfalls. It wasn't just a clearing, but a hidden passage. A long corridor, between waterfalls falling in silvery veils, opening onto a forgotten enclave. There, the cliffs rose like natural walls, encircling the ruins of an old church swallowed by time. Its broken stones leaned against the rock, as if they had always been part of the landscape.

Beside it, a peaceful pool stretched out, nourished by the flow of the waterfall. Water lilies floated in it, frozen like constellations. But it was against the side of the cliff that the Child saw what struck him most: an immense stone hand, emerging from the rock, palm open to the sky. No one knew whether it had been sculpted by men or fashioned by the marsh itself. It seemed to hold the entire ruin in its silent embrace. The Child approached, crossed the damp grass, and placed his hands against the cold stone of the giant hand. Beneath his fingers, he felt not an inert surface, but a discreet pulse, like a sleeping heart. He closed his eyes.

And the marsh spoke. Not with words, but with images, memories. He saw the first Watchers, standing like statues of flesh and bark. He saw the Heart of the Black Water beating beneath the roots, slow and deep. He saw his father, Elias, younger, walking alone in the mist. He saw his mother, Maëra, drawing moving maps. And he saw himself, walking among the reeds, speaking to the shadows, carrying the light.

When he opened his eyes again, the pond shone faintly. The water lilies seemed to light up with a white glow, as if the marsh itself had recognized him.

The Child returned to the camp. He said nothing. But Elias understood. Maëra wept. And that night, the Watchers drew closer than ever. They didn't speak. They didn't touch. But they bowed.

For the swamp had chosen.

And from now on, the son of the swamp would keep watch in his turn.