Eteima Mathu Naba Part 2 -

The river churned. A hand — scaled, ancient, with three fingers — rose from the water.

Then silence.

“I speak for Mathu Naba,” she said, her voice steady as stone.

A boy’s voice — small, clear — rose from beneath the deep: The Crossing The water split. Not with fury. With grief.

The river roared. The sky turned the color of old blood.