In the murky waters of the Blackwater Swamp, where the trees grew twisted and the mist never lifted, there lived a crocodile unlike any other. His name was Vakaru , and he was as old as the river itself. His scarred hide bore the marks of a hundred battles, and his golden eyes held the patience of a creature who knew time meant nothing.
The villagers of the nearby settlement whispered about him. Some said he was a guardian, others a demon. But one thing was certain: Vakaru always took a tribute .
Every full moon, the people left an offering on the rotting dock—a goat, a basket of fish, sometimes even a silver coin. If they did, the river remained calm. If they forgot, something—or someone—would vanish beneath the dark water.
One day, a reckless boy named Joren decided Vakaru was just a story. "A stupid lizard," he scoffed, throwing stones into the river. "I’m not afraid."
That night, the offering was left untouched.
The next morning, Joren was gone.
His sister, Lira , stood at the water’s edge, clutching her brother’s torn shirt. The villagers warned her to let it be—some debts couldn’t be repaid. But Lira wasn’t like the others. She stepped onto the dock and spoke to the water.
"Bring him back."
The river stirred. Then, with a slow, terrible grace, Vakaru emerged. His jaws parted—not to strike, but to reveal Joren, unharmed, curled in the cavern of his mouth.
"He was never yours to take," Lira said, voice shaking.
