The night after the harvest festival lingered in the village like a wet cloak, thick with the lingering smells of damp earth, smoke, and roasted spices. Lanterns swayed in the narrow streets, their golden light trembling across mud-brick walls. Shadows moved like hesitant ghosts, cast by flames that had survived the celebration and refused to die. Only the wind moved with any certainty, rustling through palm fronds and whispering secrets no one was meant to hear.
I sat on the roof of our house, legs dangling over the edge, the cool night air brushing against my face. The village lay quiet beneath me, unaware, oblivious to the storm that had passed through and to the storm still growing within me. My gaze traced the fading lights, following the curves of the river and the scattered glimmer of lanterns. Every flicker reminded me of control and concealment—the delicate dance between power and invisibility.
I needed a shape. A mask.
Not Zeus—too loud, too legendary, too visible. Not the Machine God—too dangerous, too impossible.
Marduk.
The name settled in my mind like dust in an abandoned temple. Forgotten. Safe. A legend that had faded from human memory. It was the perfect mask, one I could wear without immediately alerting gods, cosmic entities, or anyone with the capability to see beyond the veil of normality.
It had to be subtle. Slow. Invisible to all but me.
I opened my small notebook, the edges fraying from repeated use. With a careful hand, I wrote:
"Step one: small traces. Test boundaries without leaving marks. Learn. Observe. Build quietly."
I didn't tell anyone. Not Haidar. Not Tarik. Not even my parents. Their world was too fragile, their understanding too limited. Only I could navigate the gulf between who I was and who the world needed me to be—Marduk, a name, a myth, a ghost in plain sight.
The following morning, I woke before the sun, long before the village had stirred. The air was damp from the river mist, carrying the scent of mud and fresh water. Haidar and Tarik were still asleep, curled in blankets in the small room we shared. I left quietly, careful not to wake them, and made my way to the yard behind our house.
There, I began my work.
Not weapons. Not grand displays of lightning. Not the kind of thing that drew attention. Just small objects: shards of metal scavenged from old ruins, broken nails, scraps of wire, stones from the riverbed with subtle magnetic properties. I arranged them, moved them with precise, almost surgical gestures, testing reactions, noting vibrations. The pieces quivered subtly, hums barely perceptible, responding to the electricity I barely controlled.
Every movement was deliberate, every experiment a whisper of the power that slept within me. It was practice. It was preparation. It was the laying of foundations, unseen and unheard.
Sometimes, Haidar or Tarik would peek out, curiosity written across their faces.
"What are you doing?" Haidar asked once, the suspicion in his voice softened by familiarity.
I smiled, small, unconvincing. "Just… playing with some old junk. Trying to see if anything moves."
They accepted it without pressing further. Children were easy to mislead. They believed in small wonders, coincidences, and imagination. They didn't need the truth—not yet.
And truth was dangerous.
Days melted into each other, blending into months. I hid my power in plain sight, controlling only what was necessary, keeping even minor sparks invisible to anyone but me. I learned how to manipulate water in the small irrigation channels without anyone noticing a difference. Tiny ripples that defied the current, subtle enough to appear as natural shifts. Stones levitated briefly, metal fragments danced in response to my touch, yet always returned quietly to their place, leaving no trace of the unnatural.
Each night, I recorded observations in the notebook. Pages filled with sketches, diagrams, notes about cause and effect, about energy and resonance. It was a secret archive of the man I would one day pretend to be, the myth I would embody—Marduk.
"Name: Marduk," I wrote one night under the flickering light of a lantern."Origin: Forgotten, buried, safe.Powers: Hidden, precise, potentially limitless.Identity: Invisible to the world. Unknown to all. Observed only by me."
The stranger from the festival haunted my thoughts. I hadn't seen him again, but I felt the weight of his gaze, distant but present, scanning from the shadows as if measuring how well I hid. Not threatening. Not aggressive. But undeniably aware.
That awareness made every precaution feel vital. Every flicker of energy, every vibration, every microcosmic movement had to be controlled. No loose sparks. No visible traces.
I spent hours bending small metal objects with invisible force, learning their weight, their resonance, how electricity moved through them like veins of liquid fire. I experimented with water, small streams, droplets, patterns in sand and dust. Every interaction was practice. Every result was a lesson.
I began mapping the village from above, memorizing every alley, every pathway, every hidden nook. Not to conquer, not to dominate, but to know where I could move unseen, where I could hide or escape, where a small spark might go unnoticed.
Haidar and Tarik never suspected. They saw a boy tinkering, curious and restless. I laughed, I smiled, I worked among them, all the while building something invisible: the persona, the legend, the mask that would one day be Marduk.
Even in ordinary moments, I observed. How the villagers reacted to minor disturbances. How they ignored small miracles, small coincidences. It taught me patience. It taught me timing. It taught me the invisible rules that governed the fragile, ignorant human world.
At night, when the village slept, I often climbed the roof and stared at the stars, imagining the distance between me and the eyes that might be watching from beyond the sky. Odin. Dormammu. The Kree. All observers who could see through walls of flesh and bone, all who could feel the currents of hidden energy.
I imagined them watching Marduk, not Arman.
I practiced moving silently. I practiced letting sparks run along my skin without drawing attention. I practiced bending water in shapes that only I could perceive. I practiced hiding my presence like a shadow, blending into everything while still being aware of all.
Some nights, I tested limits. I lifted stones heavier than I should have. I moved metallic shards across the yard with nothing but intention. I allowed currents of energy to flow in controlled bursts, feeling the hum of raw power without letting it escape. Every experiment ended with a careful reset. No evidence, no witness, no hint of the boy who carried thunder beneath his ribs.
Months passed like this. Slowly, deliberately. Seasons changed. The river swelled with the spring rains, then receded, calm and innocent, unaware of the tiny disturbances I left in its path. The village rebuilt itself, oblivious to the quiet education taking place in the backyard of a twelve-year-old boy who wasn't quite human, who wasn't quite anything yet, except hidden potential.
And then, one evening, under a sky that seemed impossibly clear, I realized something.
Power alone would not protect me. Power alone would not shield me from being noticed. I needed stories, I needed history, I needed myth. I needed a shape the world could recognize, a name the world could believe.
Marduk.
I wrote the name again in the notebook. Slowly, deliberately, savoring each letter. It was not who I was, but it was a name that could contain me, a mask that could hold the storm within me and hide it from the world.
I began sketching what Marduk might look like. Armor, symbols, regalia—nothing tangible yet, nothing to show anyone, just lines and ink, imagination and intention. Every mark on the page was a rehearsal for reality, a practice in inhabiting a story the world would accept without questioning.
I set rules for the persona:
Never appear too soon.
Never display the full extent of power.
Always act through shadows, whispers, small miracles.
Let the world forget the name as easily as it is remembered.
By the time I closed the notebook, the first hint of dawn was bleeding across the rooftops. The village still slept, the streets silent and empty. And I—Arman, boy, storm, hidden god—felt a sense of calm. Not triumph. Not certainty. Just preparation.
For Marduk had not yet arrived.
But the seeds were sown.
And some things, once sown, cannot be undone.