The sun had barely risen, spilling thin ribbons of light across the village, painting the mud-brick walls gold and orange. I sat beneath the fig tree near the riverbank, knees drawn to my chest, the morning breeze brushing against my face. The air smelled of wet earth and smoke from last night's hearth fires. Quiet had returned, but the pulse under my skin — the storm waiting — never rested.
I adjusted the satchel at my side, filled with scraps of metal, wire, and the odd gears I had scavenged from the old workshop on the outskirts. None of the other children knew what it was for. To them, it was just "stuff Arman carries," harmless, ordinary. And that was the point. Everything had to appear normal.
I ran my fingers over a tiny brass cog, feeling the subtle hum of energy it drew from me. Not lightning. Not a storm. Not a display. Just a resonance — faint, deliberate, controlled. Enough to test limits, to feel the pulse, but not enough to attract attention.
A soft rustle in the grass made me glance up. Haidar was already watching, leaning lazily against the trunk of another fig tree, eyes alert but careful. He smiled as I caught his gaze.
"Morning," he said, voice low, casual.
"Morning," I replied.
He said nothing else. There was no need. He didn't ask questions about the satchel, the cogs, or the faint static that prickled along my skin. He didn't need to. Loyalty ran deeper than curiosity — deeper than comprehension.
I opened the satchel and laid out the pieces on a flat stone. Metal scraped against metal, but the sound was muted. Tiny sparks traced along the edges of the gears as I aligned them. For a moment, I imagined a machine far larger, infinitely more complex, awakening beneath the earth, tuned to a rhythm only I could hear.
No one could ever see this. Not my friends, not my neighbors, not the adults going about their daily chores. To them, I was just a boy tinkering with scraps — ordinary, harmless, unseen.
The first test was subtle. I positioned the cogs, tracing patterns along the stone with my fingers. A small piece of scrap metal, lying nearby, trembled and rotated slightly — not enough to be noticed by anyone walking past, but enough to validate my work.
I exhaled slowly, letting the faint thrill settle in my chest. It had to be done quietly, carefully. Every experiment, every motion, had to be hidden in plain sight. Even a shadow out of place could draw attention.
Haidar shifted, stretching. "You really spend hours just… messing with that stuff?" he asked, voice casual, almost teasing.
I shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "Yeah. It's… nothing. Just playing."
He chuckled, clearly accepting the answer at face value. That was part of the illusion, part of the game. Everyone had to see what I wanted them to see: a boy absorbed in harmless hobbies.
Once the first alignment was done, I carefully disassembled the cogs, stowing them back into the satchel. Even the smallest energy trace had to be erased. A subtle wave of concentration — like breathing — folded the residual resonance back into my chest. Invisible, imperceptible, safe.
Haidar noticed nothing. Tarik wasn't here yet. No one was watching. I was free to push boundaries, so long as they never saw the result.
Days passed in patterns. Mornings were spent under the fig trees, testing, refining, arranging, then dismantling. Afternoons, I helped my mother with chores, carried water, collected firewood, or ran errands to the market. To the world, I was ordinary. To myself, I was quietly becoming something else entirely.
Every night, I recorded notes on scraps of paper, diagrams, and sketches. Not in any known language, not with words anyone could read. Symbols only I could understand. My own code. My own blueprint. It was painstaking. Slow. Methodical. Perfect.
Sometimes, when the village slept, I would walk to the edge of the river. I tested control — small currents, minor eddies — anything that left no mark, nothing noticeable, but enough to remind me I existed in more than flesh. I had to remember my limits. To know them intimately. To master them without exposure.
No one could see, no one could suspect. Even if someone had caught a glimpse of the subtle shifts — water moving slightly faster beneath a pebble, the flicker of energy along a discarded leaf — they would dismiss it. Children's games. Natural oddities. That was how I had to operate. Invisible power in plain sight.
Then came the decision. It was quiet, sudden, a whisper in the depths of my mind. The mask of Marduk would not just be a name. It had to grow. Slowly, carefully, like a seed buried deep, waiting for the right season.
I began with whispers, rumors. Nothing public. Nothing that could be traced. I wrote small phrases on scraps of bark, buried them where no one would find them — cryptic references to "the coming storm," to "the keeper beneath the dust." Not threats. Not lies. Only shadows of stories, enough to shape belief in the distant future.
Every object I touched, every minor manipulation, had a purpose. A stone shifted subtly in the river. A scrap of metal hums faintly on a roof. Birds startled and shifted just so. All invisible. All untraceable. All rehearsals for the day when the mask would need to breathe life on its own.
Haidar and Tarik continued in their routines. They saw me as a boy who was quiet, thoughtful, occasionally distracted. They had no inkling of the energy sleeping beneath my ribs, no idea of the storm I carried, no knowledge of the distant eyes that watched, measured, or calculated my potential.
At night, in my room, I laid out pieces of old technology — wires, broken gears, scraps of metal. I assembled devices small enough to fit in a satchel, each one a prototype. Each one an extension of my control. I did not test them in ways visible to others. I only felt their hum, their response, the vibration of potential energy, and folded it back inside myself.
This was the foundation. The quiet beginning of a legend that would never exist in anyone's mind… yet.
Weeks turned to months. The satchel grew heavier with components. My knowledge of patterns, energy, resonance, and subtle manipulation deepened. Every action in the village — helping neighbors, collecting firewood, running errands — became a lesson in subtlety. Observation. Camouflage. I learned to hide in plain sight with precision.
One evening, the village held another festival. Lanterns swayed in the wind. Music filled the streets. Smiles were easy, laughter familiar. I walked among the villagers, careful, hands empty, eyes observing. Not once did I let a flicker escape. No shimmer, no spark, no motion unnatural to the untrained eye.
And yet, beneath my ribs, the storm hummed. Waiting. Watching. Patient. Always patient.
I smiled faintly to myself, walking past the tables laden with food and light. No one suspected. No one ever would.
This was the true art: the balance of ordinary and extraordinary. The cultivation of Marduk not in public spectacle, but in shadows. In silence. In invisible hands.
By the time the festival ended, I had mapped every nuance of human attention, every pattern of motion, every line of sight. I could move through the village as if I were nothing — a boy, a shadow, a leaf drifting in the wind.
And that, I knew, would be my greatest power for the years to come.
I would wait. I would prepare. I would grow.
But no one would ever see.
The storm would remain mine alone.
The mask of Marduk would take root, invisible to all, nurtured in secrecy.
And the world, when it finally opened its eyes, would be unprepared.