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# Waverider Expedition - Zanakwe

The messenger

The Ndale River glowed red long before sunset.

Its surface caught the dying light like liquid glass, heavy under the weight of the jungle. The air was thick enough to taste, salt, rot, orchids, and something metallic that clung to the tongue. Dragonflies hung motionless above the current, their wings trembling in heat that never moved.

Beyond the haze, Zanakwe rose from the green like a mirage of bone and marble.

Terraces climbed the hillside in white tiers, each one alive with banners, firelight, and the distant throb of drums. Gold plates gleamed on the palace walls, reflecting the river's red glow, and for a moment the whole city seemed to breathe, radiant, terrible, alive.

The Waverider's longboat moved upriver, each oarstroke slow and cautious. Even the ripples behind them looked reluctant to disturb the water.

At the docks they were met by nobles dressed in feathers brighter than any bird. Their skin shone with oil and sweat, and thin gold chains glimmered across their throats. Slaves moved like shadows around them, bare feet, bowed heads, silence. The air smelled of sweet spice and dried blood.

"You arrive in blessed time," said their escort, a tall man in a collar of scarlet plumes. His teeth were perfect, his eyes sharp. "Tomorrow is the Feast of the River. Kalundu will drink deep, and the rains will come. You will see the favor of the spirits."

"We are honored," Captain Virellus said carefully. His tone was polite, but his eyes kept drifting toward the red-tinted river. "It seems the spirits are never thirsty here."

The noble laughed. "Not while men still have veins."

They were led through streets paved with white stone that burned beneath the sun. Fountains bubbled everywhere, each rim stained faintly pink. The smell of flowers was constant, almost cloying. Above them, green parrots shrieked in the palms, their feathers bright as spilled paint.

By nightfall, the city burned with torchlight. Music rolled like thunder through the courtyards, and the air shimmered with heat and perfume. From every window hung garlands of red petals, and every face glistened with sweat and joy.

The ceremony began at dawn.

Mist hung over the river, shot through with gold as the first light rose. Along the banks knelt the chosen - men and women, their bodies painted white and red. Priests in feathered masks moved among them, whispering prayers. No chains, no cries. Only stillness and the faint chime of bells.

The crowd stood in reverent silence.

When the first knife flashed, it drew applause, not gasps. Blood fell in thin streams onto carved gutters, flowing toward the water in perfect rhythm. The chanting grew, a deep, resonant hum that shook the ribs.

Kethra's hand rose to her mouth. "They're..."

"Praying," said the noble beside her, his smile serene. "Listen. The river hears."

The water darkened by degrees, a slow blooming red that caught the sun until it looked aflame. The air filled with the scent of iron and incense. The slaves bowed, the priests raised their arms, and the crowd swayed together, murmuring words that might have been gratitude.

Selene whispered, "They look happy."

Virellus didn't take his eyes off the river. "They believe it's mercy." He looked at the slaves moving below the terraces. "Maybe it is."

When the chanting ended, the silence that followed was worse than sound. The river moved sluggishly, red and gleaming. A breeze passed over it, warm as breath.

That night, the palace feasted. Drums pulsed from the courtyards, slow and heavy. The smell of roasted meat mingled with perfume and blood-flower. The nobles laughed easily, their teeth flashing white against painted lips. Even the wine was red, deep, thick, viscous.

Severin toyed with his cup, studying the priests across the table. "You make a ritual of life and death," he said mildly. "A perfect cycle."

A priest smiled at him. "Every drop returns as rain," he said. "Our strength feeds the earth, and the earth feeds us in turn."

Before Severin could answer, the music faltered.

A messenger had entered the hall, barefoot, mud-caked, gasping. He threw himself to his knees before the dais.

"My lords," he stammered, "the village of Umtana is gone. Not burned... gone. The patrol we sent to search... did not return."

The words fell like stones into water.

A hush rippled through the banquet. Someone whispered, "The fifth this month."

The priest's smile stiffened. "The jungle hungers," he said. "The spirits test us."

But no one echoed him. The laughter never came back.

For a long moment, nothing moved. Then the drums resumed. Slower now, heavier, like a heartbeat beneath the marble floors.

The Waverider left at dawn.

From the deck, Zanakwe gleamed in the mist, white towers, gold spires, banners of crimson fluttering like open veins. The river behind them shone pink in the early light, smooth as glass, carrying everything downstream.

Selene leaned on the rail. "Do you think the jungle's taking them?" she asked quietly.

Severin watched the city fade, his face unreadable. "Maybe," he said. "Or maybe it's just their turn."

She nodded slowly. "Either way, it's the path they chose."

He glanced toward the shore one last time. "Yes. And the jungle always remembers its debts."

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