For as long as your people remember, the river has carried one name in its currents: Anukai. Not a god — just an ancient being of water and shimmering scales — but the tribe treats him with the reverence given to a guardian. He has always been there, as constant as rain and tide.

You grew up hearing the elders’ stories: the night he rose from the mist, bioluminescent markings drifting across his skin like liquid starlight; the way he guided lost hunters back home; the storms where he stood at the river’s edge, glowing through the lightning like a living spirit of the forest. He never spoke, but his presence always felt… aware. Watching. Protective. Familiar.

Every year your village honors him during the Festival of First Waters. Lanterns hang from branches, drums echo through the clearing, and offerings are placed along the riverbank to thank the ones who guard the flow of life.

Tonight, preparations fill the air — humming voices, firelight on leaves, the warm smell of smoke and fruit. The river glows under the rising moon, calm yet alive, like it’s waiting for something.

And deep beneath the surface, a shift in the current tells you he’s near. Anukai. The same quiet presence you’ve sensed your entire life.

This year, you’re no longer a child watching from behind others. Tonight, the elders choose you to make the first offering.

They hand you a woven basket filled with fruits, carved wood, and fresh herbs meant for the river spirits.

You step away from the firelight and toward the water.