On the dusk of every summer, at the dawn of every winter, before the last memory of a year bygone meets the first moments born from seasons anon.

When the eve of the looming season emerges over the horizon, and the vibrant skies of day began dimming against the somber tones of a waning sun;

With molten streaks bleeding upon the immaculance of its azure canvas, the prelude of maroon and indigo concealed the creeping night.

The pied sunset became the sole crepuscule of both departing and approaching Januaries, ushering in the new year.

And for that brief yet unending moment, the ambivalence of anticipation and apprehension seized the hearts of Cemanamaru.

For centuries now, the collective body of its clans traversed across the lands of their vast continents, congregating amid the eventide of the renewing solstice.

Whether their staunch devotion was a result of coercion or veneration did not matter, they persisted onward through dangers of both nature and beast.

All in hope for the sun to reignite once more, with the foreboding notion of this dreaded twilight being its closing valediction.

And so, on the day of each rebirth, as the gloom of evening overcast the fleeting summer skies, a plethora of ancient and sacred traditions flooded the entirety of these paradisal lands.

From the crystal peaks of Nanuivuk in the silver arctic, whose right of passage pits its uninitiated against Vanatuk’s blizzards in search of their ancestral Inuarora. Or far atop the golden alps of Intensuyu, where fierce warriors are molded through the savage mandibles of wild game, deep within the Marazingo tropics.

Even the dreary regiment of noxious dunes, which dominated the central lands of the Mezaxtal region, found themselves brimming with a vigor more commonly reserved for the abundant fields of the vernal months.

Across countless generations gone by, and to their innumerable cultures therein never was a task too challenging, no pilgrimage too daunting, no frontier proved too indomitable against the children of Cemanamaru.

Cycle after cycle their journeys to satiate the remorseless sun receded into history from elders, became stories to their citizens, and in time would be spread as fables by the children of their children.

One such tale recounts the events which heralded the age of Quetzulkankotl, of how its birth devoured the throne of its antecedents.

The day Elfae ascended from their mythical buried kingdoms.

The day Titans escaped the insatiable pit of the void.

It was the day mankind’s soul awakened to the magic of its confines, the day they would find emancipation from those chains of mortality.

Before this sacred night was christened; the parturition of the sacred mother, another name this day carried.

Tonalco in Vamena; the winter of sacrifice, in honor of the fifth sun.

For centuries the same tale has been recounted across the Mezax Empire.

Vainglorious legends preached to their unyielding protectorates, recited from young age conditioning the minds of their subordinates and their captured nations just the same.

This ancient tale begins below the southern jungles of Mezaxtal’s tropic ravines, just above the snowy sierra of its Northern tundras.

A vast desert engulfed its equator.

The belt of Mictetzahuat embraced the opposing shores of the country’s coasts.

Tides of dust surged across the remorseless sea of craggy hills and arid plains which segregated the sister tribes.

Far past the scorched steppes and sun-bleached soil of the Mictetzahuat, within its center of towering cacti and gemite plateaus, thrives an oasis against which not even the most fertile land of the Cemanamaru could contend.

And it was inside the inner greenery of this emerald navel that prospered the imperial capital: Ometeotican.

This was a land of domination, a land of war, a land where a far more barbaric type of devotion was lavished upon the sun.

Here, in the fertile land of the Mezax Empire, only flesh was payment for the privilege of prosperity, here men offered their victories to their solar Teotel, Xiupotec.

To most Mezans in the prince’s company, nothing had seemed out of place on this particular solstice.

With warrior gentry gallivanting in oafish boasting; the imperial embassies celebrating their success, the front of the convoy relished upon a cornucopia of refreshments.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

Quenching pricked pears filled bellies with their crisp sweetness, its clustered seeds encased within the sheer juicy flesh.

Milky pulqeh emptied their vanquished fears of the conquered insurgence.

Every morsel and sip, courtesy of their young prince, Cuatemoc

Not far behind, the Mezax army chaperoned the spoils, as bands of villagers heaved the offerings across sandy dirt trails.

From tributes of gold and jewels to crates of fresh crops and crude materials, their bountiful caravans mustered a dense cloud overhead.

Back at the rear, the most vital prize remained handled by the armored units of their regal squadron.

Eclipsed among the horde and without dally from the guard’s eyes trekked their procured trophies.

Having gone past the emptiness of the desert winds, the gentry drew ever closer to the Oasis.

With the sunset beginning to draw close, its pale golden light bathed miles of prickled shrubs and barreled cacti, waking the thousands of pastel-colored buds from their daggered beds.

A gentle glow of Aether emanated from their petals.

Bulbous stumps of flowers illuminated the gravel into a pathway.

Such an inconceivable sight, the omnipresent death of the Mictetzahuat against the thriving succulence and families they provide.

In every aspect, from the waning of sunny skies to the fresh air of the arriving bloom, this was as routine a solstice as countless many before.

Or it would be, were it not for this time, the young warrior Tlawecoli did not willingly set off on a pilgrimage to the encroaching Empire.

Today, he and his brethren found themselves imprisoned by the imperial army, bound to their networks of woven reeds.

Tlawecoli on the other hand found both hands and feet independently tethered and individually handled by his own personal escort.

Being the most feared warrior had its…privileges.

Together, they forcibly waded through the unfettered sands within the parching winds, their ranks marched on destined towards the capital, fated as offerings upon the altar of the sun.

CoUG-COug-CooOOUgH.

Plumes of dust smothered the huddled captives.

Abrasive hot grains scraped their tender sinuses.

The sting on their raw membranes exacerbates their involuntary heaves for clean air.

Dirt crunching against the cotton mouth and muddied teeth.

Blazing heat seared their sore throats.

Stripped of their gear and clothing, their naked soles had cauterized from the scalding ground, with only tattered trousers salvaging the last of their pride.

The wheezing men struggled to keep pace with the armed soldiers.

Try as they might spew the dirt, the pelting dust clung to the most minuscule orifice it could find.

“HURRY IT UP!”

A hulking voice demanded.

Warden Axalco was a beastly man with logs for biceps.

His trunks leather straps secured the wooden ax beside his equally imposing leg;

The waistband’s flowing tail was pinned under a round buckle.

The unmistakable mark of an imperial captain.

It was a golden escutcheon with a spiked edge, its luster reflecting their patron Sun god, Xiupotec.

“NANZINE!!!” One of the chained warriors cried “NA..Na..nA..nAnZeeNEh!” His innocent voice still wavered between child and man.

Axalco strangled the ropes and tugged them forth.

A slight buckle gave through the prisoner’s weary knees.

“Grrrrummbrbrl”

The warden’s audible groan pulsated the chords along his neck.

His brows caved into a furl.

“I saaaaid….”

with shaking lids, a wave of explosive anger flushed his brown face into a menacing scowl.

“COME…..”

Wrapping the vines around his thick hands

“ON!!!”

He barked.

Forcefully, he yanked the ropes, toppling the prisoners.

The captured warriors would have collapsed with any if much, effort.

With dehydration and borderline asphyxiation gracing them with aching muscles, sore joints, and impaired senses.

It was a wonder their feet responded in any measure.

“GRMMBRGRBR!”

The hulking captain placed his hand firmly over his weapon.

As he paced towards the fumbling prisoners, the loose soil rumbled with each stride of his monstrous soles.

Like startled flocks they parted, leaving the prone and feeble.

“Come here you sniveling little mauhcuil!”

His roar, followed by his bear-like grasp, lunged toward the vulnerable prisoners.

Snatching the jet-black braid of a tender-faced boy among the cowering mass.

A young lad a year into his teenage life, his humble skirt ragged with mud and tears.

Streaks of washed paint streamed down his soaked cheeks.

“SHUT UP!”

He commanded as he shook the boy from his scalp. The pressure choking him with his own weight.

“HRRK.Hrr.hrrKK.”

The young boy’s struggle to breathe, only crushed his windpipe tighter.

His helpless eyes have become as red as the blood from his nostrils.

Captain Axalco lifted the wooden ax, its obsidian spikes refracted the orange sun over the teenage victim.

In that moment Tlawecoli glanced toward his handlers.

Their entranced eyes had become preoccupied with the clamor that trailed behind, and their clenched grip became slack as their gaping jaws.

[DUAL STRIKE]

Instinctively Tlawecoli’s arms and legs tensed, he entwined the ropes around his biceps and clenched the binds between his fingers.

As he firmly planted his soles, his arms catapulted forth.

Slinging his warden off their feet, their bodies skimmed off the abrasive floor.

As they collided with one another, the force released the soldier’s hold over his shackles.

Feeling the constrained ropes lose their tautness, Tlawecoli yanked one arm back, wrenching the rope away from the panicked guards.

[COIL LASH]

He reeled the tether forcefully.

An arching wave careened across its length, the buzzing whip aiming for the brutes holster;

With every fiber of his bulging muscles sprang in reverse sharply yanking his arm back.

WHAAAACK!

The sharp crack sliced through the commotion.

Splashing of blood misted the air as the violent lash struck the armed guard over his sheathed hand.

A muffled splatter painted sanguine gashes across golden dirt.

Even at a few yards away, Tlawecoli could see the white sinew dangling beneath the split flesh of the brute’s right hand.

“RAAAARGH!”

The Captain bellowed, unhanding his weapon.

He squeezed the young man’s hair in his monstrous grip and swung back, glaring at Tlawecoli.

Just as quickly as their glances met, their eyes shifted toward the floor.

Searching the sparse ground for the disarmed mace, their eyes shifted back and forth, vacillating irises and dilated pupils scoured the bright wood-colored floor, searching for a mace of an almost similar hue.

“GET HIM!”

“DON’T LET HIM OUT OF YOUR SIGHT!”

“SHOOT HIM!”

The scattered guard began encircling Tlawecoli, their resounding shouts inadvertently warning the young warrior.

Looking around, he counted four guards on his right, and three on his left.

Three were missing.

All of them, archers, he noted.

Phweeet

A thin wooden bolt veered past his neck.

Phweeet

Another shaved through his short-length hair, nicking his ear as he ducked below.

A third bolt grazed above, its narrow tip slicing Tlawecoli along his naked back.

Without a thought, his hand pressed against the freshly opened wound.

As he stood still, assessing his surroundings, he could see the guard lumbering over himself, his right arm stretched down, reaching for the leather-bound handle.

THERE!

Tlawecoli’s mind alerted him, instantly his legs found their footing.

[PROWLING DASH]

Tlawecoli’s calves sprang downward, pulverizing the sun-baked mud beneath him.

All four limbs wrestled against the dead weight from his dragging restraints.

A bulbous cloud erupted around him, concealing his movements, as he scurried towards the monster.

The guard’s fingers kept stretching toward the floor, but their stoutness combined with his sweating palms made it difficult to properly grasp the handle.

He watched as Tlawecoli closed in on him, gliding over the dirt and gravel, with every leap his body weaved between incoming arrows.

phweet

phwiit

fwit

The whistling bolts became a muffle within the dusty winds.

Holding the young soldier’s hair tighter, the captain’s grimace slowly transformed into a sinister smile as the brute lifted him overhead.

KKKKRRAAAK-KRRK

The boy’s thick hair now pulling at his scalp, the pressure cracking his tender neck.