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As I tread the hallowed ruins, I cast my gaze upon the so-called leaders, my heart swelling with a profound and righteous disgust.

“Gather those who have failed us,” I command. “Place them in the chambers and lock them into the stockades. They will need to seek penance for what they have done—or, shall I say, for what they did not do.”

They look upon me with their cold, stoic faces, and nod, addressing me only by title. Their demeanor is businesslike—something I have come to expect of them. We are in a war for the heart of Pachil, after all.

“Before you go,” I interrupt their departure, “Tecuani, Ihuitli, please stay behind. There is a grave matter I would like to discuss.”

The others exchange confused stares, perhaps questioning why their names have not been spoken. In due time, should they be the ones to fail me, as well. They shuffle out of the dilapidated chamber, their boots swishing along the dusty, dirt-covered floor.

The eyes of the two leaders who remain are fixed upon me, watching as I stalk about the area, rhythmically patting the hilt of the dagger sheathed at my hip. After the door is shut behind the others, I wait several heartbeats, to see if either will be foolish enough to speak before I do. I find a thrill in the tension that rests in the silence. I know what is about to happen, what the outcome of our meeting will be. Perhaps, if they are astute, they will know, too. However, because of the reason they are here, I will deduce they are both completely oblivious.

Once I have finally grown bored, I begin. “Tecuani, you stand before me with the shadow of failure looming over you. Victory was within our grasp, yet you allowed it to slip through your fingers.”

Unwavering, his eyes meet mine. “I take full responsibility, and I will accept whatever punishment you deem fit.”

“Indeed,” I say. “Responsibility is a noble trait, is it not? But, unfortunately, responsibility does not redeem failure.” I try to best maintain my composure, though, admittedly, it is difficult to do, especially as The Voice speaks to me, continuously reminding me to show no mercy.

“And you, Ihuitli,” I say, turning to the other leader. Sweat begins to bead at his forehead, and his eyes dart about the room. “Do you understand the consequences of failure?”

The nods of this leader are more like a nervous spasm of the head. “Yes, I understand,” he stammers. “Failure is not an option. To succeed in fighting for our cause, there is no room for error.”

My lips form a tight smile. “Strong words. Correct words. But words alone also do not redeem failure. A shame.”

The two leaders stand still, awaiting what this means for their fate. Tecuani, as he is one to do, stands tall and proud, his presence always commanding. Ihuitli, however, slouches, his shoulders weighed down by the immense regret he feels. He has always been attuned to the emotions of others—an admirable trait for a leader.

“I commend you, Tecuani, for your willingness to acknowledge your failure,” I say, praising the leader. “You are loyal, and you understand that the lives of loyal warriors are mine to command.”

Then, I turn to Ihuitli, who lowers his head in shame. I can see that he understands his fate. My fingers fidget with the hilt, channeling my simmering energy. “Ihuitli, I will show you the true meaning of loyalty and acceptance.”

Tecuani looks to Ihuitli, whose eyes are cast down to his feet. I feel the surge of energy roaring through my arm. My head is bowed as I walk over to the two leaders, stopping just short before I am face-to-face with them.

After one solitary breath, I nod, not looking at either man. Then, in a flash, I unsheathe my dagger. Before my victim can react, the slash is complete. I stand poised, dagger extended. Beside me, I hear the victim fall. The sound of his collapse shatters the silence in the room.

With my jaw clenched, I take deep, heaving breaths. The fire that once raged within me slowly subsides. Casually, I untwist my body to once again stand, facing forward. My eyes meet those of the sole survivor.

“As you can see, Ihuitli,” I tell the stunned leader, “mere acceptance of punishment is not enough. Loyalty without competence is worthless. Come.” I wave for the man, who has been shocked into silence, to follow me.

Tecuani clutches hopelessly at his throat as blood spurts through his hands and pours onto the ground. The once-great leader has been reduced to nothing more than gurgling breaths. I step over him as he writhes like a fish out of water, and make my way to the exit. Ihuitli scurries close behind me. Perhaps he looks back at the dying leader in pity, or in shock. Perhaps he does not. It makes no difference to me.

These decimated ruins were once a thriving village that sprouted from the soil of fertile lands. All structures were borne purely for necessity, lacking lavish ornamentations. Each building had a purpose, nothing more. A home was merely a home. A granary stored grain. The quarters of the potter crafted pots. The blacksmith made only tools. Pragmatic. Sensible.

The people prospered, their lives entwined with the land they so dutifully tended. I admired that about their people—their practical mentality and way of life, their unwavering dedication to being caretakers of this place. They could have been excellent subjects, had they simply not resisted. We offered them a choice. They made their decision. Now, well… All I can say is that it is a shame for them.

With many buildings reduced to rubble, we had no choice but to convert the granary into a temporary holding camp for captives. It is the only space large enough that does not demand new construction. In due time, we will reshape this place to better suit our needs. But for now, tents and repurposed facilities will suffice.

After walking through the dimly lit paths, we arrive at my humble quarters. It is a structure that once belonged to the leader of this village, or so I believe. The entrance is flanked by torches, with flames that dance in the evening breeze.

The nervous leader enters behind me. His head swivels from side to side, eyes flickering, searching for any sign of an approaching threat. With nonchalance, I stride into the center of the room. After believing no danger awaits him, he relaxes just a touch.

Inside, I have tried my best to ensure the interior reflects my personal tastes and vision. Rich tapestries that each tell a story of our conquest and power adorn the walls, woven with intricate patterns of red, black, and gold. Even in the low light, their majesty is undeniable. The floor is covered in furs and woven mats, providing a semblance of comfort amidst the chaos that exists outside.

“Please, sit,” I instruct, splaying out a hand to present the offering.

A large, ornately carved wooden table dominates the center of the room, with a couple of similarly decorated chairs placed around it. It is covered with ceremonial daggers, idols and figurines that have been crafted from obsidian and jade, and a variety of exotic plants—possibly poisonous, though I am working on discovering their true nature—stored in clay pots.

Leery, Ihuitli watches me with suspicion. He begins to make his way to one of the chairs, then decides against it, answering, “No, I am fine. I will stand. Thank you.” His gaze drifts about the room, taking in the sights many do not get to see.

A modest bed, draped in fine linens and furs, rests in one corner. In another corner, an altar covered in offerings and ritualistic items. The faint scent of incense lingers in the air from my earlier prayers this morning.

Ihuitli wanders over to the shelves that line another wall, admiring how it is filled with treasures looted from conquered lands. There are golden goblets encrusted with precious stones, necklaces and other jewelry taken from fallen enemies, and elaborate headdresses adorned with vibrant feathers, all trophies of our victories.

“Ah, you see the many spoils of our successes,” I note with pride. “Though we have only just begun, already we have won many battles. We have known glory, yet the recent victories we have earned are mere steps in the larger plan for liberating the throne from the repressive ruler who sits upon it.”

I walk to the shelf and stand beside him, inspecting the items. “These,” I pick up one of the necklaces, its silver chain and amethyst gemstone meekly glint from the torchlight, “are just trinkets. No, Ihuitli, what we seek is something far greater than tangible items.”

We stand next to the trove of treasures, absorbing the sights of the worldly riches. “Have you pondered our origins, Ihuitli?”

“From the waters of the lagoon in Auilqa,” he answers hollowly, lacking conviction. “From Iolatl, after the union with—“

“No, my dear Ihuitli,” I interrupt. “Our origins.”

The leader looks confused, uncertain how to respond. He shakes his head slowly, then converts it into a trepidatious nod. This annoys me, so before he mindlessly recites more rehearsed responses, I proceed to answer my own question. “Everyone knows of the origin of Pachil. But once the twelve factions were created, that is when the real history of Pachil begins.”

Ihuitli turns to face me. He maintains a perplexed look, unable to determine where this discussion is heading. The Voice wants me to slash this stupid expression right off of his face. Or smash it with the heavy goblet until all I have to look at is an unexpressive, bloody pulp. Tension rises in my arms, and I feel my lips purse as I fight back the anger.

Through my nose, I take long, slow breaths. Repeating this a couple times, the fury eventually subsides. No, I will not resort to violence. Not at this time. I would like an audience as I recount our history. Why we are who we are. Why we do what we do.

“Do you know, Ihuitli, what separates a sovereign from a mere subject?” I ask, not expecting a genuine answer. Before he stammers something stupid, I say, “It is not birthright, nor wealth, nor even the favor of the gods. It is the unyielding will to impose the vision one has upon the world. History is a testament to this truth: there will always be a sovereign and those who are subjected to their will.”

I stop inspecting the precious items on my shelves and face Ihuitli. “Look at the world around us. Look at the rise and fall of empires. The Tapeu, the Timuaq, the Ulxa—each had their moment of ascendancy. And why? Because they had leaders who understood the fundamental truth of existence: that power is an illusion, a construct of the mind. The real power lies in the ability to shape that illusion, to convince the masses to follow, to submit, to obey.”

I start pacing, enjoying how the cadence of my footsteps matches the rhythm of my words. “The masses, Ihuitli, are like the maize fields stretching beneath the mountain, ripe for cultivation. They yearn for a hand to guide their growth, direct their paths, and harvest their allegiance. This is why they erect their sovereigns, why they worship their rulers, why they bend their knees and offer their lives in service. It is not out of love or loyalty, but out of a deep-seated need for order, for structure, for meaning.”

I pause, gazing up as though I can see the stars forming in the night sky through this roof. “And the sovereign? The sovereign must be unyielding, ruthless, and visionary. The sovereign must see the world not as it is, but as it could be, and must bend reality to match that vision. This is the burden of leadership, the curse of the throne. To wield power is to understand that it is both fragile and absolute, that it must be seized and defended with equal ferocity.”

I turn to face Ihuitli once more, my voice lowering to a near whisper. “You see, Ihuitli, I am not just a sovereign. I am a force of nature, an embodiment of destiny. I have seen the truth of this world, and I have embraced it. My will shall shape the future, my vision shall become reality. And those who oppose me? They will be crushed beneath the weight of their own insignificance.”

I step closer, my eyes locked onto those of Ihuitli. “So, I reiterate: In all of existence on Pachil, there is but one truth—there will always be a sovereign. And everyone else… is but a subject.”

The eyes of Ihuitli grow wide with concern, with fear. His body trembles as he stands before me, with the flickering torchlight casting unsettling shadows on his face.

“Do you remember what you said earlier, dear Ihuitli?” I inquire, my voice measured. “You spoke of failure not being an option. You declared that there is no room for error in our fight for the cause.”

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I step closer to him, my shadow falling over his quivering form. “You were right. Failure is indeed not an option. And yet, here we are, faced with the consequences of your failures. There is a price to be paid.”

The lips of Ihuitli begin to quiver, and I can see the realization dawning on him. He knows what is coming. His breath quickens, and without warning, he bolts for the exit.

But he is too slow. I lunge forward, grab him by the arm, and yank him back. He struggles, but my grip is unyielding. I throw him to the ground, and he lands with a grunt, the delicious fear in his eyes even more pronounced.

“There is no room for error, you said. And I agree,” I continue, my voice now a low growl. “In our quest to reshape Pachil, to reclaim what is rightfully ours, we cannot afford to tolerate weakness or incompetence.”

Ihuitli tries to speak, to plead for mercy. I unsheathe my dagger, the obsidian blade gleaming in the dim light. The Voice urges me to do it, do it, do it. “Your failure is a stain on our cause. And to ensure that our mission remains pure, I must cleanse that stain. The path to greatness is paved with the bones of the unworthy.”

With a swift, precise motion, I plunge the dagger into his heart. His eyes widen in shock and pain, a gurgled gasp escaping his lips. I twist the blade, watching the light fade from his eyes.

As his lifeless body slumps to the ground, I use his sleeve to wipe the blood from my dagger and turn to leave the room. “Failure is not an option,” I mutter to myself, and to The Voice. “And I will ensure that everyone understands that truth.”

My march to the holding camp is discomforting. My trusted leaders have failed me, and now I am left with a void to fill. We should have been completely victorious by now, yet we must continue the fight. This is not where we should be in the execution of the plan.

“It is just a small setback,” The Voice reassures me, echoing within the confines of my mind. The tone is soothing, almost paternal. “The world has felt our wrath and licks their wounds, while we are building strength as we speak.”

But should they have not already capitulated to our will? Everything was going according to plan. We had the forces, the power. How were we stopped?

“Do not fear,” The Voice tells me. “You have done well, and you have purged those who hindered progress of the cause. Once you complete the ritual, the world will feel our might.”

The Voice has always been with me, guiding me, reassuring me in times of doubt. Yet there is a lingering uncertainty that gnaws at the edges of my consciousness.

You must remain strong, I remind myself. The stakes are too high, the consequences too dire to falter now.

“You question your strength?” The Voice taunts, and I feel a hint of mockery seeping into the words. “Have I chosen the wrong person to lead us to glory?”

“No! No!” I call out to it. “I am worthy. I am the one who will bring our people justice, who will return us to our rightful rule.”

“Remember who you are,” The Voice says. “Your will is unbreakable, your power unmatched. Doubt is a weakness you cannot afford.”

The words ring in my ears. I straighten my posture, pushing aside the creeping doubts that threaten to undermine me.

“Yes,” I murmur, this time more to myself than to The Voice. “I am the sovereign. And I will see our enemies fall.”

I quicken my pace toward the holding camp. The ritual must be completed, and the world will witness the true extent of our power. Failure is not an option. Failure is not an option.

Awaiting me are over a dozen who are secured by the stocks. Their expressions vary greatly—confusion, rage, terror. All of these emotions infuriate me.

“Failure is not an option,” The Voice reminds me.

“Yes, I know,” I snarl aloud, annoyed. I am met with more perplexed looks. Insolence! Do they all wish to die?

My breath is shaky as I try—once again—to subdue my anger. Focus on the matter at hand, Malinaxochi, I think to myself. It has been a long time since I have heard my name.

I stand before the captives, my eyes landing upon each one with cold detachment. Then, at the side of the large room, my gaze falls on an unexpected guest. I feel the wide smile stretch across my face, and a deep satisfaction blooms within me.

I stride over to him, and he lifts his head to meet my eyes. “Are you here for the performance?” I ask. He nods with a smirk. His arrogance has always bothered me. I get the impression he believes he is of a higher importance than me. No matter. His position within the organization will be clarified in due time.

I casually stroll to those who have been imprisoned. Their faces are a delicious mixture of fear, anger, and hope. They should know that failure is not an option. Not to me, not to Eztletiqa, not to our mission. This is an act of mercy.

I get right to the point. “You are gathered here because you have failed me. This will not stand, and thus your punishment must be served swiftly.”

I pace among the captives. Some begin fighting their restraints, those fools. This is for their own good. Do they not realize I am sparing them of a terrible fate? That I am providing them a clemency they are, perhaps, unworthy otherwise of receiving?

“However, I give you one path to redemption,” I continue. “For Eztletiqa is merciful to those who faithfully follow His path. If you still serve the cause, you will give your life to the one true god.”

I snap my fingers. One of my servants holds a large wooden bowl containing seeds the size of the tip of my fifth finger. The seeds are black, and coated with a thin film that gives it an oily sheen when held up to the light. I followed the instructions given to me by The Voice, to prepare these seeds as Eztletiqa willed it to be. I inspect the small kernel, gazing upon the swirl of colors and admiring how such a tiny item can possess so much power.

“Before you, I hold the item that will redeem you in the eyes of the one true god, Eztletiqa,” I tell them. “This seed harbors unimaginable potential and strength. Consume this seed, and you will be the most formidable being ever seen on Pachil.”

Those in the stocks look upon me with curiosity. Inside me, I grow enraged that they do not see I offer these futile followers an opportunity to correct their mistakes, to vindicate themselves after committing such disgraceful failures. But I calm myself, believing they will make the correct decision—the only decision.

The guest from Qapauma looks on, eyes narrowed, likely wondering what is soon to take place. That is because he does not possess the power and might that I possess. He thinks he is my equal, yet he does not understand that I, and I alone, have been chosen. I am the one to whom The Voice speaks. I am the one who will bring us glory.

I nod, signaling to the other servants to enact the plan. Each person plucks a seed from the bowl, then walks over to the captives. Though there are a few who dare look upon my gift of mercy with hesitation, there are others who recognize that this is their only choice to reconcile for the errors they have committed.

A couple of the prisoners open their mouths like fledglings awaiting food from their mother. Their acceptance pleases me, pleases Eztletiqa. I hear His voice speaking to me with great pride. “We will turn the tide of this battle for the heart of Pachil,” The Voice says. “My will shall be done.”

They swallow the seed. Good. At first, there is stillness. I watch attentively, questioning whether I prepared them correctly. Patience is difficult to maintain. The prisoners look at one another expectantly, wondering if this is all that is supposed to happen.

Then, the transformation finally takes place. The first person jolts back, arcing backward and contorting his body. His arms, legs, and hands twist like gnarled limbs of a dead tree. Then another wails in pain, the sound otherworldly. Then another. Through their tanned skin, a luminescent blue races through their veins. Their muscles begin to bulge, ripping through their tunics. The color of their skin shifts to a grayish blue, and all of their hair immediately falls out. Fingernails lengthen and become ivory claws, sharp and lethal. Roars fill the granary, and cautious servants slowly step backwards, away from the mutating captives.

The cowards sitting beside them in the stocks panic. Many claw and dig at their restraints, desperately trying to break free. They tug and pull, blood dripping from their bound legs and wrists and pooling onto the ground. Embarrassing.

I decide to put an end to their pathetic display. “The seed is your only path to redemption,” I remind these fools. “If you do not accept this gift of mercy, you will die.”

Only two cease their futile efforts of releasing themselves. The others continue to struggle with their confinements. Very well. They have made their decision.

With a single nod, I notify my faithful warriors to enact my will. They approach the captives and unsheathe their obsidian daggers. “From Pachil, we were born,” I say. “And to Pachil, we return.” I speak the prayer of the one true god, so that the blood about to be spilled is not in vain. In a single, clean stroke, my warriors slash the throats of these insolent wretches. With haste, the servants are sure to place the chalices at their necks to properly collect the blood. Although these acolytes have failed me in our pursuit to reclaim what has been taken away from us, their abilities with sorcery has proven too valuable to the strength of our cause. As such, we cannot afford to allow a single drop to go to waste. It will be put to better use through a vessel that will not allow such a gift to be squandered.

There are a few remaining who have not made their choice, whether to accept the seed or accept death. I look to the servants, then tilt my head, questioning why they have ceased. Nervous, they reach for another seed. The warriors walk to the prisoners, placing their hands on the chin and nose of each captive. Though they attempt to resist, the warriors pry open their mouths. The servants force the seed down their throats, and the warriors hold closed the mouths, tilting the head back to ensure the seed is swallowed. Some have their necks broken amidst the struggle. Unfortunate. They were likely unworthy of receiving the gift anyway.

The transformation is almost complete. The stockades are no longer able to restrain the newly-formed creatures, bursting and splintering as the monstrosities nearly triple in size. The bones in their legs shift, bending and warping in a way to resemble those of a puma, no longer than of an inferior man. Fangs hang from each side of the mouth, long and curved. Their eyes glow a glorious blue, like sapphires illuminated in the midday sun.

I approach the guest from Qapauma, who looks upon the display with awe. “Was this…” He is in too much shock to complete his ridiculous question.

“I had been studying various flora from throughout Pachil,” I say. “Eztletiqa blessed me with the wisdom to find the precious seed, grown only in the savage lands of Tuatiu, and utilize its power to create what will be the means for us to crush our foes.”

The blue creatures stand at attention, looking forward with stoic faces. I look upon them with pride, seeing their might on full display. There is a hint of terror in the expression of the guest. Perhaps he finally realizes he is not equal to me, after all.

“The gray creatures served their purpose,” I say, pacing around the guest, “but in order to seize the throne that is rightfully ours, we need a weapon that will ensure our victory. While the dead will provide an almost infinite supply of warriors for us to use by forming the gray creatures, we need something more powerful. By the guidance of Eztletiqa, I was able to understand that our acolytes can wield great capabilities, and it is through them that I would generate a mighty warrior that will see us reach our aspirations.”

I gaze upon the wondrous beasts, as still as statues, and marvel at my work. “Combined with their ability to harness the strength and magical energy Pachil provides, these new servants to the one true god are more powerful than anything that has been created in these lands. More powerful than what the Timuaq could ever dream to muster.”

“Truly inspiring work,” the guest says. I sense jealousy in his voice, as though he is bitter that The Voice does not call to him to produce such grand spectacles. Perhaps it is time to put his mind at ease, and to put his abilities to use.

I place a hand upon his shoulder, squeezing it warmly. “Do not be upset, Xaqilpa. We all have our uses for the cause, our purpose. You infiltrate the ranks of rulers and the nobility to provide loyal followers from positions of power. Mine is to lead us to the glory that has been promised.”

He seems wary of where this conversation is going. I am but a jaguar toying with its prey. “The Arbiter was manipulated long enough to let down his guard and allow us to strike. We spread his forces thin enough that he would be ineffective to defend both Qapauma and the Ulxa capital, Analoixan. He would have to choose one to defend strongly while leaving the other to burn, or defend both insufficiently, giving us a chance to capture both.”

I turn to face him. “Reports are coming in from Analoixan, but it appears that, though the city has turned to ruins, it has not capitulated to our might. Instead, it was successfully defended.”

Xaqilpa looks questioningly at me. “But, there were neither Tapeu nor Qiapu forces that—“

“So this leaves Qapauma,” I interrupt, continuing my discussion. “The Tapeu defense was unprepared for our assault, as our forces were able to storm the palace walls. It would be more difficult, but given our numbers and strength, we should have been able to easily take possession of the palace, despite the concentrated numbers of the Tapeu army.”

I draw my face closer to his, my eyes narrowing. “But that is not what happened, is it?”

He furrows his brow, his eyes darting from side to side. I lean in just a bit more, my voice a near whisper. “No. Instead, the Arbiter lives, and our numbers were forced to retreat.”

Before he can react, I land a decisive punch to the side of the head of Xaqilpa. He staggers back, but two warriors are present to catch him before he drops to the ground. They hoist him up to his feet, apprehending him and holding him in place by each of his arms.

“How was this possible?” I shout, spitting in his face. “We were to be victorious! I was to be seated upon the throne, not wallowing in the ruins of an Aimue village! I was to be heralded as the great ruler of Pachil! The factions were to bend the knee to me! Instead, I am festering away in this forsaken pile of refuse? Me? The one blessed by Eztletiqa to return our people to the glory we once basked in before the treacheries of the Tapeu took that away? How could you allow this to happen?”

Xaqilpa looks meekly at the ground. I coil my arm back to strike him again, much to the pleasure of The Voice. My hand begins to glow from the fire forming around my fist. I grind my teeth like seeds in a mortar and pestle. But I take several heaving breaths, watching the pained expression on the pathetic face of Xaqilpa. The flame slowly extinguishes, as does the rage building up inside me. The Voice wants me to carry on with my aggression, to make Xaqilpa pay for his insolence. “Do it!” Eztletiqa desires. “Do it!” He urges me. But I have to remind myself that he will, just not in this manner.

Through a calm voice, I say softly, “We must regroup before we can complete what we started.”

His face now shows a mixture of defiance and fear. Good. It will make what comes next all the more satisfying.

“You,” I say, my voice dripping with mockery. “Xaqilpa, my trusted counselor. You have failed me in Qapauma, and you have failed me in Analoixan. I should be enraged. I am, in fact. Yet your abilities are undeniable.”

He nods, uncertain of the direction in which this discussion will go, yet there is a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “I will do better, Sunfire. Give me another chance, and I will not disappoint you.”

I smile with a cruel twist of my lips. “Indeed, your talents are invaluable. Your knowledge and your connection to the Arbiter... such useful tools.”

I let the words hang in the air, savoring the moment. The hope in Xaqilpa grows, his chest puffing out slightly as he anticipates a reprieve. I turn my back on him, addressing the other warriors.

“But remember this,” I say, raising my voice for all in the granary to hear. “Failure is not an option. It is not merely a setback; it is an unacceptable flaw.”

I snap my fingers, and my servants move with swift precision. Xaqilpa is grabbed by the two warriors at his side, his eyes widening in terror as he realizes his fate. He struggles, but they hold him firmly. There is a delightful panic in his eyes, fearing what is to come.

“Your use must be repurposed,” I say, my voice cold and final. “To serve a greater purpose.”

With a swift motion, I snatch a seed from the wooden bowl and force it down his throat. He chokes, his eyes bulging as the transformation slowly begins. I watch in delight as his body contorts and shifts, the power of the ritual consuming him.

I step back, gazing with satisfaction as the new, terrifying creature emerges. This will be the fate of all who fail me, the Sunfire. The world will soon know the true power of the Eye in the Flame.