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My extended stay in the lands north of Tapeu has done nothing to endear them to me—in fact, I may despise them even more now. The dull, lackluster beige that surrounds us has seemed to drain all the life and vigor out of me. I want nothing more to do with these lands, yet my journey continues to keep me here, a prisoner to fate.
This all better be worth it.
The Qantua warriors, too, have become restless. Their mission—to rescue Qapauma from falling to ruin at the hands of the Eye in the Flame—has been achieved. Many now question why they still march, why we continue on to Aimue. There are days when I wonder this myself. But as long as the maniacal cult remains, our duty to restore and maintain peace on Pachil will never be fulfilled.
This doesn’t make the breakdown of morale lessen, however. It required a lot of effort to bring the Qantua around to the cause, and it requires even more to maintain it. Grumblings have sprung up around camp, and they’ve only grown louder and more persistent the further we march. Without the likes of Haesan, or even Sianchu, I fear I may not have the means to rally the continued support necessary to see this mission through.
What was it Teqosa told me, way back in Hilaqta? I ask myself, trying to find some motivation, some inspiration. ‘Be genuine, be direct, and be honest.’ That was his advice. I should be able to do that… right?
We decide to cross the Maiu Antumalal before setting up camp, to get the most laborious part of the journey out of the way. To our good fortune, the makeshift vessels we used to cross this river previously remain mostly in tact and in fair condition. Like before, it takes us a good portion of the day to traverse, yet it’s far from challenging—just what we all need after such a long and arduous journey.
As we press on through the Aimue plains, I find my gaze drifting upwards more often than I'd like to admit. The night sky filled with a scattering of stars holds a singular focus for me—the waning moon. It hangs there, taunting me, its light diminishing with each passing night. Every evening, when the darkness settles over us, I search the heavens, measuring the sliver of light that remains.
The crescent is thinning, retreating into shadow. And with it, my unease grows. The new moon is no longer a distant threat. It's drawing closer, pulling us inexorably toward the impending storm. There’s a weight in my chest every time I see that moon, a tightening grip that reminds me of what’s at risk, of the lives hanging in the balance. Each glance at the sky feels like a nudge—a push to move faster, to reach Aimue and rally the strength we’ll need before the darkness takes over completely.
With the crumbling ruins of Taqeipacha fading into the distance, we finally reach the opposite shore. We are about to break camp when one of the warriors notices a disturbing sight. “Take a look at this,” he urgently says to me. He emphatically points to a tangle of torn fabric caught on the jagged remnants of a shattered raft, its deep crimson threads trailing in the surf.
My stomach tightens. The fabric is unmistakable—an Eye in the Flame robe, shredded and frayed, but the sinister shade of blood red used to dye the fibers is unmistakable. It’s fresh, too, barely weathered by the elements. The cult has been here, and not long ago.
A ripple of unease spreads through the group as more warriors gather to inspect the threads. The whispers start immediately, carried by the wind like a growing storm. Some talk of turning back, others of abandoning the mission altogether. Fear tightens its grip on the camp.
“Does it ever end?” one warrior mutters, his voice filled with solemn resignation. “We fought them all over Pachil, and now, here they’re again. What hope do we have if they’re everywhere?”
Another warrior’s face contorts into a scowl. “We’ve been chasing shadows for moons, losing brothers and sisters at every turn. And for what? To walk right into their traps again?”
“I’m sick of it,” someone else chimes in. “I didn’t sign up for a death march. If the Eye in the Flame is this strong, what chance do we really have? Maybe it’s better to cut our losses and head back to defend Qapauma while we still can.”
“Or return to Hilaqta,” another suggest, receiving numerous grunts and shouts in agreement.
A younger warrior shakes his head. “We don’t even know what we’re walking into. For all we know, Aimue could already be overrun. It was already in dire shape when we arrived the first time. Why are we risking our necks when the outcome seems inevitable?”
I can feel the tension mounting, the uncertainty swelling. They’ve faced too many battles, suffered too much loss, and now, with the enemy seemingly always one step ahead, their spirits are fraying like the fabric before them.
“Enough,” I snap, though the word comes out harsher than I intended. The warriors turn to look at me, their eyes reflecting their doubt. I force myself to soften my tone, trying to channel the calm authority Teqosa once spoke of to me. “This is exactly what those lunatics of the Eye in the Flame want—to break us with fear. We knew this wouldn’t be easy, but we’re not turning back now. We press on to Aimue, where we will regroup, rally support, and plan our next move.”
But I can see it in their faces, the uncertainty, the questioning. It grates at me, this constant need to prove myself, to hold this fracturing group together. “What’s the matter with you all?” I lash out, my voice rising, cutting through the uneasy silence. “You think you can just walk away now? After everything we’ve been through? After everything you’ve seen?”
One of the warriors, whose square face and beady eyes are lined with exhaustion, dares to meet my gaze. With his chin raised, he approaches me, showing no fear nor intimidation of my presence. “We’ve lost too much already, Tuatiu. How much more do you expect us to give?”
“Everything,” I snarl, taking a step forward with my fists clenched. “You think you’re the only ones who’ve suffered loss? I’ve buried more friends and kin than I can count, and yet here I am, still fighting! So, unless you’re ready to join them in the ground, you’ll keep moving, and you’ll do it without this constant whining!”
The warriors recoil slightly at my sharp and jagged words. They stare at me with a mix of shock and resentment. I feel a momentary satisfaction at having silenced their doubts, but it’s quickly drowned by a wave of guilt.
I’m pushing them too hard, I realize, the thought snapping me to attention like a cold splash of water. These are warriors, not mindless beasts. They’re exhausted, grieving, and I’m treating them like they’re expendable.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to step back, to calm the storm that’s raging inside me. “Look,” I begin again, my voice lower, more controlled. “I know you’re tired. We all are. But we can’t afford to give up now. Not when we’re this close. And believe me, we are close. We’ve got them on the run, licking their wounds! I need you to trust me, to trust that what we’re doing matters. Because it does. And if we fall apart now, then everything we’ve fought for will be for nothing.”
The hard lines of their faces soften, and the resentment begins to fade. “I’m not asking for more than you can give,” I continue, “but I am asking for your strength, your resolve. We can’t let the Eye in the Flame win, not after everything they’ve taken from us. From Pachil.”
The words feel thin, as if they barely withstand the rising tide of despair. Maybe it’s too late, and I’ve overreached in my attempt to establish control. But I push forward, refusing to let the cracks show. I say, almost pleadingly, “We’ve faced worse, and we’re still standing. We can’t give in to doubt now.”
For a moment, silence permeates through the camp. I fear that I’ve lost them, and that I’ll need to figure out a way to carry on without the Qantua. The warriors stand motionless, their eyes flicking between the frayed threads and the distant horizon, as if searching for an escape, a reason to turn back.
Then, almost imperceptibly, one warrior shifts his stance, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. His eyes meet mine, and though they are still clouded with uncertainty, I see a hint of determination rekindling. Perhaps emboldened by the first, another warrior gives a curt nod, his jaw clenched as if steeling himself for what lies ahead. The movement is slow, almost reluctant, but it’s there—a silent acknowledgment of the path we must take.
A few more follow. A warrior adjusts the strap of her shield, while another takes a deep breath, his shoulders squaring as if to shake off the weariness. The fire in their eyes may be dimmed, but it’s not extinguished. I can sense their lingering hesitation, their weariness, but they’re choosing to stand with me, to press on despite the fear clawing at their hearts.
I let out a slow, controlled exhale, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders. Leadership is a burden I’m still getting used to, and I don’t know if I will ever fully grasp what it takes to be an effective one. But it appears I’ve managed this moment, albeit barely. I may not have reignited the flames of their spirit entirely, but I’ve kept them from being snuffed out, and for now, that’s enough.
As we make preparations to move on, I find myself walking along the shore, away from the others. The sound of the water lapping against the rocks is a faint comfort, but it does little to ease the turmoil inside me. I reach for the coral-colored pendant I keep hidden beneath my tunic, feeling the rough edges.
So much depends on keeping these warriors together, I remind myself. If I lose them now, I don’t know how I can succeed.
The realization hits me like a blow to the chest—I’ve become so focused on the goal that I’ve lost sight of the people who are helping me achieve it. These warriors aren’t just weapons to be wielded; they’re lives, each with their own fears, hopes, and limits.
I pause, my gaze drifting out over the water. I watch as the tiny waves roll in, constant and relentless, yet somehow calming in their rhythm. There’s a certain peace in their predictability. A sense that no matter what happens, they’ll keep coming, steady and sure.
Inside me, however, nothing feels certain. Every decision seems fraught with potential disaster. The waves know their path, their purpose, but I… I’m still trying to find mine, still trying to figure out what it means to truly lead.
Leadership isn’t just about barking orders and pushing people to their limits. It’s about understanding those limits, knowing when to push and when to pull back, when to listen and when to speak. But how do I strike that balance? How do I lead these people, warriors not of my own faction, without driving them away, without breaking them in the process?
I know I’ve always been strong. Always known how to fight. How to stand my ground against any challenge in a battle. But this? This is different. I can’t charge ahead, fists swinging, and expect everything to fall into place. I’m very clearly in uncharted territory. I’ve never had to lead before—not like this, not with so much at risk. Every decision I make could be the difference between victory and ruin, life and death. And knowing I’m responsible for so many lives doesn’t make this realization any more comforting.
What if I’m not cut out for this? What if I fail them? I’ve always been quick to act, to react, but leadership requires something more—patience, wisdom, the ability to see beyond the immediate. And that’s where I falter. I’m learning, yes, but the lessons are hard, and the demands are high. There’s no room for mistakes, no time for second chances. And yet here I am, fumbling my way through, hoping that somehow, it will be enough.
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I think of Haesan, of Teqosa, of the people I’ve met who seem to carry this burden with such ease, such grace. They make it look effortless, even though I know it’s not. I know it’s a struggle, a constant battle between what is and what should be. And I wonder—will I ever reach that point? Will I ever be the kind of leader who can inspire, who can guide without crushing those I lead? Or am I destined to stumble, to falter, dragging everyone down with me?
The water continues to slosh against the shore, and a deep sigh escapes my lips. I’m not there yet. I know that much. But I can’t afford to let doubt consume me. Too many lives depend on me. I have to keep moving forward, learning as I go, adapting, growing. I have to believe that I can be more than what I am now, that I can become the leader they need me to be.
But it’s hard. It’s so damn hard. And as I stand here, alone with my thoughts, I wonder if I’ll ever truly be ready.
I return to the camp, my steps more measured, my mind clearer. I don’t apologize—that’s just not who I am. But I do speak to the warriors differently, making sure my orders are more than commands, ensuring they know why we march and what we fight for.
At first, there’s only silence. The warriors exchange wary glances, their earlier doubts still weighing heavily on their minds. I can see it in their eyes—the fatigue, the weariness of too many battles fought, too many comrades lost. They listen, but their expressions remain guarded, as if holding back from fully committing to my words.
As I continue speaking, though, something shifts. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible at first—a few heads nodding, a murmur of agreement rippling through the crowd. One warrior who had been staring at the ground lifts his gaze to meet mine, and a spark seemingly returns to his eyes. Another, who had earlier voiced thoughts of retreat, now appears to silently vow to press on.
They’re not fully convinced—not yet—but the seeds have been planted. The warriors start to move with a bit more purpose, their actions less hesitant. They gather around the campfire, their conversations hushed, but tinged with a renewed sense of focus. They’re still wary, still fearful, but they’re no longer lost in that fear. They’re finding their way back, step by step, to the cause that binds us all.
As the camp settles in for the night, the unease lingers. But it’s tempered by a renewed sense of purpose. The Eye in the Flame may be a shadow that looms over us, but we won’t let it define us. Not today. Not while I still have breath in my lungs.
We resume our journey before the sun rises. As we march across the endless plains of Aimue, the vastness of the land stretches out before us, a sea of golden grass swaying gently in the crisp breeze. The air is dry and cool, carrying with it the faint scent of tilled soil and the remnants of the harvest. The sky above is an expanse of muted blue, the kind that seems to extend forever, unbroken by any obstacle save for the occasional tree standing solitarily in the distance.
The rhythmic sound of our footsteps through the tall grass has a calming, almost meditative quality. With each deliberate step, our bodies sway in time with the gentle roll of the plains, the landscape so open that it feels as if we are walking through a dream. The horizon is a distant line, blurring into the pale sky, and the land seems to go on endlessly, like an expansive, silent ocean.
I let my gaze drift over the landscape, the gentle rise and fall of the terrain, the way the light plays off the golden grasses. There’s a quiet power here, a beauty in the simplicity of this place after all. Perhaps these lands aren’t as awful as I’ve built them to be in my mind.
Then, without warning, we stumble upon it. The camp is a disjointed mess of chaos and abandonment, as if the terrain itself had decided to swallow it whole and spit out the remnants in a fit of rage. Torn tents hang limply from branches, the cloth flapping weakly in the faint breeze. Burnt-out fire pits sit like gaping wounds in the ground, surrounded by scattered belongings—discarded packs, broken weapons and tools, scraps of garments stained with blood.
I stop dead in my tracks, my heart pounding as I take in the scene. The warriors behind me murmur uneasily, their voices low and tense. This wasn’t an evacuation—this was a massacre.
“Spread out,” I order, though my voice feels small against the backdrop of the carnage before us. “Search for survivors. Be quick about it.”
The warriors move cautiously, their steps deliberately slow as they navigate the debris-strewn ground. As they push further into the wreckage, it becomes clear that this was the site of a battle—and a brutal one at that. Bodies lie strewn across the clearing, their faces twisted in permanently fixed expressions of agony and fear. The dark and congealed blood paints the ground in a macabre tableau. Some of the dead wear the familiar colors of the Aimue, but others bear marks and armor that are unfamiliar, their origins a mystery. It’s as if two different worlds collided here, leaving only destruction in their wake.
I approach one of the bodies, and my breath catches in my throat as I kneel beside it. The warrior’s hand is still clenched around the hilt of his sword, the blade buried in the ground as if he had tried to drag himself to safety. His eyes are open, staring blankly at the sky, and a deep, jagged gash runs from his shoulder to his chest.
I glance up, taking in the full scope of the devastation around me. This wasn’t the result of a skirmish—this was the aftermath of something much larger, something that left no one alive to tell the tale. I urgently push myself to my feet, and though my eyes sweep the area for any sign of why this happened here, deep down, I already know the answer.
“We need to move,” I say, my voice steadier now, though it’s laced with the rising tension I feel in my gut. “This was the work of the Eye in the Flame—I’m sure of it. They’re close, and we can’t afford to let them slip away.”
Shaken by the gruesome discovery, the warriors nod in agreement, though their faces betray their unease. I can see it in their eyes. They’re beginning to doubt again, to wonder if this is a fight we can win. But there’s no time. We need to reach Xaqelatun before it’s too late—if we’re not already too late.
“Move out,” I command. “We must reach Xaqelatun, no matter what it takes.”
The landscape around us blurs into a monotony of gold and gray, the rhythm of our march no longer a steady, measured beat. The unease from earlier hasn’t dissipated—instead, it has settled in, growing roots in the minds of the warriors, festering into something more dangerous than mere doubt.
It starts with a murmur. A low, rumbling discontent ripples through the ranks like a slow-moving storm. A few voices, once quiet, now rise with a boldness born from fear and frustration.
“Why are we still pushing north? We’ve done what we were sent to do,” one warrior calls out, reigniting the complaint I thought had already been resolved. “Our orders were clear—protect Qapauma. Now we’re out here, risking our lives for what? Aimue isn’t our home.”
Others nod as their expressions darken. Along with the persistent strain of the journey, the horrors they’ve just witnessed seem to be quickly eroding their loyalty. “We should be protecting our own,” another warrior adds, his tone less questioning and more accusing. “Qapauma is vulnerable, possibly even Hilaqta, and we’re out here chasing shadows.”
The rumblings of dissent grow louder, more insistent, until one particularly vocal warrior steps forward. He locks his eyes onto mine, ready for a confrontation. “This isn’t our fight, Tuatiu. We don’t owe Aimue anything. The council ordered us to protect Qapauma, and you’re leading us away from it. They may even be headed to Hilaqta, for all we know. What happens to our families, our homes, if we’re not there when the Eye in the Flame strikes?”
The words hit like a blow, as the doubt and anger in his voice strike at the fragile balance I’ve been trying to maintain, and am clearly losing. Frustration and fear surge through me. I know they’re right in their fears, but turning back now or going to Hilaqta would mean leaving Aimue to fall while allowing the Eye in the Flame to strengthen, and that’s a failure I can’t accept.
“We’re not just protecting the Aimue,” I say, forcing steel into my voice. “We’re protecting all of Pachil. The Eye in the Flame won’t stop with Xaqelatun, or even Qapauma—they’ll spread their madness everywhere, and if we let them take the Aimue territory, we’re handing them a foothold to strike at the rest of the continent.”
But the warrior doesn’t back down. He steps closer, his voice rising and intense. “And what if we’re too late, huh? What if, while we’re out here, Hilaqta falls? We’ll have failed our people and the capital we were ordered to defend, and for what? For a land that isn’t even ours?”
I step forward, meeting the warrior’s gaze head-on. “I understand your fear,” I begin, trying with all my effort to remain soft but firm. “But we can’t afford to think only of ourselves. We’ve seen what they’re capable of, and this,” I splay my hands at the destruction around us, “is only a taste of what they’ll do. The Eye in the Flame is a threat to all of Pachil, and if we don’t stand together now, they will destroy everything. Yes, Qapauma is the seat of power, but every corner of Pachil deserves to be protected. If we allow them to take Aimue, they’ll gain strength, numbers, and resources that will make them unstoppable.”
Be genuine, be direct, and be honest, I repeat Teqosa’s advice.
I pause, then add, “I know this isn’t easy. I know the cost is high. But you are Qantua, and we are warriors, defenders of Pachil. Our duty is to protect, even when the path is uncertain, even when the challenges appear insurmountable. This is about doing what’s right for everyone, throughout the entirety of the land.”
For a moment, the group is silent and hesitant. But slowly, the anger and fear in their eyes begin to waver once more, giving way to a grudging acceptance. Though still rigid with tension, the vocal warrior steps back, his defiance tempered by a reluctant respect. But beneath that respect, uncertainty certainly still lingers.
“We move forward,” I command, ensuring the authority in my voice is unyielding. “We reach Xaqelatun by nightfall, no matter what it takes.”
The warriors fall into a tense silence as we continue northward. Our conversation still echoes in my mind, and likely the same is taking place among the Qantua. Each day bleeds into the next, a blur of ceaseless movement through the heart of Aimue. The plains offer little shelter, no solace from the biting wind that sweeps across the open expanse, tugging at our clothes and carrying with it the faint scent of smoke—a distant, lingering reminder of the battles we’ve already fought and those yet to come. The ground beneath us is firm but unforgiving, a far cry from the lush jungles and dense forests of Tuatiu. There is no reprieve here, no familiar warmth to ease the burden of our journey, only the cold, relentless march forward.
The closer we draw to Xaqelatun, the more the anxiousness among the warriors grows. Once a place where I had begun to admire its serene beauty, the plains now feel ominous, warning us to stop proceeding onward. Yet I push the pace, unwilling to let the doubts I know still linger take root again, and the warriors fall into line behind me.
We crest a low rise, and it’s then that I see it—a plume of smoke, thick and black, rising above the treetops in the distance. It twists into the sky, and my heart skips a beat.
“That’s… Xaqelatun,” one of the warriors mutters, as if speaking the words too loudly will make them true. There’s a ripple of recognition, and then, without another word, we quicken our pace, urgently rushing forward.
The world narrows to the stretch of plains before us, the golden grasses bending and swaying beneath our pounding feet. Each breath sears my lungs, the air thick with smoke. The city looms on the horizon like a dark smudge against the fading light. An ominous plume of smoke spirals upward, growing thicker, more menacing with each passing moment.
As we break through the last of the open plains, the sight of Xaqelatun finally comes more clearly into view—or rather, what remains of it. But instead of the exhausted, pensive farmers I expected, we’re met with a wall of hostility. A line of Aimue villagers stand before us in their simple tunics in yellow and green. Their faces are set in grim determination, eyes narrowed as they stare us down with the weapons they brandish.
For a moment, I’m taken aback. This wasn’t the welcome I anticipated. “Why are they armed?” I mutter under my breath. These aren’t the typical Aimue farmers—their stances are defensive, as if they expect us to charge at any moment. Confusion courses through me. Why would they be so ready to fight us?
“Hold!” I call out, stepping forward with a raised hand to signal that we mean no harm. “We come in peace!”
An Aimue man with a weathered face and a cold gaze doesn’t lower his weapon. Instead, he takes a step forward, and his voice rings out over the tense silence. “Don’t take another step! We’re prepared to defend ourselves from you again.”
I blink, thrown by his words. “Again? What are you talking about? We’re not your enemy.”
His eyes narrow further, and the corners of his mouth tighten as his stance becomes more guarded. “Coming back to finish what you started?” he spits, his tone laced with venom. The Aimue around him shift, their grips tightening on their weapons, ready to act at a moment’s notice.
A cold wave of confusion crashes over me. What does he mean, ‘finish what we started’? My mind races, trying to piece together the fragments of this puzzle. Is this from the previous time were were here? Or does he believe we’re the Eye in the Flame? No, they wouldn’t mistake us for them. But then, who do they think we are?
“Listen,” I try again, keeping my voice calm despite the nerve-wracking situation in which I somehow find myself. “We’re here to help. We’ve fought the Eye in the Flame—these colors belong to the Qantua, and we mean no harm to the Aimue. Whatever you think we’ve done, it wasn’t us.”
The leader’s eyes sweep over our group. “We know your kind,” he snarls, his voice thick with contempt. “You yourself may not wear the colors of those who attacked us before, but we know the black and gold of the Qantua. Your warriors already came through here, leaving Xaqelatun in ruins! And now you return to finish what you started?”
“We are not the ones who attacked you,” I protest. “We’re here to speak with your leaders, to help rebuild, not to destroy.”
The Aimue leader’s knuckles grow even whiter as he more tightly grips his crude weapon. His eyes flash with anger, his body coiled like a trap ready to snap. “We’ve heard those promises before,” he spits. “But we won’t be fooled again. Step any closer, and we’ll cut you down where you stand.”
We stand at the edge of Xaqelatun, the city’s ruins looming behind them. I can see it in the Aimue leader’s eyes—he’s prepared to fight to the death to protect what little remains, as are the Aimue behind him. They’re all ready to defend their broken city, and we’re one wrong move away from a bloodbath.