image [https://miro.medium.com/v2/format:webp/1*8C9CLHygA72XjUz5Gz2VZQ.jpeg]

The battle is over, but there’s no feeling of victory in the silence that follows us. Indifferent to our suffering, the jungle is alive with its own sounds: distant calls of countless creatures, the rustling of branches in a breeze that barely reaches the rainforest floor. The dense weave of leaves overhead lets through only thin shards of light, like the sky itself is too exhausted to care anymore. My muscles ache, but it’s not the kind of pain that makes you feel alive—it’s the kind that grinds you down, makes you question why you’re still moving.

With no time to slow down, we reluctantly push forward. Each of us is locked in our own thoughts, replaying the nightmare we barely escaped. Naqispi’s death is a fresh wound, one that bleeds into every glance and word exchanged. Yet we carry on, knowing that whatever lies ahead will demand even more from us, even as we’re unsure how much more we have left to give.

My mind keeps circling back to Analoixan, the images of the battle still raw and vivid. We may have claimed victory, but it feels hollow—at what cost? The city lies in ruins, its once proud streets reduced to rubble, and the Eye in the Flame continues to spread like a blight, unchecked and relentless. And now we’re trudging through this cursed jungle, on our way to Qasiunqa, where possibly even greater danger awaits.

Saqatli walks ahead, eyes sweeping the underbrush, constantly searching. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and anxiety simmers just beneath the surface. Noch is still missing, and without her, Saqatli is as mute as the trees around us. His silence hangs heavy between all of us, and it’s a tangible reminder of all we’ve lost. Naqispi, the city, any sense of direction—all of it buried beneath the ruins of Analoixan.

The rhythmic crunch of boots and sandals against the jungle floor fades into the background as my thoughts drift to a memory I haven’t visited in years. It was just before the war with the Timuaq, back when Limaqumtlia and I were still boys, though we fancied ourselves warriors even then.

We were standing on a cliff overlooking a wide valley dotted with sage green bushes and shrubbery. The wind whipped through our hair as we watched the sun dip below the horizon. Limaqumtlia had that fierce look in his eyes, the one that always meant trouble. I always looked up to him—not just because he was my brother, but because he had a way of making the world feel bigger, more dangerous, but also more alive.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be in charge?” he asked suddenly, his voice almost lost in the wind. I remember how I hesitated before answering, staring at the endless stretch of land below us. At the time, the idea of being a ruler felt like a distant dream, something too big for me to even comprehend.

“Sometimes, I guess,” I admitted, though the truth was, I hadn’t thought about it nearly as much as he had. I’m sure all Qiapu dream of the day they have an opportunity to perform in the ceremony for the Tempered at Xutuina. Limaqumtlia was the one who always dreamed big, who saw the world as a place to be conquered, while I was content simply trying to keep up with him.

He beamed, looking out upon the landscape. “I think I’d be great!” he remarked. “The greatest to ever rule this land!”

I chuckled, mostly as a reaction to his immense and almost exaggerated sincerity. Looking him up and down, I took in the lanky boy whose arms are barely thicker than those of a young sapling. “And what makes you think this?” I challenged.

He looked at me, his expression serious in a way that was rare for him at the time. “It’s not only about being the strongest or the fastest, you know,” he says, as if sensing my judgement. “It’s about making the tough choices that no one else can. It’s about being the one everyone looks to when times get rough.”

I didn’t fully understand what he meant at the time. I thought he was just talking about the games we played, pretending to be warriors and kings. But now, standing in this gods forsaken jungle with the mission pressing down on me, I get it. I understand the burden he was talking about, the way it can hollow you out from the inside if you’re not careful.

When Limaqumtlia was the Tempered, I never got to ask him how he planned to carry that burden, how he would’ve led us through these dark times. But his words stuck with me, like a thorn in my side, reminding me that leadership isn’t merely about the fight—it’s about everything that comes after.

I snap back to the present, my brother’s voice fading into the din of the rainforest. Walumaq is just ahead, her silhouette a shadow in the green gloom. The way she moves, you’d think she was carrying the weight of all Pachil on her shoulders. And maybe she is. But it’s hard to see her as the leader we need when everything around us is falling apart. I know she’s strong, and I know she believes in what we’re doing. But I also know that believing isn’t enough. It wasn’t enough for Limaqumtlia, and it might not be enough for us. Doubt creeps in—the fear that we’re all walking toward something we can’t come back from.

I quicken my pace, closing the distance between us. “Walumaq,” I start, my voice edged with the frustration I’ve been holding back. “What’s the plan here? Because right now, it feels like we’re just marching into more chaos.”

She doesn’t stop walking, but I can see her shoulders tense, and there’s a slight stiffening in her posture. “The plan is to get to Qasiunqa, figure out what the Eye in the Flame is doing there, and stop them,” she replies, her voice steady, almost too steady, like she’s repeating something she’s told herself a hundred times.

“And then what?” I press, not letting it go. “We’re down to just us, and the Ulxa are back in Analoixan. That was the only semblance of an army we had. You really think we can handle this alone?”

She finally stops, turning to face me. Her eyes meet mine, and there’s something in them—a hint of doubt, or maybe just exhaustion. “What choice do we have? We can’t turn back. And we can’t allow the Eye in the Flame to spread their poison unchallenged. We have to keep going.”

I can’t help the bitterness that seeps into my words. “But are we even ready for what’s coming? We’ve lost so much already—Naqispi, all of Analoixan. How can we keep pushing forward when we’re falling apart?”

Her silence is louder than any words she could say. I see the hurt this is causing her, but it doesn’t make the frustration any less. “We can’t afford to be reckless,” I remind her. “We need more than just determination. We need a real plan.”

Walumaq’s gaze hardens, and the brief moment of vulnerability is gone as quickly as it appeared. “I know what’s at risk, Paxilche. But we can’t let fear paralyze us. We’ve faced impossible challenges before, and we’ve persevered. We have to believe we can do it again.”

I shake my head, the knot in my chest tightening. “Belief isn’t going to stop the Eye in the Flame, or whatever else is waiting for us in Qasiunqa. We need to think beyond just the next battle. We need to figure out what we’re really fighting for, and how we’re going to win.”

“And what do you think I’m doing?” she snaps, eyes flash with something sharp, something that cuts through the exhaustion and doubt. “Wandering through this jungle, this world, with no purpose? I know exactly what I’m fighting for. I’m fighting to save Pachil from the darkness that is swallowing it whole—from the Eye in the Flame, from the madness they’re spreading, and from whatever else is coming. I’m fighting to fulfill the prophecy, to stop this world from burning. Do you really think I don’t know what’s at risk?”

A prophecy? To what is she referring? While this is a sudden and striking statement, I’m too taken aback by her words that hit like a hammer. As if physically struck, I take a step back, as the force of her conviction pushes against the uncertainty that’s been eating away at me. But all of this still doesn’t quiet the voice in my head, screaming at me to think, to plan, to see beyond the immediate threat.

“It’s not about whether you know what you’re fighting for,” I say, trying to keep my voice level, even though the heat of the argument is rising. “It’s about whether you’ve thought through what it’s going to take to win. We can’t just charge in, hoping that destiny or prophecy is going to carry us through. We need to be smarter than that. We need to outthink the enemy, not just outfight them.”

“And you still seem to think I don’t know that,” she says exasperatedly. This draws the attention of our companions, who stop and look on with curiosity, making me feel extremely self-aware and anxious. “You think I haven’t been trying to figure out every move, every strategy? I know what we’re up against. I know how significant the risks are. But we can’t plan for everything. Sometimes, we just have to act. We have to trust in our abilities, in ourselves, in what we’ve learned, in the choices we’ve made, and in the strength we have.”

The fire in her voice, in her eyes, is unmistakable. It’s the kind of fire that could lead armies, the kind that doesn’t waver, even when faced with overwhelming challenges. And right now, that fire is raging, daring anyone to stand in its way.

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t act,” I counter, my own frustration rising to meet hers. “But acting without thinking, without considering the long-term consequences—that’s a mistake. We’ve been running on willpower and desperation, but that’s not going to be enough; we have already seen that it isn’t. We need to be more than just warriors. We need to be strategists, leaders. If we don’t start thinking like that, then all of this—everything we’ve lost—will have been for nothing.”

For a moment, the air between us crackles with tension, charged by the clash of our wills. The intensity doesn’t fade—it lingers as we stare each other down. Walumaq’s eyes blaze with conviction, and I can feel my own frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“We’ve survived this long because we’ve fought with purpose,” she insists, her voice rising again. “Because we’ve trusted that what we’re doing matters. And it does matter, for this ‘long term’ about which you suddenly seem to care. You think we can just sit down and plan for every possibility? Sometimes, you have to take risks. You have to trust that you’re on the right path, even when it feels like the world is falling apart around you.”

“And what if that trust leads us into a trap we can’t escape?” I retort, my voice sharp and urgent. “What if this faith you’re so sure of is the very thing that gets us killed? We can’t keep walking blind into danger, hoping everything will work out simply because we believe it will, because a prophecy says so.”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“I’m not blind!” Walumaq snaps back, her patience wearing thin. “You truly don’t seem to think I understand the risks, do you? I’m not some naïve fool who thinks fate will hand us victory. But if we lose hope, if we start doubting everything, then we might as well give up now.”

Before I can respond, Atoyaqtli steps in, raising his hand in a gesture of peace. “Enough, you two,” he says firmly. “This arguing is getting us nowhere. We’re all on the same side, remember? We all want to defeat the Eye in the Flame and protect our respective people.”

Having remained silent until now, Chiqama casts a dark look at Walumaq. His grief is still raw, and his anger smolders. “You might believe in fate, princess,” he says, “but it didn’t save Naqispi. Belief isn’t enough.”

For a moment, no one speaks. Atoyaqtli appears to want to scold Naqispi for his remarks, but somehow can’t conjure the words. Unable to voice his own thoughts, Saqatli looks between us with a worried expression. The silence stretches, and our responses seem to be caught in our throats. It’s as though no one dares to break the stillness at the thought of Naqispi’s fate.

Usually the quietest among us, Pomacha steps forward, his gaze shifting between Walumaq and me. “We need both of you,” he says softly. “Princess, we need your strength and resolve, and Paxilche, your caution and strategy. If we are going to win this, we have to work together. This isn’t the time to be divided.”

The friction between Walumaq and me doesn’t dissipate entirely, but it cools enough for us to exchange a terse nod. Without another word, Walumaq walks away, returning to the trek. The others soon follow, but I take a moment before I join. This isn’t over, and I refuse to back down completely, but the others’ intervention keeps our conflict from boiling over—for now.

We resume our march in the jungle in silence. The trees stand tall and solemn, their bark rough and worn. Their branches twist and turn in a way that only allows slivers of light to filter through, casting a mosaic of shadows on the rainforest floor. The underbrush is sparse, parting reluctantly to allow us to move forward with a steady pace. Even then, the shifting winds and the occasional snap of a twig beneath our feet keeps us on edge.

The ground beneath us is firmer, but uneven, lined with roots that snake out from the terrain. There’s a sense of foreboding here among the vegetation, something that lingers long into our journey. The path ahead is unclear, the way forward obscured by the ever-shifting foliage. Perhaps these jungles know we’re returning to a place that had brought us challenging trials, and only seeks to test us further. Maybe nature knows more than we do.

The solitude of the trek gives me ample time—too much time—to reflect upon all the decisions Walumaq has made that brought us to this point. Decisions that have cost us dearly. Naqispi’s death still weighs on my mind, like an arrow lodged too deep to remove. Her choices have become a burden that grows heavier with every needless loss.

Why did she think the Auilqa could be trusted? Did she really believe they would set aside their nature and ally with us, to help their long-hated rivals? And what did that trust get us? Betrayal. The Auilqa turned on us the moment it suited them, and we were left picking up the pieces. Yet for some inexplicable reason, she still thought it was worth the risk. The Ulxa, too—savages in their own right. Tlexnín might have helped us win the day at Analoixan, but at what cost? How many of our own died because of that alliance? Naqispi, innocent lives, all lost because of her choices, once again.

I glance at Walumaq as she leads the way, my thoughts darkening with every step. She’s held us back. Held me back. If it weren’t for her hesitations and misguided alliances, we could be in Pichaqta right now, reclaiming the Qiapu from Saxina’s oppressive rule. After all, he, too, aligned with the Eye in the Flame for his own personal gain. Why is henot a priority to her? But instead, we’re wandering through this despicable jungle, chasing phantoms while our true enemies tighten their grip.

It’s then that I notice the idea, starting as a whisper, soft and insistent. I could challenge him. I could be the one to depose Saxina, to lead the Qiapu back to glory. I have the power—more power than she realizes, than anyone realizes, more than I’ve shown. A trial at Xutuina… the sacred volcano where leaders are tested by fire. Saxina’s rule has been absolute for too long, and all manner of diplomacy has been fruitless. There’s something in the code of the Qiapu that would allow me to confront him, right? But to even consider it… am I ready? Do I want to be the one to claim that mantle? For now, it’s just a thought, a seed planted in the back of my mind. But it’s there, growing, taking root.

She’s holding you back. The thought is louder now, almost a voice of its own. How many more poor decisions will it take before I have to step in, before I do what needs to be done? There’s a storm coming, and when it hits, I’ll be ready. Whether Walumaq is or not… that’s up to her.

Ahead of us is the familiar roar of the great rushing river ahead. With its waters dark and swollen from recent rains, the Maiu Atiniuq stretches wide before us, a barrier as much as a boundary. More so than the last time we crossed it, the current is swift, and its surface churns with a violent, threatening intensity. The trees on either side seem to bow towards it, their roots gripping the ground as if fearing to be swept away.

The jungle’s oppressive humidity wraps around me like a damp shroud as we gather materials for the rafts. The others work in focused silence, but Chiqama and I find ourselves near each other, pulling vines and testing their strength. The rhythmic work should be soothing, but my thoughts churn with the frustrations I’ve kept buried.

Chiqama struggles with a particularly stubborn vine, his muscles tensing as he pulls. I step closer, helping him untangle it from the gnarled roots of a tree. “You seem troubled,” I say, keeping my tone casual, though based on his comment to Walumaq earlier, I’m fishing for more than just idle conversation.

He grunts in response, his shoulders relaxing as he finally frees the vine. “It’s hard not to be,” he replies. “This trying trek, along with everything that’s happened… it’s a lot to take in.”

I nod, securing the vine around the logs we’ve gathered. “I’ve been thinking a lot, too. About what’s led us here, about our decisions.” I pause, watching him carefully as I continue, “Weren’t you frustrated back at Analoixan? With how things were handled? With how things declined?”

Chiqama’s hands are still for a moment. “I was,” he admits after a beat, not meeting my gaze as he attentively works to wrap the vine around the logs. “But it’s not my place to question the decisions of the princess.”

I try my best not to push too hard. “I’m not saying we should question her… just that, sometimes, I wonder if we’re taking the right path. If the sacrifices we’ve made have been worth it, you know?”

He finally looks up, his expression conflicted. “She’s trying her best, I know it. It’s just… it’s hard to see so many of our people fall. Naqispi…”

I can only imagine the pain he’s experiencing at the loss of his comrade. The mere mention of the name appears to tighten something in his chest, and I take a moment before responding, letting the emotion wash over him. “Exactly. I’m not saying we should act on it now, but… maybe we need to start thinking about what’s best for our people. For the Sanqo and the Qiapu.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the task in front of him. His silence speaks loudly, though, and I press on, sensing an opportunity.

“She’s lost her edge,” I continue. “And we’re the ones paying the price. We can’t afford to be led by someone who’s unsure of themselves.”

Chiqama finally looks at me with wary eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting that maybe it’s time for a change,” I say, careful to keep my tone measured. “We need someone who can lead us with confidence, someone who won’t hesitate when the moment comes. You’ve seen what I can do, Chiqama. You know I’m right.”

His brows furrow, and he stops his work, hesitating before responding. “She’s the Sanqo princess. She’s strong, even if she’s struggling to find the best path forward right now. My loyalty to her isn’t something I can cast aside.”

“I’m not asking you to,” I reply, patting the air with the palms of my hands and tempering my words. “She is strong, indeed. But strength isn’t enough if it’s not being used wisely or effectively. We need someone who’s willing to do whatever it takes, no matter what trials come our way.”

Chiqama’s expression softens slightly, but there’s still a resolute glint in his eyes. “You’re asking a lot,” he says slowly. “Walumaq has led us this far, she’s the future leader of the Sanqo, and she deserves our support. But…”

He trails off, and for a moment, there’s a touch of doubt in his gaze—an emotion he tries to quickly mask. “But what if she doesn’t come through?” I finish for him, leaning in just enough to make him consider the question seriously.

Chiqama’s eyes flash with something—uncertainty, maybe, or perhaps a glimmer of agreement—but he hurriedly looks away, focusing back on the job at hand. “We should finish this,” he mutters, but the tension between us remains, like a taut vine ready to snap.

As we continue to work in silence, I can sense that my words have left an impression. Chiqama may not be ready to openly agree with me, but the spark has caught in the forge. And that’s enough, for now.

We all stand at the river’s edge, staring out as we’re reminded of the land we are re-entering. The Auilqa jungles wait on the other side, a world as treacherous as the waters before us. We have fashioned rafts from the rainforest’s offerings, binding fallen trees with vines that creak under the strain. Our makeshift vessels seem pitiful against the might of the Maiu Atiniuq. Yet there is no turning back, only the daunting task of crossing this relentless force.

As we push off, the river seizes us with a hungry grip. The rafts lurch forward, carried by the current’s whims. All at once, the world narrows to the sound of water crashing against wood, of paddles dipping furiously into the froth. The river does not yield easily; it fights us at every turn, tossing the vessels as if they were nothing more than leaves caught in a storm. My grip tightens on the rough wood, my knuckles whitening as we’re swept into the heart of the Maiu Atiniuq.

The river’s roar drowns out all other sounds, a deafening rush that floods my ears. Each wave that crashes against the raft sends a shudder through the logs, threatening to tear them apart at any moment. Water splashes over the sides, soaking us to the bone, and the cold seeps into my muscles, making them ache with every stroke of the paddle. The current is relentless, twisting and spinning us as it pleases, forcing us to fight for every tiny measure of progress.

At one point, the raft jerks violently to the side, nearly tipping us into the churning waters. I catch a glimpse of the jagged rocks that line the riverbed, their sharp edges just visible beneath the surface, waiting to claim any who falter. Panic flares in my chest, but I force it down, focusing on the rhythm of my strokes, the push and pull that is our only defense against the river’s wrath.

Heartbeats stretch into an eternity as we battle our way across. My arms burn, but there’s no time to rest, no chance to ease the strain. The vines begin to loosen, and the logs drift apart. Atoyaqtli yells to us to secure the bindings. Desperately, Pomacha and Pomaqli pull the vines tight, holding onto them through our journey among the rapids. The desired destination remains a distant hope, obscured by the spray and mist that rise from the river’s surface. All that matters is survival—getting to the other side before the river claims us as its own.

Reaching the far shore feels like a miracle, a blessing from the gods. Our rafts scrape against the rocky bank, and we scramble to disembark, our legs shaky from the harrowing crossing. The Auilqa jungle looms ahead, a wall of green that hides what lies within. The air is different here—heavier, laden with the scent of damp terrain and decay. I find it all fitting that there is no comfort, even after our small victory.

We don’t linger. Somewhat hesitantly, we trek deeper into the rainforest, where the light struggles to penetrate the thick amalgam of leaves above. The path is barely a trail, more a suggestion of a way forward than an actual route. Vines and branches tug at our clothes, as if the jungle is reluctant to let us pass.

The further we go, the more my heart yearns to beat through my chest and escape. I keep my eyes on the ground, on the dense foliage that surrounds us, trying to ignore the unease caused by my thoughts. But then, a flash of light catches the corner of my eye. I glance up, and my breath catches in my throat.

Above the treetops, a thick plume of smoke rises, black and ominous, twisting into the sky like a serpent uncoiling. It’s massive, billowing with an intensity that speaks of something more than just a simple fire.

“Isn’t that where—” Pomaqli starts, but his voice falters.

We all stop, staring in stunned silence. We know what lies just beyond those trees.

Qasiunqa.

For a moment, none of us move. Our minds race with the implications. My pulse quickens like the Maiu Atiniuq we left behind. The jungle suddenly feels suffocating, the air too thick to breathe.

Without a word, we rush forward, driven by a fear that claws at our insides. The plume of smoke looms larger with every step, a harbinger of the devastation we’re about to uncover. We don’t speak, can’t even dare to hope that we’re wrong.

But the truth is undeniable: Qasiunqa is burning.