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"You will die by the hand of your blood."
The prophecy haunts me, its words weaving through my thoughts like a refrain that refuses to fade. At first, the melody of it thrilled me. A promise of my true destiny wrapped in mystery. But now? Now it grates on my nerves. Each repetition is a discordant note, a taunt. If I could, I would silence the voices that spoke those words and erase the memory of them from my mind. I would have the tongues that sang them cut out, and the hands that performed the song severed.
The cloying and sweet scent of burning incense seeps into my lungs with each breath. Smoke coils lazily in the dim light, swirling in thin, serpentine tendrils that weave through the chamber. The low flicker of torchlight casts long, wavering shadows that dance across tapestries depicting the bloodshed of forgotten wars, their woven threads now muted by time and soot.
The thick and pervasive smoke pools above the carved wooden map in the center of the room, drifting just above the intricate reliefs. Each ridge and valley on the map is subtly illuminated, the play of light and shadow making the landscape appear almost real, as if the mountains might rise from the wood and the rivers flow freely. The incense burns low in its bronze holder, releasing a final puff of smoke that curls upward. It mingles with the haze above the map, as if the spirits themselves were watching, waiting for the next move.
The map is a masterpiece of Qiapu craftsmanship. It’s a collection of interlocking wooden slabs carved from the heartwood of sacred lumuli trees, each representing a different region of our vast land. The slabs are etched with intricate reliefs, depicting mountain ranges, winding rivers, and the sprawling cities of our people. Every feature is raised, allowing my fingers to trace the contours of the land as if I were a god looking down upon it from above.
What impresses me most is the functionality of the map. The slabs can be removed, rearranged, and inserted again to reflect the shifting borders, the conquests won, and the territories lost. It astounds me that these wooden slabs endured the tyrannical reign of the Timuaq—those relentless titans who sought to erase every trace of our identities, who razed temples and crushed every symbol of culture that made the factions of Pachil so distinct. Yet here they are, a testament to our resilience, defying the darkness that sought to consume us.
The wood is smooth under my touch, polished by the hands of generations of rulers before me who have left their mark on more than just the throne, but on all of Pachil.
I, too, intend to leave my mark. No matter the cost.
I glance over the map, my eyes sweeping over the various territories and suyus that each quraqa governs within Tapeu. Who among them could be my closest ally? Who can I trust? With rumors spreading from the various whisperers around the palace, there are quraqas who have pledged loyalty to the Qente Waila, or even devoted their spiritual lives to the Eye in the Flame. Perhaps the only one who can be trusted is myself.
The heavy wooden chamber door swings open abruptly, letting in the discordant noises of battle occurring just outside the palace walls. Though I could still hear the muted sounds, the disturbance strikes me like a forceful gale as the figure enters. To say I’m upset by seeing the appearance of the falcon crest on the breastplate is a severe understatement.
“Anqatil, report,” I demand. “What of the rebel movements?”
She moves with haste, practically charging at me and the map with her unrefined and undignified movements. Her perpetual scowl tightens like she has smelled something offensive. Then, she shakes her head in disgust as she musters over the news she’s about to relay.
“Sapa, the Qente Waila forces are gaining ground. They’ve taken the eastern sector of Qapauma and are rallying more support among the macehual—those common folk who have the most to gain from change. If we don’t act swiftly, the city will be overrun.”
My jaw clenches. The eastern sector—the heart of Qapauma’s trade and resources. Of course, they would strike there. But how were they able to succeed over the hundreds upon hundreds of warriors I positioned there? If the rebels solidify control there, they’ll cut off vital supplies to the palace, leaving me trapped, weakened, vulnerable.
Even more infuriating are the unappreciative macehual. These people, these masses, are nothing without my rule, without the order I impose. They have no understanding of the balance I maintain, the delicate web of alliances and power that keeps Qapauma from descending into chaos. They live their lives under the shelter of my decisions, protected from the true horrors that would befall them should the city fall into the hands of these rebels, these fools who promise them everything, but deliver nothing.
And yet they rally to the Qente Waila? How could they be so easily swayed by empty promises and the illusion of change? Do they seriously believe that a new regime will somehow grant them the wealth and power they’ve never earned? They fail to see that their prosperity, their very survival, is tied to the stability I provide. Even in such a short time of their freedom from the Timuaq, they’ve grown complacent, blind to the sacrifices I’ve made to keep this city—and them—prosperous.
Ingrates, every last one of them! They don’t understand that without me, they would be left with nothing but the ashes of their dreams, scavenging in the ruins of a once-great city. But I will not let that happen. I will crush this rebellion and remind them all of the price of their betrayal.
“We must strike back,” I snap. My fists tighten at the thought of my enemies. “Send word to our forces in the west. I want every available warrior to reinforce the eastern sector. Crush the rebellion before it spreads any further.”
There’s a look of concern on Anqatil. “But Sapa,” she ventures cautiously, “our forces are stretched thin as it is. If we divert more to the east, we’ll then leave the western front exposed. The Qente Waila could—“
“The Qente Waila are nothing compared to the threat within our walls!” I cut her off. “We cannot afford to let the rebels take root in the city.”
I glare at her, and I feel my pulse thundering in my ears. “Besides,” I hiss, “you dare stand before me when the rebellion festers within my own walls? What good is your title, Falcon, if you can’t even see the vipers slithering beneath your feet? If you had done your duty—if you had truly protected Qapauma—there wouldn’t be a rebellion to crush. This uprising is a stain on our city, but it’s your failure that stains my throne!”
In a fluid motion, I strike Anqatil across the face with the back of my hand. The crack of the impact echoes in the chamber as she staggers, one hand instinctively clutching her jaw. My fist tightens, every muscle coiled, ready to unleash another blow—to drive home the lesson that failure is met with more than just words.
But then, she lowers her head, her gaze fixed on the cold stone floor. Her expression a mix of shock and acceptance. Not a sound escapes her—no whimper, no plea for mercy. She stands there, silent in her understanding. It’s as if she anticipated this, prepared to endure whatever punishment I deem necessary for her failures.
“Go,” I eventually mutter, turning away from her in disgust. “Before you travel to the western sector, gather the generals in the courtyard immediately.”
Anqatil bows quickly, then abruptly leaves the chamber. As I stare at the map, my fingers trace the carved outlines of Qapauma’s streets and districts. My mind drifts, and a voice whispers in my ear that betrayal is close, that those who once swore loyalty to me now plot my downfall.
It is a bitter realization that even my most trusted advisors might be playing a double game, seeking to exploit my moments of weakness. The walls are closing in, the circle of enemies tightening around me with each passing day. But I cannot afford to hesitate. Not now.
The Jade Hummingbird. A thorn in my side that has festered for too long. They were nothing at first, a small band of malcontents, muttering discontent among the ungrateful masses. But now… now they have become daring. Is this Haesan’s doing? There is little I can do about that now. The rebels strike at the heart of Qapauma, emboldened by the calamity and devastation that has gripped the city since the Eye in the Flame’s attack. They see an opportunity to topple me, to claim the power they have never earned.
But I will not allow it. They are nothing more than a mob, feeding on the desperation of the weak and the foolish. They believe they can tear down the order I’ve built, that they can bring change through rebellion. But all they bring is destruction, calamity. They are the fire that threatens to consume the city, and I must be the force that extinguishes it, even if it means burning a part of Qapauma to save the whole.
I know what must be done. The time for half-measures is over. I will crush them, flush them out from every corner of the city, and leave their leaders hanging as a warning to all who dare defy me. If the western sector must be sacrificed to secure my rule, then so be it. The palace, the armory, the lifeblood of this city—they are all that matter now. The rebels will learn that their cause is hopeless, that they are fighting against an immovable force. And the macehual who support them? Those commoners will discover the consequences of disloyalty, of siding with those who promise the impossible. The throne is mine, and I will not allow my rule to end in such a manner.
I cannot remain here, trapped by my own thoughts and the echoes of a prophecy I refuse to let define me. I need to act, to strike before my enemies have the chance to close in further. The time for caution is over.
I stride out of the chamber and into the palace courtyard, where the generals have already assembled, waiting for my command. Usually a place of grandeur and splendor, the courtyard feels cold and barren under the day’s dim light. Along the crumbling stone columns and walls of the palace, the once-proud orange and red banners of Tapeu flutter weakly in the wind. It’s as if the banners mourn the strength we’ve lost—and the blood that will soon be spilled to reclaim it.
The generals stand at attention with stoic faces. But I know better. Loyalty is a currency, and it can be bought and sold with fear or ambition. I’ve seen too many men turn on their masters when the promise of power outweighs the cost of treachery. I will not be caught off guard.
“Listen well,” I begin, each word striking like a hammer on an anvil. “The situation in Qapauma has become untenable. The rebels have taken the eastern sector, and their influence spreads like a disease among the macehual. We cannot allow this insurrection to fester any longer.”
I move closer to a fallen stone column that is being used as a table, where a smaller, portable map of Qapauma has been set up. The leathery hide of a llama contains the meticulously detailed markings of the city layout. My fingers trace the boundaries of the palace, the armory, the supply routes—each a vital artery that keeps this city, and my rule, alive.
“We will fortify the palace and the armory,” I continue, emphatically pointing to each strategic point. “These are our lifelines. Without them, the city will fall, and so will our ability to sustain the palace. There has been little time to rebuild, so protecting this sacred place will be crucial. I want our most loyal, fiercest forces deployed to these locations immediately. The rest, along with those forces from the western sector, will reclaim the eastern sector—cutting off the rebels’ access to resources and reinforcements while shoring up our own.”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
There’s a murmur of agreement among the generals, but one, Ansuli, shifts uneasily. His eyes dart to the ground, and I catch the hesitation in his stance. It’s a small gesture, barely noticeable, but it’s enough to infuriate me.
“Ansuli,” I snap. He stiffens, nervously meeting my gaze. “Is there something you wish to say? Perhaps you disagree with my plan?”
“N-no, Sapa,” he stammers, his composure cracking too easily under the pressure. “I just… I wonder if it would be wiser to negotiate with the Qente Waila, to offer them terms before—”
“Before what?” I interrupt, stepping closer, my eyes boring into him. “Before they overrun the palace? Before they slit our throats in our sleep? Is that what you suggest?”
Ansuli’s face pales, and he stumbles over his words. “No, Sapa, I—”
“Sapa,” another general—this one, Xotla—dares to interject, his brow furrowed with concern, “if we pull back forces to the palace and the armory, we risk leaving other sectors of Qapauma vulnerable. The Qente Waila could use this to their advantage, striking at our weakest points and rallying more support. They could separate the palace from the other points of defense around the city and have us surrounded.”
I scrutinize him, sensing the seeds of doubt and betrayal in his words. “Are you suggesting we leave the palace undefended, Xotla?”
Xotla swallows hard, realizing his mistake. “Of course not, Sapa. I merely—”
“Merely what?” I cut him off with my icy question. “Merely suggest that we allow the rebels to pick us apart one by one? That we risk everything because you believe you know better?”
He opens his mouth to respond, but I see the fear in his eyes, the realization that he has overstepped. Anqatil watches on intently, a hand placed on the hilt of her obsidian sword. The others exchange nervous glances, and I look to see if they, too, wish to express their disloyalty to me, to Qapauma, to Tapeu, and to all of Pachil.
“Enough!” My voice echoes through the courtyard, silencing him and the other generals. “This hesitation, this weakness, is exactly why we are in this situation. Negotiation? Diminishing the palace’s defenses? The Qente Waila will see that as nothing but a signal that they are winning. They do not deserve terms—they deserve to be crushed, eradicated from this city like the vermin they are.”
I glare at the two dissenting generals one final time. “Perhaps, Ansuli, Xotla, you two have forgotten where your loyalties lie. Perhaps you’ve been swayed by the whispers of rebellion, by promises of power if you betray your Sapa.”
The other generals shift uncomfortably, casting furtive glances at Ansuli and Xotla, who now stand frozen in terror. I’ve seen that look before, in men who knew their fate was sealed.
“Sapa, I swear—“ Ansuli begins, but I don’t let him finish.
“Take him,” I order, turning my back on these traitors. Four palace guards step forward without hesitation, grabbing Ansuli and Xotla by the arms. They don’t resist, too stunned by the sudden turn of events.
“Does anyone else have concerns they wish to voice?” I ask, daring anyone to challenge me.
When no one responds, I calmly address the remaining generals. “Then let this be a lesson. Loyalty is everything. Those who falter, who question, who hesitate in their duty to me, will meet the same fate. I will not tolerate insolence.”
I turn back to the map on the hide as the sound of Ansuli and Xotla being dragged away fades into the background. “Now,” I continue, “we will proceed with the plan. We will hold the palace and the armory, and reclaim the supply routes of the eastern sector. The rest of the city will have to fend for itself. And as for the Qente Waila, we will seek them out, one by one, and eliminate them. Burn their hideouts, capture their leaders, make an example of anyone who dares to defy us. I want the leaders hunted down and brought to me—alive or dead, it matters not. Let them see what happens to those who rebel against the ruler of Pachil.”
The generals nod silently in unison. They know what is expected of them, and they know the price of failure.
I turn to Anqatil, who has wisely remained silent during this exchange. “When you return from the west, begin the purge,” I order. “I want every suspected sympathizer, every hint of rebellion snuffed out. We will cleanse this city of its filth, even if it means burning it to the ground.”
Anqatil nods and bows deeply with a dark gleam in her eyes. “It will be done, Sapa.” She relishes this as much as I do, perhaps even more.
Once silent save for the echoes of my orders, the courtyard suddenly erupts into mayhem. The rumble of distant battle grows closer, until it’s no longer distant at all—it’s right at the palace gates. I can hear the clash of weapons and the shouts of dying warriors, the unmistakable sound of fortifications crumbling under the strain of an enemy assault.
“Sapa, they’ve breached the outer wall!” a warrior cries in panic, stumbling into the courtyard. “The Qente Waila are pouring in—we’ve lost control of the eastern gate!”
My blood runs cold. The eastern gate—the most fortified entrance to the palace, reinforced with stone and guarded by my best warriors. How could they have broken through so quickly?
“Everyone, to the gates!” I command, raising my bronze spear. “We hold the palace at all costs!”
The generals move with haste, barking orders to their men. But even as they rally, I can sense the fear in their eyes, the uncertainty. They’re all overwhelmed by this development, and I must ensure that they don’t allow themselves to be overcome by their fears.
I lead the charge, my spear gleaming in the dim light of the torches that line the courtyard. As we reach the gates, I’m met with a scene of utter devastation. The once-mighty doors that sustained the brunt of the Eye in the Flame’s assault have been shattered, blown inward by a force I cannot fathom. Thick and choking smoke fills the air as flames lick at the walls of the palace. The rebels are here, in the heart of Qapauma, and they’re tearing my city apart.
“Push them back!” I roar, plunging into the fray. My blade meets flesh, and the rebel before me, clad in that horrendous magenta and turquoise, falls with a gurgling cry. I don’t have time to think—only to act. I cut down any who dare to challenge me. The rebels are fierce and unshakable, but I am the Arbiter, the ruler of Pachil. This is my palace, and I will not let them take it from me.
The battle rages around me, a blur of blood and bronze. One by one, I see my men falling under the relentless assault. The rebels are like a tide, unstoppable and unyielding. No matter how many I cut down, more take their place. The ground is slick with blood as the stench of death permeates the air.
Anqatil fights at my side, her obsidian sword flashing as she slices through the enemy ranks. She’s a ruthless force of nature, but even she is struggling to hold the line. The rebels are too many, their numbers overwhelming.
“Sapa, we can’t hold them!” she shouts, her voice barely audible over the din of battle. “We need to fall back—regroup inside the palace!”
“Hold your ground!” I bellow, refusing to give in to the creeping despair that threatens to overtake me. “We cannot let them breach the inner sanctum!”
But even as the words leave my mouth, I know the truth. We’re being pushed back, forced to retreat step by bloody step. The rebels are on the palace grounds, and there’s nothing we can do to stop them.
Then, a deafening crash shakes the ground beneath my feet. I turn just in time to see a section of the palace wall collapse, sending a plume of dust and debris into the air. The voices of the rebels cheer in a triumphant roar as they surge forward, eager to exploit the breach.
“Fall back!” I finally order, my voice raw with the strain of battle. “To the inner chamber! We make our stand there!”
The retreat is chaotic. The once-disciplined ranks of my warriors is now a panicked mob as they flee before the advancing rebels. I’m forced to fight every step of the way, my arms growing weary, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The palace, my fortress, is falling around me, and all I can do is try to delay the inevitable.
We reach the inner chamber, slamming the heavy doors shut behind us. Everyone surrounds the isolated throne in the center of the room, eyes wide with panic. The sound of the barricade sliding into place echoes through the space. It’s a final, desperate attempt to keep the enemy at bay. But I know it won’t hold for long. The rebels will stop at nothing to see me dead.
I lean against the wall, my chest heaving as I struggle to catch my breath. The prophecy rings in my ears, a cruel reminder of the fate that awaits me.
You will die by the hand of your blood.
No. Not today. Not like this.
I push myself away from the wall. I can hear the shouts of my warriors, the defiant cries of the rebels, the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground. The palace is falling apart, crumbling beneath the weight of this rebellion. For the first time, I feel the icy fingers of doubt wrap around my resolve. If this is to be my end, then I will not go quietly. I will fight until my last breath, until every drop of blood is spilled.
“We must hold the palace!” I shout, trying to regain control. “Anqatil, gather every available warrior and fortify the entrance. We cannot allow them to breach the inner sanctum.”
She nods, already barking orders to the remaining generals, who scramble to execute my commands. But even as they rush to defend the palace, I can see the uncertainty in their eyes. The Qente Waila are at our doors, ready to inflict their warped perception of justice.
Reports flood in through the chamber doors, each more dire than the last. The armory is under siege. The supply routes are cut off. The rebels have overrun key strongholds, and my forces are being driven back. I knew the situation was dire, but this… this is worse than I imagined.
And then, the news that breaks the final strand of my composure: “Sapa, the eastern stronghold has fallen. The rebels have taken it, and they’re preparing to attack deeper into the city. The warriors there are falling back, retreating, regrouping. We’ve lost the eastern sector completely.”
The eastern stronghold—one of the most fortified positions in the city, now in enemy hands, so quickly. My stomach churns with the realization that Qapauma may be lost. The prophecy echoes in my mind, relentless and cruel. By the hand of your blood. Could it be that the very people I’ve ruled over, the macehual I’ve tried to control and protect, are the ones who will bring about my downfall?
No. I will not be undone by a rabble of insurgents and peasants. They are not my blood, not if they desire to betray me so. If I must sacrifice this city to save myself, so be it.
In the midst of the destruction, a thought crosses my mind. A desperate, dangerous thought. The ritual… the one Xaqilpa spoke of, the one that gave me the throne. It was a last resort then, a risk that ultimately saw my rise to power. Perhaps it could work again. Perhaps I can summon the power I need to crush this rebellion, to end the prophecy before it ends me.
I look down at my hands, the lines of age etched into my skin, and I know what must be done. My heart pounds in my chest, not with fear, but with a cold, calculated determination. The blood of Pachil flows through my veins—the blood that will defy fate.
I turn on my heel, striding toward the palace doors. “Anqatil,” I call over my shoulder, “continue the defense. Hold the palace at all costs. I have… something I must attend to.”
She looks at me, confused, but obedient. “Yes, Sapa.”
The palace guards are reluctant to let me through, to allow me to leave the security of the throne room. Yet they do not resist, knowing their place. I disappear into the shadows of the palace, the sounds of battle fading behind me as I make my way to the hidden chamber. The chamber where my fate will be decided, where the prophecy will meet its reckoning.
I press my hand on the loose, discolored stone that causes the door to slide open. A rush of dank, cold air brushes my face as I enter the room. I will do whatever it takes to survive, to preserve my rule. If I must invoke dark magic, so be it. I will wield it with the power of my blood, and I will bend it to my will.
The chamber is dark, and I light a series of torches that line the walls. Faint shadows dance across the carved stone, where ancient markings tell the history of our people, before we fell to the Timuaq. My hand tightens around the ceremonial blade resting upon the altar, its polished obsidian edge gleaming in the dim light.
Before me stands the altar, a hulking slab of stone etched with deep, intricate channels that spiral outward like veins, ready to carry the blood offered in ritual. At the center, a shallow basin awaits, its smooth surface stained from countless sacrifices past. The channels snake down into a larger stone bowl at the base of the altar, where the blood will pool—feeding the darkness that stirs below.
I know what must be done. The blade suddenly feels heavier now, as if the weight of fate itself rests upon it. The altar is patient and silent, waiting for the blood that will seal my fate.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. There’s no turning back now. I raise the blade and press its edge against my open hand. The sharp pain is only temporary, I remind myself. I will endure it if it means I will maintain my rule.
As the blade bites into my palm, blood wells up in thick, dark rivulets, trailing down my fingers and pooling onto the altar’s cold stone surface. The first drop hits the carved channels with a soft hiss. The altar seems to come alive, drinking in the offering. I open my mouth to speak, and the incantation slips from my tongue in a steady, deliberate cadence. Each syllable is something deeper, raw and primal, and they swirl around me, sinking into my skin.
The atmosphere shifts. The torches’ flames bend inward as if drawn toward some unseen force. My breath becomes shallow, the energy in the room crackling at the edge of my senses. The ancient power is almost sentient, creeping into my veins, twisting its way through my body. The stone beneath my feet hums softly, vibrating in rhythm with my pulse that seems to match that of the living land.
But as the final words of the incantation reverberate through the chamber, a doubt slips into my mind. My heartbeat falters, and for the first time, I wonder: Have I made the right choice? Will this be my salvation—or have I awakened something far beyond my control? Something that will consume me before I even realize what I’ve unleashed?
The questions linger in the air, unanswered. The ritual completes, and I’m left standing alone in the darkness.