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A flash of lightning splits the sky, revealing the dreadful sight of crimson and gray robes before our eyes. The presence of the figures is unmistakable, the persistent evil that seeks to consume all of Pachil into their darkness. Thunder rumbles a foreboding growl in the distance, and even in the black of night, the smoke visibly rises toward the heavens. The scene is grim, and only likely to get worse.
“They’re a never-ending blight on these cursed lands,” Paxilche grumbles. “What is it going to take to eradicate these maniacs for good?”
“Evil doesn’t die,” Atoyaqtli responds, staring intently at the withering city before us. “It adapts, seeping into the cracks we leave behind. We can strike it down, scatter it to the winds, but to eradicate it completely? That’s a dream we tell ourselves to keep going.”
I watch as the wind lashes against the dilapidated walls, swirling dust and debris around under the glow of the sliver of moon. The cold truth in Atoyaqtli’s words come from bitter experience. But even as the darkness of his words settles around me, I can’t allow myself to be consumed by it.
It adapts, yes. But so do we.
The cracks may be places where darkness can seep in, but they’re also places where hope can take root. If evil is persistent, so, too, must we be. That’s the truth I hold onto, the one that keeps me standing tall in the face of everything we’ve endured.
“The truth is,” I say, “we must be ever vigilant, knowing that no matter how many battles we win, the struggle never truly ends. But so long as I breathe, that’s the battle I’ll fight again and again.”
The moon hangs low, a thin crescent that barely illuminates the ruins of Qasiunqa. The city once stood as a testament to Auilqa strength, but now, it’s a shadow of its former self. The scent of decay is ever present, a mixture of burned wood and the staleness of blood, carried on the cold breeze that snakes through the broken streets. Once vibrant and alive, the jungle seems to shrink away from the city, as if repelled by the darkness that now consumes it.
We approach the city’s outskirts with silent and measured movements. The walls of battered, crumbling buildings are marred by the crude symbols of the cult, that grotesque eye consumed by a singular flame. Memories of Chalaqta flash in my mind, seeing the same twisted marks defiling once-proud stones. My pulse quickens at the sight, the blood surging through my veins like a drumbeat.
Paxilche stands a few paces ahead, closing his eyes in concentration. With a low murmur, he raises his hands to the sky, and the air around us begins to shift. A thick, rolling fog creeps in, slithering between the trees and weathered structures. It swallows the city’s edges in a blanket of gray. I can barely see a few paces in front of me, but that’s the point. The zealots won’t see us coming until it’s too late. Paxilche opens his eyes, and they glint with the satisfaction of his work.
“Stay close,” I whisper, my voice barely audible above the soft rustling of the wind. “We move as one, strike fast and hard. No mercy.”
Atoyaqtli nods, his grip tightening around the hilt of his obsidian sword. Chiqama is by his side, his twin daggers gleaming in the dim light, while Pomaqli and Pomacha flank the rear. Ever the silent predator, Saqatli is already shifting, his body rippling as he takes the form of a jaguar, muscles coiled with the anticipation of the hunt.
We slip into the city like shadows, the fog masking our approach. The streets are eerily silent, yet I can sense them—the Eye in the Flame—lurking in every corner. This place has become their twisted domain, but tonight, we’re going to turn it back on them. Tonight, we reclaim this city.
As we weave through the narrow, crumbling streets, I extend my senses, feeling for any source of water in this desolate place. The ground is parched, and the distant rivers of the jungle have long since been diverted or drained. My heart sinks at the barrenness, but I know there’s always water—somewhere. I just have to dig deeper. Much deeper.
Gritting my teeth, I push myself harder, reaching into the dry earth below, where the moisture is buried far out of reach. My entire body tenses with the effort, muscles aching as if I’m pulling against the weight of the world. Sweat drips down my brow, and the air grows dense, stagnant, as I force the liquid up from the depths. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, a faint trickle responds. The fog thickens ever so slightly around me, a meager reward for the immense strength I’ve poured into it. The droplets curl weakly around my outstretched fingers. It’s barely enough. But it will have to do.
A distant torch flickers through the haze, and I take it as a sign that we’re nearing the enemy. I motion for the others to halt. We crouch low, hidden in the mist. The zealots patrol in pairs, their gray robes blending with the fog. I can hear them muttering to each other with a sinister hum that grates against my nerves.
I meet Paxilche’s gaze, and he nods, raising his hand to summon a gust of wind that sends the fog swirling around us. It disorients the zealots as they step into our trap. They pause, confused by the sudden movement in the mist, and that’s when we strike.
Saqatli springs from the fog in a blur of fur and fangs. He takes down the first zealot with a single, silent leap. His jaws close around the man’s throat before he can utter a sound. The second zealot barely has time to react before Chiqama’s daggers flash, slicing through the air. Blood spatters the stones, covering them in a red, viscous sheen.
The fog thickens further, concealing the bodies as we advance. Pomaqli and Pomacha move ahead, their weapons held at the ready. I trail behind while the water swirls at my command. We can only hear the soft, steady rhythm of our footsteps as we progress through the streets. This place feels familiar, like the echo of a half-forgotten dream, as though we have wandered these paths before. But now, the land is twisted, its bones cracked and scattered, as if the breath of life has been choked out by the Eye in the Flame.
After cautiously navigating the destruction, we eventually reach the grounds of the sacred grove that surrounds the throne room of Xolotzi. The area is barely recognizable, as its once-majestic stone walls have been defaced and scorched. The throne room’s entrance looms before us, yet I dread going inside to see what’s been done to it.
Paxilche gestures for us to halt, his eyes narrowing as he senses something ahead. “I can hear it,” he whispers. “The ritual. They’re inside.”
I nod, feeling my heart wanting to escape my chest. This is it. The final push. With the wave of Paxilche’s hands, the fog thickens around us once more. My grip tightens on the water hovering around me, ready to unleash its fury at a moment’s notice. I can only hope I’m prepared to face whatever horrors the Eye in the Flame has waiting within.
As we burst into the desecrated chamber, the oppressive atmosphere slams into me like a wall of invisible hands pressing against my chest. Huddled near the altar, Auilqa captives tremble in silence. Their eyes are wide and glazed with terror, bound for the sacrificial blade. With their crimson robes swirling around them, the zealots of the Eye in the Flame are momentarily caught off guard by our sudden entrance. The drumming that had reverberated throughout the ruinous city falters, and the guttural chanting that permeated the sacred grounds stumbles. The cultists’ eyes snap toward us with a mix of bewilderment and simmering rage.
The throne room is a twisted memory of the majestic space it once was. Once cool and filled with the gentle rustle of palm leaves and the chirping of birds, the air is tainted by the stench of blood and burning flesh. The emerald curtain of vines that once draped elegantly from the open ceiling is now a blackened, shriveled mass, charred by the flames that dance across the platform. Where the proud and regal throne had sat, it’s been mutilated into a malformed altar.
Behind the desecrated altar looms a monstrous idol to Eztletiqa, cobbled together from bones, molten metal, and shattered stone. Its misshapen form twists unnaturally, as though the very essence of the god had been distorted through the eyes of madness. The idol’s hollow eyes burn with crimson embers, casting shadows that writhe across the walls like tortured souls.
My eyes sweep the room, taking in the debased scene before me—the blood-soaked altar, the terrified captives, and the massive idol of their warped perception of Eztletiqa that now glows with an unholy light. My heart sinks at the sight of it all. Once a place of reverence and power, Qasiunqa’s throne room is now a disturbing and disgusting setting of sacrilege and death. The Eye in the Flame has more than taken over this place—they’ve corrupted it, twisted it into something that mocks the Auilqa’s proud history.
As the mist clears, my eyes fall on two figures amidst the chaos—one man, one woman, yet there’s something strange about them. They wear no identifiable colors, no green and brown of the Auilqa, and the woman dons leather pants and black tattooed markings along her sun-kissed arms. They’re peculiar recruits among the Auilqa, standing out like a rogue wave in a stormy sea.
But before I can study them further, the figure at the center of the ritual regains his composure. His presence is commanding, draped in ornate crimson robes embroidered with golden threads that flare like tongues of fire. His face is partially hidden beneath a hood, but I can see the flicker of flames reflected in his eyes, burning with an intensity that makes my skin prickle and the air feel colder around me.
He abruptly raises his arms. In his hands, an obsidian blade glows ominously as he mutters something—what must be an incantation. The ground beneath him trembles as if responding to his voice, and I can feel the heat in the room wrap around my throat as he commands his followers in some strange tongue. His voice carries across the chamber, and the cultists, who were briefly stunned by our entrance, quickly rally to his side.
It’s clear that this man is no ordinary zealot. He wields this mystical power like a weapon, his control over the dark energy in the room absolute. The way he stands at the altar, the way the flames seem to obediently follow his command, there’s no mistaking that he’s the one leading this perverse ritual, drawing strength from the very destruction he masterminds.
“We need to stop this,” I hiss to Paxilche, Saqatli, and the others, though I can barely hear myself over the roar of the storm outside. “We must put an end to this madness—tonight.”
With a quick flourish, Paxilche raises his hand. The remnants of the mist begin to churn once more, winding around our enemies like a living creature. The zealots are disoriented, their eyes wide with fear as they struggle to see through the thick fog that now engulfs them.
Still in his jaguar form, Saqatli is the first to strike. He leaps forward, his powerful limbs carrying him through the air as he pounces upon the nearest cultist. His jaws close around the man’s neck with a sickening crunch. Blood sprays across the desecrated floor in thick, violent streaks. The captives scream in horror, desperately attempting to flee the calamity, though their bindings make it a struggle to reach freedom.
At this, the battle erupts in a maelstrom. Atoyaqtli and Pomaqli surge ahead, their obsidian swords slicing through flesh and bone that leave nothing but carnage in their wake. Pomacha’s battle axe carves wide, brutal arcs, cleaving through the enemies like a scythe through blood-soaked wheat. Chiqama darts about in a blur, quickly taking down one zealot after another with his twin daggers. Streams of scarlet seep into the cracks of the ancient stone, mingling with the dark stains of past atrocities.
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Amidst the chaos, I reach deep, summoning water from wherever traces still cling—the cold stones beneath our feet, the faint mist hanging in the air, even the roots buried far below. My muscles tremble as I coax every last drop. Each pull feels like dragging a boulder uphill, sapping my strength with each passing heartbeat. But I force the tendrils to rise, twirling into the air like serpents under my control. They lash out, smothering any who dare approach. I slam the water into the priest in crimson, knocking him to the ground. Yet every strike sends a jolt of exhaustion through my body, and I can feel my energy draining, slipping through my grasp like the very water I command.
The priest of fire is not so easily deterred. He rises, stoically surveying the scene. Even as his followers fall around him, he stands tall. His ritual blade glows with a surge of dark energy, emitting an unsettling greenish yellow light, as he mutters incantations under his breath.
And still, the figures—those two strangers not in the garb of Auilqa nor Eye in the Flame—remain where they are, caught in the eye of the storm. Each beat of my heart is heavy with doubt. Who are they? Are they allies, or do they bring another threat into this cursed place?
I prepare to confront them, but suddenly, the woman steps forward. Before I can unleash the water’s might, she shouts something to me in Merchant’s Tongue, and her voice surprisingly cuts through the tumult. “Wait! We’re not with them!”
Just for a moment, her words make me hesitate as she raises her hands pleadingly. I’m uncertain whether this is a ruse or made in a genuine appeal. The man beside her follows her lead, his own hands raised—one still holds a magnificent, gilded glaive—but there’s a hardened look to him, the kind of look that I’ve only seen worn by a seasoned warrior.
Before I can demand answers, they move—not towards us, but towards the zealots of the Eye in the Flame. In an instant, they dive into the fray, striking at the cultists with a fury that matches our own. The woman moves nimbly from enemy to enemy, slashing through one of the robed figures before quickly confronting the next.
On the other side of the conflict, the man swings his weapon, crackling like lightning with each gesture. There’s a raw, primal power in his movements, a relentless energy that seems to flow through him. His strikes land with bone-shattering impact, sending the zealots staggering backward as if something unseen is driving them away.
For a heartbeat, I watch, trying to make sense of the scene before me. They fight like warriors, not cultists—focused, determined, and, most importantly, targeting the enemy we share. And yet, I’m still uncertain what their true motivations are.
Paxilche eyes the pair suspiciously. His hands fizzle with the energy of the storm he’s called forth, ready to unleash it. But just then, Atoyaqtli lunges toward the stranger with the glaive, seemingly mistaking him for a threat. The woman shouts again, “Stop, you imbecile! We’re on your side!” She deflects Atoyaqtli’s blow with her own weapon, something that appears to be comprised of several interlinked pieces that form a spear. “We’ve been fighting them, too!”
Atoyaqtli hesitates, his blade frozen mid-swing. He gives the woman a moment to explain. “I’m Síqalat, and this is Teqosa of the Qantua! We’re here to stop them—just like you! I swear!”
Breathing heavily from the fight, the man called Teqosa adds, “We came to infiltrate and destroy the cult from within. But it appears we need your help to finish this. That priest—“ He gestures toward the robed figure who is already preparing another dark incantation, "—we can’t let him complete whatever he’s trying to summon!”
“Whoever you are,” Paxilche growls, “we can sort it out later. Right now, we fight.”
The cultists of the Eye in the Flame are no mere rabble—they fight with a ferocity born of fanaticism, crazed and unrelenting as they seek to serve the distorted image of their god. I summon all my remaining strength, manipulating what little water in the air remains to lash out at the enemies around me. But the periphery of my vision begins to blur, blacken. With each flick of my wrist, strands of liquid whip through the air. It beats back the onslaught of enemies, but there’s no end to them—no end to the wave of zealots pressing in from all sides.
A sudden burst of flame erupts from the ground, forcing me to dive to the side. The heat singes my skin, and I reflexively gnash my teeth, barely managing to roll back to my feet. I search the chaos for my companions. Paxilche is locked in a deadly dance with a towering cultist. He casts his hands to the sky and sends a flash of lightning that comes dangerously close to his foe. Still in the form of a jaguar, Saqatli swiftly tears through the ranks. But it’s not enough. The cultists are too many, and they’re too strong.
I catch sight of Teqosa and Síqalat fighting their way through the thick of it. His weapon’s blade occasionally gleams with an ethereal blue light as it clashes against the cultists. The enemy press in, their red robes billowing as they hurl bolts of fire at him. Teqosa raises the glaive to shield himself, and I fear it won’t protect him. Yet somehow, the weapon absorbs the malevolent energy, as the blue light intensifies with each impact.
Beside him, Síqalat wields her spear with equal prowess. The shaft of the weapon extends and retracts with a mesmerizing—and terrifying—fluidity. She whips around the loose part with the spear’s blade, smashing into the ranks of the zealots. With a flick of her wrist, she sends the blade spinning in a wide arc, causing the blade to dig into the flesh of those who dare to come too close. Then, in an instant, the weapon snaps back into its spear form. She plunges the razor-sharp tip into the heart of a charging cultist.
But the cultists are relentless. Their ranks are seemingly endless as they push Teqosa and Síqalat back, herding them toward a corner of the desecrated room. Teqosa’s eyes are illuminated by the the blue glow of his glaive. Síqalat glances around with rising unease. She knows they’re being cornered, knows that their odds of survival are dwindling by the moment. I see the desperation in their eyes, the way their backs press against the cold, defiled stone, the cultists closing in. They won’t last much longer against such overwhelming numbers.
“Over here!” I shout, but my voice is swallowed by the roar of battle, lost in the inferno of sound that surrounds us. The roaring flames. The droning cultists. The clash of weapons. I reach out with my powers, feeling the pull of the water in the air, the moisture that clings to the walls, the dampness that lingers in the very stones of the throne room.
With a sweep of my arm, I draw whatever water I can wield together, pulling it into a swirling barrier around Teqosa and Síqalat. The liquid forms a protective shield, shimmering with an otherworldly light, deflecting the orbs of flame hurtling at them. Teqosa stares in wonder at the water that whirls around him, droplets refracting the blue glow of his glaive into a thousand tiny rainbows. But there’s no time to marvel—his eyes snap up to meet mine, and he gives me a quick, appreciative nod before turning back to the fight.
Before we can catch our breath, the ground beneath us rumbles once more. I spin around just in time to see the priest of the Eye in the Flame, the one who has been crafting this nightmare. His eyes burn with a sickly green light. With the Auilqa prisoners out of arm’s reach, he grabs one of the stray cultists in robes of gray and begins to chant. His captive looks panicked, struggling to free himself from the priest’s grasp. Reacting to his low and menacing voice, the air quivers and quakes at his command. A quick swipe across the cultist’s neck startles me, blood gushing to the ground as he gasps gargling breaths. From his blood, flames surround the priest, leaping higher, as if feeding off his words. The cultists nearby seem to draw strength from it, their attacks growing even more frenzied.
“We need to stop him,” Paxilche yells with urgency, pointing to the priest.
But reaching him is easier said than done. The zealots close in, forming a protective ring around their leader, their eyes glazed with an otherworldly fervor. Paxilche attempts to cast lighting down upon them, but the flashes fizzle off some invisible barrier. They dart every which way, striking the decaying vegetation and setting it alight. The priest is thrilled by this result, laughing maniacally as the flames around him continue to grow taller and taller.
A cultist in gray robes rushes at me, slashing the air with his obsidian blade. Out of desperation, I raise my hand, summoning the water from the air around me. With a flick of my wrist, a whip of liquid lashes out, knocking his weapon from his grasp. Before he can react, I send a burst of water crashing into his chest, hurling him back into the mass of his comrades.
Suddenly, another cultist lunges at me from the side, his blade aiming for my throat. I barely manage to avoid the attack, but I lose my balance and stumble to the ground. Before I can recover, he’s on me again, a snarl of hatred on his lips. I struggle to stand, my muscles giving out from overexerting myself so much for so long. I brace myself for the impending strike, but it never comes.
An ocelot leaps out of the mist, claws and turquoise tail flashing in the dim light. The cultist screams as the animal tears into him, giving me the chance I need to retaliate. From deep within me, I loose a primordial yell and summon a torrent of water, knocking my attacker off his feet and into the far wall. He doesn’t get back up. But neither can I, crouched on the ground, exhausted.
My heart flutters at the sight of Saqatli’s companion, relieved she’s okay after all. But I can’t celebrate just yet. I give a quick nod to Noch in thanks, then turn my focus back to the priest in crimson.
I feel the life sapping out of me. I’ve exerted myself too much, and I don’t know how much more I can give. We’re close now, just a few more strides, but the energy radiating from him is almost unbearable. It’s like a physical force, pushing us back, sapping our strength with each step.
Somehow, Teqosa is the first to reach the altar. With a guttural roar, he swings his weapon, aiming to break the priest’s concentration. But the priest in crimson simply raises his hand, making a subtle gesture as if swatting away a fly. Teqosa freezes mid-strike, his body halting against his will. His eyes widen in shock as his arm refuses to move, the weight of his own weapon pulling him down as though caught in an invisible vice.
Teqosa gnashes his teeth, fighting the force holding him in place. But the priest exerts his will with another flick of the wrist. Teqosa’s body twists painfully, his glaive clattering to the ground. The blue light of his blade flickers and dims as though the priest is siphoning away his strength.
“Fool,” the priest hisses, his eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction. “You think your blood is yours to command? You belong to us now.”
Panic flashes in Teqosa’s eyes, but his body refuses to obey his desperate will. Each muscle strains, trembling with the effort to break free. But the priest’s power holds firm, tightening his grip around Teqosa’s very soul.
From the altar, the flames flare violently, as though feeding off Teqosa’s defiance. The altar begins to crack under the strain of the ritual magic, and for a moment, it feels like the entire room might collapse under the mounting pressure.
I feel the familiar pull of my amulet, its power stirring with an otherworldly urgency. I gather all my remaining strength, channeling it into the amulet that hangs around my neck. The water around me surges forward, twisting and coiling as it rushes toward the priest. It crashes into the flames, steam hissing as the two elements collide. The force of the water stuns the priest momentarily, breaking his concentration. Teqosa staggers back as the invisible hold over him shatters, gasping as his limbs regain their freedom.
“Now!” I shout, hoping to awaken the Qantua warrior from his haze.
Teqosa wastes no time. He lunges forward, retrieving his weapon, then cuts through the air with renewed vigor. The blue light from his blade pulses stronger now that he’s free. The priest stumbles, but manages to deflect the first blow with a hasty wave of his hand with a fiery shield that sparks to life just in time. Teqosa presses the advantage. His strikes come faster, harder. Each swing pushes the priest back, forcing him to pour more and more energy into his defenses.
Before the priest can fully recover his footing, Síqalat joins the fray. Her blade slices through the remnants of the priest’s magical barrier, forcing the priest to split his attention between them both. The priest’s eyes blaze with frustration as he fends off their coordinated attacks. His movements become more erratic, the fire in his hands flickering weakly under the strain of maintaining his defenses.
With a fierce cry, Teqosa slams his blade into the fire priest’s shield, shattering it entirely. The impact sends the priest stumbling backward, clutching at his chest in shock and pain. He’s barely holding on, regaining his balance just in time.
But the priest of fire isn’t finished. With a snarl, he raises his ritual blade, the greenish-yellow light swirling around his hands growing brighter, more intense. The ground beneath us shakes as he begins to chant, his voice rising above the din of battle.
“Stop him!” Paxilche yells, summoning a bolt of lightning that strikes the priest square in the chest.
But the priest barely falters, his grip on the blade tightening as the incantation flows from his lips. With a quick swipe, the priest in crimson slashes the air, tearing a jagged rift in the very fabric of reality. A flood of oppressive energy surges through the room, hitting us like a riptide. It’s as if we’re caught in a violent current, dragging us backward. The force disorients me, like being pulled under by the sea—fighting to break the surface, but feeling the weight of the deep pulling me further into the dark.
He steps through the rift, and his form disappears into the void. But not before he turns back to face us one last time. “This is far from over,” he sneers, his voice fading as the rift closes behind him.
Relief pours into the room like a calm after the storm. I can finally breathe, air filling my lungs where moments before it had felt suffocating. The overwhelming force dissipates, retreating like the sea at low tide, leaving only the wreckage of our surroundings behind.
We’re left in stunned silence, the echoes of the battle still ringing in our ears. The once-grand throne room of Qasiunqa lies in ruins around us. So, too, do the faithful followers of the Eye in the Flame.