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I can only stare dumbfounded at the space now left empty after the cult priest’s departure. I turn to look at Síqalat, to ensure I am not the only witness to such an event. With her mouth agape, she stands as still as the stone structures surrounding us, seemingly unable to move. Her eyes remain fixed to the spot where the evil leader once stood.

“Look out!”

A shout alerts me to the incoming projectile hurtling toward me. I duck just in time as a ball of fire blazes over my head. Síqalat narrowly avoids being struck, and the orb of fire soars through the air, smashing into the crumbling stone wall of this chamber.

Searching for the source, I watch as Auilqa warriors, with blood red streaks across their faces and bare chests, storm into the ruins of this sacred place. They possess a wide range of expressions: fear, confusion, anger. Much like us, they, too, wonder what to make of this latest development, having been abandoned and left behind by someone they chose to worship.

Someone yells a command in the disjointed Auilqa tongue. Behind the slew of warriors, figures in the crimson robes emerge. With their faces shrouded by the shadow of their hoods, they point their crooked, knobby fingers in our direction. Having us surrounded, the Auilqa turn to look at us, slowly raising their tightly-clutched spears.

“That can’t be good,” Síqalat remarks.

“What did they say?” I inquire somewhat under my breath, as though the volume of my voice might set off the combat.

“They said,” she answers while gradually constructing the components of her spear, not making any sudden movements, “we are the enemy that seek to disrupt the prophecy. And we must be stopped, as the priest commanded.”

The young man in the white and red of Qiapu whips his head around to look at her and me. Alarmed, he asks, “You speak the tongue of Auilqa?” Síqalat raises a single eyebrow and nods curtly.

“Anyway,” she says, sounding annoyed at the interruption, “if we’re going to make it out of here alive, it appears we’re going to need to get through the lot of them. And I’d guess there are several thousand waiting to cut us down like stalks of maize.”

Slowly turning her head to the recent arrivals—the professed allies who curiously appeared suddenly—she continues, “If any of you have any good ideas as to how we’re supposed to make that happen, I’m open to suggestions.”

There’s an abrupt gasp. The young woman—the one with the most startling blue eyes—covers her mouth with her hands in shock. I turn to see what has startled her, and it’s a decapitated head, shoved through a spike that rests by an oddly-shaped device that rests on a stand made of stone. Through an extravagant headpiece made from bone and feathers, the frozen expression on the face is one of sheer terror, as though the victim was not expecting this fate.

“That’s… Xolotzi,” the young woman mutters. She gags, quickly turning away from the horrific sight.

“Who’s that?” Síqalat inquires.

“The leader of the Auilqa,” one of their warrior companions says. He is clad in coral and teal, with touches of deep blue and bronze. Perhaps he’s of the Sanqo, judging by the colors. “Well, he was,” the man corrects himself.

“They made a spectacle of taking his life, the life of their own ruler,” says the one in white and red. He reaches behind him and retrieves the large, black war club strapped to his back. I have never seen the weapon’s equal, admiring the intricate patterns of gold and copper adorning it, and turquoise embedded among ornate carvings throughout. Holding the club in his hands, he mutters, “These lunatics won’t stop until everything is ash. Looks like we must fight our way out.”

“Wait!” The young woman with blue eyes holds out a hand toward us, to get our attention. “Speak to them, to the Auilqa. We needn’t turn to unnecessary violence if we can only remind them that—“

“They’ve made their choice,” the Qiapu speaks through gnashed teeth. “They must suffer the consequences of their decisions.”

The young woman wishes to say more, but she’s given no more time to speak. The Qiapu raises his war club, and the Auilqa loose deafening war cries that echo through the desecrated throne room. Dozens upon dozens of warriors surround us, hoisting their spears aloft. The open air chamber slowly glows alight as the remaining robed figures raise their hands, with wisps of fire rising from their fingers.

The Auilqa warriors lunge at us from all sides. It all happens in a blur—screaming warriors, blazing orbs of fire, and the sharp clash of obsidian weapons filling the air. There’s no time to think. No time to strategize.

I move instinctively, bringing my enchanted glaive to bear just as one of the Auilqa charges. The glaive hums in my hands, absorbing the fiery tendrils loosed from the crimson-robed sorcerers. A spear thrusts toward me. I twist my body, and the blade of my glaive deflects it with ease. My hands tingle as the energy from their fire surges through the weapon, making it feel alive in my grip. With a swift upward slash, I catch the spear-wielder off guard and drop him to the ground.

To my left, Síqalat spins her spear like a whirlwind. With a quick flick of her wrist, the spear detaches into its three distinct parts, and she swings the disassembled weapon like a chain whip. It crackles as it cuts through the air, knocking an Auilqa warrior off his feet and sending another sprawling back, blood streaking from a nasty gash.

“Left flank!” she shouts, pulling the spear together in a single, fluid motion as another wave of warriors rush toward her.

A blast of water suddenly slams into the attackers from behind. I glance back and see the blue-eyed girl, her hands outstretched as a torrent of liquid spirals from the nearby reflecting pool and cracked stone floor beneath her. She uses the water to grab one of the sorcerers, dragging him toward her with surprising force. His robe is soaked through, and he flails desperately as she hurls him against the wall, knocking him unconscious.

I hear a rumbling behind me—thunder, distant at first, but growing louder. I turn my head just in time to see the young Qiapu man standing beside her. He raises his black war club high into the air, his weapon glowing with the same eerie blue light as the storm clouds swirling overhead. A bolt of lightning strikes down from the clouds, ripping through the open ceiling, and smashes into the terrain between the cultists. The shockwave scatters their formation, sending several warriors and sorcerers reeling. He channels this storm with terrifying ease, wielding it as if it were merely an extension of his weapon.

“They’re going to keep coming unless we stop those fire-throwers!” the young woman next to him shouts, already sending another wave of water toward the group of sorcerers.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the young Auilqa boy crouch low. His muscles ripple, and in the blink of an eye, his form shifts into a sleek, powerful jaguar. His fur gleams under the dim light, and his eyes flash with lethal intent. With a ferocious growl, he leaps into the fray, fangs and claws tearing through the nearest Auilqa warriors with frightening speed. His ocelot companion darts between warriors, slashing at their ankles and causing them to stumble, easy prey for his powerful jaws.

“By the gods,” I reflexively mutter, struggling to comprehend what I’m seeing. These people are not ordinary warriors. Their powers, their strength, it’s beyond anything I’ve ever witnessed. And it resonates deep inside of me—a haunting echo of my sister, Entilqan. Her powers, her divinity… they worshipped her, just as these people might be revered.

The ground beneath me trembles as the dark, fiery energy from the sorcerers’ magic flies toward me again and again. I twist just in time to avoid another burst of flame. But a searing edge catches my arm. White-hot, blinding pain erupts, racing through my veins like molten metal. The air itself seems to warp around the wound, the heat scorching deeper than any flame I’ve ever felt. It’s seemingly burning from the inside out, as if it’s trying to consume me.

A Sanqo leader rushes forward, flashing his obsidian sword through the air as he squares up against an Auilqa warrior. Their weapons clash, and the Sanqo leader twists, using the momentum to drive his blade deep into his foe’s side. The warrior crumples, but another attacker hurriedly charges toward him. The Sanqo leader is ready, parrying the spear and delivering a swift kick that sends the warrior sprawling.

One of the young woman’s companions wields his mighty war axe with the fury of a storm. He roars as he swings the massive weapon, and the Auilqa warriors stand no chance against his brutal strength. Another with twin daggers that flash in and out like viper fangs moves about the battlefield, ducking and weaving, while swiftly slashing throats and slicing tendons.

But the sorcerers won’t give up without a fight. Cloaked in a darker red than the rest, one of them begins chanting in a guttural tone. The fire in his hands grows hotter, brighter. Flames rise from the ground around him, forming a towering inferno. The temperature in the throne room rises rapidly, and for a brief moment, I fear we’ll be incinerated where we stand.

“Enough!” yells the Qiapu who controls the lightning, raising his club high. He swings it down with all his might, and the storm clouds above crack open. The ground quakes, sending foes tumbling. A torrent of rain douses the flames and sends the cultist stumbling back.

The Auilqa warriors falter. Seeing the power we wield, many of them now begin to hesitate. They glance nervously at the robed figures, unsure whether to continue fighting. One of the warriors—a young man with fear flooding his eyes—drops his spear and raises his hands in surrender.

“It’s over!” I shout, my voice ringing out across the battlefield. “You don’t have to die here. Lay down your weapons!”

Síqalat repeats my statement in the Auilqa tongue, and some of the remaining warriors slowly lower their spears, their faces a mixture of fear and shame. But the zealots—the true believers—scream in defiance, their faces twisted with a manic fervor that sends a chill through me. They will not be swayed by defeat. They charge forward, the curved, serrated blades of their ceremonial daggers raised high with an unnatural glint in the dim light.

I barely have time to react before they’re upon us.

My grip tightens around the haft of my glaive. I rush forward to meet them head-on. We collide like waves crashing against the rocks.

The first zealot strikes wildly, his dagger slashing through the air, aimed at my throat. I parry with a quick twist of my glaive, the metal ringing as it meets his blade. But immediately, something feels wrong—a jarring pulse runs through the weapon at the moment of impact. It’s not just the force of the strike. It’s something deeper, darker. It’s like the energy that thrummed through the ritual Síqalat and I performed to enter Qasiunqa. My grip tightens as I realize the dagger’s blade is shimmering, alive with something unnatural.

I shove him back, my muscles straining with the effort, and swing my glaive in a wide arc. The black blade hums as it cuts through the zealot’s side, and I feel the glaive pulse again, this time absorbing energy from the zealot himself. The man collapses, his life draining as though the glaive is pulling it from him. The satisfaction of the strike is brief—my limbs feel heavier than they should, and a cold dread floods my mind.

Before I can catch my breath, the second zealot is already on me. Her dagger thrusts toward my chest with terrifying precision. I pivot, deflecting most of the blow with the haft of my glaive, but the edge of her blade grazes my side. A wave of searing pain crashes through me, and for a moment, I falter. It’s as if the wound has unlocked something dark inside me. I feel the lingering effects of the ritual, weakening my defenses against this twisted magic. I fight to stay conscious as she presses her attack, slashing at me with wild, frenzied movements. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, and her mouth moves in a soundless chant.

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Desperate, I swing my glaive downward, aiming to end her assault. But she cooly deflects my strike with her dagger. This time, the pulse of energy is stronger. Darker. Her weapon flares with a strange light, absorbing all color around us. For a fleeting instant, I swear it’s pushing back against me, resisting the force of my glaive as though it has a will of its own. My arms tremble under the weight of it, the strain building, and I realize that I’m not just fighting her—I’m fighting the lingering darkness that clings to me.

The glaive hums again, its own energy surging in response, and for a brief moment, it feels like it’s holding the darkness at bay, balancing the scales between the zealot’s twisted magic and my own failing strength. But I know it’s only a matter of time before the darkness overwhelms me again.

A third zealot rushes me from the side, and this time, I act without thinking. My glaive seems to move of its own accord, the energy within it guiding my hand. The blade vibrates with power as I raise it high and bring it down in a sweeping arc. The zealot tries to block with his dagger, but my glaive absorbs the energy from his weapon the moment they collide. His dagger flickers and dies, its magic extinguished as though consumed by my blade. With a swift follow-up strike, I cleave through his defenses. He looks at me in horror as the glaive pierces through him, and he falls to the ground with a final, choked gasp.

I breathe heavily, my chest rising and falling as I survey the battlefield. Around me, Síqalat and the others continue the fight. But something in me has shifted. This glaive, this weapon… What ‘gift’ has Inqil bestowed upon me? Is this a power I should be wielding?

The sounding of a loud horn carries over the din of battle. Nearly everyone stops in their tracks. It’s the alarm of approaching enemies. Are more cultists rushing into Qasiunqa? How many thousands more must we face? Are we to die fighting the Eye in the Flame here, in the heart of Auilqa territory?

From the haze of battle and kicked-up dirt and dust emerges a solitary figure. Initially, I fear the priest in crimson has returned, having regrouped and ready to finish what he’s started once and for all. It isn’t until I make out the wooden cart and the shape of a llama that I’m somewhat put at ease.

Approaching us is Upachu, guiding the llama and cart to our location. In one of his hands, he holds a large, curved, wooden horn, decorated in ornate markings and elaborate-colored feathers. He lifts the horn to his lips, blowing a resounding blast of noise that forces everyone to stand in place.

With their attention distracted, we seize the remaining sorcerers. A few put up a fight, resisting their restraints. A couple of skirmishes break out, and the Sanqo warriors accompanying the strangers are left with little choice but to dispatch them where they stand. I can only shake my head, knowing these zealots would rather die for their maniacal cause than save their lives. They believe they are martyrs for something greater; instead, they will be like dust blown away by the wind, forgotten by the ages.

He lowers the horn and steps forward, his weathered features hardened in a way I’ve never seen before. There’s no gentle wisdom in his eyes now, no soft words of coaxing—just cold, burning purpose. This is not the Upachu I’ve come to know. He strides through the throne room with a fierce authority, and for a moment, I swear I see something otherworldly about him.

Still clutching their weapons, the Auilqa warriors falter. Their eyes follow Upachu’s every move as if recognizing something in him that even they cannot fully understand.

Upachu doesn’t hesitate. With eyes glowing a searing white, he speaks in the Auilqa tongue—loud and commanding, each syllable is like a strike in the air. His words sound guttural, yet they visibly resonate through the bodies of the warriors, rippling through their bones like a deep tremor.

I glance at Síqalat as she listens intently. She doesn’t immediately translate, as she’s too caught up in Upachu’s speech, astonished. Though I don’t understand the words, his tone is unmistakable. It’s the tone of a general confronting his warriors, or a father scolding his errant children—a rebuke, but laced with authority and expectation. He is not here to plead; he is here to demand.

He walks among them, staring each Auilqa convert in the eye, as if daring them to challenge him. Their gazes drop one by one, as though they are unable to meet his fiery glare. His voice rises again, his words growing harsher. There’s no need for Síqalat’s translation yet—I understand the intent, the raw meaning, even if the language escapes me.

Finally, Síqalat turns to me. She appears conflicted, but she speaks in a low voice, translating his harsh address.

“He’s telling them that they’ve been cowards,” she begins, sounding someone bewildered. “That they’ve abandoned their ancestors, their honor. That they have willingly followed false promises from outsiders, believing they would lead them to glory. But instead, they’ve been dragged into a pit of darkness.”

Her eyes flick to Upachu, who stands over the group of converts with a presence that feels larger than life.

“He says… they’ve dishonored their families, that their ancestors turn their backs on them. They will not be welcomed by the gods in the afterlife if they continue down this path.” She pauses, then adds quietly, “He’s calling them… traitors.”

I can see the effect his words have on the Auilqa warriors. Shoulders sag, faces lower in shame. Some of them shake their heads, others clutch their weapons more tightly as if trying to find some anchor, some way to justify their choices. But Upachu gives them no room for doubt.

The old man’s voice rises again, and this time, his tone is more commanding. He lifts his hands, gesturing to the fallen around them, to the ruined throne room, to the head of their once revered ruler, to the devastation their choices have wrought.

“Upachu’s telling them they still have a choice,” Síqalat translates, her voice barely above a whisper. “That if they want any hope of redemption, they must rise now, fight for their people and their honor. I’ve never heard him speak like this! He’s… he’s offering them a chance to make things right, but only if they turn their backs on the Eye in the Flame.”

For a moment, the chamber is still. The Auilqa stand frozen, caught between the shame Upachu has placed on them and the terrifying consequences of their own choices. Upachu holds out a hand, and many of the converted Auilqa drop their heads.

And then, one by one, a few of the warriors fall to their knees, some even dropping their weapons at Upachu’s feet in silent submission. The sound of metal clattering against stone echoes jarringly in the silence that follows his words. Others follow, though not all. I watch as the more zealous converts remain standing. Their eyes remain hard and unyielding, clinging to their beliefs like a shield.

But Upachu isn’t done. His voice booms across the ruined throne room once more, harsher, stronger, as though demanding an answer from those who still stand. He points directly at them, his words like a whip.

“He’s telling them that the time for half-measures is over,” Síqalat translates in a breathless rush. “Either they stand with their people now, or they will be remembered as the ones who let their entire people die in shame.”

The words hit like a thunderclap. Dozens and dozens more drop their spears, eyes downcast. But there are a handful of remaining zealots who refuse. Those who stay loyal to the Eye in the Flame raise their weapons once more. Their defiance burns brightly, and they appear ready to fight for their newfound beliefs.

The first clash comes from the left as a zealot in red robes tries to escape, charging toward the exit. But one of the Auilqa, with spear in hand, steps in his path. With a forceful thrust, the Auilqa drives the spear through the sorcerer’s chest. There’s no hesitation, only a fierce desire to reclaim his honor. The cultist of the Eye in the Flame crumples to the ground, his robes drenched in blood.

Around the throne room, the few remaining sorcerers raise their hands, flames flickering to life around their fingers. But the Auilqa—those who have been converted back to the conviction of their people—move like a tidal wave. The shame that once weighed on them has turned to fury. They fight, eager to win back what little remains.

A warrior charges one of the cultists, knocking him to the ground with a vicious blow from the butt of his spear. The robed figure’s hands blaze with white-hot flame. But before he can send the fire hurtling toward the Auilqa, two more warriors pin him to the floor. They wrestle the flames down, choking the magic out with sheer force. One of the warriors grabs a piece of cloth and stuffs it into the sorcerer’s mouth to silence his incantations, while the other binds his hands. Soon after, the glowing flames flicker out like dying embers.

The same occurs across the chamber. Where there had once been a chaotic swirl of fire and violence, now the Auilqa swarm the remaining zealots. I watch as one Auilqa warrior whose face is lined with a deep scar confronts an old companion now streaked in the red markings of the cult across his torso. There’s a moment where their eyes lock, pain and betrayal passing between them, before the Auilqa makes his choice. He disarms his former brother in arms, knocking the weapon from his hand, and then forces him to the ground, pressing his knee into his back.

Those most loyal to the Eye in the Flame continue to fight, hands ablaze as they summon the last of their power. But they are too few, and the Auilqa too determined to right their wrongs. One by one, the remaining sorcerers are captured. Their wrists are bound behind their backs, and their mouths have been gagged to prevent them from calling on their destructive magic.

A tense quiet settles over the chamber. With their hands bound tightly behind their backs, the captured sorcerers kneel in the center of the desecrated throne room. Their crimson robes are torn and charred, yet despite their wounds and shackles, they kneel with an unsettling calm.

I step forward and glare at the sorcerer in the center. His hood has slipped back, revealing a gaunt face marred by burns and scars. Despite his circumstances, he looks up at me with cold amusement, as though the chains and ropes mean nothing. It’s as if he’s waiting for something—or knows something we do not.

“You,” I say with a measured voice. “Your priest has fled. His plans have failed. Tell us what he intended to do here in Qasiunqa, and you might yet be spared.”

I pause, giving the man a chance to speak. But instead of answering, he smirks—a twisted, knowing grin that sends a ripple of unease through me. The other sorcerers exchange glances, and one of them begins to chuckle softly, mockingly. Soon, they are all laughing, as if sharing in some private joke.

With her spear resting at her side, Síqalat stands next to me, visibly irritated. “They think this is funny?”

“These faithful to the Eye in the Flame are prepared to die for their cause,” Upachu mutters. “They see us as insignificant.”

The laughter fades as the lead sorcerer looks up again, this time locking eyes with me. His gaze is like ice, chilling me to the bone. “You think you can stop what is coming?” he hisses through bloodied lips. “The plans of Eztletiqa are beyond your comprehension. We are His servants, and we will gladly die before betraying Him.”

I glance over at the others, those outsiders who have joined our fight. The young woman with stark, blue eyes, standing with that calm, controlled power that surrounds her. The Qiapu with the war club, bristling with barely-contained rage. The young Auilqa boy who can turn into a fierce jaguar stands by nervously. Their companions in various colors of the Sanqo and Qiapu looking on with grave concern.

Upachu takes a step closer, his old eyes studying the sorcerers. “There is nothing beyond redemption,” he speaks softly to them. “You could still help your people, if you give us what we need. What was the priest trying to summon here? And why?”

The sorcerer’s grin widens, proudly displaying his blood-stained teeth. “You will not live long enough to stop it,” he snarls.

That’s when I see it: the flicker in the young Qiapu man’s eyes, the shift in his body as the air around him thickens with the scent of rain. His fists clench around his war club. His jaw tightens, fury radiating from him in waves. “Fine,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “They’ve proven they’re not worth saving.”

“Wait—” I start, but it’s too late.

The young Qiapu man raises his war club high, and the sky answers him. A crack of lightning tears through the air, then strikes the center of the throne room with a deafening roar. The energy surges through the stone floor, arcing toward the kneeling sorcerers in a blinding flash. The impact is instantaneous—the captives scream, their bodies convulsing as the lightning rips through them.

The Auilqa who were restraining them are caught in the blast. Their bodies are flung backward by the force of the strike. The stench of singed flesh and burnt cloth seeps into every corner of the chamber. The sorcerers fall silent, their charred forms slumping lifelessly to the ground.

For several heartbeats, the entire room is still. The only sound is the fading echo of the thunder, ringing in my ears.

“Paxilche!” the furious voice of the young woman with blue eyes pierces through the shock. She strides forward, her face flushed red with anger. “What have you done?”

He turns to her, chest heaving, and his eyes are still blazing with the remnants of his fury. “Don’t you see?” he snaps, pointing at the smoldering corpses. “They were never going to talk. You saw it as well as I did, Walumaq. They were laughing at us!”

The one he calls Walumaq steps closer, her voice dropping low, dangerous. “And now we’ll never know what they were planning. You’ve cost us valuable information. Again. We don’t even know if the Auilqa you struck will survive!”

One of the fallen Auilqa warriors lies curled on the ground, groaning weakly as his breaths come shallow and ragged. Blood seeps between his fingers as he clutches his side, battling against the pain. I glance at the others—some twitching in agony, others are still, lifeless. This entire situation is unraveling, fast.

Upachu kneels by the injured Auilqa, shaking his head slowly with eyes that are filled with sorrow. “This wasn’t the way,” he murmurs.

Tension crackles between the ones called Paxilche and Walumaq, like the remnants of the lightning that still seems to hum in the room. The rest of us stand in stunned silence, unsure of how to proceed. How could I ever trust this man who wields such destructive power so recklessly, and those who seemingly allow this to occur unopposed?

It’s Upachu who finally breaks the silence. “You know us, but know nothing about you. We need to speak. Names, intentions. Before this escalates further.”

He looks directly at the young woman with the piercing blue eyes. “You. Who are you?” Perhaps he is still riding the rush of adrenaline from his earlier actions, but whatever is causing it, I respect his directness.

She hesitates for a heartbeat, her eyes darting to Paxilche and then to the others. Her other warrior companions are taken aback by Upachu’s abrupt questioning. “I am Walumaq,” she says at last, her voice calmer than I would expect. “Princess of the Sanqo.”

“Princess of the Sanqo…” I repeat, as the name of the faction sends a ripple of recognition through me. This confirms these are not just some wandering strangers—they are from the other side of the continent.

I glance briefly at the one she called Paxilche, still bristling with barely-contained fury. I then meet Walumaq’s gaze, “It seems we need to address how you all handle your… diplomacy.”