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Your travels north are like a funeral procession. Nobody speaks. No one looks away from the ground. Though the sky is bright and cloudless, and the brisk chill in the air brushes your cheeks, there is no happiness among those journeying to the next destination. Nature and the world around you seems to merrily mock your gloom. There is nothing to celebrate, nothing about which to find joy, excitement.

Where is this next destination? The Great Xiatli has never specified, only saying that you must trek north. Why? What awaits you there? You sense that the god among men has some plan, some greater purpose, but He guards His intentions like a secret held close to His chest. The silence, the not knowing—it has only made this journey more and more unsettling the further you travel.

What is to the north that the Great Xiatli deems so urgent, so vital? When the scouts returned with flecks of gold, the Sapa was not pleased. You could sense His anger burning beneath His cold exterior, but His dismissal of such treasure—that left you with more questions than answers. The glimmer of gold is meaningless to Him. So what is it that He truly seeks? What could be more valuable than the very thing that has driven countless men to war and madness?

You can’t shake the anxiety that grips you. The further north you go, the worse it feels. But you and the settlers keep moving, trusting in the Great Xiatli’s will even as uncertainty festers beneath the surface. He has never led your people astray before, and He certainly wouldn’t do that now… right?

And then, there’s the other matter. Your eyes sweep through the line of trudging bodies, again searching for the face that should be there: Landera’s. Every time you look, she’s nowhere to be found. Your heart beats faster, and the knot of worry tightens in your gut. She was with you, wasn’t she? Just before Captain Lema’s departure, she was among the crowd, within reach. But now, there’s no sign of her. She had been there—somewhere—on the periphery of your vision. A sick feeling churns in your stomach as you recall how easily she could’ve been swept into his service, another hand to man the ship. Is she gone with him? you wonder. Is that why I can’t find her?

The more you think on it, the more it worries you. Landera wouldn’t have gone without telling you. She wouldn’t have just disappeared. Right? Something else is happening, something you can’t quite place—but the unease refuses to leave you.

You think back to that moment, how Iker had grabbed you, pulling you into the crowd with such urgency that you barely had time to react. He kept saying he was protecting you from being drafted onto the ship, yet you can’t help but feel a twinge of suspicion. Why had he been so desperate to silence you? You had seen Landera and tried to call out to her. But Iker stifled your voice before you could get her attention. He said it was to save you from the same fate as the poor souls being taken aboard Captain Lema’s doomed ship. But now… no, you don’t want to think it.

Yet the thought persists: was that really his only reason?

When Captain Lema made his ludicrous claim that he could sail to Legido and return in four months, you scoffed inwardly at the boldness of his words. Four months? It took longer than that to get here! Yet you noticed the quiet murmurs of doubt, the sidelong glances of the settlers who, like you, knew better. They didn’t voice their objections, but everyone present knew that Captain Lema’s plan would almost certainly end in disaster.

And what of Gartzen? Loyal, dutiful Gartzen, always at Captain Lema’s side—surely, he would’ve been called upon to sail. Was he aboard the ship now, heading back to Legido for what was certainly a futile mission? Your heart aches for him, for his wellbeing. Captain Lema’s doomed mission will surely sink everyone aboard, taking every crew member down with his ill-fated and desperate plan. Which is why you are so concerned for Landera. Where has she gone?

Your thoughts drift to your family back in your homeland. What are they doing right at this moment? Do they think of you? Do they miss you? Do they curse you? You’ve been away so long, you’re starting to forget their faces. Their voices. Their laughs. Their cries. Even in your dreams, they’re becoming nothing more than fuzzy images floating in your mind. You fear that, if you stay away any longer, you won’t remember anything of your life before boarding that ship.

As the land changes around you, growing more desolate and foreboding the further you are from the shores upon which you landed, you slowly regret having gone on this expedition. There’s a shifting in the air, a pressure building among the lot of you—something dark and oppressive. The sky is a bruise, dark and swollen, pressing down on the land. The march is arduous, and the settlers grow more and more exhausted the longer this takes. The elevation continues to increase steadily, and you find it more difficult to catch your breath. Everyone around you is confused as to why you are moving deeper into these unknown and challenging lands. No rest. No respite. Just constant movement forward.

You glance at Criato and Ulloa, riding at the front of the caravan. Their gazes are fixed forward, focused on the course ahead. From the comfort of their horses, they appear well-rested, unimpeded by the treacherous terrain. You almost envy them, all their luxuries and lavish mode of transportation. But the burden of leadership is something of which you will never be jealous. You reason that it must be difficult to have to shoulder so much responsibility for so many people. Perhaps they’re deserving of this, having earned this through their vast expertise.

When the two experienced explorers determine you all have had enough, they mercifully request to the Sapa to set up camp before nightfall. Even from as far back as you’re standing from them, you watch the Great Xiatli’s face drop at this request. But after thoughtful consideration, He reluctantly agrees, waving a dismissive hand and granting permission to cease today’s travels.

Despite this, the settlers around you aren’t relieved. No words are exchanged as they wearily unfurl their bedrolls upon the rocky ground, struggling to find comfort. Even the breeze appears to exercise caution, not wanting to blow too loudly and risk disrupting the silence.

You know it’s futile, but you can’t help yourself. As everyone sets up camp for the night, you check for Landera’s face to miraculously appear. Somehow, the hope within you that she’s traveling among you all remains, unwavering when each previous attempt to locate her fails. Unfortunately, this evening is yet another instance when your friend eludes your expectant gaze.

Nearby, Benicto and Dorez flop atop their bedrolls. Even they are too exhausted to torment you. You count it as one of the few victories you’ve earned this entire journey, though you, too, are too tired to enjoy it.

Iker sits down atop his bedding close by. His face is awash with concern, staring long and hard at the dirt and pebbles by his feet. He picks specks of dirt from beneath his fingernails, unaware of the commotion occurring around him. In fact, you startle him when you approach and sit beside him, despite having called out to him multiple times beforehand.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence between you feels like a fragile thing, something that could shatter with the wrong word. As you study him more closely, you realize there’s more to his demeanor than just exhaustion.

Finally, you break the silence. “Iker?”

He doesn’t respond at first, still mindlessly picking at his fingers. But after a beat, his shoulders sag, and he lets out a quiet, shaky breath. “Do you ever feel like this is all for nothing?” His voice is low, almost swallowed by the stillness of the incoming night. “Like we’re just going where we’re told, but no one knows why anymore?”

You blink, taken aback by the rawness in his questions. You’ve seen Iker frustrated before, even angry, but this is different. This is uncertainty. Fear.

“Iker, I—“

He cuts you off. “What are we even doing out here?” He finally turns to face you, his eyes glistening from the welling tears. “Every day, we march. Every day, we follow the Sapa, like we’re supposed to believe He knows what He’s doing. But look around.” He gestures weakly at the huddled settlers around you, their faces hollow with exhaustion. “Look at us. Is this what we came here for?”

The sharpness in his voice fades, replaced by a quiet desperation. “We’re losing people,” he whispers, as if admitting it aloud makes it worse. “How long before it’s one of us? And what’s the point of all this if we’re not even going to make it?”

You hadn’t expected this from Iker. Even though he was never the most boisterous, confident person, this display of pure emotion is frankly unsettling. You empathize with his pain, knowing that you, too, worry about the meaning behind this continuous trek through unknown lands, all to hopefully appease your godlike leader.

“I thought if I kept pushing, if I just kept my head down and followed orders, maybe it would make sense. Maybe we’d find something worth all this suffering.” He shakes his head, despondent. “But now? I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s anything waiting for us at the end of this. Nothing good, anyway.”

You find yourself at a loss for words, unable to respond to your longtime friend. What could you say? Iker’s doubts mirror your own. He speaks the truth neither of you wants to face.

For the first time since this journey began, you realize how close you are to falling into the same despair that grips him. You don’t know why you’re here. You don’t know what’s waiting for you at the end of this. And maybe… maybe that’s the scariest part of all.

You reach out to your friend, offering a consoling embrace. But Iker is too upset to acknowledge your effort. Instead, he sinks into the lumpy bedroll beneath him, rolling over and showing you his back. You can only sigh, hanging your head as you decide to follow suit and attempt to sleep.

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You didn’t think it possible, but the morning that follows is gloomier than the last.

Not because of the weather, mind you. No, it continues to taunt you all with its cheerful sun and cloudless sky. The birds sing arrogantly, blissfully unaware of your current circumstances. The warm and fragrant breeze that brushes your skin feels like an insult. Even the trees sway gently, oblivious to your plight.

Before the sun rose, Ulloa and Criato barked orders atop their horses, demanding you all to awaken and start the day’s journey. In your daze, you barely gathered your belongings before you were forced to march in line with your fellow settlers. Now, as a crystal-clear river babbles playfully beside you, you can hardly walk while the group trudges onward once again.

Criato rides ahead, as usual, his broad chest puffed out and voice resonates as he shouts orders to his men. He flashes a smile every so often, a gesture of confidence meant to bolster the spirits of the weary settlers. His bright armor glints in the sunlight, catching the attention of those who dare glance up from the dirt beneath their feet. He thrives on their admiration, on the power he holds over them. It feeds something inside him, something insatiable.

“Keep moving!” he calls out, grinning to a group of soldiers nearby. “The sooner we reach our destination, the sooner we’ll all reap the rewards. Believe me, this land is ripe for the taking!”

His voice carries over the march like a beacon of false hope, but those who hear him are too tired to respond. To Criato, their silence doesn’t matter—he’s speaking to the future, to the legacy he will build here. Every step they take north is another toward his personal glory, toward the fame that will secure his name in history.

Atelmaro Ulloa rides beside him. His expression is as stony as ever. He listens to Criato’s bravado, and though he remains outwardly calm, you can tell that, inwardly, he seethes. Criato’s words grate on him like sand against stone. Every boastful claim, every exaggerated tale of his “discoveries,” only deepens Ulloa’s disdain.

At some point during your travels, Criato randomly decides to antagonize his compatriot. He turns to Ulloa with a gleam in his eye, clearly relishing his own voice. “You know what, Atelmaro?” He answers his own question, not bothering to await a response. “You’re a man of action, but you lack vision. You see, that’s where we differ.” His smile widens, self-satisfied. “You think of duty, of what’s expected. I think of what could be. Of greatness. That’s why I lead.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Ulloa says nothing at this unsolicited advice. Beneath his mask of stoicism, he clenches his jaw. He knows Criato is trying to provoke him, to get a rise out of him. Criato seemingly thrives on competition, on proving he’s the best. But Ulloa won’t give him the satisfaction. Not yet.

As Criato brags about his past exploits, embellishing each tale with grandiosity, Ulloa narrows his eyes, watching the path ahead. He lets Criato continue his rambling, saying nothing, waiting. You watch as he bides his time, carefully observing.

Mistaking Ulloa’s silence for deference, Criato laughs lightly. “You see, my friend, this land—this whole land—is ours for the taking. Xiatli knows it, I know it, and soon, even these settlers will know it.” He gestures grandly to the horizon. “But they need a leader who can show them the way, who can inspire them to push through their doubt. That’s why I was chosen.”

The settlers behind them are barely listening. Their heads are bowed, feet shuffling through the underbrush. To them, it’s just another day of endless marching, another test of endurance with no clear end in sight.

But you can see the tension in Ulloa’s jaw, the way his gaze hardens at Criato’s self-praise. It’s clear enough—Criato’s hunger for glory grates against everything Ulloa stands for. To Ulloa, Criato is nothing more than a circling vulture, waiting to feast on the spoils of someone else’s work.

The heat intensifies as the sun climbs higher. The light bleaches the rugged landscape, washing the caravan in a harsh, golden glare. Birds continue to sing, indifferent to the rising tension between the two men who now ride in silence. Ulloa’s hands tighten around the reins during Criato’s occasional burst of pompous laughter.

Meanwhile, the settlers are struggling. As the caravan winds its way higher and higher, each step becomes more difficult, more painful. The air is even thinner now. The sharp rocks beneath your feet jab at your soles. The wind bites at your skin. It’s a wonder that anything survives here, but somehow, sparse patches of hardy vegetation cling to the ground like desperate hands, refusing to let go.

Up ahead, Criato dismounts his horse. His movements are exaggerated as he approaches a group of settlers. Each of them are hunched over, faces grim and weary from the unrelenting march. Criato’s lively voice booms across the camp, as if they were all gathered in a market square instead of this desolate wilderness.

“Come now, there’s no need to suffer alone!” he calls out, his grin wide and infectious. “We’re all in this together! You, you there—take some water.” He passes his own flask to a nearby settler, a young man too weak to do more than accept it gratefully, trembling as he takes a sip.

Then he says something that throws you for a loop. Turning to another of the wary settlers, he says, “You must be excited to be here, to be part of something so much greater than yourself.”

Those words. They sound eerily familiar. You’ve heard them before. Yes, in fact, he said the very same thing to you, when you were in Xiatlidar!

Out of respect for the esteemed explorer—or, perhaps, simply lacking the energy to do so—the person doesn’t make eye contact with Criato. Instead, the slouched shoulders of this exhausted individual unenthusiastically shrug.

Unfazed, Criato disrupts the silent response. “Everyone has a purpose, in the eyes of the great Xiatli. He sees everyone’s value, everyone’s use. I expect He sees great things for you, too!”

Again, those words. You’ve heard them before, spoken to you. Is this some practiced speech? Something designed to boost morale? To endear himself to those he deems his subjects? You didn’t care for the encounter before, but hearing an echo of your exact engagement with the revered leader feels like a rehearsed performance, meant to manipulate.

Satisfied with this interaction, Criato moves among the settlers with ease, offering small comforts, a kind word here, a helping hand there. The settlers look at him with something bordering on admiration—his presence is a flicker of hope in an otherwise dismal world.

You can hear him speak as he helps another settler to their feet. “Everyone needs a leader who cares for them—who ensures their safety and survival. And that’s why I’m here,” he says loudly, making sure everyone within earshot has heard him.

His voice echoes through the camp, a deliberate, almost theatrical gesture. And it works. You can see the settlers’ eyes glimmer with something akin to trust as they look at him. To them, Criato is the hero they need, the leader who will take them through this wasteland to whatever glory awaits them on the other side.

You glance toward Ulloa. He stands at the edge of the camp, watching Criato’s performance in silence as he moves quietly among the soldiers. He checks their weapons and supplies, making sure they are prepared for whatever comes next.

No one notices Ulloa’s quiet competence. Not while Criato’s voice fills the air with promises and grand gestures. The settlers look at Criato with hope. They look at Ulloa with indifference.

Though Ulloa carries on as though he’s unaffected by Criato’s gregariousness, it’s evident how much he’s bothered by it. He would never confess it, but you watch his eyes sporadically dart toward his rival, taking note of how the settlers begin to fawn over Criato, but not him. You wouldn’t think it would bother someone like Ulloa, but with nostrils flaring and a hardened look, it’s clear that it does.

Eventually, he approaches Criato. The two men stand apart from the group, their figures silhouetted against the dying light. "You waste your time coddling the settlers,” Ulloa states. “The real work is before us—getting the Great Xiatli what He seeks. There is no fame to be found here.”

Criato smiles, that same infuriating smile he always wears when he knows he’s getting under Ulloa’s skin. “Ah, Atelmaro, always so focused on the mission. But what’s a victory without recognition? These people are our legacy. If they don’t sing our names, what was it all for?”

“The Legido people have always rewarded action, not empty words,” Ulloa snaps. “We’re not here to be remembered. We’re here to take what’s needed for Xiatli, for the betterment and prosperity of our people. Your theatrics are wasting time.”

This only causes Criato’s smile to widen more. “You speak of duty, of practicality, but what good is any of that if history forgets you? Or worse… never cared to listen in the first place?”

Ulloa’s hand drifts to the hilt of his sword. For a moment, there’s a crack in his calm exterior, a flash of something darker, something more dangerous. You’re surprised to see his restraint thinning. Criato notices, his eyes glinting with amusement, as if daring Ulloa to draw the blade.

But Ulloa doesn’t. He pulls back just as quickly, and his expression hardens once more. Criato chuckles softly under his breath, turning away. It appears it will take much more than that to shake his confidence.

The landscape changes as you climb higher. The once-familiar trees have thinned into skeletal shadows, the green giving way to jagged rock and sparse shrubs. You glance up at the tall peaks, stretching so high that they disappear into the sky itself. From this elevation, it’s as if the land itself seeks to strip you of your breath.

And then, as you crest a ridge, it comes into view.

The land drops sharply, revealing a massive, barren plain at the foot of the mountains. But dominating the center of this desolation is a monument that stands defiant against the sky, a towering structure of stone carved with intricate patterns that seem to dance in the pale sunlight. The design is bizarre to you, but the very sight of it stirs something in your chest—a mixture of awe and dread.

The air is still, unnervingly so. A sour scent of decay lingers, like a memory of something long dead, buried beneath the ruins of this lost land. The wind knows. It has always known. Knows the secrets buried in the ground, the footsteps long since faded. The wind knows, and it tells you nothing.

The murmurs ripple through the settlers like a shiver in the wind. Their voices are barely more than a breath. Unease coils in your gut, a tightening you can’t shake. Whatever this place is, it feels wrong—too still, too quiet.

The Great Xiatli crests the ridge behind you, and as He approaches, the mutterings fall silent. His cold, unblinking gaze sweeps over the monument, and for a moment, everything halts. Even the wind stops, the birds fall silent. Everything waits for Him.

Criato dismounts first and confidently steps toward the Great Xiatli. “We should explore the area,” he says loudly, drawing the attention of both settlers and soldiers. “See if there is any indication as to what this place is, and what treasures await.”

You watch as Criato strides forward, motioning for his men to follow, though you can see the hesitation in their eyes. None of them want to be the first to disturb this place, to be the first to tempt whatever spirits might still linger. Yet, Criato’s determination is infectious, and soon, several men join him, scrambling over the stones with picks and shovels.

As Criato directs them to dig, Ulloa watches in silence. He doesn’t move to help. Instead, he stands rigidly and simply observes, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The sun steadily lowers in the sky, and still, Criato pushes his men harder, faster. The ground is unforgiving, packed hard by years of sun and drought, resisting every effort to break it. Each swing of the pickaxe is met with a dull thud, jarring up through their arms, sending shocks of pain through their aching muscles. Sweat drips from their brows, mixing with the dust that clings to their skin. The settlers grunt with exertion as the blows come down in a relentless rhythm, only carving out small, grudging chunks with each ringing strike.

Then—finally—a different sound. A hollow thunk reverberates beneath the surface. They pause, hearts racing, exchanging uncertain glances. Stone meets metal, and the unmistakable ring of it—a sharp, eerie chime—sends a shiver down their spines. Another careful strike, and this time the pick scrapes against something different—solid, yet not quite stone. There’s something buried here.

You watch as Criato’s eyes light up, and a triumphant grin spreads across his face. His men work feverishly, digging faster now, hands tearing through the stubborn soil with a fevered desperation. The terrain gives way slowly, revealing the shape of something solid beneath. Bit by bit, the outline of a weathered chest emerges, still intact despite being housed here for who knows how long.

The wood isn’t like anything you’ve seen. It’s smooth, yet hardened by time—petrified. With trembling hands, the others brush away the remaining dirt. The chest doesn’t creak like ordinary wood; instead, the sound is low and grinding, like the distant rumble of a landslide. It scrapes and groans as they pry it from its resting place. And then, as its lid is carefully lifted, the contents within are revealed.

An amulet. Its surface gleams in the fading light, opal and silver. Its craftsmanship is unlike anything you’ve ever seen. The stone at its center seems to pulse with a strange, inner glow, catching the last rays of the sun and reflecting them in eerie patterns across the ground.

Criato steps forward, kneeling before the amulet. His fingers quiver as he picks it up. He turns it over in his hands, marveling at the weight of it, the way the light dances across the opal’s surface. “This is it,” he murmurs to himself, though his voice carries in the stillness. “This is what Xiatli wants.”

Ulloa moves forward, and his face grows pale as he steps closer. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” he says with urgency. “We shouldn’t touch that. It’s dangerous.”

Criato looks up with a vulpine grin. “Dangerous? No, no. Powerful. This will make me immortal. Xiatli will have no choice but to favor me now!”

Without waiting for another word, Criato stands, slipping the amulet over his head, letting it rest against his chest. The moment the opal touches his skin, there’s a shift in the air, something so subtle you almost miss it—a faint hum, like the low drone of a distant storm building on the horizon.

Ulloa stiffens, his hand tightening on his sword. “You fool. You think this is about favor? We don’t know what this—”

Criato cuts him off with a laugh. “Ah, Atelmaro. Always so cautious. Always so afraid. This… this is what we’ve been searching for. I’ve found it. And I’ll be the one to deliver it to Xiatli.”

And then, as if summoned by Criato’s words, the Great Xiatli steps forward. His eyes fall on the amulet, and something flashes across His face—an emotion, raw and unguarded. Hunger.

He says nothing, but you can see the way His gaze locks onto the amulet, the way His fingers twitch ever so slightly, as though restraining Himself from reaching out. The silence stretches on, unbearable, until finally, Xiatli speaks in a voice that sends lightning down your spine.

“Give it to me.”

The sun, once so bright and arrogant in the sky, now seems distant, too afraid to be in the presence of this god among men. His outstretched hand hovers just a breath away from the opal and silver amulet hanging from Criato’s neck.

Still grinning, Criato looks triumphant. His eyes gleam with the confidence of a man who believes he’s secured his legacy, as if he can already taste the power that Xiatli’s favor will bring. He tilts his head, lifting the amulet with a smug smile. “Of course! For you, Sapa. A treasure worthy of your greatness.”

The Great Xiatli says nothing at first. His fingers curl around the amulet, deliberately tugging it from Criato’s neck. For a moment, Criato’s expression falters—just for a breath—as the chain slips free. But in the blink of an eye, his grin returns, wider than before. He thinks he has won.

Beside you, Iker’s breathing is shallow, his eyes flicking between Criato and Ulloa. His face is pale, and a bead of sweat rolls down his temple. You feel the same cold dread settling in your chest—the same fear that whatever has just been uncovered is not something that should have been disturbed.

The opal surface of the amulet glimmers in the Great Xiatli’s hand, in a way that makes it seem almost alive. A dark smile curves at the corners of His lips. He holds the artifact up for all to see, the silver chain swaying gently in the cold breeze. His eyes flash with something sinister, something ancient, as if He understands the full magnitude of what He holds.

“You have done well.” The deity’s voice reverberates across the desolate landscape. “This is indeed a treasure worthy of My attention.”

Criato’s chest swells with pride, his grin spanning from ear to ear. He casts a smug glance toward Ulloa, who remains silent, though his nostrils flare ever so slightly, and his fingers twitch as if resisting the urge to act.

And then, as the Great Xiatli holds the amulet aloft, a faint tremor seems to ripple through the ground beneath your feet. It’s so subtle that you think you’ve imagined it. But then the wind picks up, carrying with it a distant wail. The very air around you seems to shudder, and for the briefest moment, you swear the land itself is recoiling from the presence of the artifact.

You notice something else inside the chest. It appears to be a scroll of some kind, like paper. Markings are written upon it, though you can’t make out what it says. What surprises you is that, neither of the two experienced explorers nor the Great Xiatli appear to have any interest in them. Instead, they’ve closed the chest, content with the glimmering amulet.

Iker’s hand tightens on your arm, his grip trembling. “Do you… feel that?” His voice is barely audible over the sudden gusts of wind. You nod, though you can’t quite put words to the feeling that’s worming its way through your veins.

The Great Xiatli turns toward Ulloa and takes a single step toward him. “You did not find this treasure, but your time will come. There is a need for men like you. Men who are… patient.” Ulloa does not speak—only nods slowly.

As the camp quiets, and darkness begins to creep over the land, you feel a chill settle in your bones. It’s the kind that no fire can warm. The Great Xiatli retreats to His tent, and the amulet disappears with Him.

The wind howls through the crags, tugging at your clothes. It’s as if the land is trying to pull you back, to warn you of the path you’re walking. But there’s no turning back now. Not for you. Not for Criato. Not for Ulloa.

And certainly not for Xiatli.