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Perhaps in another life, you might savor the endless horizon, the rich colors spilling across the landscape in every direction. On a peaceful day, you could lose yourself in its beauty, marveling at the jagged peaks cutting into the deep blue sky. The slight chill in the air might even feel refreshing, brushing against your cheeks and weary bones.

But here, in the thick of this brutal march, the beauty feels hollow. It’s a serene canvas that masks the slow unraveling of body and spirit. The scenery is nothing more than a distraction. When every step reminds you of how far you still have to go, it’s hard to appreciate anything but the fact that this journey is far from over—and that it will only get worse before it does.

Your fellow settlers shuffle forward, heads bowed and eyes fixed on the harsh terrain. You began with well over a thousand—perhaps more—but with each step, the group thins. For every breath drawn in this unforgiving land, another slips away, claimed by fatigue, hunger, or despair. Each death is a quiet subtraction, like a single stone falling from a crumbling wall. Yet as the line of bodies stretches endlessly ahead, the loss of one person feels both monumental and insignificant at once. Does one grain of sand matter when there’s a whole beach beneath your feet?

Those who fall are soon swallowed up by the land, becoming part of the barren landscape. Their faces already fade from your memory. The voids they leave behind are absorbed into the vast mass of moving bodies, and yet you feel their absence pressing on your spirit. It’s impossible not to, even as you wade through this sea of people. Each loss diminishes the whole.

Still, the numbers that remain are staggering. A thousand lives, perhaps more. How can you reconcile the importance of each soul when you march among so many? And how can you honor the fallen when you know that more will succumb before the day ends? The Great Xiatli’s vision may promise something greater, but the journey is a cruel test of endurance. It thins your ranks, grinding each individual into dust beneath the feet of the rest. And so you march forward, hoping that the destination is not just a mirage on the horizon.

The path twists and coils along the jagged slopes. You feel it in your legs, your back, the tightness in your chest—lungs working harder than they ever have. The air is thin, denying you the full breath you desperately desire. Each gust of wind bites, stealing away what little strength remains. This isn’t the land your body was built for, a land not meant for human feet.

Past the broken bodies around you, you glance up to the towering mountains that still rise ahead. The sharp and indifferent peaks loom above you. Their stony faces cast long shadows over the endless line of weary settlers. For every step forward, there’s a misstep—someone stumbling, slipping, or worse. There’s no acclimating to this elevation, not in time. The land feels as though it’s rejecting you, pushing you back with every incline. But still, you move. Still, you climb.

You do it because the Great Xiatli leads, and what else is there? He alone knows where this march ends. Like the air here, His promises are thin and distant, but you have no choice but to believe in them. The alternative is as unthinkable, something you wouldn’t dare consider.

And so you trudge forward, your limbs heavy, your spirit heavier still. You know that each step could be your last—and you wonder if it would even matter in the end. Somewhere behind you, a body collapses. Gasps pierce the air. Commotion. You don’t need to turn around to know what it means. Another life, consumed by the land.

The march feels endless. The horizon is an unmoving line that offers no promise of respite. With each labored breath, you count your steps in a grim tally of how much farther your body can endure. Occasionally, you glance up briefly, observing how the sky shifts to deep amber as the sun begins its slow descent. But it brings no comfort. Only the fading of light, and with it, the knowledge that night will soon press in, colder and more unforgiving than the day.

Off a ways, Iker walks by himself among the masses. A muscle in his temple twitches with every breath he forces out. Yet he speaks to no one. His silence is the kind that says more than words ever could. Each of his steps are a question unasked. Each glance your way is a quiet accusation.

Your thoughts are a haze, drifting between fatigue and the faint pull of survival, when a new sound cuts through the rhythm of dragging feet and labored breaths. It’s faint at first, almost lost in the dying wind, but unmistakable. It starts with the leaders at the front, who lift their hands and shout a command. The words surge forward, picked up by the captains just behind them. Each one repeats the order, their voices carrying it further, layer by layer, like ripples spreading across a still lake. It passes from one leader to the next, until it reaches the furthest line—where it reaches you. Evening has arrived, and it is time to set up camp.

You slow your pace as the large group begins to settle. Most of the settlers are hunched over their packs, too tired to talk or even acknowledge one another. The light is fading quickly, and the chill of evening seeps in. The camp stirs with the clatter of pots, shuffling feet, and the weary sighs of men and women collapsing onto bedrolls wherever they can find flat ground. Iker is nowhere to be found, but you’re too exhausted in this moment to search for your longtime friend. You’ve barely had a moment to rest since the climb began.

You find a boulder to lean against, grateful for the small reprieve from the unrelenting trek. Your mind starts to drift, and you question whether you have the energy to set up your bedroll here, genuinely considering the rocky ground. But then, a sound—a familiar voice, sharp and low—catches your attention. Criato’s voice.

At first, you think it’s just more of his boastful talks, or perhaps ordering someone around. But then another voice joins in, quieter, steadier. Atelmaro Ulloa. You then get the sense that you weren’t meant to hear this discussion. You can tell by the way Criato speaks, the way his voice suddenly dips into a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone.

Curiosity tugs at you. Without thinking, you push yourself up and follow the voices. You stay low, using the cover of the rocks and the fading light. It’s not hard to find them. They’ve drifted just beyond the main camp, far enough that no one else would hear their conversation, but close enough to keep an eye on things. Criato stands with his back to you, arms crossed, while Ulloa leans slightly against a rocky outcrop with a stern face half-shadowed in the dimming light.

“…and you think this ends with the amulet?” Criato is saying, his voice tinged with amusement. “You’re more naïve than I thought, dear Ulloa. The Great Xiatli’s appetite doesn’t end with one trinket.”

There’s a coolness in Ulloa’s gaze that you’ve come to recognize as disdain. “You know it’s not simply about the amulet. It’s about what comes after. You gave Him what He wanted—no doubt you expect to be rewarded.”

Criato chuckles softly, but there’s a noticeable edge to it. “Rewarded? Oh, but I’ve already won! I was the one who found it. Not you.”

Ulloa’s eyes reveal the barest hint of a reaction in the low light. “Is that what this is to you? A contest?” He pauses, studying Criato’s face for a moment, before adding, “I thought you had grander ambitions than chasing after relics like a dog after scraps.”

Criato stiffens as his smirk fades slightly, but he recovers quickly. “Oh, yes, what would you know of ambition? You’ve spent your life in service, doing the rulers’ bidding like a good little soldier. But don’t pretend you don’t want more.” He steps closer, his voice dropping even lower, quiet enough where you almost miss his remark. “I see it. You think you hide it well, but I know what drives you.”

Ulloa’s lips press into a thin line, tension knotting in his jaw. Criato watches him closely, sensing a rare crack in his rival’s composure. He steps in, closer than before, like a vulture circling its prey. His voice is a near whisper, as though sharing a confidence meant for no one else.

“This land… it’s more than either of us ever dreamed. And Xiatli? He’s just the beginning.” Criato’s breath hovers between them, a taunt wrapped in honey. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re the only one who sees the greater possibilities.”

The silence that stretches between them is like a drawn blade. Ulloa holds Criato’s gaze, unblinking, but his fingers curl ever so slightly at his sides. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm, quiet—measured like the strike of a knife.

“You’re wrong about me,” Ulloa says deliberately. “Exploration is not about ambition. It’s about making it to the next day.”

Criato’s smile deepens, but there’s no warmth in it—just emitting pure condescension. He tilts his head slightly, as if he’s observing a curious insect trapped in a jar. “Oh, is that it? Survival?” The word escapes his lips like a curse. “How quaint. So, that’s all this is to you—a job to be done? That’s… adorable, really.”

He lets out a quiet, derisive laugh. “But that’s where you and I differ, isn’t it? You’re content to tread water, to hold your breath just long enough to reach the surface.” His voice lowers, each syllable dripping with disdain. “But real men, real leaders, we don’t just survive. We devour. We see the world as something to consume, to shape in our image, not just some obstacle to endure.”

He leans in, hissing like a snake about to strike. “Keep thinking like that, keep holding back, and you’ll find out how this world chews up those who simply want to get by—and spits them out long before they’ve even had a chance to taste its marrow.”

Ulloa doesn’t flinch. His voice drops even lower, just a murmur that somehow cuts sharper than a shout. “Chasing glory like a rabid dog will see you buried just as quickly,” he says, each word slow and deliberate, like he’s laying down a challenge Criato isn’t ready for. “The only ones who win are the ones still standing when everyone else is nothing but bones.”

Neither man is willing to break the silence that follows. Criato stands tall, confident, his chest puffed out as if he’s already secured his place in history. But Ulloa’s calm is unnerving. It’s a stillness that speaks of something deeper, restrained, controlled.

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“You think I’m reckless?” Criato says as anger slowly begins creeping in. “I’m the one who acted. I’m the one who handed Xiatli what He demanded. And it’ll be me He remembers. Not you.”

Ulloa casually pushes himself off the rock, stepping closer to Criato. “You think Xiatli remembers anything? He takes what He wants, and when He’s done, He’ll discard you like all the others. That piece of jewelry? It’s not enough. It was never enough.”

For the first time, Criato seems taken aback. His confidence wavers, just for a moment. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he scowls.

“Don’t I?” Ulloa challenges quietly. “Tell me, Vitor, do you really believe you’re indispensable? Or is that just what you constantly repeat aloud, urging the thought to come true?”

Criato steps back, his face darkening, but he doesn’t respond immediately. You watch as his hand moves to his chest, where the amulet once briefly rested, before he catches himself.

Ulloa turns, his back now to Criato, as he begins to walk away. But just before he disappears into the shadows, he throws one last parting word over his shoulder. “The mountains are patient, Criato. More patient than either of us. And they’ll outlast your ambition.”

Criato stands there, fists clenched at his sides, watching Ulloa disappear into the night. You can see the rage simmering beneath his skin, the way his chest rises and falls with barely contained fury.

You shrink back into the shadows, your breath shallow. The two men, revered explorers, do not share the camaraderie they publicly appear to have. Not even a friendly rivalry to push each other to do their best. No, this is a deep hatred, something stemming from years of conflict. It makes you wonder what else they’re hiding—from each other and everyone else.

The next morning, camp stirs sluggishly, as if the very air has weighed everyone down into slow, deliberate motions. The sky above is pale and drained of color, hanging listlessly over the jagged peaks like an old, worn-out sail. Sparse patches of brittle and lifeless brush dot the landscape, swaying half-heartedly in the arid wind. It’s as if this part of the world is too tired to care about the men and women trudging across these barren slopes.

You pull your pack over your shoulder, and the straps begin digging into your skin as you force yourself to move. Each step is a chore. Your legs are heavy as lead. Your mind is fogged by a constant sense of unease. It’s not just the trek north—the endless trail of rocks and dust that stretches out into some unknown horizon—but something deeper, something unsettling about the mission behind this journey.

Your mind revisits the encounter between Criato and Ulloa from last night. Your thoughts don’t allow you to think of anything else. Not yet. The amulet, the ultimate end goals and contrasting motivations of the two explorers… what does it all mean?

And then you recall the scrolls of paper contained in the chest. Once again, Criato and Ulloa failed to mention it. Had they noticed? How could they not? Did any of the other settlers notice? Perhaps it’s not as important as you think it is. But the moment you tell yourself that, you immediately dismiss the notion. There has to be some importance with regards to the sheets of paper.

Once again, you all sett off, heading into this unknown and oppressive landscape. In the distance, the Great Xiatli floats at the front of the procession, an indifferent figure silhouetted against the stark horizon. He doesn’t feel it—none of this seems to bother Him. The losses, the suffering, the endless march. You wonder if He even notices the settlers that fall behind, too weak to continue, those who have given their lives to this cause, now forever a part of the land.

Among the gathered masses, you’re finally able to catch glimpses of Iker. When you spot him, you notice how his face is tight with frustration. Every time you’ve tried to speak to him, he’s brushed you off. Now, as you stand among the other settlers, watching them disassemble what little remains of the camp, you wonder what has your longtime friend so distraught.

Iker walks up beside you, but he doesn’t meet your gaze. His shoulders are hunched, his lips pressed into a thin line. You can almost feel his silence as he tightens the straps of his own pack. His demeanor is that of someone who doesn’t want to be in your presence, yet he’s making every effort to be shoulder to shoulder with you.

You clear your throat, searching for a way to break this underlying tension between you. “Did you see the chest Criato unearthed?” you ask, keeping your voice casual. “The one containing the amulet that the Great Xiatli demanded for Himself?”

Iker’s eyes glance at you for the briefest second before returning to his pack. “No,” he mutters. The word is clipped and short, like he’s hoping to end the conversation there.

“There were these scrolls inside,” you continue, pushing forward despite his dismissive tone. “Old, with writing I’ve never seen. I wonder what they contain?” You let the curiosity hang in the air, hoping it might draw him in, even a little.

Instead, Iker’s shoulders stiffen, and he doesn’t look up. “Probably nothing that concerns us,” he replies flatly, sounding irritated.

You hesitate for a moment, then decide to test the waters. “What if we could retrieve them?” you ask, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Find out what’s written on those scrolls ourselves. There could be something—something valuable, something that could turn the tide of this journey.”

Iker finally turns to you. His gaze is cold, and his words are biting. “Are you insane?” he snaps. “You’d risk both our necks for some moldy scrolls? The Great Xiatli would skin you alive if He caught you snooping through what’s His.” He shakes his head, letting out a bitter laugh. “Of all the foolish ideas you’ve had, this one might just top the list.”

His words hit like a slap, and you’re left grappling with the sudden distance between you. The warmth, the understanding that used to be there, now feels like it’s been walled off behind his cold responses. You search for the reason—why he’s become so withdrawn, so quick to anger. Maybe it’s something else. Something bigger.

It must be Lander.

That thought lodges itself in your mind, and the concern surges up, overriding the awkwardness of the moment. Thinking, perhaps, that his frustration mirrors your own fears, you take a chance. “Lander’s still out there,” you say, the concern spilling out of you almost unbidden. “Somewhere, on that ship. Alone.”

Iker tenses, and you see his jaw clench. There’s something sharp and accusatory in his eyes. “We’ve been over this. Lander’s fine. He has Gartzen and Captain Lema. They’ll be back.”

You shake your head, the knot of worry tightening in your chest. “We don’t know that. I should’ve been with him. I didn’t even get a chance to say—”

“To say what?” Iker interrupts, his voice colder than you’ve ever heard it, even just moments ago. “What could you have said that would’ve made a difference? You’ve barely been able to talk about anything else since we left—I’m surprised you even care about these stupid scrolls. It’s always Lander this, Lander that.”

The accusation stings, and you feel your defenses rising. “Of course it’s about Lander,” you snap back. “What else would it be about?”

Iker turns on you, his eyes blazing with a frustration that’s clearly been building for days. “You can’t stop worrying about him, can you? Like he’s the only one that matters. Like I’m not standing right here.”

You’re taken aback. The sharpness in his voice almost hurts you physically. “What are you talking about?”

He looks away, shaking his head with incredulity. “You’ve barely said a word to me since he showed up. You’re so focused on him—on this new friendship of yours—that you’ve forgotten who’s been at your side all this time.”

The words cut deep. It’s not that you haven’t noticed the distance between you and Iker, but you hadn’t realized how much it had affected him. “That’s not fair, Iker,” you say, your voice softening as you try to find the right words. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Don’t I?” he says, suddenly turning to face you. “He’s gone, and all you do is think about him. Worry about him. And I’m just… what? Some afterthought? Someone you used to care about?”

Your chest tightens, guilt mixing with frustration. “That’s not true. You’ve always been important to me. And Lander—“

“He’s a stranger, and you’ve known him for what? A few months? And suddenly he’s all that matters?” His voice cracks, and you can hear the jealousy now, plain as day. “What about me? What about us? What about everything we’ve been through?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat. Iker steps back, lips pressed into a thin line as a low breath escapes through his nose. “I don’t care what you think about Lander. He’s gone. But I’m still here, and you can’t even see that.”

There’s a long silence as his words fall heavy, like stones tumbling into a deep chasm, lost in the widening rift between you. It feels like a wound that’s been festering for too long, and now that it’s open, you’re not sure how to treat it. You know you should say something, anything to fix this, but the words refuse to come.

Instead, Iker turns away. He wraps himself in his arms as he follows the rest of the group northward, leaving you standing there. The taste of regret is bitter on your tongue as you watch him leave.

You fall into step behind the others, dragging your feet through the dust and dirt. The line of settlers stretches ahead, their figures hunched, broken shadows against the endless landscape. Conversations died long ago, replaced by the sound of boots scraping over the brittle land, by the labored breaths of men and women who once believed there might be something at the end of this.

Days have blurred together, marked only by the rise and fall of the sun and the horizon that never seems to change. The land offers no mercy, no sign of an end, just more of the same dry, unforgiving expanse. Packs feel like they’ve doubled in size. Lips crack under the merciless sun. Eyes sweep the distance, searching for any sign that this is more than a fool’s errand. How much longer? How much farther?

You begin to wonder if you’ve been walking in circles, if the mountains themselves are playing tricks on you. Dragging the journey out longer. Keeping the destination just out of reach.

Then, you see it.

Carved into the cliffside, woven into the very marrow of the mountains, a city rises from the rock like something that should not exist. Stone upon stone, each one larger than the last, fitted with a precision that feels impossible, as if the summits themselves bent to their will. The buildings are sharp, angular, and defiant. They glow a faint gold in the setting sun, a city that swallows light and returns it in shimmering fragments.

You stand at the edge of the world. Your eyes climb the stairs of the city, following the rise of each platform. Walls curve in ways the mind struggles to grasp. The center looms above, a temple or palace that isn’t just built on the mountain—it is the mountain. It proudly protrudes upward, with protective peaks curling around it, and its polished stone gleams as though the sun is trapped within the rock.

The city stretches further than you can see, disappearing into the mountain range. You try to place the scale of it, the reach of it, but your mind falters. Layer after layer, the terraces ripple down the mountainside. It’s as if a humungous hand pressed its thumb into the ground and molded steps for giants. Atop these astonishingly level surfaces, the crops sway in the faint breeze as light dances upon the fields. Crops. At this elevation. Your mind marvels at the sight.

You step forward, but there’s a stillness beneath your boots. There’s a silence so deep, you believe all noise has been absorbed into the land. No birds cry from the skies. No sound but the faint whisper of wind as it brushes along the cliff edge and disappears into the steep peaks.

You manage to push through the throng, slipping between the weary bodies of those who’ve been trudging alongside you for days. There’s a rise in the path ahead—a jagged outcrop of rock that juts up just enough to offer a brief glimpse over the heads of the others. From here, you can see Him.

The Great Xiatli floats alone at the front, towering above the endless line of followers snaking through the mountains. And though He’s distant, so far ahead He might as well be part of the horizon itself, you catch it: His face. His lips curl upward, but there’s something wrong about it—something too sharp, too deliberate. It’s the kind of grin that feels like it was taught, a practiced imitation of what a smile should be, but never truly is. You’re barely able to catch it, that brief flash of teeth in the fading light, and it sends a ripple of unease through you. Is it hunger? Amusement? The shadow of something darker, lurking beneath the surface?

For a moment, you almost convince yourself it’s nothing. That maybe He doesn’t know how to smile like other, mortal men. Like the gesture is foreign to such a profound deity. A language He’s still learning. But the way His eyes linger on the city, the way that smile curves just a little too far—like the edge of a blade—makes you wonder. Wonder if He’s seeing the same thing you are.

You shake the thought, the uneasy feeling away. But it nags at you, like a whisper you can’t quite make out.

And yet, His gaze never wavers from the city, as if He has finally seen the thing He’s been waiting for.