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It’s become a reflexive habit, a nervous tic. Throughout our travels, I can’t help but look up at the night sky and monitor the moon’s progress. There isn’t much left of the moon now. Just a sliver of silver amongst the stars. Soon, even that pale shard will be swallowed by the darkness, and with it, all of Pachil.

I lower my gaze to the land around me. I continue to marvel at how much this place so unlike the world I grew up in. The dry winds of Tapeu rustle through the tall, golden grass, carrying with them the scent of soil and dust. The sharp, brittle air feels foreign against my skin, so different from the humid embrace of the Achope jungles. Here, the world feels wide open, exposed. Vulnerable.

I close my eyes and the jungle rises to greet me. There, everything felt alive, vibrant, humming with a pulse all its own. Birds call from hidden perches, like distant memories just out of reach. The branches of the trees twist like fingers that cradle the sky. I find myself longing for the thick canopy of green, the way the trees there seemed to shield you from the harsh sun, wrapping you in a warm, nurturing cocoon.

It’s strange, though. To this day, despite everything, I still find myself calling Achope my home. How is it that I long for a place that, in many ways, isn’t mine to long for? A place where I never fully belonged, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. Those jungles, the safety of the trees, the gentle lapping of water along the riverbank—they aren’t mine, not in the way I thought they were. The people who raised me, the life I lived… it wasn’t really mine, either.

I wasn’t Achope. Not really.

I am not Achope.

But it’s the only home I’ve ever known, the only life I’ve ever lived. No matter where I came from, I still ache for those rainforests, for the familiar sounds of the jungle at night, the endless thrum of life that felt like a heartbeat beneath your feet. I miss the smell of the dirt after the rain, the way the sky would split open in a downpour and yet, somehow, it never felt like a burden. The jungle would take care of you. You knew of its dangers, but you also knew the safety it offered if you understood and respected it.

But here? Everything feels harsher, brutal. Only endless stretches of dry, unfamiliar land. There’s nothing soft about this place. It’s unforgiving in every way, and I’m reminded again how far I am from the world I grew up in—and how far I am from the person I thought I was.

I try to push the thought away, but it clings to me. How strange it is to yearn for a place that isn’t really yours. To call a land home when it never truly belonged to you, and you never truly belonged to it. Achope raised me, shaped me. But the blood in my veins… well, that belongs to Tapeu. To Achutli. To a father I never knew.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like if I had known him. If I had grown up here, in this dry, rugged land under his watchful gaze. Would I feel more at home in Tapeu than I do now, standing on the soil of my blood but not my heart? Would I have been a different person, more sure of myself, more rooted in this history? Would my lineage feel like a strength instead of a burden?

And what of my mother? Whoever she was, wherever she came from—another part of my life left in shadow. Is Achutli the only one who knows of her, and he’s kept that secret from me and Nuqasiq, his own mother?

The answer doesn’t come, and I don’t expect it to. But still, the questions linger. Here, in this rugged land, they settle over me like the dust, refusing to be shaken off.

In the distance, rolling hills dip and rise like the backs of giant, sleeping beasts. It’s beautiful in a strange way, but it’s hard to overlook how desolate it is. Every breath I take reminds me of how far I am from home, from the safety of the familiar. The soil here is cracked in places, desperate for water. But somehow, the Atima refugees have found a way to ensure the fields are strong, resilient in ways I can’t fully understand. And yet, it seems as though this land is constantly at war with itself, just as we are—one moment thriving, the next struggling to survive.

That’s what this feels like. Struggling to survive. We’re all running out of time, scrambling to piece together a defense. The new moon is coming quickly, and with it, whatever machinations the Eye in the Flame have planned for Qapauma—and Pachil.

I glance over my shoulder at the small band of warriors traveling with me. Their faces are worn, tired, uncertain what awaits us in Qapauma. No matter how many times I calculate it in my mind, it always feels like a losing battle. If we’re not ready by the time the moon fades, it’ll be too late.

That thought festers like a quiet, stubborn ache in every joint of my body.

Though I will never be able to get what looms out of my mind, I make a concerted effort to distract myself, even for just one fleeting moment. In doing so, I notice Xelhua a short distance away, his eyes searching the horizon as we travel through these lands. He’s been quiet for most of the journey, offering little beyond tactical advice and the occasional word of caution. There’s a coldness in his eyes, like he’s seen too much of the world, and none of it has surprised him for a long time. His expressions are flat, as though any spark of emotion has been long extinguished by the burden of his past.

Never taught to me by any of my tutors, I’ve only heard whispers of the Iqsuwa—the fabled warriors who served no faction, no king. There were wild and often contradictory stories passed among the merchant circles of Achope. They were said to be ghosts of the battlefield, feared by even the mightiest armies. That they could summon storms with their chants, or vanish before an enemy was made aware of their presence. Some rumors claimed they fought for causes only they understood, driven by a code as old as Pachil itself, while others said they had no cause at all, only bloodlust.

But beyond the stories, no one I knew had ever encountered one. The Iqsuwa were more legend than reality, they would say, remnants of a past no one remembered clearly. They were myths. Until now.

The soft crunch of our footsteps against the dry ground echoes through the fields. I find myself walking closer to Xelhua, unable to ignore the growing curiosity nagging me. What is it that drives a man like him? What is it that haunts him so deeply?

I quicken my steps to match his pace. The silence between us stretches as the wind rustles through the fields. Xelhua’s distant gaze remains fixed ahead, as though he’s walking through memories rather than these plains. Finally, I gather the nerve to speak, though my voice feels small against the questions I want to ask.

“Xelhua,” I start, and I observe how my voice sounds like a squeak. “I’ve heard stories about the Iqsuwa. Is it true what they say about your people—the Iqsuwa warriors, that is?”

A low, humorless chuckle escapes him. “Stories have a way of growing their own legs,” he mutters. “But I suppose there may be truth to some of it.”

“Well, what parts are true, then?” I press on, unwilling to let the silence overtake us again.

“Depends on what you’ve heard,” he grunts.

I shrug reflexively. “There are tons of stories. You know how rumors get passed around, especially in circles of merchants or nobles.”

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Rumors are all most people have.”

I can’t help myself now, practically blurting out the question that has been pulling at me this entire trek. “So, is it true you could summon storms with your words? Or that you moved like shadows across battlefields, invisible to the enemy?”

I’m a touch embarrassed at the speed in which I asked such ridiculous-sounding questions. Despite this, he lets out a low, gravelly laugh with disbelief, though undeniably finding genuine humor, to my relief. “Storms, huh? I’m afraid that one’s a bit too poetic, even for us.” He peeks at me out of the corner of his eye. “But moving like shadows? That’s not far from the truth. We were trained to be… let’s say ‘efficient.’”

“Efficient?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s one way to put it. I guess that’s why they say no one who faced the Iqsuwa in combat lived to tell the tale.”

Xelhua lets out another snort in amusement, though there’s something darker underneath it this time. “We were good at what we did. Some might say too good.”

“And what about the whole ‘no master, no ruler’ part?” I ask. “That part of the legend always stood out to me. Warriors who answered to no one, who fought for causes only they understood. That sounds a bit… romantic, don’t you think?”

His smile fades, and he looks away again. “Romantic, huh? Guess that depends on who’s telling the story.”

There’s something in his response that tells me I’m getting closer to something real. Because of this, I can’t help but press a little further. “But is it true, then? No rules, no masters?”

“No,” he responds with a sigh. “We had masters. Always someone above us, guiding our hands.”

I blink, taken aback by the rawness in his reply. “So you weren’t free?”

His jaw tightens, and he lets out a sharp breath. “Free?” He shakes his head, bitterness seeping into his words. “We were never free. We were weapons. Blades wielded by others, for someone else’s agenda. You think we fought for something we believed in?” He pauses. “No. We fought because we were told to. And we did things… things no one should ever have to do.”

His words leave me feeling uneasy, but this vague response only piques my curiosity more. I bite my lip, unsure if I should keep going, but the question tumbles from my mouth before I can stop it.

“You mentioned before, when we first encountered one another, that you’ve done things you’re not proud of. Was that because of what it meant to be an Iqsuwa?”

“Being an Iqsuwa wasn’t a choice,” he responds sharply. “Not in the way you might think. And what we did… what I did…” His voice trails off, leaving the answer incomplete.

I glance at my feet, grinding down the dry ground beneath us. “Was that how it always was? For the Iqsuwa, I mean. Was that the life they always lived?”

Xelhua finally turns to look at me, cold and stone-faced. “Once, long ago, there was an age when the Iqsuwa were truly independent and lived by their own code. But not in my lifetime, not when I was one of them.”

He falls silent again, and his eyes narrow as though he’s seeing something far beyond the horizon. The way he carries himself is as if every step, every word, has been earned through blood and sweat. I notice the way his hand flexes at his side, with calloused fingers twitching, as if ready to grasp a weapon that’s no longer there. The quiet that follows is laden with words unspoken—the kind that don't need to be said because they’ve already been lived.

His eyes darken, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve overstepped. The silence tells me that the discussion has been brought to an end. That the Iqsuwa will remain shrouded in mystery. I had only hoped to learn more about this warrior and what ails him, hoping I can help him right the wrongs he believes he’s done. Yet I feel that my interest in his past may have caused more harm than good, and I start to regret my efforts in getting to know this warrior who purposely sought isolation, seeking to distance himself from his sins.

Then, with a sigh, he turns his head slightly. His voice is low and gruff, as though the words are being dragged from deep within. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

He stops, shaking his head as he casts his eyes downward. I know better than to coax him, to push him too hard. So I give him the time and space to work out whatever turmoil roils within him.

He sucks in air through his teeth, and his face forms a tight grimace. But like the brave warrior he is, he pushes through the hurt and continues. “What we’re taught—what I was taught—is that the creation of the Iqsuwa was a direct challenge to the aristocrats, particularly the Maqanuiache and their elite, noble warriors. We were supposed to be different, better.”

“There was a time, long ago,” he begins recounting, “when we fought for the people, not for power or wealth. The Iqsuwa took in those who had nowhere else to go. They trained us to be warriors of the land, to defend the defenseless. Our code was simple: protect the balance, and never let the powerful prey on the weak.”

He pauses with a faraway look in his eyes, reaching for memories that have long since crumbled into dust. “I believed in that. Or, at least, I wanted to believe in it. But by the time I joined, things were already changing.”

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I watch his hand continuing to flex unconsciously, fingers twitching. “I wasn’t born into privilege. My family were farmers. Barely scraping by. Too poor to send me to the military academies like the Maqanuiache.” He pauses, his lips pressed thin, as though grappling with a memory that leaves a sour taste behind. “It was expected that I’d follow in my father’s footsteps—plant, harvest, tend to the land. But I wasn’t built for it. The fields felt like a prison. No matter how hard I worked, it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t endure it. I wanted more, something beyond tilling dry soil under a blistering sun.”

“But it wasn’t just the farming,” he says, as if he’s admitting something shameful. “I couldn’t be a merchant, either. No sharp mind for trade, no gift of persuasion.”

He lets out a dry chuckle. “I remember one day, my uncle had me running the stall for him. We were selling… what was it? Dried maize, I think. There was this old woman—had to be sixty harvests old—hunched over and could barely reach my shoulders. Haggled with me over the price of a sack. I stood there for what felt like half a day, listening to her go back and forth, shaving a handful of coppers off with every breath she took. I thought to myself, ‘Surely, this can’t be my life.’ But I played along, kept my smile painted on, nodding like a fool.”

Xelhua pauses, shaking his head. “Eventually, I just gave in. Sold her the damn thing for next to nothing, just to shut her up. My uncle wasn’t happy, of course. Said I had no backbone, that I’d let her walk all over me. Maybe he was right. But I couldn’t stand it—the false smiles, the endless back-and-forth, all over a few coppers. I wasn’t built for that world, either.”

He shrugs. “I realized pretty quickly that I didn’t have the patience for trade. Some people are born with it, I suppose. But not me. I needed something clearer. Simpler.”

“But I didn’t fit in anywhere. Couldn’t seem to carve out a place for myself. To people like us, people without coin, without connections, the world gives few choices. And if you can’t follow in your parents’ footsteps, there aren’t many doors left open.” He turns toward me, and something raw briefly surfaces in his eyes. “I thought the Iqsuwa would be different. I thought, maybe, they’d give me the purpose I’d been chasing.”

His lips twist into something that might be considered a hollow smile. “A chance to be more than just another nearly-forgotten name on a quipu. A way to fight for something bigger than myself. But the truth is, joining them wasn’t about honor or loyalty. It was survival. If I wasn’t a warrior, I was nothing. The Iqsuwa offered a way to escape my fate, to be free of the life that had been carved out for me before I was even born.”

“When they brought me in, I was still rough around the edges. No discipline to speak of. The Iqsuwa’s training,” he exhales sharply, nearly whistling, “it was brutal. We were trained in everything from swordsmanship to hand-to-hand combat. Taught how to move like shadows, silent and unseen, as you say. The way of the Iqsuwa was about precision, focus, and mastering the art of control. You could be as strong as ten men, but if you couldn’t control that strength, it was worthless. You had to learn to master yourself before you could master your enemy.”

He pauses again, his eyes cast as though he’s seeing the training fields again, hearing the bark of his instructors, the clattering of weapons. “We trained from dawn until the stars filled the sky. No rest. No weakness allowed. They’d pit us against each other in sparring matches, force us to keep going until one of us couldn’t stand. The Iqsuwa weren’t like the regular warriors—they weren’t looking for brute strength or simple obedience. They were looking for warriors who could think, strategize. Who could turn the tide of battle with a single, calculated move.

“But it wasn’t just physical training. They broke us down mentally. You had to learn how to endure pain, how to push past exhaustion and hunger until they were nothing but foreign concepts. They’d leave us out in the wilderness with nothing—no food, no water—and we had to find our way back, all while avoiding traps they’d laid to make sure only the strongest returned.”

He lets out a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “I hated it. Every moment of it. But I couldn’t quit. Failing wasn’t an option. If you failed, you weren’t just cast out. You were discarded—dead weight. And for someone like me, who had nothing to fall back on, that wasn’t a fate I could accept.”

I can hear the resentment in his voice, and though I’ve never lived that kind of life, its burden presses against me. “So, what kept you going?” I ask softly.

Xelhua shrugs, his eyes still fixed ahead. “Fear, mostly. Fear of going back to that life. Back to the fields, or the market stalls… the nothingness. The emptiness. At least as an Iqsuwa, I had a purpose. I had something to strive for. Something to live for.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then his voice darkens. “By the time I was accepted, completed my training, and became an Iqsuwa, they weren’t what they used to be. We were still feared, still respected, but we weren’t free. Not anymore. The Timuaq? They saw to that. The gods in flesh, the rulers of all. They didn’t care about balance. They didn’t care about the people. They only cared about control. And they saw the Iqsuwa for what we were—powerful, dangerous.”

He swallows hard, face contorting into a snarl as if smelling something unsavory. “The Timuaq played the long game, alright. They didn’t crush us outright. They planted seeds—promises, temptations. Corrupting the officers first, the ones who were desperate for respect. They were offered wealth, land, power… things no warrior could turn down. Especially those born of poverty like many of us were. By the time I realized what was happening, it was already too late. The Iqsuwa code, the one we lived by—it became nothing more than words twisted to suit the Timuaq’s needs. We became their enforcers, not the people’s protectors. They sent the Iqsuwa to crush rebellions, burn villages, enslave entire populations.”

I hesitate, uncertain if I want to know the answer. But eventually, I quietly ask, “And you?”

Xelhua’s eyes narrow, and when he speaks again, his voice is thick with guilt. “I wasn’t any different. I was a good warrior. An obedient warrior.” He says this with mockery, with disgust, with disdain. “I followed orders. I thought I was serving something greater. But all I was serving was the greed and ambition of those who wanted to rule everything. I wasn’t a warrior. I wasn’t an Iqsuwa. I was just another tool in their hands.”

His lips quiver, eyes glistening as they fill with tears. “When I close my eyes, I still see the flames. Still see the blank faces staring back at me. Still hear the screams in my sleep. We weren’t warriors anymore. We were executioners.”

He shakes his head, his voice raw with pain. “The balance we were meant to protect? We destroyed it.”

He falls silent again, as if retreating inward. He wants to close his eyes, wants to bury the pain, but he can’t. Every time his lids lower, the visions are waiting, etched in the darkness, too vivid to escape.

He turns to me now, brushing his moist cheek with the achiote-colored cloak resting on his shoulder. “I believed in the legends of the Iqsuwa once. But by the time I became one of them, those legends were dead. We became slaves to the Timuaq. Not in chains like the people we were supposed to protect, but bound by our own complicity. We became as ruthless as the oppressors we once fought against.”

“Then why?” I ask, needing to understand. “Why continue being one?”

Xelhua’s lips pull into a bitter smile. “At first, I stayed because I thought, maybe, just maybe, I could change things from the inside. I saw others like me—disillusioned, questioning what we had become. Rather than attempting to change the system in a subtle manner, they confronted their oppressors head on. A rebellion of sorts, though no one dared call it that. Except the ones who had already sold their souls to the Timuaq? They wouldn’t let go of the power they had been promised. And rather than get involved directly, the Timuaq had us fighting each other, weeding out the dissidents.”

His voice falters for a moment. “The rebellion—or whatever you want to call it—didn’t last long. Many tried to push back against the Timuaq’s control, but the ones who resisted… Most were either killed or forced back into line. Once they started rounding up those who questioned them, I knew it was only a matter of time before they came for me, too, even if I wasn’t on the front lines.”

He clenches his jaw, as if fighting against an answer he doesn’t want to give. Finally, he breathes out a long sigh. “I was no rebel. Just a coward who couldn’t stand the sight of what we’d become. But it wasn’t courage that made me run. It was fear. The Timuaq… they had plans for us in the War of Liberation. They were using the Iqsuwa to crush any resistance, to burn Pachil to the ground if they had to. And by then, there was no more Iqsuwa code, no honor left to cling to. No, the code was already rotten. We were going to be the weapons they used to end everything, to bring the factions of Pachil to their knees.

“The crimson and black—they weren’t the colors of the noble Iqsuwa. They were the colors of the Timuaq. And those colors… those colors ruined everything they touched. But I wore them. I carried out their orders. I believed the lie because I had to. That is, until it became too much. All the needless suffering caused by my hands. It was too much.”

I furrow my brow, listening intently. “And that’s when you ran.”

“Yes,” he replies, his voice cracking. “I saw my chance and took it. In the chaos, during one of the skirmishes among the Iqsuwa, I ran. I deserted. The worst thing a warrior can do. I left my brothers and sisters to die, left them to their fate.”

He looks down, his hands tightening into fists. “I took these colors I wear now—the old colors of the Iqsuwa—because it was the only way I could still pretend I was part of something honorable. But I’m not an Iqsuwa anymore. Not really. I’m just a coward, hiding in the shadows. I ran, but I can’t run from what I’ve done. That’s all I am now. A man hiding from the past.”

I should say something, anything to console him, but I can’t find the words. He’s a warrior, trained to fight, conditioned to kill, yet here he stands, broken. And as much as I want to believe I’m different from him, his pain resonates deep within me.

I think of my own identity, how everything I thought I knew about myself has been turned upside down. The feeling of being untethered, of not belonging anywhere. It’s a feeling I understand all too well.

And as I look at Xelhua now, I realize that we are both fighting battles we never chose. But while I’m determined to face mine head-on, he ran from his. It’s a confusing state in which to be, considering how we faced our respective adversities, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

“I don’t know how to live with it,” Xelhua admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

I swallow hard, feeling the lump in my throat. I want to tell him that he’s not alone in feeling lost. That I know what it’s like to question who you are, to wonder if you even have a place in the world anymore. But I can’t condone running away from your problems. I can’t condone leaving others to suffer while you try to escape.

“You don’t have to live in the past,” I say quietly, but there’s a firmness in my tone. “The future isn’t set. Not for any of us. And while it won’t undo what’s already been done, it’s an opportunity to prove that you’ve grown.”

Xelhua’s eyes glance toward me fleetingly, but he doesn’t say anything. He looks back to the horizon, his face etched with pain and regret. I don’t know if my words reached him or if he’ll ever stop punishing himself for what he’s done. He may never find redemption, but I know that this—living in hiding, wrapped in the colors of a once-proud order—isn’t the answer.

For now, though, we travel in silence. Once more, I look up at the approaching night sky. The moon above is almost gone. Still. I keep staring at it, as if I can will it to reverse its course, but knowing I cannot.

By the shores of the bay that empties into the Haqu Suquinoq, he and the Qantua warriors get to work. Without exchanging a word, they begin constructing a water vessel made from dead trees and nearby driftwood. Long reeds are tied together, and they’re fitted around the bundle of wood to haphazardly gather them together. The long logs clatter against one another as the gentle tide rolls in. Poorly built, it’s a wonder how the thing remains in its loose bindings.

Xelhua points to the makeshift raft. “If memory serves, there’s a small canal that reaches Qapauma. We can take this water vessel and slip into the city under the cover of night, unnoticed. Avoid the watchful eyes of the warring factions.”

Clearly, the expression on my face must be conveying my uncertainty, because he then says, “This will get the job done, I can assure you. I’ve managed with worse in my time. We won’t need to travel for long. It’ll hold until we reach our destination.”

Reluctantly, I board the vessel. It barely supports the weight of my tiny frame, immediately sinking the moment I step upon it. Reflexively, I want to return to shore, but Xelhua guides me onto the raft, holding my hand until I balance myself upon the batch of logs. I remain skeptical, but as each warrior then boards after me, I gradually become impressed that such a hastily-built water craft appears to be working as intended.

With a few other logs, Xelhua and a couple of the warriors guide the raft off the shore, pushing away with their rough ores. The water is mercifully tranquil, allowing us to glide gracefully on its surface. I still watch the water for any sign of betrayal, but the further we drift from the coast, oddly enough, the more I feel at ease.

Perhaps it’s the rhythmic rowing, or the steady lapping of water along the sides of the raft, but I find the situation to be peaceful. Soon, I’m meditating, calmly taking in the scene and reflective upon all the moments that have culminated into this moment.

I glance at Xelhua, whose attention is completely fixed on rowing our raft. This is a man who once believed he was fighting for something greater, only to realize he was nothing more than a weapon in someone else’s hands. And now here he is, cloaked in regret and shame, with a past that haunts him at every turn.

It makes me wonder: do we choose our path, or does the world push us onto it, one step at a time, until we look up and realize we’re somewhere we never wanted to be?

If he was shaped by the choices he didn’t make—by the forces beyond him—what does that mean for the rest of us? For me?

The quiet lap of water against the side of the raft does nothing to quiet the thoughts swirling in my mind. Ahead, the waterways steadily bring us toward Qapauma. The city’s jagged skyline is barely visible against the dimming horizon. We move silently, slowly, as the vessel cuts through the water unnoticed.

I think about the road that led me here, to this moment. The twists and turns, the secrets revealed. Was I always destined to walk this path? To be pulled away from the jungles I once called home, to learn that my bloodline, my purpose, was never what I thought it was?

I grew up believing I had control, that my life was shaped by my decisions. The choices I made, the actions I took—weren’t those the things that defined me? But now, looking back, I can only wonder. Was I ever really choosing? Or was I simply following the path laid out before me, like a river carving its way through a canyon, unaware of the forces shaping its course?

It’s strange to think how different we are, Xelhua and I. One of us born into privilege, the other into hardship. And yet, here we both are—adrift, questioning whether we were ever in control of our lives at all.

If I had known from the beginning that I was destined for this—this war, this conflict, this endless fight—would I have made different decisions?

I close my eyes once more and picture the dense jungles of Achope, the way the thick canopy made the world feel small, enclosed, safe. There, I felt like I was in control, like the world was something I could bend to my will. But now, the world feels vast, open, untamable. Am I just a leaf caught in a current, powerless to change my course? Or am I like these warriors, using whatever they can find at their disposal to guide this raft to the desired destination?

Maybe, true power lies not in avoiding the path laid out for us, but in how we walk it. Even if the river carves the way, perhaps there’s a way to steer, to navigate the bends and avoid the rocks.

Xelhua ran from his fate, but I can’t. There’s too much at risk. Too many lives depending on the choices I make from here on out. Whether this is my path or not, it’s the path I’m on, and I’ll fight for the future I want, even if the world pushes back.

The crumbling walls of Qapauma loom in the distance, dark silhouettes against the cerulean sky. Even from here, I can see the damage, the scars left by war and time. The once-mighty capital looks broken, vulnerable. Just like the people inside it. Just like us.

The raft drifts closer, and my pulse quickens. Whatever happens next, this is the path we’re on.