image [https://miro.medium.com/v2/format:webp/1*o7YW9Ftmr50y5aRpoh79wQ.jpeg]

The most difficult part of all of this, of tracking down your prey, is having to lie in wait. Waiting. Watching. It is a fate worse than death.

I have been perched here for what feels like countless harvests, but has probably only been… well, too long for someone like me. There is a guard down there, picking at his nails with the tip of a dagger as if the Eye in the Flame will award him for personal grooming. Another is leaning against the post, trying very hard to stay awake, but failing miserably. His head just snapped back so hard I thought he would fall off the ledge.

But no. He remains upright, and I remain here. Stuck. Observing.

I loathe observing.

Do not get me wrong, I understand the value of reconnaissance. Gather information, find the weak spots, plan an attack. I get it. Really. But it is so dreadfully boring.

I am not the type to lie in the shadows like a coward. I charge in, sword first, skull second. It usually works out. Except, of course, when it does not, which is how I ended up in this situation in the first place.

So here I am. In the dirt. Watching a bunch of cultists argue about who gets to carry the torches on the night patrol, and wondering why I could not just intervene. Get in there, rattle a few heads, see who spills the most useful secrets. Would that not be simpler?

No. Apparently not.

Apparently, I am supposed to do this the “smart” way. Whoever gave me that advice clearly does not know me. The “smart” way is dull, tedious, and involves an awful lot of sitting still. Not my style. Especially without chicha. But discipline—discipline is important, they say. In who I am supposed to be. So here I am, pretending I have that.

I shift slightly, trying to stretch without rustling the leaves. My back aches. My legs are numb. And I am certain that if I hear one more idiot grunt about the weight of his heavy robes, I will lose what little remains of my sanity.

From my hiding spot, I take in the village—or what is left of it. Once, it must have been a well-ordered place, built purely for one thing: farming. I can picture it now, fields stretching out on either side, crops rising tall in the summer sun, a neat little village humming with life. Simple buildings, made for practical purposes, not for show. Every mud brick probably had to justify its existence.

Now? The whole place looks like it got chewed up and spat out. Walls that once stood firm have been reduced to piles of rubble, homes torn apart by the kind of force that does not ask politely. I do not know what happened here—though I can take a guess. I am no stranger to the results of a “noble last stand.” Farmers probably tried to resist these cultists. Farmers with pitchforks and tools against fire-slinging lunatics in robes… it is not hard to imagine how that went.

Gray robes scuttle about the remains of the village like ants. They are everywhere, moving in small, unorganized packs. Heads down, doing whatever miserable task the Eye in the Flame demands of them. Watching them stirs the fire in my veins. Every now and then, I spot one of the robed fools tossing a glance over his shoulder, as if they do not trust what lurks behind them.

And then there are the ones in red.

Crimson robes, like little bloodstains dotting the village. They stand taller, their steps more deliberate, while the gray-robed ones practically grovel in their presence. The crimson ones do not carry anything, not even a care. They just bark orders and march around, probably pretending they have more power than they really do.

I have half a mind to introduce them to the idea of humility, but I must continue practicing patience. For now, anyway.

Tents are scattered around, slapped together without much thought. It is a quick solution to a problem they have not quite figured out yet. The cultists do not seem to care how it looks. There is no grand design here, just a bunch of temporary shelters that will hold them over until they move on to whatever twisted plans they have.

The whole scene is miserable, but I suppose that fits their style. The Eye in the Flame does not seem to care for beauty or order. Only destruction. And yet, they are patient. Look at them, carefully patrolling their dreadful outpost like it is something worth protecting.

It was not easy finding this place. Not that anyone should be surprised. The cult likes to scatter itself like ash in the wind—difficult to hunt down. But there are always clues, always someone left behind who is not quite as clever as they think.

I caught my first straggler not long after leaving Tapeu territory. He was… let me say “unwilling” to talk at first. They always are. But everyone has their limits. A broken bone here, a little pressure there. Then, suddenly, they cannot stop talking. I almost pitied him. Almost.

The second one, deeper into Aimue lands, was even more pathetic. He thought he could outrun me. Foolish. Put up a reasonable fight, though. A cornered dog bites harder, but it is still a dog.

Between the two of them, I had all I needed. A few days of walking—more than I would have liked—crossing the Maiu Antumalal, and now here I am, perched like some kind of patient hunter. If only they knew how much I despise waiting.

There is something amusing about tracking prey that believes it is safe. The Eye in the Flame thinks itself untouchable, hidden in the remnants of this village, far from the reach of any threat. They do not realize that I am here, watching, learning. Their guards are careless, and their routines predictable. It is almost insulting.

But I am nothing if not thorough.

Another difficult part to this is all the time you have to think. About what to do. About what you’ve done. Too much thinking. Not enough doing.

How did it go wrong in Qapauma? He was in my sights. I never miss.

I had the perfect moment. The Arbiter, with his back to me, so confident in his little bubble of self-importance. I should have ended it right there. One blow, one perfect shot, and I would have cleansed his stain from this world. But no. Interference. Always interference.

That Tuatiu girl—Inuxeq. I did not even see her coming until it was too late. She should have stayed out of it. The Arbiter would be dead now, and Pachil would be one step closer to freedom.

I had the opportunity. I had aimed. I had been ready to bring justice to the man who would see my people crushed under his rule. The blowgun was steady in my hands, and I could already see his body crumpling to the ground. One dart, one perfect shot, and everything would have changed.

But no. She came barreling out of nowhere. Next thing I knew, we were both on the ground, and my shot—my perfect shot—was wasted. The Arbiter moved, barely, just enough to save his wretched life. Fate, the Eleven, whatever it was, conspired to keep him alive for another day.

And what for? So he could continue his reign of oppression? So he could keep twisting this land to his will? I was doing what needed to be done. The Tapeu ruler is no better than the cultists who rot this land from the inside out. Yet Inuxeq, in her infinite wisdom, thought differently.

Her loyalty will cost her. It will cost us all.

But it does not matter. I have always played the long game. And while I have been forced to wait, to watch, I have not forgotten. I never forget. The Arbiter is still breathing, for now. But he will not breathe forever—I will see to that.

I shift again, trying to find a comfortable position that does not exist. My muscles ache from holding still for far too long. This is torture. Not the pain, mind you—I can handle that. No, the torture is the waiting. The endless, mind-numbing waiting.

Another gray-robed cultist passes by, trudging along with all the grace of a lame llama. I can almost hear the thoughts rattling around in his empty skull. Something along the lines of, ”Walk in circles. Look serious. Do not get stabbed.”

He pauses, glances around like he has just realized something important. I wait for it. Maybe he has spotted something, a sign of danger, something that will make this excruciating waiting game worth it. I crouch low, ready to leap into action. Have I been noticed? Has my position been compromised?

No. Of course not. He sneezes aggressively, wiping his nose with his sleeve. Disgusting.

The others are not much better. At least those in crimson robes act like they know what they are doing. But even they are too busy doling out orders and looking down their noses at the gray ones to notice the obvious. Like the fact that they are being watched. Closely.

The waiting makes you think too much. About all the things you have done. The things you should have done. And the things you failed to do.

And thinking always brings me back to him.

Xaqilpa.

That battle in Qapauma—it haunts me. Not because I nearly died. I am used to the feeling of death lingering at my shoulder. No, it is the fact that he is still alive. Xaqilpa should be dead. I should have killed him, too. But somehow, that rat slipped through my fingers.

Stolen story; please report.

It all went wrong the moment the black flames engulfed me.

I could see it in his eyes. He knew I was coming for him. Yet I was moments away from slicing his throat, from avenging the disgrace he brought upon my sister, my family, my entire life.

Then, out of nowhere, that cursed black flame. It was unlike any fire I had ever seen. It was cold and burning all at once, as though it sapped the life out of me while it consumed my skin. I tried to fight it, to roll the flames out, but they clung to me. I could hear him laughing as he watched me writhe. Standing there while I lay broken at his feet.

I would not let him win. I forced myself to my knees, even as the flames ate away at my strength. I would not allow them to eat away at my pride. I could see him, gloating, with that ridiculous robe of his, stitched with the symbols of a fool. He thought he had already won.

But before I could act, before I could think, he was on top of me, pressing the blade to my throat, whispering his mad delusions about destiny, about reshaping the world with the Sunfire at his side. The man is insane. But there was conviction in his madness—conviction enough to kill me.

And then Inuxeq saved my life.

She does that a lot, it seems.

I suppose it makes up for the Arbiter fiasco.

Her arrow came out of nowhere, shattering the gemstone with a burst of light that nearly blinded me. That was the source of his power. The key to his strength was in that stone. The grip of Xaqilpa loosened on the knife, and for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. Real fear. He knew his power was gone. His precious gem lay in pieces at my feet.

The coward ran. He did not even try to fight. He just ran. I wanted to follow, to finish what I had started, but my body had other ideas. I could barely stand, much less chase down the zealot. So I lay there, watching as Inuxeq pursued him into the chaos of the battlefield, leaving me alone in a sea of blood and smoke.

The sound of dozens of boots echoed through the courtyard, and I knew they were coming for me. I had just made an attempt on the life of their precious leader, the Arbiter. Of course, I was a marked man.

I tried to rise, but my body refused to cooperate. Every breath felt like fire, every movement like a dagger in my side. I was done. Finished. I could hear the guards shouting, getting closer. They would find me any moment. I could feel the darkness creeping in, threatening to pull me under.

Then a hand grabbed my arm.

I looked up, expecting to see another enemy, but instead, there was a face I did not recognize. A man, dressed in magenta and turquoise, eyes sharp and measuring my worth.

“You are going to die if you stay here,” he said to me, no hint of emotion in his voice.

“Very perceptive,” I managed to snarl, blood still running down my side.

He tilted his head, glancing at the guards who were closing in fast. “You tried to kill Achutli.”

“I do not need a lecture,” I said. “Are you here to finish the job or stand there and watch?”

The man smiled. “Neither. Let us call it… mutual interest.”

I staggered to my feet, leaning heavily on him as he pulled me into the shadows, moving quickly and silently. He did not bother with introductions. There was no time. The guards were too close, and we had to move.

Through the old, narrow streets, we ran, or rather, he dragged me. I could barely keep up, my vision swimming from the pain. But he moved with purpose, ducking into alleyways and slipping through side paths with the ease of someone who knew the city well.

Finally, we reached an entrance—one of the old tunnels beneath the capital. I had heard of them, of course, these catacombs, but never had the need to use them. The man pushed open a hidden door, and we descended into the darkness.

We kept running until we were well into the tunnels, until the sounds of pursuit faded into the distance. Only then did the stranger stop, letting me collapse against the tunnel wall, gasping for breath. It was then that he finally spoke again. “Texani,” he said, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “Of the Qente Waila.”

I nodded. I had heard of them, but I had never crossed paths with this illustrious rebel organization. The Jade Hummingbird—always spoken of in whispers by those who thought their time would come soon enough. Their motives had never been fully clear to me, but their actions spoke loudly.

“I saw your attempt,” he continued, his tone as casual as if we were discussing the weather. “On Achutli. Impressive. Reckless, but impressive.”

I smirked, though it hurt to do so. “It would have been more impressive if I had not missed.”

This “Texani” eyed me for a moment, then shook his head with a half-grin. “What was impressive was that you tried at all.”

I grunted, pushing myself up straighter against the wall. “What is the point of watching a tyrant rule, unchecked?” I paused, studying him. “You people, the Qente Waila—what do you hope to accomplish?”

Texani raised an eyebrow. “You do not know?”

I stared at him, waiting.

“The Jade Hummingbird,” he said quietly, as if testing my understanding, “exists to put an end to the rule of men like Achutli. To give power back to the people of Pachil, not let it sit in the hands of a single despot who uses it for his own glory.”

I scoffed. “You think you can actually do that? Return power to the people? They will eat each other alive the moment you release them from their pens.”

Texani shrugged, unperturbed. “Perhaps. But I would rather see them free to make their own mistakes than continue to suffer under the boot of Achutli.”

I could hear the conviction behind his words. This was not some passing rebellion to him. The Jade Hummingbird truly believed in what they were fighting for. They believed in a Pachil without the Arbiter, a Pachil where people like him could rise.

“I think your effort is noble,” I said, leaning back against the soothingly cool stone, “but misguided. You are fighting for a people who would sooner stab you in the back than thank you for their freedom.”

Texani chuckled softly. “That may be true. But it is still worth fighting for. You know that, otherwise you would not have tried to kill Achutli yourself.”

I said nothing. There was some truth to his words. The Arbiter needed to be stopped. His rule was tearing Pachil apart, all so he and his cronies can benefit. But I had never believed in the idealistic cause the Jade Hummingbird pursued. Their view of the world was too… naïve. They thought removing one tyrant would magically make the people better. They did not see the deeper rot that had taken hold, long before he sat the throne. One I had hoped to remedy, one gluttonous ruler at a time.

But I respected their courage. It took more than a few sharp blades to challenge the Arbiter. It took something else. Something I had not seen in a long time.

“And you,” Texani added, stepping closer. “What do you fight for? Revenge?”

I paused. Revenge, yes. But it was more than that, was it not? The betrayal, the lies, the bloodshed—none of it would stop until people like Xaqilpa, like Achutli, were gone.

I grimace through the pain as I shift my stance. “I fight for what needs to be done. Achutli, Xaqilpa—they are the same. Men who believe they can control the world, twist it to their will. They deserve the same end.”

Texani inspected me for a moment, then nodded. “Then perhaps we are not so different.”

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “We will see.”

We stood in silence for several heartbeats. The words spoken by Texani stayed with me, though. I did not believe in their vision of Pachil, but I could not deny that Achutli needed to fall. Maybe our paths would cross again, and I could be of better use when they do.

I managed a weak grin. “And now, it seems, I owe you my life,” I muttered, staring up at him.

Texani looked more amused than anything. “Perhaps. But if you really want to repay me, finish what you started. The next time you see Achutli, do not miss.”

I nodded. I would not.

How long have I been here now? I have lost all track of the day. The sun has dropped low, casting long shadows over the outpost. I have grown restless. I was ready to move long ago. Xaqilpa had slipped into that granary with his entourage of crimson robes, and I had expected him to emerge, bloated on power and arrogance, moments later.

But nothing.

The gray-robes have continued their dull rounds. Their leader is inside that granary, and they do not even care. What fools. What I would give to just charge in there, blade in hand, and end this farce once and for all. The waiting is killing me.

No, not yet. I must wait for the right moment.

And then I see it.

The door to the granary cracks open, just enough for a sliver of torchlight to spill out. One of the cultists emerges, then another. All of them in crimson robes. I straighten, narrowing my eyes. Something is wrong.

Their movements are… strange. Too rigid. Too slow. There is no arrogance in their steps, no swagger in their gait. And then, the door bursts open wider, and I see the truth.

I freeze.

The figures that step out of the granary are not men. Not anymore.

The first one lumbers forward, its back arched unnaturally, muscles bulging and shifting beneath skin that has turned a sickly, grayish blue. Its arms are grotesquely elongated, twisted and gnarled like the branches of a dead tree. It lets out a low, guttural growl that rattles my bones.

Another follows. Then another. Each of them worse than the last. Their skin pulses with that eerie blue light, veins glowing like embers beneath the surface. Their clothes have been torn to shreds, unable to contain the mass of their new bodies, and the air is filled with the sound of their joints cracking and shifting. Their hair is gone, replaced by scalps that shine like polished stone under the dim light.

I grip the hilt of my obsidian dagger as my heart pounds in my chest. I have fought many things in my life. Men, beasts, even sorcerers. But this? This is something else entirely.

They do not move like men anymore. Their legs are bent at unnatural angles, reminding me of the pumas that stalk the jungles of Ulxa. Every step is deliberate, predatory. Their fingers have elongated into claws—sharp, lethal, designed to tear through flesh and bone. And their eyes. Those glowing, sapphire eyes.

Then another emerges, and another. They keep coming. Their massive forms block out the light, and my heart practically ceases to beat.

I stop counting after the tenth one.

And then I see him.

Xaqilpa.

His features are barely recognizable, twisted into the same monstrous form as the others. Once smug and full of fanatic zeal, his face has been replaced by something savage. His eyes glow with the same terrifying blue light, devoid of any humanity. His twisted and fanged mouth opens slightly, and from deep within his chest comes a low, rumbling growl.

I feel a sickening dread claw its way up my spine. This… this thing was once Xaqilpa. The man who nearly killed me in Qapauma. The man who took everything from me, who ruined the lives of myself and my sister. The zealot I swore I would find and end.

But now?

Now I do not even know if I can kill him. If anyone can kill him.

The creatures stand at attention, their glowing eyes staring straight ahead. Silent. Stoic. Waiting for a command.

My grip on the obsidian dagger tightens, as though I am wringing out damp clothes. For a brief, insane moment, I consider charging in. Perhaps if I can get to Xaqilpa, maybe I can end this before it spirals any further out of control. But what about the others? What happens when I strike him down, only to be torn apart by the rest of these creatures? Even I cannot fight them all.

And then I hesitate.

I, Mexqutli, hesitate.

I do not hesitate.

But now, faced with these monstrosities, with Xaqilpa transformed into this… thing, I feel something I have not felt in a long time. Doubt.

What do I do?

Do I charge in, blade in hand, ready to take whatever comes? Do I risk it all on one desperate, rash move?

Or do I retreat? Regroup. Think this through. But how much time do I have? How long before these things are unleashed on the world?

Clearly, the answer is simple: not long.

I feel my pulse quicken as I take a slow, steady breath. My instincts scream at me to fight, to leap into the fray, to finish what I started in Qapauma.

But I am not a fool.

I do not run from a fight. But I am not foolish enough to die from acting recklessly.

I watch as the monstrous hordes march out of this desecrated land. Their massive forms are silhouetted against the dying light. The ground shakes beneath their feet, and they move with purpose as their attention is fixed upon something in the far distance.

I exhale slowly. Deep down, I know that I am not ready for this. Not yet.

I step back into the shadows, retreating into the coming night.

For now.