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As grim as it sounds, tracking Taqsame’s southward march is easy—we just follow the columns of smoke rising from the ashes and destruction he leaves in his wake. Each burned village, each charred field, is a reminder of how relentless he has become, how desperate the fight for Qapauma will be when we finally reach it.
But not here. Not at Qelantu Loh.
The Atima camp is hidden, far out of Taqsame’s reach. His warriors have no reason to veer from their destructive path to come this way. The camp sits tucked between jagged cliffs and barren ridges, the northern Tapeu landscape as desolate as the rest of these lands. Sparse. Beige. But in this matter—and perhaps the first and only time I’d confess such a belief—I’m beyond thankful for where they’ve settled.
I hated this land the moment we crossed into it. I have cursed these flat plains, this never-ending sea of brown grass. The way the wind howls at night like it wants to flay the skin from your bones. The sight of it makes me long for the dense, tangled jungle of home. But, for some reason I can’t fully explain, the sight of the Atima camp, dyed in their deep indigo, brings me a strange sense of warmth. It’s orderly, bustling, efficient—everything that the barren land surrounding it is not.
Reluctantly, I admit to myself that I admire it. It’s a fleeting thought, and one I would never voice aloud, but there it is.
As we approach, we are greeted by the Queen Mother, who emerged from the camp’s entrance. Her orange cloak ripples slightly in the breeze, and her face softens upon seeing us. Along with the Qantua warriors, I lead the group of Aimue forward, tired but grateful for the reprieve. By the look that she suddenly displays upon noticing those trailing behind me, it’s clear Nuqasiq doesn’t yet know what to make of it.
“Inuxeq,” she says when I reach her, inclining her head. “You bring more.”
I gesture behind me to the group of elderly, children, and those who can no longer fight. “They’ll be safer here, with you. Away from the battle.”
Nuqasiq’s eyes narrow slightly. She surveys the group, pausing for a moment on the faces of the arriving Aimue, then looks back at me. “We were not expecting more arrivals. The land here is already… difficult. Resources are in short supply. I’m not sure we can support such a large population.”
I nod. “The lands are harsh, but the Aimue are experts in cultivation, are they not? Although there are some who are unable to use their hands for combat, they can instead use them to make this barren soil fertile again. Together, you can turn this land into something more. Something livable, sustainable.”
Her lips part in a small, quiet expression of surprise. She had not been fully aware of the plan Haesan and I devised, nor did I expect her to be. I can see her mind working, searching for a polite way to turn these people away—one only a practiced noble would know. But as realization dawns on her, the Queen Mother gradually comes to acceptance, finding it difficult to refute my claim.
“I do not enjoy these lands,” I confess, casting a glance over the beige expanse. “But I know what potential they hold. The Atima are brilliant. They just need the right help.”
Nuqasiq blinks, her surprise now giving way to something closer to respect. “I had not anticipated this,” she admits, smiling faintly—likely the closest thing to approval I will get. “Perhaps there is more to you than I thought, Inuxeq.”
What is thatsupposed to mean? I am likely a third of her age and have seen and experienced more than anyone would imagine. I’ve fought in the War of Liberation, after all! What more is there to think?
But after those initial thoughts cross my mind, I begin to calm down. Perhaps, no offense was meant. Perhaps I’m overreacting, blaming my sensitivity on exhaustion from the long journey and the pressure of what awaits me in Qapauma.
Eventually, I let it go and shrug. “The land is desolate. The Atima are strong, but even you cannot grow crops from stone.”
She nods, and soon, we walk together into the camp as the deep blue tents cast shadows in the late afternoon light. The bustle of the Atima surrounds us, and the Aimue gradually begin to filter in among their population. The elderly settle down quickly, relieved to have some much sought after rest. Women and children are given blankets, food, and water. The Atima move with quiet efficiency, tending to the new arrivals like they’ve done it a hundred times before. I am not one for sentimentality, but there is something about seeing these people, these families, find refuge and working together without a second thought that stirs something in me.
As I walk beside the Queen Mother, I glance around at our surroundings. “The Atima have built a good thing here. It feels different from what is happening outside.”
Nuqasiq inclines her head, her eyes sweeping about the camp. “They do what they must. The world outside burns, but they keep the embers of hope alive here.”
“Do you know what is coming?” I ask. “What has been taking place beyond this relatively tranquil setting?” I’m curious if she’s heard the rumors, or whether scouts have returned with any word. However, I honestly am not expecting much has reached this place of solitary isolation.
“Whispers, rumors,” she replies, with a small, knowing smile. Her eyes flash over to the collection of Qantua warriors, now joined by the scores of Aimue who have pledged to help in our fight. They awkwardly handle the weapons handed to them, likely testing them out for the first time in their lives. Those in black and gold attempt to teach them, showing them techniques, to which the Aimue clumsily replicate. “I hear more of what happens between quraqas than I do of your warriors, but I know war when I see it.”
“There is more than war,” I say. “Taqsame’s forces have already moved swiftly through Aimue and are heading toward Qapauma.”
Nuqasiq raises an eyebrow, though her calm demeanor remains unchanged. “Taqsame?”
I forget sometimes how far removed the courts are from the battlefields. “A Qantua general,” I explain. “Determined to challenge The Arbiter for the throne.”
She frowns, frustrated, and a sigh escapes her lips. “I know there is war. But the names of the men who fight it? No, those I do not know.”
“He burns everything in his path on his way to claim what he mistakenly believes is rightfully his,” I state. “Combined with the Eye in the Flame who descend upon the capital by the new moon, it will be a battle unlike any we’ve faced.”
She stops and looks at me. “The Eye in the Flame? And they arrive at the same time as Taqsame’s forces? That cannot be a coincidence.”
“It isn’t,” I say. “But they don’t come as allies. Taqsame wants power. The cultists? They want something far darker—something worse than any throne.”
Her expression tightens as the situation begins to sink in. “So, Achutli is pressed from both sides. Qapauma will be crushed if it falls to either one.”
I nod. “It’s not just war anymore. Whatever the Eye in the Flame intends to do at the new moon could tear apart more than just this city.”
Nuqasiq’s gaze drifts to the Aimue warriors again. “If what you say is true, then it’s no longer a matter of distant conflicts. The storm is almost upon us.” She glances back at me to ask, “And what of you? What part do you play in all of this?”
I smile, though there’s little warmth in it. “I am where I need to be. And I will do what I must.”
Nuqasiq watches me for a moment longer, then nods. “Yes, I imagine you will.”
As we walk through the camp, my eyes linger on the Queen Mother. Her presence here, far from the palace walls of Qapauma, has always struck me as odd. While I can understand her desire to protect the Atima and seek refuge in these desolate lands, her seeming lack of concern for the Arbiter—her son—is unsettling.
Any mother would worry for her child, especially when that child is on the verge of losing everything—including their life. The Arbiter is fighting to protect his throne, and yet here she is, with no apparent desire to return or even inquire about his wellbeing. Is it indeed a lack of concern? Or is it her lack of belief in what he’s defending?
I glance at her now, studying her expression as she walks beside me. Calm. Composed. Detached. No indication of distress, no sign of worry for the battle that will soon rage around her son, nor the one he faces at present. She has the look of someone who believes everything is as it should be, as though she is confident that the Arbiter will fend off whatever threats are closing in on Qapauma.
But why? Why is she not with him? Why isn’t she behind the crumbling walls of the palace, offering her support or at least sharing in the danger with her son? I’ve seen queens before, and mothers—none of them would sit idle in a camp like this while their child faced down scores of warriors. It’s almost as if she’s chosen to remain apart from it all, to watch from a distance.
Does she already know how this will end?
Perhaps she believes that the Arbiter will defend himself. Maybe she even believes he will win. Or, perhaps, it’s the well-practiced expression of one who must continuously wear a mask around those who seek any sign of weakness for an advantage at court. But the absence of any outward concern troubles someone like me who is unaccustomed to the battle among nobles.
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We continue walking, as the quiet between us grows heavier. Though I try to push these dark thoughts out of my mind, trying to dismiss them as pure speculation, they persist. I find myself questioning whether I can truly trust the Queen Mother, whether she will step in when the time comes or if she will stand aside. Even with all my instincts, I cannot read her completely. That in itself is dangerous.
As we reach the edge of the camp, I look out toward the horizon, where the palace of Qapauma lies far off in the distance, and I wonder: When the battle begins, who will Nuqasiq stand with?
----------------------------------------
The night passes slowly, restlessly. I find myself tossing and turning, unable to shake the feeling of time slipping through my fingers. When I do finally fall asleep, it’s fitful—visions of the new moon drawing closer with every passing moment, until it hangs in the sky, dark and empty.
I wake before dawn, just as the sky begins to lighten. My eyes are immediately drawn to the slim crescent of the still-visible moon. It’s thinner than it was yesterday, dangerously close to the new moon. We are running out of time.
The camp is peaceful and quiet as I rise. It’s a quiet that shouldn’t exist, not with the looming threat on the horizon. How can they not sense it? I slip from my blankets, careful not to disturb the brittle calm, and make my way to where Nuqasiq waits. The ground beneath my feet is cold and rough against my skin, as I assemble my gear and belongings. The crisp air fills my lungs, biting but fresh, the last bit of solace I believe I’ll know for some time.
The Queen Mother stands at the edge of the camp, her back to me. She looks out over the barren landscape as if deep in thought. I approach quietly, not wanting to disturb her. But before I can reach her, she turns, her sharp eyes catching mine as if she’d known I was coming all along.
“You leave today,” she says, her voice soft but steady. All I can muster is a single nod.
Nuqasiq looks past me, toward the camp where the Aimue and my warriors are stirring, preparing for the journey south. “You still plan to reach Qapauma before the new moon?”
“We must,” I say. “There is no choice.”
Nuqasiq studies me for a moment, then steps closer, her voice lowering. “And what of Haesan?”
Her question strikes something deep within me, something I hadn’t quite allowed myself to think about. Haesan—young, impulsive, and fiercely brave—still out there, somewhere. I have to find her. I have to protect her.
“I will find her,” I say, meeting Nuqasiq’s gaze. “And I will keep her safe.”
Nuqasiq holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods. “I know you will.” There’s a faint, almost imperceptible smile that crosses her lips. “You are a warrior. You always find a way.”
I incline my head in acknowledgment, though there’s a sense of unease that taints my promise. I turn to leave, but Nuqasiq’s voice stops me.
“Inuxeq,” she says, her tone softer now, almost… vulnerable. “I entrust my granddaughter’s life to you. Do not fail her.”
I appreciate her concern, though I can’t help but notice, once again, her omission of any mention of her son. It unsettles me, but when I glance back at her—the stern, unreadable Queen Mother—for a brief moment, I see something else. Something more human. I nod, keeping my thoughts to myself, then turn and walk back to where my warriors are preparing to leave.
The camp is busy now, alive with the with the shuffling of feet, the hushed conversations, the clattering of collected belongings and dismantled tents. The Aimue who will join us are saying their goodbyes to their loved ones, the silence around the camp disrupted by quiet murmurs and the occasional sob. These people—farmers, healers, caretakers—have never been warriors. Yet here they stand, ready to march into a war they barely understand, driven by the need for revenge, for justice. The sentimentality is not lost on me. There’s a certain courage among them, even if they don’t fully know what they’re walking into.
As the last farewells are said, I gather the warriors, and we begin the long march south.
It doesn’t take long for the tension to grow. It’s subtle at first—quiet whispers, uneasy glances exchanged between the Aimue and the seasoned Qantua warriors. But the further we go, the more it becomes clear that something is festering beneath the surface.
The Aimue are not warriors—everyone here knows this. They carry their anger and their grief like heavy stones, but they lack the discipline and focus that battle requires. They talk of revenge, of avenging their families and reclaiming their land, but their words are fueled by emotion, not strategy.
And then there are the Qantua warriors. The dissenters among them. The ones who have never fully trusted me, who have always questioned my leadership, even after the near-mutiny we quelled in Aimue territory. They’ve kept quiet until now, but as the Aimue’s talk of revenge grows louder, so too do the whispers of dissatisfaction among the warriors.
It starts with muttered insults—quiet enough to go unnoticed by most, but not by me. I hear one of the dissenters sneer at an Aimue farmer, mocking him for thinking he could fight. Another jabs at them for allowing themselves to be vulnerable to Taqsame’s assault in the first place. The Aimue bristle at the remarks, but say nothing. At first.
Then the skirmishes begin.
It begins with shoving, and a few raised voices. But it quickly escalates. A Qantua warrior grabs an Aimue by the collar, snarling something about weakness. The Aimue shoves back, fists swinging. The next thing I know, two more Qantua have joined the fray, pushing and shouting, while the Aimue scramble to defend themselves.
I stride forward, my hand already on the hilt of my dagger. “Enough!”
My voice cuts through the calamity, and the warriors freeze. Their eyes snap to me. I step between them, glaring at each face as I look for the Qantua who started the fight. “This is not what we do. This is not our enemy.”
One of the warriors lowers his eyes. He mutters something under his breath, but I catch it. “They are not fit to be among us,” he has the nerve to say.
I step closer, scowling. “They are here. They want to be here. That is enough. You will not question my command again.”
The warrior hesitates, wanting to speak further. But thinking better of it, he nods reluctantly, stepping back. The Aimue stand in a tense silence, clearly shaken but too proud to show it. I can feel the eyes of the other warriors on me, watching, waiting, seeing how I handle this test.
“We fight together or we do not fight at all.”
I glance toward the speaker, once again finding the words belonging to the veteran Qantua warrior who spoke in Xaqelatun.
“They stand with us now, not because they were born to fight, but because they chooseto. They want to face the true enemy. That makes them worthy—worthy of our respect, and worthy to fight alongside us.”
The other warriors exchange glances, some nodding, others still uncertain. But slowly, they begin to fall in line—at least for now.
We continue south, and the land stretches before us like a never-ending expanse of desolation. It’s quieter now, and the brief skirmishes are behind us, but the silence isn’t comforting. It’s oppressive, the kind of silence that presses down on your chest and makes the air hard to breathe.
The sun is low in the sky casting the barren plains in warm hues of gold and bright red. After being biting and sharp earlier in the day, the wind now feels softer, carrying the scent of dust and dry soil. The tall grasses sway gently, providing a false sense of comfort to those unaware—those whose guard is carelessly left down.
We stop to rest, knowing that the warriors and farmers alike are worn down and exhausted. It’s not just from the march, but from the tension of what awaits us in Qapauma that has been building since we left Qelantu Loh. The times have been trying, and we all know they’re only going to get worse.
I walk among them, trying to gauge their mood. Most sit in silence, sharpening blades, adjusting armor, or staring out into the endless horizon. Some are resigned—there’s a quiet acceptance in their eyes, as if they’ve already made peace with what’s coming. Others, though, are restless. They shift, fidgeting with their weapons, their eyes flicking toward the south, toward Qapauma. The dissenters, those who have always questioned me, still carry that unease in their stance, in their glares. They don’t speak, but their silence is loud enough.
As I walk further along the line, I hear murmurs, whispers exchanged between a few of the Aimue. Their voices are low, but I catch fragments—talk of revenge, of reclaiming their homes, of making Taqsame pay for what he’s done. Their words are filled with anger, but there’s a fragility to it, like they’re trying to convince themselves that their rage will be enough to carry them through the battle.
The landscape mirrors the emotion that has washed over our camp. Sparse trees dot the horizon, their gnarled branches twisted by the relentless wind that typically sweeps across these lands. That’s what makes the quiet, the stillness, so alarming. Even the animals are gone—no birds, no small creatures rustling in the underbrush. It’s as if nature itself has retreated, waiting for the violence to pass.
I notice a huddled gathering of warriors. Their forms are hunched close together, shoulders tight, heads low as if hiding from a truth none of them want to admit aloud. Their words are muffled, barely more than murmurs carried on the wind. One man’s hand rests uneasily on the hilt of his blade, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm. Another shifts from foot to foot, stealing glances over his shoulder as if expecting the answer to come from behind. Every now and then, a word or two slips out: loyalty… trust… worth. It’s in the way they avoid each other’s eyes, in the way their voices drop even lower when a name is mentioned, like they’re afraid someone might overhear.
In the morning, the wind picks up again, stirring the grasses in uneasy waves. Continuing our march, everyone’s movements are slower now, more deliberate. There’s no more idle chatter. Just the dull thud of boots against the terrain and the occasional murmur that dies off before it can catch hold. Even the farmers—those once so eager for justice—trudge on with eyes cast downward, shoulders hunched against the growing wind. The closer we get to Qapauma, the heavier the silence becomes.
Signs of what lies ahead begin to appear: a shattered spear half-buried in the mud, its wood splintered and charred. A trail of broken arrows, their fletching torn as if from a struggle long finished. But soon, the aftermath of war becomes undeniable. We pass fields once green, now blackened and barren. The corpses of trees stand like skeletal sentinels. Bloodstains darken the rocks, smeared and dried. The wind carries the faint, acrid smell of smoke, of something that once burned but has since turned to cold ash. This is worse than Xaqelatun—far worse.
The others can see it, too. Some of the younger warriors falter, glancing nervously at the destruction. One man stumbles over a rusted shield half-buried in the dirt and mutters a curse under his breath, casting a wary glance at the horizon.
By midday, the sun hangs low in the sky, bleeding orange and red over the landscape. As we crest the ridge, the light plays tricks on the mind, making the distant hills look like smoldering embers. The warriors ahead of me slow their pace, their eyes sweeping over the horizon, waiting—dreading.
Far in the distance, nestled between the hills, the city of Qapauma emerges, its silhouette sharp against the dying light. The palace now leans precariously on its crumbling foundations. Its walls are cracked and scarred from the battles that have already come. The city below is worse—wounded and gasping, a patchwork of destruction and despair. Even from here, I can see the black streaks where fires have ravaged homes, where the bodies of the fallen litter the streets like scattered stones. Smoke rises in thin tendrils from what remains, curling into the twilight air.
And then we see it.
A sea of black and gold, stretching out as far as the eye can see.
Taqsame’s army.
His Qantua warriors march with purpose, their armor glinting in the dim light like the scales of a snake. They move as one, a dark tide surging toward the palace. The sight is awe-inspiring in its sheer scale, but there is something else—something darker. It is a force of nature, unstoppable, inevitable. And it is coming for the Arbiter.
The warriors and Aimue gather around me, their expressions a mix of fear and awe. Even the most seasoned among them, those who have fought in countless battles, cannot hide the unease that grips them now. I hear someone mutter a prayer to the gods under their breath.
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
I retrieve my bow and grab an arrow. The sound of metal from those drawing their swords around me echoes in the stillness. The warriors look to me, waiting for the signal.
The new moon is coming. The battle is inevitable. I only hope we can hold.