image [https://miro.medium.com/v2/format:webp/1*ObJBmGDQqxyyczV63g0wWw.jpeg]
Drowning isn’t always about water.
That’s what it feels like now, as our raft drifts silently through the narrow canal—like I’m drowning in this place, in everything I’ve left behind here. The shadows of Qapauma cling to me, heavier with each breath I take, pulling me deeper into the city’s heart. No matter how many times I leave, I always return. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll never leave this time. That Qapauma might be where my story ends.
The rough wood digs into my palms as I tighten my grip on the edge of the raft. Ahead, the scarred skyline of Qapauma rises against the fading light. The once-great city looks worse than I remember. Its walls are cracked, its towers broken. But it’s the silence that unnerves me most. The quiet, as if the city is too tired from the continuous war to speak.
We slip in through a forgotten waterway, a canal that remains unfinished. The water beneath us is murky and thick. Xelhua stands at the front, guiding us with slow, deliberate strokes. He’s calm, as always. The others, the Qantua warriors, are tense, their hands never straying far from their weapons. They don’t trust this city nor the people in it. Neither do I.
Achutli. Father. I feel the bile rise in my throat at the thought. I can’t even bring myself to call him that. He’s here, somewhere in the rotting heart of the palace, clinging to the last scraps of his throne. I should feel something for him—anything. But all I feel is a sense of dread. He is not the reason I return.
Yachaman is. Innocent people like her. Somewhere in this crumbling ruin, she’s fighting—fighting for Qapauma, for the people, for the city I can’t seem to care about. She’s here, and I can’t fail her. The thought of her in the crossfire makes my chest tighten. I can’t bear to think of what might happen if I’m too late.
“We are close,” Xelhua’s voice rumbles, breaking the silence. Breaking my stream of thoughts.
I nod, though I say nothing. I stare at the jagged walls and shattered buildings ahead. The canal narrows, and the stone walls on either side tower above us like ancient monoliths. The sounds of battle are unmistakable now—shouts and clashing metal carried on the wind like a storm building over the horizon. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, that sickening churn that always comes when you’re close to death, but not quite near enough to touch it.
We push through the final stretch of the waterway, and there it is, before my eyes: the palace of Qapauma. Once towering and proud, it now buckles from the endless assault. The last time I saw it, it was battered, but standing. Now, it looks like it’s been ground into dust.
Turquoise and magenta flash in the chaos, spears glinting in the fading light. The bodies of the Qente Waila warriors twist in brutal arcs as they crash into the orange-and-red lines of Achutli’s loyalists. The royal guards fight with an unmatched ferocity—bronze armor gleaming, shields raised, holding the line despite the relentless push from the rebels.
It is impossible to tell who is winning. Or if anyone will. The warriors of Qapauma fight for the city, for their Arbiter. The Jade Hummingbird fights for something more—an idea of freedom, of dismantling a system built on the backs of the broken. They fight with a desperation that mirrors the loyalists’ determination.
And here I stand, watching them tear each other apart, unsure who I even want to see emerge victorious.
The city is being destroyed all over again. As if the Eye in the Flame didn’t already carve its mark into this place, these rebels and royal warriors alike are finishing the job. Every blow struck feels like another crack in the foundation of Qapauma. The walls that remain standing look like they might topple any moment, and the smoke that curls from the burning homes and broken towers clouds the air, making it hard to breathe. The ground is slick with blood as bodies are piled atop one another, with limbs contorted in unnatural ways.
I turn my head, and that’s when I see her, crumpled on the ground near the outer walls. A woman in a black dress, with her dark hair spilling across her shoulders. Black feathers dangle from her ears, catching the last slivers of light as she lies there, barely moving. Her once-stately form has been reduced to a heap. I don’t recognize her immediately, but there’s something familiar. It takes me a moment, but then I remember—a brief encounter, long ago. She was one of Achutli’s council, wasn’t she? One of the Arbiter’s closest advisors.
She’s dying. Her breath is ragged, shallow. Blood pools around her, seeping into the stone. A wound gapes in her side, and from the way she’s lying there, it’s clear she won’t be getting up again. I briefly wonder if she’s aware of how close the end is. Or if she’s still clinging to the hope that somehow, she’ll survive.
A sharp clash of spears pulls my attention back to the battle. In a torn and bloodied magenta tunic, a Jade Hummingbird warrior lunges at one of the royal commanders, a man draped in the checkered poncho of the high-ranking officials. The loyalist parries, but not fast enough. The spear tip plunges into his shoulder, and with a pained shout, he falls, crumpling to the ground.
There’s no time for pity here. No time to think about which side I should feel for. Both sides have their reasons, their justifications. But all I can see is destruction, piled on top of destruction. Qapauma is crumbling beneath their feet, and still, they fight. For what? For who? I do not know if I care anymore.
It will never end. That thought slithers into my mind, wrapping itself around my heart. It will never end, this war for power, for control. Even if the Jade Hummingbird win, even if Achutli is brought down, there will be another battle. Another war. Always.
Behind me, I can hear Xelhua muttering, more to himself than to anyone else. “We should slip through while we can.” I glance over my shoulder and see the tension in his face, as well as the uncertainty in the Qantua warriors who stand beside him. Their weapons drawn but held loosely, as if even they are unsure whether to strike or stay their hand.
Close by, stone rains down, clattering onto the blood-soaked ground. The palace—what’s left of it—is coming apart, piece by piece. At the noise, one of the Qantua warriors tenses, instinctively raising his weapon. Xelhua casts him a sharp glance, silently reminding to hold back unless absolutely necessary.
A glint of bronze catches my eye again, and I spot another loyalist, desperately fending off two rebels. His armor is chipped, his movements sluggish. He won’t last much longer. And yet, there’s something about the way he holds himself—the way he refuses to go down—which reminds me of everything I’ve seen in Qapauma before. These people, this city, have endured so much, and still, they fight. Maybe that’s all they can do. Fight, until there’s nothing left.
In the midst of it all, I’m drawn to the faintest flicker of movement at the edge of the fray. A flash of turquoise, a figure racing between the buildings. The calamity around me seems to fade and slow down to a crawl as I catch sight of her. Yachaman, darting between the rubble like a shadow in turquoise. My heart skips a beat, then pounds in my chest as I push through the wreckage, dodging the clashing bodies around me. My focus is narrowed on one thing, one person.
“Haesan, hold—” Xelhua’s sharp whisper reaches my ears, but I am already moving. He and the other Qantua remain on guard, clearly confused, but unwilling to rush after me in the middle of the fighting.
“Yachaman!” I desperately call out. She looks thinner, more worn. Her once-glossy hair is tangled and hanging in messy strands over her face. But she’s alive. And fighting.
She turns, her face smeared with dirt and sweat, eyes wild but focused. She blinks in surprise as if she hadn’t fully registered I was here. For a split second, her lips twitch upward into something resembling a smile, before it fades back into the grim line of a battle-weary combatant.
“Haesan?” Her voice is hoarse, like she hasn’t spoken in days. Her chest heaves with exhaustion, but she doesn’t stop moving. There’s an anxious energy to her, as if she’s still halfway in the battle even though we’ve found a moment of quiet.
I rush to her side, and my hands instinctively grab her arms as if I need to confirm she’s real, not just some ghost in this blood-soaked nightmare. When I finally reach her, my breath catches. “What are you doing here? You were—“
“Dead?” she cuts me off, and a bitter laugh escapes her lips. “I thought I was, too, to be honest.”
Behind me, I hear the soft footfalls of Xelhua, staying close, but giving me space. The other Qantua warriors hover at the edges of our conversation. They hold their weapons low, their eyes constantly sweeping the battlefield for danger.
Her eyes glance around us, darting from building to building as though any second someone might lunge at us. But for the moment, the battle has seemingly moved beyond our small pocket of space, giving us a rare instance of calm.
“How—what happened? Last I saw you, you were…” My words trail off, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions that crash into me. Relief. Shock. Confusion.
She runs a hand through her matted hair, shaking her head like she’s trying to clear away a fog. “It’s… difficult to explain.” She takes a deep breath, but her sentences come out in staggered bursts, disjointed, as if her mind is moving too fast for her mouth to keep up. “I was healing. In the palace. The shaman, they—“ she motions vaguely toward the city. “They fixed me up. Gave me some herbs. Said I’d be back on my feet in no time.”
Her laugh is sharp and humorless. “No time, they said. And then… then the Qente Waila came. I couldn’t just sit there, Haesan. I couldn’t just—“ Her voice cracks for a moment, but she swallows hard and pushes forward. “They were attacking the city, and I was just lying there, useless. I couldn’t let them win, couldn’t let the Arbiter keep… all of this. Keep doing what he’s done to the people.” Her hands flutter, gesturing to the ruin around us. “I had to fight. So I joined them.”
I blink, trying to piece together her words, her jagged explanation. “You joined the Qente Waila?” I ask in disbelief, yet I also feel a strange kind of awe. Yachaman, the Aimue woman I’ve spent so much time protecting, now a fighter in the rebellion. It feels surreal.
She nods, her gaze hard and distant. “I had no choice. I thought… I thought I could help bring change. They needed fighters, and I couldn’t just sit there any longer. I couldn’t.”
I open my mouth to say something, but the words fail me. There’s too much—too much to say, too much to process. She looks so different now, not just physically but… in everything. Her posture, her demeanor. She isn’t the Yachaman I remember.
“Are you—are you all right?” It’s a ridiculous question, I know, but it’s the only thing I can manage right now.
She exhales a ragged breath, shaking her head slightly. “No. I’m not. But I’ll survive.”
Xelhua steps forward, still wary, as his hand rests lightly on the hilt of his weapon. “We really need to move,” he urges. “This place is not safe.” His words are like a splash of cold water, reminding me that we are still in the middle of a battle. Still at risk.
“Besides, I…” Yachaman pauses, her voice cracking. She glances over her shoulder, watching the combat still unfurling beyond us. Her muscles tense as if she’s about to bolt back into the fray. “I should get back—“
A sudden cry cuts through the air, followed by the thudding footfalls of someone charging toward us. I barely have time to comprehend what’s happening before a Qente Waila fighter emerges from the shadows, a blade raised high above his head. My heart seizes in panic, my body frozen.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Xelhua moves, but too slowly. He steps forward, his hand going to his sword, but there’s a brief hesitation before he can react. The Qantua warriors also begin to shift into motion, their eyes widening as they notice the danger. But it’s too late. The attacker is nearly upon me, with a lust for blood in his eyes.
But Yachaman is faster. She leaps in front of me, her body a blur of motion. The enemy’s blade comes down hard, but Yachaman’s sword is already there to meet it, steel clashing against steel with a deafening ring. She grits her teeth, her arms trembling as she pushes back against the force of the strike.
The warrior growls, pushing forward with brute strength. But Yachaman stands firm, holding her ground. She lets out a sharp, guttural cry and twists her blade, sending the attacker’s weapon flying out of his hand. In one swift motion, she drives her sword forward, piercing the enemy through the chest.
He stumbles back, clutching the wound, before collapsing to the ground in a lifeless heap.
For a moment, the world seems to stop. The sounds of battle fade into a dull roar around us. I stare at her, eyes wide with disbelief.
Finally reaching us, Xelhua pauses just behind Yachaman, assessing the fallen warrior. For a moment, he lingers. There’s a quiet way he looks at Yachaman, as if acknowledging, without words, the strength it took to bring the man down.
Yachaman stands there, panting, blood spattering her clothes and hands. She looks down at the fallen warrior, then up at me. The same exhaustion lingers in her eyes, but there’s a fierceness now, too—something new, something I’ve never before seen.
“You saved me,” I whisper with a trembling voice.
Yachaman wipes her sword on her tunic. She exhales through her nose, almost like a sigh, and gives a small shake of her head. “No, Haesan," she murmurs, almost like an afterthought. “If not for you, neither of us would be standing here.”
Xelhua approaches us, slowly regaining his breath. “You fight well,” he remarks to Yachaman. “I hate to admit such a thing, but I’m relieved that you got the step on the guy.”
Yachaman nods but doesn’t respond, her focus still on me. There’s a moment of quiet, broken only by the distant clash of steel and the muffled cries of the ongoing battle.
I take a shaky breath, my chest still tight from the shock. “Stay with me,” I plead, the words escaping me before I can stop them. She’s about to protest, her eyes dropping to her feet, but I stop her before she can speak. “Please.” It’s all I can say as the pain of parting ways with her once again wells in my throat.
Xelhua’s gaze watches us carefully, and then he nods slightly, as if to say Yachaman belongs with us. I can sense his wariness of the Qente Waila lingers, but to the Iqsuwa warrior who has seen so much, her actions have earned a degree of trust.
For a moment, Yachaman hesitates, glancing back toward the ongoing battle. Then, finally, she nods. “All right,” she says softly. “While I return to my group, I will stay.”
Yachaman stays close by my side as we move through the crumbling streets of Qapauma. The ground is littered with debris, the once-beautiful city reduced to rubble. Xelhua moves silently behind us, searching the surroundings with cautious eyes. The Qantua warriors trail behind, exchanging uncertain glances at the devastation.
My mind is tangled in a hundred directions—Achutli, the prophecy, the Qente Waila, the Eye in the Flame.
From time to time, Yachaman glances over her shoulder at me. Seeing her in the turquoise and magenta of the Jade Hummingbird brings me discomfort, knowing what they sought to do with me as a captive. I can’t help but wonder how she could so adamantly join their cause, now that I have questions about their ethics and morals. What they would do to get what they want.
Sensing my ever-lingering unease, she says, “You look more troubled than usual. What is it?”
“The Qente Waila…” I murmur aloud, barely audible. “You should know they… They wanted to use me.”
She stops abruptly, turning to face me. Her brow furrows, a mixture of confusion and concern on her face. “What do you mean?”
I swallow hard, struggling to find the words. “After the assault by the Eye in the Flame, Achutli’s loyalists and the Jade Hummingbird met in front of the palace. It was then that some members tried to take me captive, believing they could force my father to surrender the throne. But they do not know him. They do not understand that he would… He would let me die before giving in.” My voice wavers as I speak such a truth.
Yachaman’s eyes widen, and she takes a step closer, shaking her head. “No, that is not true. The Qente Waila—“
“You do not know him," I cut her off. “Achutli believes in that damned prophecy. Nuqasiq told me that he fears his death will come by the hand of his blood. That means me. He thinks that if I die, he will live. He wouldn’t kill me himself, but he most certainly would sacrifice me to protect himself.”
Behind me, Xelhua’s sharp intake of breath cuts through the air. “Your own father? He would do this?” His voice is low and rough, like gravel being ground underfoot, filled with skepticism and disgust.
I nod somberly. “He would. He has already tried, through Anqatil, one of his advisors.”
Xelhua is silent for a moment. “I have fought many battles in my time, girl. I have seen rulers do despicable things for the sake of power. But for a father to turn on his own blood…” His voice trails off, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “There is no honor in that.”
“But…” Yachaman still tries to grasp the shocking realization. “But surely there must be another way,” she insists, her voice trembling. “The Qente Waila may want to use you, but they are not like him. They would not—”
“They would,” I say softly, cutting her off once more. “You do not know what people will do when they think they can win. They would hand me over to him, let me die, just to break him. And Achutli… He would let it happen.”
The wind picks up, swirling dust and ash through the air. Xelhua looks me dead in the eye. “So this is what your journey has brought you to,” he says quietly. “A father who would see you dead, and rebels who would use you like a tool.”
“And what happens if we reach the palace?” I ask, my voice trembling as I break my gaze with Xelhua and stare at Yachaman. “What happens if the Qente Waila find me there? What if they turn on me?”
Yachaman links her arm around mine. “I will not let that happen,” she says firmly. “I swear this to you. If anyone tries to harm you, I will protect you. Even if it is my own people.”
Xelhua grunts, shaking his head. “I have seen betrayals for less,” he mutters, sounding bitter. “But if she says she will stand by you, then I will hold her to it.” His eyes linger on Yachaman, scrutinizing her closely. There’s an edge of mistrust still in his gaze, but he does not press further.
I nod, but it feels insincere. Yachaman may protect me from the blades of the Qente Waila, but no one can shield me from the looming shadow of my father. And if I am truly meant to be the hand that brings his end, how can I trust anyone? How can I trust myself?
As we move through the streets once again, I am lost in my thoughts. My heart pounds with every step, knowing that I am walking toward something inescapable.
“I don’t know if I can face him,” I say suddenly. It’s only when the others glance at me over their shoulders that I realize I’ve spoken my thought out loud. “Achutli. I don’t know if I can do this.”
Yachaman slows, turning back to me with a softness in her gaze. “You do not have to face him alone,” she says. “We face him together.”
“And if it comes to it,” Xelhua says, “then I will stand with you, as well. I may not know all the pieces of this game, but I know enough. I will not let you fall. Not to someone like that.”
Together. The word rings hollow in the vast emptiness of my heart. I never thought I’d be part of something like this—something that is both so powerful and so fragile. I am the daughter of Achutli, fighting for a throne he is only to possess temporarily, yet desires permanently. All he’s willing to risk to keep it for himself, including my death, strikes terror within the depths of my being. But if I am to seek change, put an end to this, I’m grateful to the gods and the Eleven that I don’t have to face him myself.
“Come,” Yachaman urges, her voice a steady anchor in the storm of my thoughts. “We’re almost there.”
The sounds of the fighting grows louder as we press forward, pounding against my ears. It’s an unrelenting storm that only brings more destruction, more needless sorrow and suffering.
I can feel the battle before I even see it. The ground trembles beneath my feet as the two armies crash into each other like waves smashing against a cliffside. It is a brutal and unforgiving battle of survival. There is no honor here—only death.
As we reach the edge of the battlefield, the full horror of it stretches out before me. Turquoise and magenta clash with orange and red. Blood spatters the ground in wide arcs, painting the scorched earth with a sickening blend of crimson and black. Warriors strike with obsidian blades, their jagged edges tearing through flesh as easily as though they were slicing through cloth.
To my left, Xelhua and the Qantua warriors hang back and watch carefully. Xelhua’s grip tightens on his blowgun, though he hesitates to use it. “Too many bodies in the way,” he mutters under his breath, his voice low and gravelly, like a distant rumble of thunder.
“Then we stay close,” I hear one of the Qantua warriors say. “We fight only if we must.”
A man in orange falls, clutching his side as his innards spill from his stomach like coiled snakes. His killer, a Qente Waila warrior, moves on to the next target, as though this life he has just ended means nothing at all. A woman in turquoise lets out a war cry, her arms raised high as she brings down a club onto the skull of a royal warrior. The sickening crack echoes in the air as bone shatters. Another warrior, his tunic drenched in sweat and blood, grapples with an enemy, driving his knee into the ribs of his opponent until the man collapses, gasping for air.
The sounds of their agony mingle with the clang of bronze and the swish of spears slicing the air. Arrows whiz past from the high towers, the ones that haven’t yet crumbled into a heap. For every moment one warrior falls, another rises to take their place. It is a battle with no end, and I can’t help but wonder how many more must die before this madness ceases.
Yachaman moves ahead, cutting her way through a huddle of bodies. She is relentless, striking down anyone who dares stand in her way. Her eyes are fixed on the goal ahead as her blade flashes in the dim light of the overcast sky.
I try to follow, but my feet feel heavy. I want to stop. I want to turn away, to close my eyes and shut out the horrors that surround me. But I can’t. I know I have to keep moving. I have to keep going, even though I do not know where this path will take me.
Behind me, Xelhua growls as he parries a strike from an Achutli loyalist who has gotten too close. “Damn fool,” he curses as he drives the loyalist back with a swipe of his obsidian blade.
Yachaman has made it through the mass of bodies, her face streaked with dirt and blood. She moves with the grace of someone who has done this a thousand times before—dodging blows, parrying attacks, each movement swift and deadly. There is no hesitation in her. No fear. She fights as though the very earth itself bends to her will. Has she always possessed these abilities? How did I not know?
As I look at the faces of the warriors—both Achutli’s and the Qente Waila’s—I realize that peace is nothing more than a distant dream. Neither side will stop. Not until one of them is destroyed. There will be no negotiation, no compromise. They are locked in this fight, and it will only end when one side is crushed beneath the weight of the other. My intentions, my initial plan, is futile.
There is no peace. There never will be.
In the haze of battle, with blood, smoke, and ash thick in the air, everything slows down. Every shout, every clash of metal, every dying gasp becomes a distant echo.
Then I see him.
Emerging from the inferno like a specter, Achutli strides forward, his blood-stained armor gleaming like a false sun against the flames. Adorned with the motifs of the sun and mountains, his helmet makes him appear more like a god than a man, a deity descending into the fray to remind us all of our insignificance. The short feathers of red and yellow fan out behind him, framing him in a halo of fire.
And yet, despite the grandeur, the power he radiates, my heart sinks. I do not want to see him, not here, not now. Everything hits me all at once—the prophecy, the blood, the destruction that lies in his wake.
Behind him, his warriors move like shadows in his wake. And among them, I see the one who tortured me—Anqatil. Her cold eyes glint with the same malevolent intent they did the last time I saw her. A shiver runs down my spine, my body remembering the pain, the terror. I had thought I would never see her again.
“Ah, the bastard himself,” he mutters darkly, his expression hardening at the sight of Achutli. “So I take it, this is the one you spoke of—the one who wants you dead, eh?”
Achutli’s gaze sweeps over the battlefield, assessing, calculating. His eyes are predatory, as if he’s already decided who lives and who dies. His hand is bloodied, the dark red staining his fingers. I can’t tell whose blood it is, but it does not matter. All I see is the blood, and the certainty that more will follow.
As I watch, a swirl of darkness begins to gather around him, coiling like a serpent at his feet. It slithers up, wrapping itself around his legs, his torso, clinging to him like a second skin. The air around him ripples with an unnatural energy, the same kind of dark magic I have only seen in the hands of the Eye in the Flame. It is as if the shadows themselves are bending to his will, obeying his command.
Yachaman steps closer to me, her breath quickening. “Haesan,” she whispers, her voice taut with fear, “we need to move. Now.”
But I can’t. I am rooted to the spot, my eyes locked onto Achutli’s. Our gazes meet, and for a brief, horrifying moment, it feels as if he can see straight into me—as if he knows the role I am destined to play in all of this.
The shadows deepen, swirling faster now, enveloping him in a cocoon of darkness. The world around us seems to darken, as if the light itself is being swallowed by the malevolent force gathering around him. Once red with the glow of the fires, the sky now appears as though night is descending far too early.
The warriors around him, even Anqatil, seem to falter. Their steps slow as the darkness pulses outward, like the beat of some unnatural heart. The ground beneath us trembles, a low, ominous rumble that spreads through the city like a warning from the gods themselves.
And still, I cannot move. I can only watch as Achutli raises his hand, the blood glistening in the firelight. The darkness spirals up his arm, coiling around his wrist, his fingers, until it seems to seep into his very flesh. Whatever it is, it has taken hold of him.
I don’t know what he is planning. I don’t know what he is about to do.
But I know it will be terrible.
Suddenly, the shadows explode outward. A wave of darkness crashes over the battlefield. Warriors are thrown back, their cries swallowed by the roaring void. Yachaman grabs my arm, pulling me back. The darkness is here. It is all around us.
And Achutli stands at its center.