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Something about the city feels wrong the moment you step foot in it.
It’s not the towering walls or the endless staircases that stretch toward the heavens. It’s the silence, pressing against your skull like a slow-building headache you can’t shake. It worms its way under your skin, curling around your ribs, and settles there, heavy and unwelcome. There’s something wrong here, something festering beneath the surface, like an infected wound hidden under clean bandages. You can’t see it, but you can feel it, the way you feel a splinter buried deep enough to be invisible, but sharp enough to remind you it’s there with every breath.
The stone beneath your boots isn’t just cold—it’s the kind of cold that creeps upward, like it’s testing how much of you it can claim. The walls aren’t right, either. Too smooth, too deliberate. But then you spot it: cracks running through the stone like thin and jagged veins. Here and there, blackened scars appear scorched deep into the surface.
You catch the faint scent of smoke, clinging to the city’s bones. Ahead of you, the streets wind like a maze, every turn revealing walls blackened by fire, homes torn apart and patched together with whatever these people could salvage. The wounds are still fresh. This place is alive, but barely—struggling to hold onto whatever it was before.
The people here watch you. Always watching, though never for too long. They keep their heads down, their gazes flitting toward you like moths to a flame, only to retreat before they get too close. You’ve never seen anyone like them—shorter, dark-skinned, their faces lined with years of hard work and harder living. They wear simple white tunics, deep red sashes tied around their waists, and most are adorned with modest jewelry—bone, hammered metal, nothing extravagant. They walk quickly, with purpose, but with cautious steps.
A woman’s hand snaps around her boy’s wrist, yanking him to her side like you’re not just dangerous, but contagious. Her fingers dig into his arm, hard enough to make the skin there bloom red. The boy doesn’t flinch. He just stares, big eyes locked on you, unblinking, as if you’re not real. His gaze clings to you, searching your face like he’s hoping to find some proof you’re human after all.
The Great Xiatli walks just ahead, detached from the rest of the Legido. The glowing gold of His aura blurs against the dying light. You study Him closer—the dark waves of His hair, the deep tone of His skin—and realize, with a small jolt, how closely He resembles the others. Too closely. It’s unsettling, like a reflection that’s just slightly off.
But He’s meant to be more, you remind yourself. Something beyond what these people could ever be. A being who knows the ground beneath His feet as intimately as the stars above His head. But what if He’s not what they say He is? What if He’s something else entirely?
Settlers push and shove to get a better view of the scene. You shrug most of them off, fighting to position yourself to best take in the developments. Iker manages close behind, determined this time to not lose track of you. Seeing and feeling his presence amidst the occasional glances over your shoulder is greatly comforting, like there’s a warmth that surrounds you with each sight of him.
You shift your gaze to the settlers and soldiers around you. Your people seem to have no fear here. Or at least, you try to convince yourself of that. They walk tall, towering over the people like gods with their armor and weapons gleaming. You have to confess, there’s a quiet arrogance in the way they move—this unshakable certainty that nothing and no one here could ever stand against them. Criato wears it like a second skin, his hand resting lazily on his sword, and a smug smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. Ulloa, meanwhile, sneers at the people around him, his lip curled in contempt.
A flash of white catches your eye. You look closer and see them—a group of people moving through the streets, dressed in white and deep red. The streets part before them as though even the walls themselves know to stay out of their way. Priests, maybe. Or something more. Whoever they are, they’re different. They don’t bow. They don’t run. They don’t hide.
“Look at them,” you hear Ulloa mutter with disdain. “Is this some kind of performance? What are they trying to prove?”
Criato chuckles, his fingers tapping lazily on the hilt of his sword. “Whatever this ridiculous display is, they won’t be laughing for long.”
Your gaze shifts back to the Great Xiatli, expecting a reaction, but His face remains impassive. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. His body moving with the same quiet purpose that makes you uneasy. Always focused. Always in control. You can see it in the way He carries himself, the way His shoulders tense ever so slightly as the white-robed figures draw closer.
And then, he arrives.
A figure stands on a raised platform in the distance, standing like a mountain amidst the tide of stone and bodies. His robes shimmer in the muted sunlight, the deep red silk rippling like blood against the stark white walls of the city. Silver and bone jewelry hang heavy from his neck, his arms, his ears, clinking together like distant bells. Above him, his headdress rises in a fan of brilliant feathers—blue, green, yellow—stretching out like a crown over his head.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He watches. Like a lion, surveying the landscape, waiting for the right moment to strike. His dark and piercing eyes study you, and for a second, you feel small. Insignificant. This man, whoever he is, seems far more powerful than anything your people have seen before. Not since the Great Xiatli, that is. And yet he stands alone, flanked only by a small group of warriors. Their expressions are hard as the nearby mountains, with turquoise beads hanging from their necks like amulets of protection. They hold their spears high, shields painted with intricate symbols of their people.
The Great Xiatli walks forward, His steps measured, His presence as unnerving as always. There’s no fear in Him, no hesitation. The people of this place—these warriors and their leader—may not recognize Him for what He is. Or maybe, you wonder, if this man—this king, this leader—knows what’s to come from this encounter. Maybe he does. Maybe he’s waiting for it.
Something nags at you as you glance between Him and the man in crimson. They look… similar. The same skin, the same dark hair. It’s like seeing two sides of the same coin.
Is He one of them? Or is this just another sign of His godhood?
You try to swallow the knot forming in your throat, but it sticks, stubbornly refusing to be cleared.
The man in crimson stares at the Great Xiatli with unwavering eyes. His face doesn’t show fear, and you think that’s what unnerves you the most. There’s something almost regal in his stance, the way he holds himself, as if he’s certain of his place in this world—and yours, too.
Behind you, Criato carefully watches over the scene like a man appraising cattle at the market. You catch the barest smirk tugging at the edge of his lips, as if this whole procession amuses him.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” Criato murmurs to his compatriot, his gaze fixed on the developing scene. “He doesn’t seem bothered by us.”
Ulloa hums in response, his eyes tracking the leader in crimson. But his focus seems distant, detached. “They always think their world is too grand to be disturbed,” he says, just low enough for you to catch. “The ones who believe their titles are worth something—makes them blind to the inevitable.”
You question if you heard Ulloa correctly. Was his remark made as an observation of this ruler in crimson, or was it a warning to Criato? Based on their recent exchanges in which you overheard, you can’t be certain. But it’s something you make a note of nonetheless.
You glance back, trying to gauge Iker’s reaction. His brow furrows slightly, but he doesn’t speak. He watches Criato and Ulloa like someone watching a play they don’t fully understand. There’s an unease settling between his shoulders. The same unease you feel.
The man in crimson calmly begins to speak again. The language is foreign yet commanding, almost harsh sounding. The Great Xiatli answers him without hesitation, and you can see the surprise ripple across the faces of the other settlers. But, of course, none of them would dare question Him. That He knows the tongue of this land, to you, is an unsurprising and unquestionable mark of His divinity.
Studiously watching the man in crimson, you notice the way he holds himself while confronted by the Great Xiatli—his chin slightly lifted, his eyes still locked on your divine ruler, as though he’s assessing a peer, not an adversary. It’s an eerie sense of calm, one that disturbs you greatly.
You try to shake the growing sense of dread creeping into your bones, but it clings to you like damp clothes in the autumn frost. The Great Xiatli continues his measured conversation with the man in crimson. Their words flow in the language of this foreign land, the sounds sharp and rhythmic, like stone scraping against stone. But it’s not the words that unnerve you—it’s that their exchange is poised on the surface, yet you feel there is something brooding underneath.
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Ulloa and Criato watch with the same intensity, their eyes locked on the leader in red. But now, something darker flickers behind their expressions. There’s a brief glance between the two commanders, so brief you almost miss it—a subtle, unspoken agreement passing between them. It’s a strange thing to see, these two men who have spent so long undermining each other suddenly moving in concert. And that unsettles you more than anything else.
“I don’t like this,” Iker whispers beside you, his voice barely audible over the pounding in your ears. You don’t answer, but you don’t need to. You both grasp that something is not right in this place.
The Great Xiatli’s voice is calm, almost serene, as he continues speaking to the man in crimson. But now, there’s an edge to it, a quiet intensity that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. The man in crimson wavers for a split moment. It’s barely noticeable, but you see it. And you know then, with a cold, sinking certainty, that this is about to go very wrong.
You can feel the ground slipping away beneath you, the thin thread holding everything together fraying at the edges. The guards of the man in crimson shift, their hands tightening further on their immaculate weapons. One of them takes a step forward, just a single step, but it’s enough. Everything snaps.
Before you can blink, Criato moves. There’s a flash of steel in the dim light as he unsheathes his sword, and he’s upon the nearest guard in an instant. There’s a sickening sound—a dull thud followed by a gasp—and the guard crumples to the ground, blood pouring from the wound in his neck. For a heartbeat, everything around you stops. The man in crimson’s eyes widen in shock, his body frozen in place as the full horror of what’s happening dawns on him.
Then the world explodes.
The remaining guards rush forward, weapons drawn. But they are no match for your soldiers. Criato and Ulloa’s men descend upon them like wolves, swords flashing, blood spraying in every direction. You hear the clash of metal, the thud of bodies hitting the ground, the cries of men fighting for their lives. It’s chaos—pure, unrelenting chaos.
The man in crimson desperately shouts something in his language, but it’s drowned out by the cacophony of violence. You can see him now, trying to hold his ground, trying to fight back, but it’s hopeless. Your people are too many, too fast, too brutal. One of his guards hurriedly retrieves his sword and swings. He catches one of Criato’s men in the side, but it’s a futile effort. An instant later, Criato himself is upon him, his sword plunging into the man’s chest with a sickening crunch.
You want to look away, to close your eyes and shut out the horror, but you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot, watching as more of the warriors protecting the man in crimson fall to the ground, blood pooling around them like a dark halo. The eyes of the fallen, wide with disbelief, stare up at the sky as if searching for something that will never come.
Iker grabs your arm, pulling you back, his face pale, his eyes wide with terror. “We need to move,” he exclaims. “This is—“
Your gaze drifts over the scene, taking in the mayhem unfolding around you, the bodies lying in the dirt, the blood soaking into the ground. And then, out of the corner of your eye, you see them—Dorez and Benicto, the tormentors who have made your life a living hell since you arrived on this cursed expedition.
They’re cowering behind a nearby column, their faces pale as they occasionally peek out to see the mortifying events. Usually so smug, so confident, Dorez looks shaken to her core. Her body trembles as she watches the carnage unfold. Benicto is worse—his face is a mask of pure fear, hands shaking as he clutches at the stone, as if it can protect him from the violence raging around him.
And in that moment, you realize something. They’re not as strong as they pretend to be. They’re bullies, yes, but when faced with real danger, real violence, they crumble.
Suddenly, bursts of shouting pull you back to the present. Criato and Ulloa are in the thick of it now. They fight side by side, their rivalry forgotten in the face of a common enemy. They hate each other, you know that, but here, now, they move as one.
As the battle rages on, you feel a cold knot of fear tightening in your stomach. This isn’t a fight. It’s a slaughter.
The moment is a whirl of confusion and rage, with shouts and the dull clash of metal and stone piercing the air. The settlers and guards, most of them unaccustomed to actual combat, lash out with a disgustingly crude brutality. The city’s people push back, but their resistance is more a matter of survival than skill, more a desperate flailing than any real organized defense.
It’s then that you hear it: a sudden, sharp crack that splits the air like a lightning strike. You flinch, momentarily stunned, along with everyone around you. The sound reverberates off the towering stone walls, sending a ripple of panic through the city’s inhabitants. All eyes turn toward the source of the sound.
Up on horseback, one of the settlers—one of your people—has fired his musket. The smoke still curls from the barrel. The blast has startled his horse, and the animal rears up, thrashing its hooves. The settler clings to the reins, barely managing to stay in the saddle. His face is twisted in panic, as if even he didn’t mean to do it.
Though they had been holding their ground, the people of the city now break. They cry out, terror filling their voices, and many turn to flee. Do they believe the sound to be some kind of divine wrath? They falter in the face of what must seem like sorcery to them.
The Great Xiatli’s glare slices through the air, sharp enough to leave you wondering if it might draw blood. His expression isn’t loud with rage—no, it’s something quieter, colder, menacing. When he speaks, it’s barely a whisper, but somehow it rises above the discordant noise of the panic and fighting.
“Who gave you permission to waste that bullet?”
The young settler’s face drains of color. He stammers, trying to find words, but nothing comes. He’s trembling, his hands still gripping the musket like a lifeline, knuckles white against the dark wood. The horse beneath him shifts as its hooves clatter against the stone.
“Answer me.” Xiatli says through gnashed teeth, somehow quieter now, more threatening.
The young settler swallows hard, not daring to look at the demigod in his eyes. “I—I was—“
The sentence never finishes.
Without another word, without hesitation, He strides toward the rider who fired the shot. With a single, swift motion, the Great Xiatli yanks the settler from his saddle, throwing him to the ground with an almost inhuman strength. The man lands hard, gasping in shock, scrambling to find his footing.
But the Great Xiatli doesn’t give him a chance.
In a blur of motion, He draws a blade—one of the strange, curved daggers He carries—and plunges it into the man’s chest. The settler lets out a choking, wet gurgle. His hands clutch at the blade as blood seeps through his fingers. His eyes go wide, filled with disbelief and terror. The body crumples to the ground like a sack splitting at the seams. Blood spreads out slow and thick, soaking into the dirt like it’s thirsty for it.
Around you, there’s more stunned silence. The people of the city, already horrified by the sound of the musket shot, now stare in disbelief at the brutal efficiency of the Great Xiatli. Even the Legido forces—your own people—look on in shock, unable to process what just happened. His life ended in a blink, without ceremony, without hesitation.
The Great Xiatli wipes the blade clean on the settler’s tunic before sheathing it once more. The horse rears again, hooves stamping, but the Great Xiatli is already turning away as if nothing has happened. As if the life He’s just taken means less than nothing. His eyes scan the crowd, daring anyone to question Him. No one does.
“Round them up.” Xiatli’s command breaks the stillness like a crack of dry wood in a fire. “We take the city.”
No one dares hesitate for long. After a breath, the Legido forces move. There’s no question of the orders, no room for doubt—just the need to move swiftly, to prove their loyalty to Him. The settlers begin sweeping through the city’s streets, corralling its people like animals. They grab any who remain standing with rough hands, dragging them toward the center.
Criato and Ulloa share a quick, knowing glance. It may be an illusion, but you think you see a hint of nervousness as they look toward Xiatli, and then away again, as His command finally settles in. Despite this, you can see the hunger in their expressions, though—the hunger to prove themselves, to seize the spoils of this conquest.
“You heard Him,” Criato says, as a bead of sweat runs down his temple. He gestures sharply to his men, and the unspoken command is clear: do what needs to be done. And fast.
The leader of these people now stands among the captured, shackled and silent, eyes cast down. There’s no fight left in him, no resistance—just the quiet acceptance of a man who knows his fate has already been sealed. You don’t know what he’s thinking, but his silence feels heavier than the chains that bind him.
You feel a sickness rising in your gut as you watch it all unfold. Once almost overwhelmingly timid and unsure, the settlers now move with a sort of savageness. There’s no hesitation in them now, growing bolder with each passing moment. They rip through the city like a storm—pillaging homes, tearing valuables from the dead, dragging weeping villagers into lines. There’s a look in their eyes, a wildness that unnerves you. Maybe it’s fear that drives them, fear of what the Great Xiatli might do if they fail to deliver. Or maybe it’s something darker, something they’ve always carried within them, waiting for the right moment to surface.
As the frenzy continues, you look at Xiatli, standing tall and unmoved amidst the destruction. The amulet on His chest glows faintly in the dimming light, casting eerie shadows on His face. This being, this god, cares nothing for the blood being spilled or the lives being torn apart around Him.
And then, for just a moment, your mind thinks back to that chest. The one Xiatli unearthed, the one filled with those strange scrolls. The amulet, the scrolls—what connection do they have? What power do they hold? What secrets are locked inside them, waiting to be unleashed? Could they stop this descent into madness?
Xiatli’s cold and merciless voice jars you away from your thoughts. “You,” He says, pointing toward Ulloa. “Take the palace. Secure their leaders. Burn what cannot be carried.”
Ulloa snaps to attention. To your astonishment, his voice trembles as he barks orders to his men. They move quickly, eager to please, eager to avoid the same fate as the man who lies dead in the dirt. They scurry about the grounds of this once-magnificent city, rushing into the grand building with weapons drawn.
Around you, the city’s fall becomes complete. Homes are stripped bare, temples desecrated, the people herded into submission like cattle awaiting slaughter. The cries of the captured swirl around you, a sound that claws at your insides, and you feel the bile rise in your throat.
This isn’t what you expected. This isn’t what you wanted. When you joined this expedition, you sought adventure. Not this.
As the flames begin to rise in the distance, you question if you’re on the wrong side of history. And for the first time since you set foot in this strange land, you wonder if the worst thing here isn’t what’s coming.
It’s what’s already arrived.