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There’s a stillness that comes before every storm, the kind that makes the tiny hairs on your skin stand on end before the first gust of wind stirs the air. The world might lull you into believing that nothing terrible could happen. But you feel it before you ever see it. The way the sky suddenly darkens just a little too quickly. Or how the birds fall silent, vanishing from sight as if they know better than to stick around.

I know that kind of stillness too well. It’s the stillness in a noble’s court before someone’s life is quietly ruined by a careless rumor. It’s the stillness in a merchant’s house before debts are called and fortunes crumble. And it’s the stillness I feel now, watching two bands of warriors prepare to tear each other apart.

The breeze is light, carrying ash and dust from the city’s ruins. It’s difficult to define the figures in the dimming light among the devastation. The two armies circle each other like serpents coiled in the sun, waiting for the right moment to strike. I’ve watched Achope merchants scramble to prepare their water vessels as the winds shifted too suddenly, watched their faces pale when they realized it was too late to leave port. But even then, they knew what was coming—what to expect.

The first strike comes almost without warning. Taqsame moves first. His obsidian sword flashes in the dying light as he charges straight for Achutli, who stands waiting like a man in no hurry. I can’t tell if it’s arrogance or certainty in his magic, but he doesn’t move until the last possible moment. He meets Taqsame’s strike with a practiced block. Shadowed tendrils curl around his rival’s blade like some kind of living smoke.

Suddenly, more of Achutli’s shadows lash out, snaking through the battlefield. They pull men into their depths as easily as a fisherman’s net. Taqsame’s warriors charge like jaguars starved for days. Blades sing through the air, but those loyal to Achutli won’t yield. They press forward like a river of loose stone, meeting every strike with one of their own.

The Qantua warriors by my side stand rigid. I can almost hear the silent conversation passing between them. It’s in the way their gazes linger on Taqsame’s advancing warriors, in the way their bodies tense with hesitation. Taqsame is their blood. Their comrades fight for him now, for his ambition, his claim to something greater. And the Qantua, above all else, follow strength. They’ve been assigned by the Queen Mother to protect me, yes, but it’s evident they’ll leave me the moment it becomes clear which side has the upper hand.

I can only watch as Taqsame and Achutli rip into each other with all the force of a hurricane. It’s raw, violent, and I realize with a sinking feeling that there’s no stopping this storm. I want to turn away, to unsee the raw, unchecked rage twisting their faces, but I can’t.

This is a fight that goes beyond blood or pride. It’s as if everything they’ve lost, everything they’ve endured, has been funneled into this violent, unyielding clash. They’ve come too far, believe they’ve sacrificed too much for any of this to end peacefully. There’s no pulling them back from this edge. All I can do is brace myself for the inevitable carnage.

Xelhua grips my arm, pulling me back from the edge of the battle. “Stay close,” he mutters, his eyes darting between the combatants, as if he can sense something worse coming. “We’ve got to avoid getting thrown into the middle of this duel.”

I barely register his words. My gaze is fixed on the center of the fight. Sparks fly as the two men snarl and spit venomous words at each other. There’s a sudden, unstoppable surge of bodies colliding, fists swinging, blades cutting through the air. The Qantua fight like they’ve already claimed victory, each swing of their jagged clubs and slashing swords brings them one step closer to conquering this city that refuses to give in.

The sound of obsidian on metal rings out like a thousand drums, and my ears are flooded with the sickening crunch of shattered shields and broken bones. A Tapeu archer, with a face pale beneath a layer of ash and grime, looses an arrow. The arrow arcs through the air before it finds its mark—buried deep in the throat of a Qantua warrior. He stumbles forward, choking on blood. His hands grasp at the shaft as if he can pull death free from his body.

But he falls. And another warrior takes his place.

Achutli lifts his hand. The darkness around him writhes and twists, coiling through the air as the shadows come alive. They lash out, wrapping around limbs and throats, pulling warriors into the void with terrifying ease. I hear their screams—muffled, distant, as if they’re being dragged into another world. Their bodies jerk and twist before they vanish entirely, swallowed whole by the abyss.

I shudder, subconsciously clutching Inuxeq’s dagger tighter. Achutli stands tall amidst the chaos. The spear in his hand glows a sickly yellow-green, with symbols that pulse like living embers, casting an unnatural glow over his face. Shadows cling to him, as if drawn to his very presence. They swirl around his feet and climb up his arms, clinging to his skin, wrapping around him like a dark armor. It’s as if the darkness is feeding off him—or maybe, he’s feeding off it.

And yet, even as Achutli’s shadows lash out, Taqsame charges through them, his jaguar-hide cloak flaring behind him. The warrior is a force of nature in black and gold, ripping through Achutli’s magic with nothing but willpower and fury. Even when the shadows loop around his legs, pulling him toward the ground, he slams his blade into the dirt, dragging himself free and surging forward again. A tendril snakes toward his throat, but he brings his sword down hard, briefly shattering the dark coil. He defiantly roars, as if daring these dark forces to try and take him.

Qantua and Tapeu warriors alike fight in a frenzy of obsidian and blood. A palace guard drives his spear through a Qantua archer, only to be cut down by another axe-wielding warrior. The air reeks of smoke and copper, sharp enough to catch in the back of your throat. It clings to everything like a stain, mixing with the scent of churned soil and the sour tang of blood-soaked leather, still warm from bodies that aren’t finished bleeding.

I catch a glimpse of a Qantua woman with a face streaked with war paint, tearing the helm off a Tapeu warrior before plunging a knife into his neck. Blood spurts in an arc, splattering her face, but she doesn’t flinch. She kicks his body aside and moves to the next target, eyes gleaming with the thirst for more bloodshed.

Those loyal to Achutli fight desperately, but they are outnumbered—and the Qantua show no mercy. Clubs crush bone, obsidian blades rip through flesh, and the dilapidated walls of Qapauma tremble beneath the continuous violence.

Someone grabs ahold of my arm. Their fingers dig deep into my muscle until pain blossoms along my bicep.

“Move, girl!” Xelhua growls in my ear. “This isn’t where you want to die.” His grip tightens, and when I don't immediately react, he jerks me back, hard enough that I stumble over the uneven stones. “We don’t have time for this,” he snaps. “Get your head straight, or I’ll carry you out myself.”

I wrench free, glaring up at him. His obsidian sword glints darkly, black as the void above. His weathered face twists in frustration. For all his bravado, Xelhua looks at me the way you look at someone drowning. Desperate. Eager. Too damn proud to say he’s scared, but it’s there. The tension in his jaw, the twitch of his left hand tightening around the hilt of his blade.

And then the first shape appears on the horizon.

Alongside those draped in robes of ash and crimson, grotesque figures emerge from the haze, moving in unnatural silence. Their limbs jerk as if controlled by invisible strings, heads tilting at angles no human neck should allow. There’s a suffocating heat that follows them, rolling forward in relentless waves.

Another figure steps into view: a massive form with bulging muscles and sickly gray-blue skin, veins glowing like molten rivers beneath its surface. Its elongated claws scrape against the ground as it moves, and each step is accompanied by the unsettling crack of joints abnormally shifting. It doesn’t walk so much as prowl, like a carnivore sizing up a wounded animal.

And there are more, more than my eye wishes to see. Lumbering things with glowing sapphire eyes and bodies twisted. There’s no sound from these creatures—no war cries, no rallying shouts. Only the crackle of distant flames and the thrum of their approach.

Once again, I’m yanked out of my stupor. “Don’t be stupid, girl.” Xelhua spits the words like an insult, even as his hand hovers protectively near my shoulder. “We shouldn’t try to fight what’s coming.” He pulls me, but my eyes remain fixed on what comes our way.

Before I can respond, the oppressive heat thickens. My lungs feel sluggish, struggling to pull in air that no longer seems to exist. A low hum vibrates beneath my feet, growing louder, resonating through the stones, the ruins, my bones.

Then I stumble. My boot catches on the shattered remains of a warrior beneath me, and I fall against a broken column. I gasp, steadying myself as the jagged stone digs into my side. My chest burns with the effort to breathe.

And that’s when I finally notice it.

The sky is empty.

No moon. No stars. Just an endless void—a darkness that swallows everything, stretching across the horizon like a black stain.

A new moon.

The first flame ignites without warning, bursting from one of the robed figures’ hands. The fire spirals upward, twisting into grotesque shapes—serpents made of flame, writhing through the night. The heat presses down until it feels like my skin might peel away.

The Qantua warriors at my side gaze at the emerging monstrous figures. One of the gray creatures snarls—a guttural, bone-deep sound that seems to reverberate through the stones beneath our feet. And behind the otherworldly beasts, another figure steps forward, draped in crimson robes that sag off his arms like molten wax.

He walks without urgency, without fear. Every step he takes scorches the ground beneath him, leaving a blackened trail of ruin in his wake. His robes are splotchy, as though these garments were not dyed, but soaked in blood. Yet from here, I can see the immaculate gold trim and intricate patterns woven in, glimmering in the firelight of all that’s being destroyed around him.

The man in crimson cooly raises his hand. Without a sound, a wave of fire explodes outward, roaring across the battlefield. Warriors are engulfed instantly—bodies incinerated mid-scream, turned to ash that scatters into the night. Weapons clatter to the ground like forgotten relics of those too slow to escape the blaze.

Even from where I stand, the heat slams into me like a hammer. It singes my skin and rakes at my lungs. Desperately, I try to shield my eyes. I stumble again as the column at my side crumbles beneath the force of the firestorm.

Through the smoke, I see Achutli move unsteadily. The shadows he’s conjured up swirl frantically around him, lashing out at the encroaching flames. But the darkness can’t hold. The fire presses forward, burning through as if it were nothing more than dry grass. For the first time since I’ve known him, there is genuine, raw panic in his eyes.

Achutli and Taqsame lock eyes across the battlefield. Neither speaks, but in that heartbeat of stillness, a mutual understanding forms between them. Their hatred must be postponed for survival. There’s an overwhelming amount of resentment and grudging respect, but it’s enough to briefly set their differences aside.

Taqsame tilts his head as he lifts up his obsidian sword. “Don’t slow me down,”I think I hear him say.

Achutli sneers as the darkness swirls around his hands.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Then, without another word, they launch themselves into the fray.

I crouch low, pressing my back against the cracked stone of the ruined temple. My breath is shallow as I listen to the rhythmic scrape of dragging robes—the enemy closing in. Their figures shift in the gloom like restless spirits, gray fabric stained with soot and ash, firelight illuminating their pale, waxy faces.

Xelhua stiffens beside me. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He stands like a stone sentinel, his gaze locked on the shadows flickering along the walls. Then, he grumbles a simple command through the noise:

“Stay behind me.”

A figure steps from the shadows—a cultist draped in crimson robes, flame twisting around his hands. He surges forward, faster than I expect, and my heart seizes in my chest. But Xelhua is already moving, nimbler than I thought a man of his years could. His sword slashes through the air in one smooth, deadly motion, deflecting the flame with the flat of the blade.

The fire flares harmlessly to the ground, but Xelhua doesn’t stop. He twists his body, pivots, and drives the blade into the cultist’s chest. Blood sprays from the wound, hissing as it hits the scorched ground. The man crumples without a sound, and the fire in his hands sputters out as he collapses.

But they keep coming. More cultists spill out from the shadows like a writhing mass of gray robes and twisting flames.

A Qantua warrior at my side lets out a strangled gasp as a flaming blade pierces his stomach. He falls to his knees, clutching at the wound. The fire spreads quickly—devouring flesh and cloth alike. The stench of charred skin singes my nostrils, and I gag, choking on its acrid taste.

Another warrior rushes to pull him to safety, but it’s already too late. A hulking gray beast barrels into them. Its claws slice through their armor as though it were loose cloth. The sound of their bodies tearing apart—the wet, sickening crunch of bone—echoes across what remains of the courtyard.

Xelhua grabs me by the arm. “We’re moving.” He leaves no room for argument. He pulls me behind him, positioning his broad frame between me and the oncoming threat.

Another cultist lunges at us, his hands burning with unnatural flame. Xelhua is there to meet him. His sword slices clean through the man’s outstretched arm, severing it at the elbow. The dismembered limb tumbles to the ground, still wreathed in flame, as the cultist crumples beside it, howling in agony. Xelhua twirls the sword around and slashes the felled foe’s neck. A stream of scarlet joins the rest of the spilled blood on the ground, yet Xelhua pays it no mind.

“Don’t stop moving!” Xelhua barks over his shoulder.

A clawed hand swipes at me from the side, too fast for me to react. But Xelhua’s sword is already in motion. The blade flashes through the fire-lit air, cleaving the beast’s hand from its arm. The severed limb drops to the ground, and the creature’s glowing sapphire eyes narrow in rage.

Xelhua doesn’t let it recover. With a fierce growl, he charges forward, driving his sword deep into the creature’s chest. It lets out a low, guttural moan, something between a death rattle and a curse, before collapsing into the dirt.

He pulls his sword free with a wet, scraping sound, and for a brief moment, the two of us stand still amid the carnage.

“Not getting you today,” Xelhua mutters, more to himself than to me. There’s no triumph in his words—only grim certainty from someone who has faced such a moment countless times before.

More cultists pour into the fray. One of them charges forward, fire in his hands, and I feel the heat before I see it—hot, suffocating, pressing in on my skin. But Xelhua doesn’t flinch. He steps into the cultist’s path, wildly swinging his obsidian sword. The blade cuts through the man’s arm first—then his throat. The fire fizzles out as the cultist collapses to the ground in a heap of ash and blood.

Another figure lunges from the side, hurling an orb of flame that soars straight for my head. There’s no time to think, no time to dodge. All I can do is brace myself.

Then Xelhua is there, once again between me and death. He takes the full brunt of the attack, the flames licking his radiant armor, singeing the edges of his tunic. He’s undeterred by the spreading fire. His sword cleaves downward, catching the cultist mid-strike, sending a spray of blood across the stone.

He grabs fistfuls of dirt and rubs it across his chest, trying to extinguish the flames. Yet it’s no use. He frantically rips the armor from his torso, throwing it onto the ground.

Xelhua grunts, breathing heavily. I stare, breathless, as the cultist’s body collapses at my feet. My pulse pounds in my ears, and I struggle to breathe as the crushing heat presses against my chest.

Another Qantua warrior falls beside us, flames engulfing him as he cries out. I can barely register the sound before a gray beast… no, it can’t be! It’s the beast Xelhua slain moments earlier. It’s moving, barreling through the smoke. The creature’s twisted limbs tear into the fallen warrior, shredding him before he can even draw his final breath.

I stumble backward, colliding with Xelhua. He turns, his eyes locking onto mine for just a moment—long enough for me to see the worry, the fear. He grabs my arm again, pulling me close, shielding me as he surveys the mayhem. “Keep moving, girl!”

One by one, the cultists fall, but there are always more to take their place. I’m shaking. I don’t know if it’s from the heat or the fear—probably both.

Another cultist rushes toward us. His eyes are wild, and his bent blade is raised high. But this time, I see it coming. My hand instinctively drops to the ground, fingers curling around a jagged piece of broken stone. Without a second thought, I hurl it at the attacker. He staggers, one knee buckling as he tries to steady himself. His snarl falters as blood drips down the side of his face.

Before he can recover, Xelhua steps in with his sword already raised. In a single, brutal swing, he cleaves through the cultist’s torso. The force of the blow sends the man crumpling to the ground. He glances at me, and for a moment, I swear there’s something like pride in his eyes. He gives an almost imperceptible nod in acknowledgement.

“Well, you’re certainly no warrior,” he mutters, “but you’ve got guts. I’ll give you that.”

Suddenly, the ground rumbles with a horrific tremor.

We both turn as a massive shadow falls over us, blocking out the flames. One of the grotesque gray beasts charges toward us with unnatural speed, its sapphire eyes glowing like distant stars.

I brace myself for the attack, but once more, Xelhua is already moving. He pushes me back, planting himself between me and the oncoming beast. His sword swings up, aimed directly at the creature’s chest.

The beast’s claws flash as the air ripples with the heat of the fire. I see the exact moment Xelhua’s blade cuts deep into the monster’s chest.

But it doesn’t stop. No, instead, the creature surges forward, its claws raking across Xelhua’s side. He grunts in pain, but he refuses to falter. With a final, brutal twist of his sword, he drives the blade deep into the creature’s chest. The beast stumbles, and a low, guttural growl escapes its throat as it collapses at his feet. It lies still, and its massive body twitches. But there’s something of a sinister spark in its eyes that hasn’t yet gone out.

Xelhua’s breathing is ragged, and blood seeps from the gash in his side, soaking into his tattered tunic. He stumbles but manages to catch himself. His hand is still clenched around the hilt of his sword as he looks on. He knows it isn’t over—the beast’s chest heaves faintly, as if drawing strength from some dark reserve. Any moment now, it’ll rise again, and he’ll have to be ready.

“We’re not done yet,” he says almost reluctantly. “We need to get away from this… thing. Let’s move.”

I’m unsure what to say, but Xelhua only nods, his eyes now fixed on me. And for a moment, even in the middle of a raging battle, I feel something in my chest that I haven’t felt in a long time. Something that almost feels like safety, security.

The fighting carries on like a nightmare unfolding before my eyes. Obsidian blades clash against enchanted fire, shadows writhe, claws rip through flesh. For a fleeting moment, Achutli and Taqsame move in sync. Their movements are sharp, calculated—the obsidian of Taqsame’s sword gleaming alongside the tendrils of darkness that coil from Achutli’s hands.

And then the sorcerer in crimson steps forward.

The sorcerer’s robes ripple, touched by heat that doesn’t seem to come from any flame. Fire dances along his fingertips—casual, effortless—as though it obeys him not by command, but by instinct. It doesn’t blaze or flicker; it breathes, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, waiting, patient and hungry.

His eyes become black pits, voids that drink in the light, making everything around him look faded and hollow. He lifts his hand, and the fire shifts as though it’s savoring the moment before it’s unleashed. There’s no hurry, no urgency. It’s the calm of someone that knows they’ve already won, the stillness of a predator that knows the kill is inevitable.

Achutli’s eyes narrow, jaw clenched tight. But even from here, I can see the shadows pooling around him, clinging to his frame like they sense his fear. His shoulders rise and fall with the ragged tempo of his breathing, each breath sharper, more strained. There’s a wildness in his movements now, a frenzied rhythm to his magic. It’s as though he’s drawing on every last fragment of strength buried deep within him.

His fingers tremble as he gathers the magic into his hands. There’s a desperate wisp of shadow that emerges from his palms, but it’s as though it lacks the confidence they had before. They stutter and waver, as if sensing his doubt.

Achutli tries to look fierce, but his eyes betray him. They dart ever so slightly, searching the sorcerer’s form for a weakness, for some sign that he might stand a chance. It’s a small glimmer of hope, and yet the cracks in his magic spread with every moment he holds it.

The sorcerer in crimson is simply better. Faster. Deadlier.

Achutli thrusts his hands forward, and the black shadows leap half-heartedly from his fingers, aiming to constrict the sorcerer in crimson. For a moment, it seems to work—the tendrils snaking around the sorcerer’s arms and binding him. But then the sorcerer’s grin deepens. He doesn’t flinch.

A flick of his wrist, and fire erupts from within the darkness. It sears through the shadows, reducing them to cinders. The tendrils writhe and recoil as though they’ve been wounded, slithering back toward Achutli to seek refuge.

What seemed so powerful a moment ago, Achutli’s magic falters in an instant, like a banner in the dying wind.

I can see it in his eyes. That moment of dread, when he realizes that this sorcerer is not like anything he’s ever faced. Achutli has power, yes, but it’s jagged and clumsy, a newly-forged blade in the hands of someone who hasn’t yet learned to wield it. By contrast, the sorcerer’s magic is precise, deliberate, as if every flame is an extension of his will.

Sensing the battle getting away from them, Taqsame lunges forward with his obsidian sword in hand. But the sorcerer moves too fast. With a sweeping arc of his arm, a wall of fire springs to life between them, forcing Taqsame back. He snarls in frustration, trying to find a way around the blaze, but the flames flare up, growing higher and higher until they reach the night sky.

Believing the sorcerer in crimson’s attention is divided, Achutli doesn’t waste the opportunity. His hands surge with dark energy, shadows contorting upward into jagged spears. He throws them with all his might, aiming straight for the sorcerer’s heart.

But the sorcerer merely raises a hand. The spears of shadow halt mid-air, suspended like flies caught in amber. For a moment, they hang there, vibrating with the effort to break free. Then, with a snap of the sorcerer’s fingers, they explode—shattered fragments of darkness scattering harmlessly into the air.

Achutli’s breath hitches. He staggers, visibly drained. His magic unravels around him. The sorcerer’s menacing grin widens, and he strolls forward.

Achutli growls, summoning the last of his strength. The shadows return, coiling tighter around his frame, giving him shape, giving him power. But the sorcerer’s flames rise higher, hotter. The ground beneath them begins to glow, cracks forming in the stone, leaking molten fire from the heart of the land.

The dark tendrils that once obeyed Achutli’s every command now quiver, shaking violently, as if resisting his grip. He throws his hands forward again, desperately calling forth the shadows, but they don’t respond with the same ease. His face contorts, muscles twitching as beads of sweat glisten on his brow. He’s losing control.

A smirk curls at the edge of the sorcerer in crimson’s lips, his eyes glowing with an unnatural heat. He doesn’t fear Achutli. There’s a calmness to him, a relaxed, quiet certainty.

Achutli doesn’t notice. He’s too busy grappling with the shadows that now writhe against his will. They fight him, resist him. I’ve never seen him like this, never seen him struggle. Always in control. But now…

The sorcerer’s other hand rises slowly, fingers trailing through the air as if painting something. The deep, resonating hum vibrating through the stones pulses faster, more intensely. It feels familiar, like the heartbeat of the land itself.

Achutli’s breath catches, and I see it in his eyes. Recognition. Panic. The shadows tremble violently, then retreat altogether, slinking away from him. His hand trembles as he reaches out, trying to hold on to the last remnants of his power, but it’s slipping away. They don’t return.

The sorcerer in crimson smiles, and that’s when I see it—a faint glow beneath the skin of Achutli’s hands. It throbs, a sickly red light, moving like a river through his veins. His blood.

Achutli’s lips curl into a snarl, but there’s now genuine terror in his eyes as his own blood rebels against him. It pulses harder, brighter, as though ignited by some unseen force. The sorcerer’s hands tightens into fists, and Achutli staggers.

The crimson sorcerer now watches him without emotion, merely observing as Achutli crumbles beneath his own power. Achutli gasps—a sharp, choking sound. His hands fly to his chest, clutching at his armor, his garments, and I see it—the glow spreading beneath his skin, crawling up his arms, across his neck, into his face. His veins bulge, glowing like molten lava. He’s being consumed from the inside.

He falls to his knees as his blood boils from within. A raw scream tears from his throat as the glow intensifies. The shadows that once followed his every command are now unwilling to come to his aid. His magic is abandoning him, and his body… His body is coming apart.

Blood seeps from his eyes, from his nose, from his mouth—thick, red streaks trickling down his face like scarlet tears. His fingers claw at his chest, as though he could somehow rip the burning from his flesh. But there is no escape.

Then, with a final, broken gasp, Achutli collapses to the ground. His body twitches, convulses, until, at last, it stills. The glow fades, leaving only the charred remains of his veins, like cracks in brittle stone. His eyes are empty now, staring sightlessly at the empty night sky.

The sorcerer in crimson lowers his hands. “Gone by the hand of your blood, it seems,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “A pity.”

Taqsame stands motionless. His sword is still raised, but even he seems frozen, stunned by the suddenness of it all.

Achutli is gone.

There’s no triumph. No relief. Only the hollow ache of something unfinished.

There’s no time to say goodbye. No final words. Only the dull thud of his body hitting the stone.

I want to scream. I want to collapse. No one deserves this—not even him. But there’s no time.

Because the sorcerer in crimson is still standing. And now, he’s looking right at me.