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You stand at the edge of what remains of this place. The city feels like a body picked clean by scavengers. Ruins that were once homes, places of worship, or maybe palaces are now reduced to rubble beneath the relentless march of the Legido settlers. The smell of ash clings to everything, mixing with sweat, dirt, and blood. You don’t know what this place is called, but that doesn’t seem to matter anymore—it belongs to the Legido now. What’s left of the people who lived here are corralled into makeshift pens, herded like livestock, working under the crack of whips.

The city feels hollow, emptied of itself. The streets that once pulsed with voices—markets filled with the scent of roasting maize and music carried on the breeze—now lie suffocated beneath the oppression of the occupation. The once-vibrant and polished stones beneath your feet are dulled, chipped under the boots of soldiers who track mud and blood wherever they tread. Even the light here seems muted, as if the sky itself is mourning what the city has become.

Everywhere you look, the native villagers are bent to the will of their conquerors. Their skin smeared with dirt, men and women haul timber and stone under the whip of Legido overseers. Children no older than a handful of years struggle to drag water from what’s left of the city’s aqueducts.

Small acts of resistance spark up here and there. Yet they’re little more than embers swallowed by the dark. A woman presses a piece of bread into a child’s hand, nervously looking over her shoulder as she does. But this act comes at a price. A soldier catches the woman giving bread, shouts vulgar things at her. The whip sings, sharp, abrupt. Her scream echoes down the street. And then silence rushes in, swallowing the sound, eager to pretend it never broke the night.

Criato stands at the center of it all, impatiently barking orders. His soldiers hurriedly drag logs and set up tents around him. He moves through the ruins of the city as if every stone was laid for his personal use. Any structure not used to house a Legido have been turned into armories—what were once homes are now storage for weapons and supplies. Criato’s presence is a constant torrent, always moving, always yelling. He doesn’t care if the work is done well, just that it is done now.

In contrast, Ulloa is quieter, more deliberate. He watches the people with a calculating gaze, walking slowly through the calamity and taking stock. He has a ledger in hand, carefully marking which indigenous artisans or skilled workers are worth keeping and which ones can be sent to the mines or left to die under the sun. It’s not personal to Ulloa. It’s just the way of things.

Xiatli’s presence looms over everything, heavy and cold as iron. He moves through the occupied city like a shadow given shape. The amulet around his neck gleams faintly. There’s a deep, unnatural glow to it, like embers smoldering beneath coal.

When He passes, conversations falter. The natives avoid his gaze, their faces falling into blank masks when He drifts by them. The soldiers shift uneasily, their hands drifting to the hilts of their swords or muskets without realizing it. The birds refuse to sing. The very air seems to tighten around Him. Even Criato, who is usually so brash, noticeably lowers his voice when Xiatli walks by.

You glance at Him from a distance, and something about the way He moves unsettles you. It’s not just the amulet, though its unnatural glow tugs at your eyes, drawing them back even when you try to look away. It’s deeper than that. It’s as if the city itself knows He doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t welcome Him; it endures Him, like a curse laid down on soil that was once sacred. He’s like a blade pressed into flesh, an intrusion that can only end in blood.

You’ve grown numb to the cruelty. It happened so gradually, you didn’t even notice the shift, like calluses thickening over the hands of a farmer. Turning off the part of yourself that should have felt disgusted was easier than you ever imagined—too easy, really. At first, the guilt flared up like a hot coal buried under your ribs, something you could ignore for a while, but never truly extinguish. Now it’s more like a dull ache, a bruise you press on out of habit, as if testing to see if you’re still capable of feeling anything at all. It’s there, somewhere beneath the surface, but it never rises high enough to stop you from following orders.

Maybe you told yourself, once, that you’d be different. That you’d temper the Legido’s violence, or that your presence here might make this conquest somehow cleaner. Gentler, even. But that fantasy has faded, stripped away by the raw, unrelenting reality of what conquest truly is. You see the truth now, stark and unadorned: you’re here, and they were always going to do this. If it hadn’t been you, it would’ve been another, someone with fewer reservations, someone who wouldn’t have hesitated at all. And so, you convince yourself that you’re just a cog in the machine, that it’s better you than someone worse.

But, whispered in the quiet spaces of your mind, the truth is simpler still. It doesn’t matter who holds the blade—the land was always going to bleed.

You look at the city and wonder how much of it will be left when the Legido are finished. The native’s stonework, worn smooth by centuries, is being chipped away. The murals that once told stories of gods and heroes are gouged beyond recognition, replaced by the crude marks of soldiers carving into the walls.

You walk through the marketplace—or what used to be the marketplace. The stalls are gone, the tables overturned, now used to prop up supply crates and barrels of rations. A soldier sharpens a knife on what was once a jeweler’s workbench, the scattered remnants of his craft trampled into the dust at his feet. This city is being gutted, hollowed out from the inside.

And still, life lingers, stubborn and defiant. You catch glimmers of it in the way the villagers glance at one another when the soldiers aren’t looking. In the way their hands brush together briefly, as if passing some unspoken promise from one to the next.

You notice these things, and you hate yourself for noticing them. It would be easier to stay numb. To let the city die, piece by piece, without it mattering. But instead, you carry every fragment of it with you, like stones in your pockets, dragging you down into the depths of the sea.

A part of you wishes you could stop caring. But you can’t—not entirely. And that’s the worst part: you know exactly what’s happening, and still, you do nothing.

Because what else is there to do?

You follow Criato’s orders. You pretend not to see the fear in the eyes of the native’s children. You walk through this broken city, numb and hollow, and you tell yourself it’s not your fault.

But deep down, you know better.

Iker moves beside you, but he’s not really with you. His steps are too brisk, and you know he’s keeping pace only because he has something to say. You wish he’d just leave it alone. But wishing hasn’t stopped anything yet.

The two of you pass a group of villagers bent from hauling heavy stones, dragging them toward a new wall being built where the old one has crumbled. Their eyes are empty, movements sluggish, as if the effort of survival has drained them dry. A soldier barks at them, and one stumbles, catching herself before falling. You glance at Iker. His jaw clenches, and you feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

“You see this, right?” he mutters. “You’re not going to pretend it’s fine, are you?”

You keep walking. There’s nothing to say. What would he want you to do? Change it? Reverse the tide of conquest with a word?

He grabs your arm, pulling you to a stop. His hand is tight, but not aggressive. It’s like he’s desperately trying to pull you into something you’ve drifted too far from.

“You don’t even care, do you?” he says. He’s not angry. Not really. Just… confused. Frustrated.

“You think I can do anything about this?” you ask quietly through your gnashed teeth, your words more a statement than a question.

Iker drops your arm, scoffing under his breath. “But you don’t even try.”

That stings more than you’d like to admit, but you keep your face blank. You didn’t ask for this, any of it. You’re just here, caught between orders you don’t understand and choices that aren’t really yours. Is it a crime to survive? To keep moving forward, even when you don’t know where the road leads?

“You don’t get it,” you say finally, though even to your own ears, it sounds like an excuse. “It’s not our place to change what’s happening. I mean, who are we to do anything? What could we even do?”

Iker’s laugh is soft, bitter. “That’s what I mean. You talk like them.” He spits the word out, like it tastes foul. “Criato. Ulloa. Like this is just how things are.”

You stare at him, suddenly feeling very small in this vast, foreign land. Neither of you knows what you’re doing here. You’re just children—children pretending to be soldiers, pretending you know the difference between right and wrong when it’s all tangled up in orders, survival, and fear.

“I just…” Iker falters, running a hand through his tangled hair. His anger softens, bleeding into something more fragile. “I thought maybe if we stuck together, we could keep each other from becoming like them. You know? Like we could hold on to something decent, even in all this ugliness.”

You blink, caught off guard by the honesty of it. He doesn’t want a leader or a savior. He just wanted a friend. And somewhere along the way, you stopped being that friend.

You want to tell him that you never meant to push him away, that it wasn’t personal. You didn’t even realize you were doing it. But the words stick in your throat. It’s too late for apologies, and even if it wasn’t, what good would they do?

You start walking again, slower this time. Iker follows, quieter now, but the tension between you hasn’t gone anywhere. It just sits there, heavy and unresolved, like a stone lodged beneath your ribs. He wanted something from you—more than you knew how to give.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Ahead, a group of soldiers drags what must have been a sacred object from the ruins—a massive stone disk engraved with spirals and symbols that mean nothing to you. A woman among the enslaved villagers lets out a soft, choked cry, and one of the soldiers shoves her down into the dirt.

Iker flinches beside you, and you know what he’s thinking. How this only emphasizes his point. This isn’t what you were supposed to be doing here. None of this feels like what you imagined when you first stepped onto the shore of this strange land.

“What’s the point?” Iker mutters. It’s not clear if he’s asking you, or himself, or the sky. “Why are we even here?”

Before you can answer—if you even had an answer to give—something shifts. A strange, rhythmic hum rises on the wind. It’s subtle at first, but it grows louder with each passing heartbeat. The ground begins to tremble beneath you, not like a quake, but something far more… deliberate.

Iker freezes. “What was that?”

A shadow falls across the city like the creeping edge of twilight, dimming what little sunlight pierces through the mist. You glance toward the horizon, and movement stirs within the haze. Dark shapes emerge—tall, cloaked figures draped in robes of gray and crimson. Their faces are hidden beneath hoods that flutter in the thickening breeze. The wind carries strange scents of burned wood, scorched copper, and something acrid and sweet, like herbs left too long on an open flame.

Beside you, Iker takes an instinctive step back. “Who… what…” He can’t finish either thought, and you’re not sure you need him to.

A murmur of unease spreads through the soldiers gathered along the wall. It begins as a whisper—a soldier clutching his sword tighter, muttering a prayer under his breath. But it spreads quickly, like sparks catching on dry kindling. Even the bravest among them move uneasily. Men stumble as they scramble to reinforce the gates, hands fumbling with ropes and oil casks.

Criato’s voice rings out. “Get into position! Hold the gates!” He shouts the orders like a man trying to convince himself this is just another enemy to crush. But you can hear it beneath his bark—the panic creeping in, coiling around every syllable.

There are no chants from the approaching enemy. No battle cries to meet. Just the slow and steady scraping of their feet across the stone.

The air suddenly grows warmer. It presses against your skin, and you feel as though you’ve entered a forge. There’s a creeping heat that seeps into your bones, leaving you brittle and dry. You try to swallow, but your throat feels parched, as if the very moisture has been sucked from the air.

The leader of the robed figures—a towering form draped in crimson as deep as spilled blood—steps forward, raising both hands. There’s something fluid, almost unnatural, in the way he moves, like a shadow stretched too long. The flame clutched between his palms grows—small at first, a flicker, but then it swells into a roaring inferno, spilling from his hands like liquid fire.

Without warning, the wave of flame surges forward, licking the edges of the gate. Though reinforced with metal, the wooden beams glow red-hot within moments, as if kissed by the breath of a furnace.

The soldiers atop the walls scream, recoiling from the sudden burst of heat. Even where you stand, far from the gate, the temperature rises—so hot it blurs the edges of your vision. The air warps, shimmering like the surface of a river in the moonlight. The ground beneath the flames blackens, charred as if by the touch of a torch.

Criato shouts orders from below, his usual confidence splintering under the weight of panic. “Get the oil ready! Reinforce the gates!” His words are sharp, frantic, as his men stumble over their own feet.

The enemy draws closer. The crimson-robed figure steps lightly, as if he doesn’t touch the ground at all. Where his hand brushes the stone, symbols scorch themselves into the surface, faintly glowing with ember-like light. Flames curl upward from the runes, twisting into shapes—writhing creatures, serpents with jagged fangs, shapes that should not exist. How do they exist?

A glint of gold pierces through the haze, shimmering as though the sun itself has cracked open above the city gates. The Great Xiatli stands there, His skin radiating a golden aura that presses against the mist, making everything around him look faded, lesser. His arrival is silent but absolute, a force that fills the space between heartbeats. He moves slowly and deliberately, as he calmly surveys the scene.

As His eyes settle on the crimson-robed figure, a faint smirk pulls at the edge of his mouth. It’s the look of someone who has seen this play out a thousand times. The soldiers sense it, that unnatural stillness in the air. They glance at one another uneasily, as if waiting for His word, His permission to unleash the muskets—is this the moment to use such a weapon?

But Xiatli says nothing. He only watches, as the gold light pulses from His skin. His eyes are fixed on the robed forms with the detachment of a predator watching prey walk willingly into its jaws. There is no fear in His gaze. No urgency. Just expectation.

One of Criato’s soldiers lets out a brittle, desperate battle cry, breaking the tense silence. He snatches a bow from the rack beside him, hands shaking as he fumbles for an arrow. With a quick, fluid motion, he notches it, draws back, and looses it toward the nearest robed figure. The arrow slices through the mist… until it meets the figure’s outstretched hand.

It never touches flesh. The moment the arrow crosses into the robed figure’s reach, it disintegrates midair, reduced to nothing but a trail of ash that scatters on the wind. The figure tilts its head, a movement devoid of anything human, as if regarding an insect that dared to draw too close. In response, a wave of flame surges from the figure’s palm, a searing wall of heat that floods toward gate like a tidal wave.

One raises his shield, hoping to block the fire, only for the metal to blister and warp. Molten drops splatter onto his hands. He screams, dropping the shield, but there’s nowhere to go. The robed figures advance, unhurried, implacable, their bodies wreathed in twisting shadows and flame.

Another soldier reaches for his musket, sweat beading on his brow as he fumbles with the weapon. He knows the cost of wasting a precious bullet, knows what fate awaits him if he dares to defy the Great Xiatli’s decree. But fear overrides reason. He lifts the musket, eyes narrowing as he lines up the shot, and fires. The explosion echoes through the streets, and the bullet races toward its target… only to flatten and fall, useless, against an invisible barrier a mere breath from the figure’s chest.

The robed figure doesn’t budge. Instead, it raises an arm. The ground beneath the soldiers’ feet begins to crack and split. Tendrils of black smoke rise from the fissures, curling around the soldiers’ ankles, winding up their legs. One man stumbles, his face twisting in horror as the smoke clings to him. It slips beneath his armor, searing his flesh. He drops his sword and claws at his chest, gasping, until his voice fades to a gurgling rasp.

From above, the Great Xiatli remains motionless. His expression is one of quiet, almost bored expectation. He doesn’t interfere. Doesn’t seem to feel the need. His soldiers look back, some of them pleading with their eyes, their faces pale and drenched in sweat. They want guidance. They want mercy. But Xiatli offers neither. He is stone, watching as His people are swallowed by fire and shadow, as if this is exactly what He anticipated.

The Legido fall back. Their defenses crumble, their courage fracturing. Screams fade to whispers amidst the mayhem. The gate buckles under the onslaught, wood splintering, metal twisting, as though it, too, understands that resistance is futile.

And then, finally, the Great Xiatli moves.

He steps forward, calm as a man walking through a garden, and raises His hand. There is no chant, no grand gesture—just the slow, deliberate flick of His wrist, as though the act itself requires no effort. The air warps around Him, folding in on itself like fabric being pulled taut. Reality strains under His will. The fire conjured by the crimson-robed figure freezes mid-surge, its wild dance halted, its violent hunger quelled. The magic collapses inward with a sickening crunch, like bones shattering under pressure.

At this, the crimson-robed figure falters. The creature-like flames that once coiled from his fire contort into gnarled shapes. Suddenly, their forms unravel into nothingness, vanishing into the air. The others’ steps are no longer synchronized as the perfect rhythm of their approach shatters.

The enemy’s flames disappear in an instant, snuffed out like a candle in gale force winds. The billowing shadows that once erupted from the ground now retreat back into the depths below. The robed figures stagger, exchanging startled looks. One by one, they clutch at their chests. Confusion ripples through them like a wave. And then it’s their turn to panic.

The first of their screams pierces the night. It’s a sound of such raw, primal terror that it twists in your gut, a sound that should not belong to any living thing.

One by one, the enemies ignite from within. Their robes begin to glow red-hot, their skin blistering beneath the fabric. Then, the fire erupts. But not from the outside. No, this flame burns deeper, spreading from within their very bones. Their bodies convulse violently, arms and legs jerking in unnatural directions as their flesh begins to char.

Their mouths gape open in silent screams, eyes bulging as tongues blacken and wither in their throats. Fire spills from their mouths like molten metal, and they claw at their faces, their hands, trying to tear the skin from their bodies, as if escaping from the flames consuming them from the inside out.

Their robes catch fire, but the fabric doesn’t burn the way it should. The flames cling to them like they’re alive, eating their way through flesh and bone without ever touching the ground. The foes fall to their knees, writhing, trying to pull themselves free, but it’s no use. The fire devours everything—flesh, blood, and whatever scraps of their spirit they might’ve had left.

Their screams are shrill, endless. It’s a sound that doesn’t just stop at your ears; it crawls into your bones. It’s a noise that vibrates deep in your chest, as if you’re being hollowed out by the sound itself.

The one who materialized this magic staggers as the flames around him flicker and dim. He raises his hand in defiance, as if he might conjure another spell, but the Great Xiatli is already moving. Slow. Deliberate. Menacing.

The crimson-robed leader opens his mouth to speak—to beg? To curse? You will never know. With a simple gesture, Xiatli snaps His fingers.

The crimson-robed leader’s body contorts, folding inward on itself with a sickening crunch. Bones snap. Muscles tear. His spine bends at an unnatural angle. His ribs collapse. His legs twist beneath him as though the bones have turned to liquid. His scream is choked off mid-breath, cut short by the pressure crushing him from within. His body convulses once, then twice, before finally going still.

And then, the fire comes. It erupts from his chest, shooting upward like a geyser of molten flame. In an instant, his entire form is engulfed—skin and flesh burned away in a flash of white-hot fire. His body crumbles to ash before the fire even has time to spread. There’s nothing left but a smoldering heap, the ground beneath him blackened and scorched.

The Great Xiatli stands over the ruined, blackened body, staring down at it with an expression of quiet detachment. There’s no satisfaction in His gaze, no triumph—only cold indifference. To Him, this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

The remaining enemies scatter, fleeing into the mist. But they don’t make it far. One after another, the robed figures scream as fire bursts from their mouths, their eyes, their skin. Their bodies seize up, convulsing as the fire within them reignites, burning hotter, fiercer than before. You watch in stunned silence as they fall to the ground. Limbs twist and jerk, flesh melting away in the firestorm that consumes them.

Your ears can’t avoid the revolting snap and crack, joints giving way as the fire devours muscle and bone. They’ve been reduced to nothing more than ash and smoke. The wind picks up, carrying the remnants of their existence into the night, blackened clouds spiraling toward the heavens.

For a moment, all is still. The ash drifts lazily through the air, black snow on a lifeless wind.

Xiatli casually lowers His hand.

You stand there, body locked in place by a cold fear you’ve never known. The other soldiers shift uneasily beside you, their weapons hanging limply at their sides. Even Criato stands frozen, his face pale and drawn. No one dares speak.

The Great Xiatli turns slowly, the amulet at His neck glows faintly, as if the power it holds is far from spent. His cold gaze sweeps across the stunned faces of soldiers, commanders, settlers, and you. There is no humanity in His eyes, no emotion—only the cold, unyielding truth that you are nothing before Him. None of you are.

His lips curl into the barest hint of a poorly-practiced smile—a predator’s smile.

“They were the first,” He says quietly. “There will be others.”

The night stretches long around you. The stars above are distant and indifferent. And as the last wisps of ash drift through the air, you realize with terrifying clarity that there is no stopping Him.

Not with magic.

Not with armies.

Not with anything you can imagine.