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It’s strange, the memories that rise up unbidden in moments like these. I can feel the tremors of the ground beneath me, but my mind is far away—back in the flickering light of the small fire in our family home. There, shadows of the surrounding hills leaned in close, listening with the same stillness I shared as a child.
My father’s voice was low and solemn. It’s the kind of tone he used only for the stories that mattered most, the ones he told us with a hint of warning. That night, he spoke of the Forge of Stars.
“Once,” he began, his voice a quiet rumble, like far away thunder, “there was a mountain that reached so high, it stole from the sun. Its peaks scraped the sky and caught the first light of dawn before any other place in the world. And at night, the moon kept its distance, wary of the mountain’s reach.”
He paused then, letting the silence settle while his gaze drifted, as if he could see it himself—the mountain, burning with light at dawn, and cloaked in darkness by night.
“But the mountain was not just a mountain,” he continued. “Inside it, a fire burned that was said to be as old as Pachil itself. It was a flame that could forge anything, could turn dreams to stone and spirits to iron. And in those days, the world was still young, still raw. Things could change as easily as the clouds on a summer day.”
I remember Xiqa leaning forward, the firelight casting his face in shadows, and even then, I’d felt the tug of something bigger than the story, something I hadn’t had the words for. But I knew it was important—that he was giving us more than a tale; he was giving us a lesson, a warning.
“The mountain’s fire was not for the faint-hearted,” he said, his eyes fixed on mine. “But for those who dared, the possibilities were endless—power enough to reshape fortunes, to bend the world to their will. That promise alone drew many suitors to its slopes. Only the boldest went seeking it, those whose ambition outgrew their sense.” His gaze shifted to my sister, Entilqan, lingering just long enough to underscore the danger of such ambition.
“One such man was Tahin, a great warrior and the finest metalworker of his age. He believed he could forge a blade so strong, it would cut through the sky itself. A blade that could shape the world as he saw fit.”
Tahin, the warrior with a spirit too bright and a mind too sharp. I remember feeling both awe and fear at his name, wondering what kind of mortal man could dream of changing the world with his hands.
“Like many who attempted it before him, Tahin climbed the mountain alone. His heart pounded with each step as he neared the fire’s heart. When he arrived, he found the forge—a place where the flames didn’t burn as ours do. They were strange, the colors of twilight and dawn, and they danced like living beings, as though the spirit of the mountain moved through them.”
I close my eyes, picturing it again as I did then—the flames shifting and speaking, the promise of power drawing Tahin closer, the very air around him charged with an otherworldly energy no human could ever explain nor comprehend.
Xiqa’s voice became soft then, almost reverent. “Tahin reached into the flames, seeking the power he believed was rightfully his. And as he worked, his hands shaping metal and spirit alike, the fire showed him visions—visions of the world he could build, of the order he could impose. It whispered that it could give him the strength of mountains, the wisdom of rivers, the endurance of the oldest trees. And Tahin believed it.”
Xiqa looked at us both with an intense gaze, as if he needed us to understand something deeper than the words he was saying. “But the mountain does not give freely. The mountain tests. And so it was with Tahin.”
“What did the mountain do?” I remember squeaking the question, a little afraid of the answer.
“The mountain showed Tahin his own heart,” Xiqa replied. “As he forged his blade, it reflected his desires, his fears, every dark corner of himself he’d never dared look at. The mountain tested his courage, yes—but also his humility. After all, the trek to that location was only part of the journey. And there, with the blade half-forged, Tahin faltered. His resolve was strong, but his heart… his heart was not.”
A pause. I recall my father looking at his feet, as though he was imparting this lesson not just to his children, but reminding himself, as well. “Tahin did not know it, but the mountain had woven his spirit into that blade, binding his very soul to its edge. So when he looked upon his creation, he did not see a weapon—he saw himself. Every fault, every flaw, every dark thing he’d kept buried. And in that moment, the fire turned on him.”
I remember the chill that crept over me, the firelight suddenly dimming as if the story itself held a power of its own in its simple telling.
“He tried to turn away, to leave, but the blade was his own, and it would not let him go. The flames caught hold of him, pulling him back, burning him from within. And though he fought, he knew in his heart that he could never escape, that he was bound to that forge and that fire forever.”
Xiqa looked at us then, his gaze searching, as if he could see the questions forming in our minds, as if he could see us grappling with what he’d just told us.
“The Forge of Stars is still there. The gods use it to this day to craft new stars into the night sky. Its fires burn with the dreams of those who come seeking it, with the souls of those who were too proud, too stubborn to heed the mountain’s warning. And so it will burn, until the world’s end.”
In this moment, my father’s warning rises in my memory. Because here, as I stand on the edge of what we’ve uncovered, as I look down into the depths where Iachanisqa lies, waiting, I can feel it—feel that same pull, that same promise of power. The fire in the legend, the forge of Tahin, the whispers of the mountain… they don’t seem so distant, so mythical now. The mountain does not give freely. It tests. And I wonder, as I peer into the darkness, if I am strong enough to face what lies below. If I am ready to see the reflection waiting for me.
We stand at the cavern’s mouth, gazing into the black throat of Xutuina. Each step seems to echo into the dark, magnified until it feels like something far larger is walking beside us. Pomacha finds only a few dead tree branches, then wraps them in ripped cloth to form makeshift torches to light our way. Shadows play tricks on the walls, twisting our own reflections into strange, elongated shapes that ripple and disappear in the uneven glow of our torches and the ominous turquoise hue emanating from the glyphs carved into stone.
None of us speak. How could we? What is there to say? There’s only the sound of our footsteps against the cold rock. Saqatli’s hand brushes the wall, tracing the ancient glyphs that pulse faintly beneath his fingertips. Nochtl snarls low in her throat, and I feel her claws tense against the stone.
Upachu lingers back with the llama and cart, eyeing the cavern’s entrance and shaking his head. “I’ll leave the ‘wandering into the unknown’ business to you all.” He smirks, tugging his robes a little tighter. “Someone’s got to keep the llama safe, after all. Can’t have the poor thing bearing witness to my untimely death.” It’s difficult for me to argue, with the unknown looming before us. I pat his shoulder in understanding, not saying anything about his decision to stay. He gives us a nervous chuckle and a last nod before settling back with his beast of burden, watching us disappear into the dark.
Atoyaqtli takes the lead, his torch casting an orange halo that barely pierces the darkness ahead. Saqatli and Nochtl somehow pick out each obstacle before we meet it. The ocelot leaps and bounds down the dark corridor, now surprisingly comfortable in this foreboding environment. Beside me, Walumaq remains calm, though her eyes dart to every shadow, every hint of movement.
The ground beneath our feet is a treacherous patchwork of stone that slopes and dips at odd angles. Some steps sink into the soil, soft as if warmed by something deep below, while others are so jagged they threaten to slice through our soles. The air changes immediately, thickening as we go deeper. Its damp, stale humidity is charged with a metallic tang that catches at the back of the throat.
As we press on, we pass natural formations that look almost sculpted—a ledge that juts out like a spear, narrow corridors that twist into impossible angles, openings that look like the mouths of snarling beasts, ready to clamp down at any moment. The walls of the cavern ripple with veins of dark stone, and when I run my hand along the surface, it’s surprisingly warm, almost feverish.
A faint rumble comes from deeper within the volcanic mountain, and for a moment, we pause, straining our ears. The sound reverberating through the stone is like a slow and steady heartbeat. The path winds downward in a steep, uneven descent, and the floor is slick with mineral deposits that gleam like polished stone, offering no grip. I place my feet carefully, but with every step, a thin layer of unease coats my skin.
Ahead, Saqatli pauses, raising his hand to signal something. I peer past Walumaq and spot what he’s looking at: a narrow bridge of stone, arched across a gaping chasm that splits the path in two. It’s no wider than a man’s shoulders, slick with what might be condensation or some layer of strange residue, and it disappears into shadow on either side. There’s no telling how deep the drop below might be, but the faint sound of rumbling magma echoes up from the depths, filling the cavern with a chilling hum.
Síqalat gives a dry grin and points to the bridge. “After you.”
I roll my eyes, but the dare is clear. With a steadying breath, I step onto the bridge, feeling its cold, unyielding surface beneath my boots. My foot slips slightly, and my heart leaps into my throat. But I regain my balance, spreading my arms to steady myself. The others follow slowly, single file, their shadows stretched out before them and blending into the vast darkness.
The bridge stretches out before us like a narrow spine of crumbling stone and frayed ropes swaying above a black chasm. The ancient planks bend and creak beneath our weight, sending loose bits of rock and dust tumbling soundlessly into the abyss below.
Halfway across, a low rumble reverberates from deep below, sending vibrations up through the bridge’s ropes. The whole structure shudders violently. It tilts just enough to send Saqatli stumbling, his arms flailing as he fights for balance. Panic gradually recedes as he’s able to collect his feet beneath him. A chunk of stone breaks free from the side of the cliff, falling away into the darkness.
“This bridge wasn’t built to hold us all,” Pomacha observes, gazing at the loosening ropes.
“Keep moving!” Walumaq urges. She’s gripping the rope so hard that her fingers are bloodless, nails digging into the ancient fibers.
As if proving Pomacha’s words, one of the boards ahead splinters under Walumaq’s foot with a sharp crack. Her leg suddenly drops through the gap. She gasps as her free foot scrambles to find purchase. I lurch forward, grabbing her arm to keep her from slipping through completely. We share a brief look of relief, now more eager to get across this infernal bridge.
Breath by breath, step by step, we carry on. The cavern inside this sacred volcano taunts us with every groan and sway of the bridge. I don’t dare look down, don’t dare acknowledge the fear clawing at the edges of my mind. Only the far end of the bridge matters, a few paces ahead.
Finally, one by one, we reach the other side. Our boots and sandals meet stable ground with a shared sigh of relief. As we step off, a final rumble shakes the bridge, and the ropes snap, the entire structure collapsing in on itself. Saqatli shouts, and we turn to see the ocelot racing to reach secured ground. Nochtl manages to leap just as the structure is swallowed by the abyss below. The Auilqa boy embraces the ocelot tightly, lovingly cradling his companion in his arms.
Our trek continues, each of us looking upon every stone with leery suspicion. I catch myself holding my breath as we move deeper, as each step carries us further from the safety of the world above. There’s an indistinct scent of molten metal that grows stronger, mingling with the ever-present tang of sulfur. The heat intensifies, and beads of sweat trickle down my neck, dampening the collar of my black tunic.
The cavern widens suddenly, opening into a vast chamber. A faint hum rises from somewhere ahead, an eerie sound that makes my skin prickle. Atoyaqtli raises his torch, the light illuminating a massive archway carved into the stone, its surface etched with strange, spiraling patterns that seem to pulse with a faint, blueish glow.
A chill runs down my spine as I stare at the radiating symbols. The archway looms over us, its top lost in shadow. All around us are strange, ancient mechanisms. Massive, interlocking wheels and strange metal spokes, some as tall as a man, are embedded in the walls. The wheels appear to mesh together like colossal teeth, and their surfaces are encrusted with generations’ worth of mineral deposits. They lie dormant, but it feels as though they could spring to life with the right touch.
“We’re getting close,” I whisper, though the words feel small, swallowed by the cavern’s vastness. Though I’ve confronted numerous challenges on the battlefield, the sense of unease that has lingered since we entered intensifies. I’d rather face a thousand foes than the unknown ahead.
We step through the archway, as formations rise from the ground that defy nature’s logic. Jagged spires of stone glint in the torchlight, with edges as sharp as blades. Pools of molten rock bubble and hiss within the chamber. Shadows along the walls twist and contort, reaching out with clawed fingers before retreating into the dark.
A sudden noise—a low, scraping sound—echoes from somewhere nearby, and I freeze. The others halt too. Eyes search the darkness. Hands grip weapons. The sound comes again, louder this time, a grinding noise like metal on stone, setting my teeth on edge.
“There’s something here,” I murmur breathlessly, stating the obvious.
Ahead, the path splits, one tunnel veering sharply to the left, the other descending into a steep incline. We exchange uncertain glances. Atoyaqtli steps forward, peering down each path with a frown.
“Well, which way?” he mutters uneasily.
Walumaq holds her amulet out a short distance from her chest. The turquoise stone glows faintly, pulsing gently. She closes her eyes, focusing. After a moment, she points toward the descending path. “This way,” she says with a profound certainty. Síqalat looks at me as if to ask, are we sure? But there’s something in the way the Sanqo princess speaks that leaves me with little doubt she’s correct.
We follow her lead deeper into the heart of Xutuina. Walumaq moves calmly, assuredly, taking confident, eager steps down the path. The tunnel narrows as we descend, the walls pressing close until I can feel the heat radiating off them, searing the skin on my arms.
Finally, we reach another chamber. It’s smaller, but no less ominous. In the center, a massive anvil rests on a raised platform. Its surface is scarred and blackened, as if it’s been used to forge a thousand weapons. Around it, strange tools hang from the walls. Their shapes are twisted and unfamiliar, and each one radiates a faint, malevolent energy I simply can’t explain.
I swallow the lump in my throat as my gaze sweeps over the chamber. For all the tales I’ve heard, I never imagined it would feel like this—this mix of reverence and dread, of awe and terror.
And then, there he is.
A figure steps forward from the shadows beyond the anvil, emerging like something born from the rock itself, sculpted from flame and iron. He’s barely contained inside this chamber, his head nearly scraping the top of the cavern. His skin is a deep, weathered bronze, as if etched by generations of heat and soot. Tattoos coil along his shoulders and down his thick, muscular arms, depicting symbols of fire, sun, and stars. His intense and penetrating eyes burn with an ember-like glow, watching us with suspicion.
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A shimmering headdress crowns his head, crafted from polished metal and black feathers. It rises high, almost touching the stone above, reminiscent of the divine crowns of kings. Hanging from his neck is a necklace of jagged obsidian shards and glistening turquoise stones, and stones I’ve never seen before. A scorched and worn apron of leather hangs around his waist, embroidered with intricate patterns that shift subtly, not due to his movements, but from some supernatural trick of the light.
In his right hand, he holds a gigantic hammer with a head that’s been darkened by heavy use. The edges are chipped, and it glows ominously from some other source that isn’t a torch or the sun. In his left, a twisted iron rod etched with carvings that seem to ripple like haze from the heat off a surface.
He regards us with a calm, unyielding gaze. It’s a look that pierces through each of us, as if reading the thoughts hidden within. He doesn’t speak immediately, letting his presence settle over us like the warmth of the forge. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough, a rumble that feels like it’s been pulled from the depths of the land itself.
“Visitors,” he says simply, sounding somewhat surprised and impressed. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve seen humans.”
At last, Walumaq steps forward, her fingers grazing the turquoise amulet at her chest as if drawing comfort from it, drawing strength from it. “We… we seek answers,” she says, noticeably trying her best to remain calm, steady. “Answers we believe only you can give.”
The blacksmith cocks his head, and for a moment, there’s a glint of something in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or maybe pity. “Answers,” he repeats, the word rumbling from him like a stone tumbling down a mountainside. “What makes you think answers are something I would freely give?”
There’s something about him, something ancient and untamed, that makes even my bravest thoughts feel foolish. Paxilche bristles, his hand twitching near his weapon, but Atoyaqtli rests a steadying hand on his shoulder. “We came all this way—” Paxilche starts, his voice barely contained, but Walumaq silences him with a look.
“We came because there are things happening in the world that we don’t understand,” Walumaq remarks. “There are forces—powers—that are spreading through the land. The Eye in the Flame, the Eleven…”
Iachanisqa strolls over to the anvil and picks up an enormous hunk of metal. He pounds the slab with a thunderous thwap. “There are forces beyond anything a mere mortal can comprehend,” he says, focusing on his unfinished work. “Even the Eleven knew not what awaited them. The gods have plans for us all, though they will never share them with the likes of us.”
“But you’re no mere human, either,” Paxilche notes. “I mean, you’re a blacksmith to the gods! How could they not share their wisdom with someone as important as you?”
Iachanisqa snorts, then emphasizes his response with more heavy thwacks. “Like this hammer, I am but a tool. A simple device to be wielded by the gods.” He pauses, lifting the hammer to examine the glowing, half-formed shape under his grip. “A tool does not ask why it strikes, only where it falls. I am a piece of their design, not its author. I forge, I shape, but it is not for me to decide the ends of my work. The gods know I have my place, and you have yours.”
“And what place is that?” I ask, trying to keep the edge out of my tone—and likely failing. “To be shaped and tossed aside? To be another weapon in their hands, only to be cast away on a whim?”
The hammer pauses mid-swing. Iachanisqa looks upon me almost… pityingly? “Would you rather be something else, boy? Something the gods take no interest in at all?”
I don’t back down, though every instinct tells me to. “I’d rather have a choice. To strike or be still, to wield or be wielded. Doesn’t it matter to you? Don’t you want—”
“Choice,” he scoffs, muttering almost entirely to himself while shaking his head. “A notion for those who forget their roots.” He lifts the hammer and brings it down with a final, resounding crash that echoes throughout the chamber.
Seeing that we remain wordless in his presence, he reluctantly explains. “You mortals cling to the idea of choice as if it were a precious gem. You think it’s something to cherish, to defend.” He pauses, his hand resting on the anvil, and a flash of solemnity crosses his face. “But choice is a luxury woven from the fibers of ignorance. Those who truly understand their place in the world, in the design—” he gestures around, his fingers tracing the air, “—they know better.”
He resumes, his voice now deep and gravelly, like stone grinding against stone. “Look to the roots of your ancestors. They knew the mountain would one day wear down, that the river would carve through it without asking. They didn’t fool themselves into thinking they could shape the world’s path. They walked within it.”
“You act as though we have no choice,” Paxilche interjects. “That we cannot escape our destiny.”
He holds the hammer aloft, staring at it as if remembering something distant. “You think the gods left this world to you for choice? They didn’t. They left you to see what you would forge within its bounds. Whether you’d learn your place.”
His eyes fall back on me, and he scowls. “Your ancestors knew this. They were not fooled by the smoke and flame of independence. They understood, deep in their bones, that some things are older than choice—things that hold us all in place, whether we wish it or not. Your belief in choice is more a comforting illusion than an actual power. The gods have already laid out the threads of fate, and you are simply following a path that was set, whether you realize it or not.”
Walumaq tilts her head, eyes narrowing as she considers his words. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe the river carves its path long before we set foot along its banks. But even the river chooses where it might flow fastest, where it winds and slows. Our ancestors walked within the path of the world, yes—but they also carved their own places within it. Perhaps choice isn’t a matter of defying fate. Perhaps it’s in deciding how we carry ourselves on the path that’s been set.”
Iachanisqa rests his hammer upon the anvil. He stops his work, looking upon Walumaq with a rare reverence. “For a mortal, you carry a wisdom that… well, let’s say it would give even the oldest of my kin reason to pause.” He chuckles, though a shadow of something deeper flickers across his face. “It’s strange to hear such understanding from one of your age—”
He falters as his gaze lands on the amulet around her neck. His brow knits in a sudden, unguarded scrutiny.
“Where did you get that?” He jabs his finger toward the glowing turquoise stone on Walumaq’s chest. The hammer slips from his grasp, clanging loudly onto the anvil. He strides forward, bending at the waist and leaning closer to inspect the amulet.
“That… That amulet cannot be one of mine,” he says, sounding as though he doubts what he’s seeing. “ But it looks… How dare you! Is this your doing? You make a cheap mockery of my work, girl?”
Walumaq looks stunned, eyes fearfully darting around the chamber for an answer. “Wh-what to you mean? I didn’t craft this. I—“
“That turquoise amulet belonged to Inqil!” he thunders, cutting her off. “What have you done to Her?” His gigantic face is a hair away from Walumaq’s, glaring down upon the Sanqo princess. He extends his enormous hand, reaching for the precious stone. But Walumaq quickly shields it, protecting it like a child among an impending storm.
“It was given to me,” I interject, breaking Iachanisqa’s harsh interrogation of Walumaq. “Given to me by Inqil herself.” My heart races, but now’s no time for cowardice. Walumaq, the noblest of all of us, doesn’t deserve to be chastised in such a manner.
The blacksmith snarls, turning to look at the one who disrupted his inquisition. I hold my chin up high, defiantly, ready to take on his charges. His eyes are dark, smoldering embers that bore into me, as though he can see through to the very marrow of my bones. But I keep my gaze steady, refusing to be dwarfed by his towering presence. A muscle in his jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he might reach back for that colossal hammer of his. But I stay rooted, shoulders squared, daring him to try.
He looks down at my chest. “You,” he states. “Are you concealing one of these counterfeits, too? Huh?” His nostrils flare, enraged. Unafraid, I retrieve both the obsidian and copper, and the lapis lazuli and gold amulets that were cradled behind my armor. His eyes instantly grow wide in shock, mortified to find there are more such pieces in existence.
“This… this can’t be,” he whispers, staggering back a step. “How many more exist?”
The young Auilqa boy shuffles forward meekly, holding out the jade and onyx amulet from around his neck. The blacksmith’s attention snaps to him. I can tell that numerous questions swirl around in his head. His mouth opens as if to speak, but no words come. He stares at the amulet as though it’s a spirit from his past.
“These are no forgeries,” I say quietly. “They’re the remnants of the Eleven, aren’t they? Tools they used to protect Pachil. That’s what we’ve gathered.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he takes a slow, deliberate step back, his eyes flickering between the amulets. Finally, he exhales a deep, weary sigh. “Perhaps they are not forgeries after all. But if they are the Eleven’s...” He trails off, his expression clouded. “Why now?” He murmurs to himself, wrestling with the question.
“I have been on a quest to learn more about the purpose of these mysterious amulets, and the papyrus left behind by Sualset of the Eleven,” I begin. “Though I know not of what my companions have endured, I have faced multiple challenges and many trials to obtain these. I understand that there are two other locations where they could be, discovering them through clues left behind by Sualset herself.”
“The ones I’ve discovered were found in various ways,” Walumaq adds. “Paxilche was given some type of key that unlocked a chamber within the palace at Pichaqta, revealing the—“
“The palace,” Iachanisqa echoes. “The amulet left for the Tempered of the Qiapu. Are you…” The humungous blacksmith looks among those of us gathered curiously, then narrows his eyes at Saqatli, studying the boy closely. “Are you the Tempered? A bit young, don’t you think?”
Paxilche winces. “That is not the Tempered,” he responds. “The true Tempered was my brother, Limaqumtlia. He’s… been murdered. An imposter rules in his place.”
Iachanisqa considers this, then look back upon the jade and onyx amulet around Saqatli’s neck. He lets out a long sigh. “I suppose it’s good that the amulet is not in such a person’s hands, then.”
The blacksmith extends an open palm to the Sanqo princess. He asks simply, “May I?”
Walumaq nods, retrieving the amulet from around her neck and placing it carefully into Iachanisqa’s hand. He brings the piece close to his eyes, inspecting it scrupulously. After a few grunts while turning the jewelry over in his grip, he returns the amulet to Walumaq.
The blacksmith takes it, turning it over in his massive hands. He studies it intently, his expression shifting from disbelief to reluctant acceptance. Finally, he returns it to her with a small nod.
“This is Inqil’s,” he says softly. “And you’re right. The Eleven perished. But the world has a way of holding on to things meant to be lost.”
Walumaq appears confused. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, returning to his anvil, “there’s more to their story than you know. And perhaps more to your own.”
After a grunt, Iachanisqa says, “I didn’t think they’d reappear so soon. Or at all.” The great blacksmith lifts the hammer. He grips the handle tightly, then chuckles as he shakes his head before resuming his work.
“And if I may be direct,” he says, pausing until one of us nods to accept his request. “You don’t look like the kind who would possess the amulets of the Eleven. Perhaps pride clouded my judgement. I apologize for the… harsh accusations.”
“Apology accepted?” Síqalat says.
Iachanisqa’s massive shoulders rise and fall as he exhales deeply. The hammer remains poised mid-air as though he’s debating whether to continue. Then, with a weighty glance toward each of us, he speaks: “What I’m about to tell you does not leave this volcano. Do you understand?”
The chamber reverberates as he bellows his demand, rocks tumbling down the face of the stone walls. There’s a fire in his eyes as he speaks, one that is all the warning we need to understand the seriousness of the matter. We all, unquestionably, nod in agreement. “Good. I would’ve hated to cast you into the depths of this volcano.” He laughs heartily, but we’re all too uncomfortable at this poorly veiled threat to join him.
Undeterred, the blacksmith continues. “Sualset was clever, I’ll give her that. Initially, I wasn’t going to listen. Who does a human think they are to boss around an entity such as me? But I was impressed enough with her ingenuity to find me in the first place, and thus, I gave her an audience. She never told me how she discovered my location. Guess I’ll never know.”
Iachanisqa pauses, letting the memory settle over him like the dust drifting in the dim light of the cavern. “Anyway,” he smacks the metal slab in-between thoughts, “when the Atima girl found her way to my forge, she came alone, fearless as a hawk diving through a storm. She had that reckless fire that comes from anger wrapped in love.”
Iachanisqa shakes his head, the faintest trace of amusement fading into something more somber. He doesn’t stop his hammering, the rhythm steady, almost hypnotic as the story unfolds. “She had witnessed the destruction wrought by the Timuaq—saw her people crushed under the heel of those titans. She wanted something that would give her and her allies a fighting chance against the gods themselves. And she believed I could give it to her.”
He pauses, wiping sweat from his brow with a calloused hand, his gaze turning distant. “I told her it wouldn’t be that simple. Power—real power—always has a cost. But Sualset, she wasn’t interested in hearing warnings. She was willing to pay any price, if it meant freeing Pachil from the Timuaq. She looked me in the eyes and swore it. So I did what she asked. I forged the amulets.”
“What she didn’t realize,” he continues, “was that the amulets’ strength had to come from somewhere. It wasn’t just a matter of binding a bit of iron and stone. Not if she were to defeat gods. Thus, these amulets needed to draw power from the heart of Pachil itself—the land, the rivers, the life that pulsed beneath the soil.” His gaze sharpens, as if assessing whether we understand what he’s saying. “The more the Eleven used the amulets, the more they drained the life from this world. Piece by piece. They never knew. Not until the final battles.”
Walumaq’s face twists in horror, and I can tell the others feel it too. I try to imagine it—the land itself weakening, falling away like a dying breath with each victory against the titans.
Sensing our mortification at this revelation, Iachanisqa halts. His hand hovers over the half-forged metal on the anvil, as if lost in memory or bound to something beyond sight. I can see that he’s forging the words to explain why this had to be.
“It was a difficult truth to accept,” he begins, sounding slightly resigned. “When Sualset came to me, demanding a power that could rival the Timuaq… I knew immediately what it would take. You see, strength that great cannot simply be called from nowhere. True power, the kind needed to break gods—” he pauses, glancing between us as if measuring our capacity to understand, “—it comes from balance. For every force, there is an equal and opposite sacrifice. Pachil is no different.”
He straightens, the torchlight casting stark shadows across his rugged features. “This world, Pachil, is alive in ways you mortals sense only in fragments. The rivers are its veins, the mountains its bones, the forests its breath. To disrupt its balance would be to wound it, to pull from it the vitality that keeps the land fertile, the rivers flowing, the very air rich enough for you to breathe. I tried to explain it to Sualset—warn her of what it would mean to wrench power from something so ancient, so deeply woven into all that lives here. But she was willing to take the risk, convinced it was the only path to freedom.”
Iachanisqa lets the silence settle, lets us steep in the harsh truth. “To bring forth such power, I had to root it in the land itself, to connect it to Pachil’s own lifeblood. Every time those amulets were used, they siphoned that strength, leaving scars—small, at first. Almost invisible. But the more they fought, the more they tapped into that lifeline, pulling from the veins of the land, sapping its vitality with every strike, every surge of power. And, in time, it began to weaken.”
“So you see,” he continues, sounding grim, almost defeated, “each victory the Eleven claimed cost this world something unseen—land that would never bloom again, rivers that would run slower, skies that would darken. And Sualset, she had to bear that knowledge. She carried it in her heart, though I doubt she ever let her companions see it.”
Iachanisqa resumes his hammering, the thud echoing throughout the cavern. “Years passed, and the Eleven fought on. They carved their way through the Timuaq’s forces. Each victory harder won, each loss felt deeper. Until, at last, Sualset returned here. Her hands were stained with the blood of her people and her enemies. She wasn’t the same then. Her fire had turned to ash. She had learned the price of her power.”
He glances at us, making sure his eyes connect with each one of us. “Sualset realized, too late, that the amulets had done more harm than she ever intended. She told me she knew what had to be done: to preserve what remained, the Eleven would have to end the cycle—return the power to Pachil, even if it meant sacrificing themselves. And so, that’s what they did. They went into battle one last time, knowing it would be their end.”
I feel my grip tighten on my glaive as the words sink in like a knife between my ribs. All this time, the tales painted the Eleven as heroes, martyrs who had paid the ultimate price to save us. All the while, Sualset knew what they wrought onto the land.
“And what of the amulets?” Walumaq asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Iachanisqa pounds the metal strip once more, inspecting it as he responds. “Sualset made one final request: she asked me to hide the amulets, to ensure they wouldn’t bring more ruin upon this world. I honored her wish. But—” he chuckles darkly, a mirthless sound that echoes in the cavern more harshly than the clattering of metal upon metal, “—as you can see, mortals have a way of uncovering what should remain buried.”
After a moment, Walumaq says almost in an exasperated whisper, “And now they’ve returned. Not through Sualset’s will, but through ours.”
Iachanisqa lets out a weary sigh. His gaze never leaves the anvil, as if he’s seen this unfold many times before. “Well, perhaps. Sualset determined the amulets should only to be found if Pachil needed to be protected once again. So, I fear…” Iachanisqa lets the thought go unfinished.
“But such is the nature of power,” he says softly, almost to himself. “It never stays buried for long.”
He lifts his hand, letting it hover above the anvil, the gesture almost reverent. “I am no god,” he says softly, “but I understand the weight of creation, the toll it exacts. And Sualset learned, as you all will one day, that this world can only bear so much of that toll before it begins to crumble.”
A thought drifts into my mind: If the Eleven had to sacrifice themselves to save Pachil, what will it demand of us?
I glance around at my companions. Síqalat, staring at the glowing glyphs with a look that’s part reverence, part dread. Out of habit, Walumaq’s hand drifts toward her amulet as if it might disappear from her neck. Even Paxilche stands silent, for once, his usual brashness tempered by an incomprehensible fear.
Iachanisqa’s hand remains hovering above the anvil, his gaze distant, as if he’s staring back through generations. “When Sualset looked into the heart of what she’d set in motion, she saw the end as clearly as I see you now. And still, she chose it. Because she knew what would happen if she didn’t.”
His eyes shift as his gaze returns to the present. “One day, you’ll understand what it means to make a choice like that. And if you do take such a path, pray the land can bear what comes.”
My heart beats painfully in my chest, and the cavern around us seems to shrink, pressing in. There’s a small part of me that wants to walk away, to leave the amulet buried and find another way to fight. But it’s too late for that, isn’t it? We’re already bound to this power, to the promise of what it could do—for good or ruin.