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The silence is heavier than the battle was.

I stand among the ruins of Qapauma, the amulet cold and inert in my hand. Its weight is a strange anchor in the surreal calm. Around me, scattered fires crackle in dying embers, casting faint shadows across the shattered stones and fallen bodies. The gray creatures erupted into plumes of ash upon the defeat of the sorcerer, their sapphire eyes floating into the air like embers from a fire before abruptly extinguishing. This city—this jewel of the Tapeu—has been hollowed out, its people left to wander through the ruins, searching for some semblance of order or hope.

The people of Qapauma are emerging from the wreckage—nobles, merchants, servants, warriors—each bearing their own share of cuts, burns, and bruises. Some walk as if in a trance, their faces blank and eyes unseeing. Others clutch at each other, weeping or simply staring into the distance, dazed. A young woman with a gash across her forehead holds the hand of a child, leading him carefully through the rubble, eyes looking over the ruins with a wary kind of acceptance. Even the Qantua warriors look haunted, their expressions dim as their eyes look upon what’s left of the once-mighty capital.

I see a young boy standing alone, clutching a half-burned bundle of cloth to his chest. His tanned face is smudged with soot and dried tears, shoulders slumped and black hair matted with dirt and blood. He stares at me with wide eyes, and I realize he’s looking at the amulet hanging from my neck. He’s not the only one. Others glance my way, some with the faintest glimmer of hope, others with wary confusion, as if they’re waiting for me to explain what’s happened or to tell them what comes next.

I had nearly forgotten the silver and amethyst amulet, resting neatly against my chest over my plain cloak. It glows faintly, pulsing along with my heart. The tattered chain is knotted awkwardly—an improvised and clumsy fix—but it holds, for now.

Inuxeq moves quietly beside me, her gaze sweeping the surroundings. Her face is streaked with ash and sweat, and her dark tan leather armor is scarred from the battle. We stand shoulder to shoulder, watching as the palace guards and Qantua warriors round up the surviving cultists and unceremoniously execute them without any hesitation. But there is no real victory here—only the hollow echoes of what’s been lost.

The palace towers—or what remains of them—loom like broken teeth above the city, casting long, disturbing shadows over the courtyard. The once-grand structure is gutted, its walls scorched and pitted The intricate tapestries and golden relics that once adorned its halls have been reduced to charred scraps. For a place so revered, so filled with symbols of power, it feels almost pitiful now, abandoned and empty.

A strange void twists in my chest, a hollow ache that feels both old and new. Achutli—my father, the Arbiter—is gone. Yet his presence lingers, like a breath on the back of my neck. He died here, in these same broken walls, and it still feels unreal. I can’t shake the image of him crumpling to the ground, struck down before I even had a chance to understand the depth of what I felt—grief, anger, confusion, all churning into something bitter and raw. I’d spent so much time dreaming of his downfall, imagining what it would feel like to finally be free of him. And now, all I feel is the weight of it settling over me.

A murmur rises among the people, a ripple of movement as they shift their gaze toward me. There’s something in their eyes—a glimmer of hope, or maybe just a desperate need to believe that someone, anyone, has answers. I want to turn away, to hide from that look, but I know I can’t. I place the amulet so it more visibly dangles around my neck.

“Achutli’s daughter…” I hear someone murmur, the words drifting to me on the wind.

I stiffen, the ache in my chest sharpening. They know who I am. But… how? How has word spread? Was it the Qente Waila? Someone from the palace?

More questions flood my mind, unanswered. Am I in danger? Who can I trust? Should I run? No, I cannot run anymore. I’m tired of running. I try to escape this place, try to elude my fate, yet I’m always drawn back here no matter how hard I resist, pulled back to Qapauma as though I’ve been caught in the undertow.

Inuxeq’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You know they’re watching you,” she says, not unkindly. Her bow hangs loosely at her side, and there’s a look in her eyes I haven’t seen before. It’s not quite respect, not quite fear—something in between, something I don’t yet have a word for. “They’re waiting.”

“For what?” My voice sounds hollow, even to my own ears.

“For a sign.” Inuxeq shrugs, but there’s a heaviness in her movements. “For what comes next. The Eye in the Flame is gone, Qapauma’s in ruins, and the people… they need someone to follow.”

I swallow, the words sticking in my throat. I’m no leader. Achutli may have been a tyrant, but he was respected—or at the very least, feared. I’m neither. And yet, here I stand, with the amulet that once belonged to a sorcerer, with people looking to me as if I have any right to rule them.

“There’s no one left to lead them,” I mutter, more to myself than to Inuxeq.

Inuxeq studies me for a moment. “That may be true,” she replies, “but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re here, and they’re waiting. They need something to believe in.”

I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see Xelhua standing beside me, his face somber. “You have the amulet,” he says, as if that alone settles the matter. “The people will look to you now.”

I want to laugh, but the sound catches in my throat, bitter and rough. “I’m no leader. And the people know who I am, know that I am the daughter of Achutli—a tyrannical ruler who brought this place into ruin. They’ll more likely execute me than follow.”

But Xelhua doesn’t waver. “You may not think you’re a leader, but they do.” He nods toward the people watching us, their eyes filled with questions I don’t know how to answer. “You just rescued this city from the Eye in the Flame—“

“Twice,” Inuxeq interjects.

Xelhua nods, taken aback by the interruption. He wants to inquire about that detail, but instead, he continues, “You are a hero, something your father apparently never was to these people. They need someone to follow. Someone to believe in.”

It feels like a trap, somehow—an invisible hand pushing me forward, daring me to take that step, to claim something I never wanted. I look around, at the ruins, the people, the devastation. The nobles who once served Achutli linger at the edges. Their faces are pale as they watch me with a mixture of caution and expectation, nervous about what fate awaits them. The Qantua warriors are scattered among them, some looking to Inuxeq, others to me. There’s no unity here, no sense of purpose—just a crowd of survivors clinging to the faint hope that someone will tell them what comes next.

The thought settles over me like a shadow. What does come next? The city is in ruins, the Eye in the Flame defeated, but there’s still so much left undone. The cult may be scattered, but their influence hasn’t died with them. And who knows what other threats may loom beyond Qapauma.

Achutli might have had a plan, some vision of what he thought was best for Pachil. But now, whatever he left behind feels fragile, like a spider’s web under the weight of a boulder. And I don’t know if it’s worth trying to mend it.

Some quick movement catches my eye—a young warrior kneeling beside an elder, pressing a cloth against a wound. The elder clutches a small pendant, his lips moving in a silent prayer. Around them, others are tending to their wounded, patching what little remains of the lives they knew. It’s a quiet, relentless act of survival, a refusal to let the darkness consume them.

Maybe that’s all I can offer them. Not a promise of restoration or a vision of grandeur, but a chance to rebuild. To find some sense of stability in the wreckage of what was. To give them something to hold onto, even if it’s as small as a fragment of hope.

I close my hand around the amulet, feeling the steady pulse of its power. It’s a reminder that I’m not entirely alone in this, that something beyond my understanding has chosen to place this burden on my shoulders. I may not be ready, but I can’t walk away.

The people are gathering now, closer, forming a loose half-circle around us. Faces marked with soot and blood, eyes hollow but searching. I feel their silent questions as they look at me. They’re expecting a leader, someone who will sweep in with promises and purpose. But that’s not who I am.

A few voices rise, tentative. “Daughter of Achutli…” The cold and unwelcome words sink like stones into my chest. They don’t know him like I did—or like I didn’t. Achutli was no father to me. He sent me away, locked me out of his life and out of his plans. And even if I’d wanted revenge, I never wanted to become him. Yet here I am, with his amulet around my neck, facing the people he likely never thought of.

Inuxeq steps up beside me and leans in close. “They see you’re uneasy,” she murmurs, glancing at the crowd. “But you should know, that’s not a weakness. It means you’re still human.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I look down at the amulet, its weight familiar now, though still foreign in some ways. “But what if they expect someone like him?” I murmur, barely audible over the quiet sounds of the crowd.

Inuxeq shrugs, her gaze steady and grounded. “Then they’ll learn to expect something different.”

Xelhua’s hand on my shoulder is steady, with a gentleness I hadn’t expected from him. “No one’s asking you to be like Achutli. They’re asking you to be here, now. To stand with them.”

It feels too simple, too clean. But maybe that’s all they need: someone willing to stand among them, not over them.

What if I fail them? The dark and consuming thought claws at me, but there’s no time to give it weight. I can feel the amulet’s faint but constant pulse, reminding me of what I carry, of the power that’s been thrust into my hands. It’s a power I barely understand, but maybe that’s enough to bring them out of the darkness.

I may not be the leader they deserve, nor the one they would’ve chosen. But I’m here, standing in the ruins of a city that needs rebuilding. I don’t need to be Achutli. I don’t even need to be a ruler. I just need to take the first step, to show them that there’s a path forward, even if it’s barely visible through the ash and smoke.

I take a breath, steadying myself as the crowd falls silent. Their attention presses against me like armor I’m not yet accustomed to wearing. I’m no ruler, no heir to some lofty throne. But I have this amulet. I have these people. And I can see, in their eyes, that they’re clinging to the hope that someone, anyone, will give them direction.

I raise my voice, though it trembles. “The Eye in the Flame is gone. Qapauma is… ours again. And we will rebuild, piece by piece, stone by stone.”

A murmur ripples through the assembly, one that grows louder and more pointed as I scan the faces around me. A woman steps forward, a thin, gaunt figure with a smudged face and wide, hollow eyes. Her clothes are torn, her hands shaking as she clutches a small child to her side. The child’s eyes are wide, mirroring the fear etched into his mother’s face.

“What will happen to us now?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. “Our homes… the palace… who’s to say we won’t be attacked again?” I meet her eyes, and in her gaze, I see something both fragile and unrelenting—a quiet plea, a belief I don’t know if I can live up to, but one I can’t turn away from.

My mouth opens, but I don’t know what to tell her. This was never a burden I wanted, and yet, as I look around, I see that I’m the only one standing here with the amulet, the only one with the means to hold their attention.

Inuxeq’s gaze sharpens beside me, and I sense her silent encouragement. She understands what’s at risk here, perhaps more than I do. I take a breath and speak, though my voice sounds strange to my own ears, like I’m borrowing it from someone else.

“Qapauma will be rebuilt,” I say, more confidently than I feel. “And as long as I’m here, I’ll make sure it remains safe.”

The woman’s eyes don’t waver from mine, and I can feel her skepticism, her need for something secure to hold onto. Behind her, others begin to murmur, others merely waiting, as if testing my resolve.

Then a gruff voice interrupts. “And who are you to promise that?” A man with a scarred face and a limp steps forward, his eyes narrowed with scrutiny. “Achutli’s daughter, sure, but what does that mean? The Arbiter’s gone. What’s left of Qapauma is broken.”

The words hit like a slap, a raw reminder that these people knew Achutli as a figure of power, not as I did—as an absence, a deep wound I didn’t know existed. The title “daughter” feels strange, and I have to swallow down the bitter taste of resentment that rises at the thought of being tied to him now.

“I’m not Achutli,” I say, forcing the words out past the tightness in my throat. “And I have no desire to rule as he did.”

The man’s gaze is hard, his eyes narrowing as if sizing up my words. “Then what are you here for?”

For a moment, I don’t know. The truth is, I don’t have a grand vision, no master plan. But I do know what it felt like to live under Achutli’s shadow, and I know that whatever I offer, it won’t be the same thing he gave them. The amulet pulses against my skin, its warmth steady and grounding.

“I’m here because you’re still here,” I begin. “I’m not Achutli. And I won’t be him. His rule ended in fire and ruin, but this city still stands. Its people still stand.”

I step forward, my eyes sweeping over the faces before me. Some are hollow with despair, others cautious, but I can see it—the faintest glimmer of something waiting to be ignited.

“If Qapauma has endured tyranny and war, then it can endure this, too. We will rebuild. Together. As survivors—those who refused to fall when the world burned around us. And if you’ll let me, I will stand with you—not above you, but beside you—to rebuild it. Not as Achutli’s daughter. Not as your ruler. But as someone who refuses to let this city, or its people, fall into irreparable ruin.”

There’s a pause, as if the words are hanging in the air, waiting to be claimed. A quiet murmur washes over the crowd, a wave of uncertainty rippling through them as they glance at each other. For some, my words seem enough—at least for now. Others, though, remain unconvinced, their eyes filled with doubt, with questions I can’t yet answer.

The noble remnants from the palace linger at the edges, their gazes wary and calculating. They’re waiting, I realize—not for a ruler, but for someone to restore their comforts, their power. To them, I’m a placeholder, an unknown. They won’t follow me out of loyalty, only convenience, only because they have no other choice.

Inuxeq steps forward, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “You may not trust her now,” she says, her voice firm and resolute, “but she’s the one who stood against the Eye in the Flame, who holds the power that once held you all in fear.” She turns, looking each of them in the eye, her gaze unflinching. “If you can’t trust her, then trust in the power she’s wielded to save this city.”

One by one, people in the crowd nod, some murmuring agreement, others looking uncertain but willing to try. Standing off to the side, I see Xelhua, his broad frame half-shadowed by the broken palace wall. When our eyes meet, he steps forward, unsheathes his obsidian sword, and slams it point-first into the ground between us. The sharp crack of stone splitting beneath it cuts through the murmurs, and he looks at me with a steady, unwavering gaze.

“You’ve got my blade,” he says simply, his deep voice echoing across the courtyard.

The nobles shift uncomfortably, exchanging glances, and the tension among the crowd seems to ease, if only slightly. I look at Inuxeq and Xelhua, gratitude mingling with something I can’t quite name. They believe in me, in this choice, even if I’m still finding my way through it.

Somewhere in the crowd, I hear it—soft at first, a single voice threading through the chaos like an errant breeze. “Quya Haesan.” The title feels foreign, like wearing someone else’s skin. Quya. It echoes in my chest, curling around my ribs like vines.

I’ve heard the word before, in my youth. Back then, it was just a sound, a polished thing tossed around gilded halls by people who mattered far more than I did. Back when my only concern was learning which phrases would make indifferent nobles nod their approval. Those days were full of ceremony and pretense, and I thought I wanted that life—a life of influence, of respect. But now, the title feels like an ill-fitting cloak, dragging at my shoulders.

Then it comes again. A murmur here, a whisper there, the voices multiplying, weaving together. Quya Haesan. The sound ripples through the crowd, faint but gaining strength. It brushes past the palace guards standing nearby. They begin to stand a little taller, their stances changing. The crowd around them stirs, and I can feel it: the faint, growing tide of hope and uncertainty. My hands curl into fists at my sides as I struggle to find my footing. I’m no ruler. I’ve never wanted to be.

What do they see when they look at me? A symbol of victory? A replacement for the tyrant they lost? I glance at the amulet against my chest, its soft pulse an uncomfortable reminder that I carry more than I ever asked for. Their stares settle over me, and for a fleeting moment, I want to throw the amulet away, cast off this title, leave the city and its broken walls behind.

But I can’t. Their eyes pin me in place, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm I can’t escape.

Quya Haesan.

I draw in a shaky breath, my chest tight. The title hums in the air, growing louder, entwining itself with the rubble, the ash, the raw wounds of the city. This wasn’t supposed to be me. This wasn’t supposed to be my life. And yet, here I am, with no plan, and no certainty about what comes next.

More whispers reach me first. They’re faint and scattered, blending into the low murmur of voices still stirring among the survivors. At first, I barely notice, being so wrapped up in self-doubt within my own mind. But there’s something about the way they ripple through the Qantua warriors that makes my skin prickle. A few of the warriors glance at each other, their eyes wide with disbelief, though they quickly drop their gazes when I look their way. It’s a subtle shift, an undercurrent of unease, but it starts to build, gathering momentum with each passing moment.

Inuxeq straightens beside me, taking note of the shifting expressions among the warriors. She catches sight of two or three Qantua breaking away from the group, hurrying toward the edge of the crowd as if drawn by some unseen force. Other warriors seem torn, caught between following their brothers and sisters or staying at Inuxeq’s side.

“What’s going on?” Inuxeq demands, but none of the warriors dare to meet her eyes. Instead, they exchange uncertain glances, their silence stretching out like the aftermath of a thunderclap.

This only makes Inuxeq even more visibly infuriated. She steps forward, her posture rigid, her voice cracking like a whip. “I asked what’s going on. Someone speak!”

The silence hangs for a heartbeat longer before one of the younger warriors is bold enough to step forward. He swallows, glancing back at the others as if hoping for support, but they avoid his gaze. Taking a deep breath, he looks at Inuxeq, his voice barely more than a squeak.

“It’s… Taqsame, Lady Inuxeq. He… he lives.”

The words land like stones dropped into a still pond, sending ripples of shock that freeze me in place. Inuxeq’s face goes blank, her eyes widening as the revelation sinks in.

“Are you sure?” Inuxeq asks, barely holding together the disbelief and something else—an undercurrent of… fear? Hope? I can’t tell.

The warrior nods, glancing back over his shoulder where others are already pushing their way through the crowd, following the whispers that gather like storm clouds. “They’re bringing him here. He’s… injured. Terribly wounded. But he’s alive.”

Taqsame—alive? After everything, after the flames, the battles, the direct confrontation with the grand sorcerer of the Eye in the Flame, how could he have survived?

Xelhua steps forward, watching over the crowd carefully. I can feel his tension radiating off him, uneasy with this news. He doesn’t say a word, but his jaw clenches, his grip tightening on the hilt of his weapon as if bracing himself for whatever’s coming.

And then I see it—movement in the distance, the crowd parting as a few Qantua lead a staggering figure forward. The murmurs rise, swelling into a low hum that vibrates through the air, thick with disbelief, awe, and something else—a reverence that feels raw and uneasy. Slowly, almost painfully, the figure emerges, stumbling with each step as he’s assisted by his compatriots in black and gold, his form battered and bloodied, but unmistakably alive.

Taqsame.

The crowd’s whispers grow louder. They watch, their faces a mixture of shock and something close to awe, as if they’re witnessing the return of a specter, a ghost risen from the ashes of the city. Taqsame’s face is pale, smeared with soot and blood, his armor charred and battered, but his eyes… there’s a fire in them that refuses to die.

“He should be dead.” Inuxeq speaks with a tremor beneath the words.

Yet here he is, each step bringing him closer, his gaze fixed ahead with a determination that defies everything we’ve just been through. The crowd’s attention is locked onto the man who, by all accounts, should have perished in the fires, should have fallen alongside the ruins of Qapauma. But somehow, impossibly, he rests before us, as if even death itself couldn’t claim him.