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There’s no dawn here today. Just the dim, reluctant light of a day that doesn’t want to begin. The sky is still scorched, tinged with smoke that curls low, clutching at the broken ground. The stones, the twisted ruins, the mutilated bodies, all reek of something singed beyond recognition. Everything looks dull and drained of color, as if the city has been bled dry.

It wasn’t long ago that this city teetered on the edge, battered by siege. Its walls were shuddering, one breath away from crumbling into nothing. But now, the stillness hanging over this place feels much, much worse.

You’d heard legends, the myths. But legends are just stories, idle tales shared to break up the monotony of long days in the fields. You thought you’d seen power before, too—the kind that shakes foundations, that makes men tremble. But what occurred the day before? That was something else. You’re not even sure your mind is capable of wrapping around it, like trying to trap a river in your hands. How do you process the sight of such a being reducing an army of fire-wielding fanatics to nothing, as if they were just a patch of weeds He decided to torch from the garden? You can’t.

So instead, your mind runs in circles, trying to make sense of it. Maybe there’s comfort in denial, in clinging to the possibility that it was all just a trick of the light, a collective hallucination. But no—the ground still smolders beneath your feet, and you can almost taste the ash that still drifts in the air around you. Whatever you saw wasn’t some fevered mirage. It was power—the kind that snaps worlds in half, that makes reality feel flimsy, as thin and useless as a damp sheet of paper.

You move through the deteriorating streets, careful not to trip over debris—bits of clay, terracotta tile, shattered stone, the occasional shard of bone that crunches underfoot. Piles of scorched rubble form strange, twisted shapes in the morning sun, almost like faces caught in a silent scream. For a moment, you imagine the ground itself is watching, bearing witness to this violent transformation.

They’ve already begun renaming this place. “Xiatlazán” is what they’re calling it. “Xiatli’s domain” in your native tongue. You scoff at the lack of originality and creativity. It’s not a far departure from the long-abandoned colony, Xiatlidar. Yet this place feels just as cursed.

Some of the Legido gather around the remnants of the city square. They bow their heads in reverence, hands outstretched, as if touching the very land might bring them closer to His power. You see them kneel, murmuring prayers that you’ve only ever heard whispered in the homeland. But here, they are fervently shouted like a rallying cry. They wail, begging for His blessing. It’s reverence that borders on something darker—a submission to an all-consuming force. They call Him “Savior,” “Fire-Bearer,” and other names that taste wrong in your mouth. It’s as if His victory has ignited a fervor in them, a hunger to offer something more than loyalty, something far greater and deeper than worship.

Others linger at the edges, watching with hollow eyes, their gazes avoiding the smoldering piles of ash and bones. They shuffle nervously, some glancing up at the hazy sky as if it might offer an escape. These people are silent, stiff. To them, Xiatli is no Savior. He is something darker, more inevitable. A force that even death cannot defy. They don’t bow. They don’t chant. They stay on the fringes, worried that, if they get any closer, He would consume them, perish them as he did the invaders. You wonder how long they’ll last here.

The line between loyalty and terror blurs, bleeding into a deep reverence that feels both sacred and profane. You wonder how many here truly believe in Him and how many are pretending, hoping to blend in, to avoid drawing the attention of those who would call them traitors. There’s a sick sense that something beyond mortal loyalty is growing here, like a poison slowly seeping into one’s veins.

A woman steps forward, her red and blue dress in tatters, and her face streaked with ash. Her hands are clasped tightly as she begins to chant. Her words are foreign to you, speaking in some language you don’t recognize. But the others join her, their voices rising until they fill the air with a cadence that’s unsettling in its unity. They chant His name as if each repetition brings them closer to Him, closer to the power that razed the enemies in a single breath.

You feel your stomach churning as you watch. It’s clear now that some of them have surrendered something far deeper than allegiance—they’ve cast aside fear, doubt, even the fragments of their own humanity, and in their place, something feral has taken root. Their eyes are glazed, almost feverish, filled with a devotion that makes your skin crawl.

These aren’t soldiers anymore, not settlers anymore. They’re vessels, hollowed out and refilled with something raw and unbreakable, a fervor that burns with a heat too intense to be reasoned with. It’s a loyalty so absolute it feels irreversible, the kind that doesn’t leave room for mercy, for hesitation. With a twist of dread, you realize that they would die for Him without a second thought—and worse, they would kill for Him with something close to joy.

The memory comes unbidden, slipping into your thoughts like an unwanted shadow, with Iker anxiously fidgeting nearby. For a moment, you’re not here in the ruined palace of Xiatlazán, but back in the homeland, in Legido, on the edge of the tall green hills that framed your childhood farm.

It was the Festival of the Burning Pride, and you were ten, maybe eleven. Too young to truly understand the significance of the occasion but old enough to sense that it mattered. The whole village of Rexurdir gathered at the great bonfire, its flames licking high into the sky, consuming the night with an amber glow. They called it the “Bonfire of Lions,” a tradition meant to honor the courage of the hunters who brought meat to the table and warded off predators from the outskirts of the village.

You remember the faces of the hunters, painted with streaks of red and black, marching stoically in single file toward the blaze. Each carried a torch, which they tossed into the growing inferno. It was meant to be a symbol of sacrifice, of giving a part of themselves to the hunt. You’d stood with your parents at the edge of the circle, wide-eyed and holding tight to your father’s hand, feeling the heat of the fire on your cheeks.

Always one for stories, your father leaned down to whisper to you. “Do you know why they call it the Bonfire of Lions?”

You shook your head, transfixed by the flames.

“Long ago,” he began, “there were lions in these hills. Huge beasts with teeth like knives. The hunters would light fires to scare them away, but the lions—they were clever. They learned to wait, to watch, to let the fire burn out before they struck.”

You remember the way his fingers tightened around yours, his voice growing softer, more intense. “But then, one night, the hunters did something different. They didn’t just light the fire and walk away. They stayed. They stood guard, torches in hand, waiting for the lions to come. And when the beasts appeared, the hunters didn’t run. They charged, driving them back into the dark.”

He paused, looking at you with a strange seriousness that didn’t fit the festive atmosphere. “Courage isn’t about holding your ground. It’s about finding the will to push forward when every part of you wants to turn back.”

You push forward through the rubble, past clusters of devotees and hollow-eyed onlookers, your gaze drifting over the ruined city, which is slowly losing all signs of what it once was.

Ahead, you spot Iker, sitting alone on a crumbling stone. hunched and staring blankly at the ruins in front of him. His face is drawn, ashen. His once-keen eyes are dulled by a curious mix of exhaustion and fear. He doesn’t notice you at first, too lost in his thoughts. His lips move silently as he stares at a toppled statue, its features obliterated by blunt force.

You approach him, and he doesn’t look up. “This city…” he mutters, almost to himself. “What have we done to it?”

Iker’s gaze lingers on the patches of markings already scraped from the walls, their emptiness overtaken by symbols in praise of Xiatli. The vibrant colors of the native artwork, the clay figures, the stone-carved faces—they’re all gone, either smashed beyond recognition or painted over with red-and-gold symbols that barely dry before more appear. “They’re erasing it all,” he says, voice trembling slightly.

You walk in silence for a few steps, the only sound reaching your ears is the crunch of rubble underfoot. Iker’s feet drag, his shoulders hunched as if the changes around you both are bringing him down. You can see it in the lines of his face, in the defeated droop of his posture. “What good is any of this?” he wonders aloud, desolate and despondent.

“They’re all so caught up in Him,” he says bitterly, gesturing to a group huddled nearby, their hands clasped in fervent prayer. Iker looses a sigh, a long exhale that seems to release whatever words he’s been holding back. “We were meant to settle, to build. That’s what they told us, wasn’t it? That we’d come here to make something better.” He gives a short, harsh laugh. “But we’ve only destroyed. And for what? For Him?”

He’s right, to an extent. But you recall the repetitious remarks about obtaining riches beyond your wildest dreams. How this new land was meant to bring prosperity to your people. Is this how they intended to achieve such wealth? Did they know all along that this was the inevitable result?

Around you, Legido soldiers are stripping the remnants of native artifacts, piling them in heaps like refuse, while others meticulously hoist the newly crafted banners, proclaiming Xiatli’s dominion over what remains of the city. One banner unfurls over a half-destroyed wall. On it, a twisted iron knot and blazing sun emblem catches the faint light.

The two of you move solemnly toward the square. Everywhere you look, the knot appears, draped over countless buildings and structures, a symbol synonymous with Xiatli’s rule. His followers work feverishly, plastering the new images over every surface they can find. They work without rest, muttering praises between breaths as they slap symbols of iron and fire onto walls that once held the marks of another culture. The sight of it, this rush to strip away every last trace of the place’s history, turns your stomach.

You walk past a group gathered around a native monument, a statue once carved with intricate designs. Now, it’s defaced, Xiatli’s symbol scrawled across it, red paint dripping down its face like blood. They laugh as they finish their work, stepping back to admire the desecration, as if they’ve created something beautiful in the ruin. Iker watches them, fists clenched, his breath shallow.

Stolen novel; please report.

“What can we even do?” he whispers, almost as if he’s afraid someone might hear him.

A twisted impulse fills you, a momentary urge to tell him there’s nothing left to do, that all that’s left is to survive in whatever way you can. But you bite it back, letting the silence speak for itself.

They’ve taken everything from this place—the people, the culture, the stories that once gave it meaning—and in their place, they’ve left nothing but ruin and devotion to a demigod who walks among them, demanding their loyalty, consuming their fears and doubts like fuel.

You’ve had enough.

You turn to Iker, the question already forming in your mind. But he looks so worn, so defeated, that for a moment, the words refuse to depart your throat. However, the image of that chest, the faint memory of the scroll inside—it keeps tugging at you. The idea feels reckless, even mad, but what choice is left?

“Iker,” you finally say conspiratorially, “do you remember the chest that held the amulet?”

Iker looks at you, brows knitting in confusion before his eyes narrow with suspicion. “I-I don’t know. What are you getting at?”

You take a steadying breath, glancing around to ensure no one else is within earshot. “There was a scroll inside. I didn’t get a chance to look at it before, but maybe it contains something useful. Something that could help us stop this.”

Iker’s face blanches. He takes a shaky step back, his gaze darting between you and the desecrated city square. “Stop this? Stop Him?” His voice trembles. “Are you mad? Do you even know what you’re saying?”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” you reply, more firmly than you feel. “I’m saying that this… whatever’s happening here… it’s going to get worse. You know it, I know it. And if we don’t act now, we’re complicit in whatever comes next.”

Iker stiffens, his eyes widening in alarm. “You can’t be serious. We barely know what’s on that scroll. It could be anything—a trap, a dead-end, a curse. How can you even think about risking it?”

“What choice do we have?” you reply, your voice dropping to a strained whisper. “Look around us. We’re all walking shadows in His world now. We can’t just stand by while He takes everything, and destroys the rest. Maybe that scroll has something we can use. Some hint, some… way out.”

Iker shakes his head, stepping back, his hands tightening into fists. “We shouldn’t even be talking about this here. Do you have any idea what would happen if anyone heard? If He heard?” He looks up at you, his face twisted with a fear that borders on horror as he attempts to drag you away from curious ears. “Do you think Xiatli wouldn’t notice? He sees everything, and if He thought for a moment you were plotting against Him—”

“He doesn’t have to find out,” you cut in, gripping Iker’s shoulder. “We’ll be careful. It’s just a scroll. We look, and maybe there’s something in there that gives us a fighting chance. Don’t the natives deserve a chance to survive, to fight for their freedom? Don’t they deserve more than what we’re doing to them?”

Iker runs a hand through his hair, eyes deliberately moving between the scattered groups of Legido in the square. “And what if it’s nothing? What if you read it, and there’s no answer, no solution? Then what?”

“Then at least we’ll know,” you reply, feeling the weight of each word press against your chest. “Then at least we won’t be here, pretending that this—” you gesture to the square, to the Legido lost in their frenzied devotion, “is all we can hope for. Because I refuse to believe that we came here for this. You said it yourself—what we’re doing here is erasing everything.”

Iker’s gaze hardens, and for a moment, you see the fight in him flare, like a spark that could just as easily ignite or peter out. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, his shoulders slumping as he lets it out. “You’re going to do this, no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

You nod, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over you. “I have to. We both know it.”

Iker frowns, wrestling with the difficult decision. You place a gentle hand on your friend’s shoulder, meeting his eyes with yours. “I’m not asking you to do anything reckless. Just… just help me find it. Help me see if there’s something in there that can make a difference.”

He sighs, looking away, his face caught between resignation and fear. “Fine,” he mutters. “But don’t expect me to come with you. I’ll… I’ll keep watch. Make sure no one else stumbles in on your… plan.”

You gently squeeze his shoulder, gratitude swelling in your chest. “Thank you. That’s all I’m asking.”

You and Iker slip into the narrow alleys flanking the square, the towering ruins casting jagged shadows over the uneven cobblestone path. Every corner, every turn, offers a glimpse of how fast the city is bending to His will—shrines erected seemingly overnight, relics of the native inhabitants replaced with crude symbols and banners. Your path is nearly blocked by scattered groups of Legido soldiers and civilians. Some are fervently praying, others go about their tasks with mechanical devotion, their eyes blank and mouths murmuring praises.

Iker’s face is pale as he glances around. “Look at them,” he says, sounding resigned. “They’re already gone, aren’t they?”

You’re about to respond when, just around the corner, you catch sight of Criato. He’s kneeling, head lowered, his posture nearly supplicant. Beside him stands the imposing Xiatli, unconcerned with the activity taking place around Him. The glow of His amulet casts a faint red halo that almost looks like fresh blood in the morning light.

Criato lifts his head and clears his throat. “Great Sapa, the city—Xiatlazán—it bows before you,” he says with a bit of uncertainty. “We have done as you commanded, stripping the old ways, the old faces. The people are yours now, wholly devoted.” He hesitates, glancing up at Xiatli with something like cautious pride.

Xiatli barely acknowledges him, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the city’s borders. “Pichaqta,” He mumbles. “This place had a name once… but names have no bearing here.” His tone is indifferent, a god contemplating the nature of His dominion with a kind of remote detachment, as if He finds even the discussion of this city beneath Him.

Criato frowns, his face twisting in confusion. “Pichaqta?” he echoes, clearly unfamiliar with the term. “But… my Sapa, Xiatlazán is—”

“It is nothing but a vessel,” Xiatli interrupts, His voice flat, devoid of all emotion, “a mere foothold in a world that has long awaited its proper master.”

Criato flinches, his lips parting as if to protest. But he quickly snaps his mouth shut, bowing his head low. Around you, a few of the devotees shift uncomfortably, exchanging quick and uncertain glances. There’s an uneasy finality to Xiatli’s words, ones that worry you about their implications. He has grander designs, a hunger that stretches beyond these walls, beyond even the horizon.

Your mission is now more urgent than ever, if you’re to stop this path of destruction. You just hope the scrolls do, in fact, contain the solution.

You glance at Iker, who meets your gaze with wide, alarmed eyes. He grabs your arm, silently pleading with you to keep moving. You press yourself into the shadow of a crumbling archway. Your breath is shallow, and your ears strain for any sound of pursuit. Iker is somewhere behind you, doing his best to follow without drawing attention. But you can feel his unease radiating like heat off hot cobblestones. The corridors of the palace are alive with movement—soldiers patrol the halls, while devotees linger in clusters, calling out their prayers to Xiatli as though their voices could fortify the walls themselves.

As you sneak your way into the palace, your father’s retelling of the Festival of the Burning Pride haunts your memories. At the time, you hadn’t fully grasped his words. It had seemed like just another story, one of many he told to pass the time or keep you entertained. But now, crouched in this ruined palace, with the shadow of Xiatli looming over everything, those words return to you with startling clarity.

Courage isn’t about holding your ground. It’s about finding the will to push forward when every part of you wants to turn back.

You think of the natives of this place, their culture burned to ash and painted over with symbols of domination. You think of the Legido soldiers and devotees, their loyalty easily bending under Xiatli’s power. Crouched here with Iker, you wonder if the scroll might hold the key to something greater—or nothing at all.

You and Iker edge along the outer walls, ducking into alcoves whenever a group of soldiers or devotees passes. The palace looms ahead, transformed under Xiatli’s dominion. The Legido banners, joined by those of Xiatli’s knot, flutter over the stone walls, red, blue, and gold stark against the faded murals beneath them. Once depicting scenes of peace and prosperity, the murals are now disfigured, smeared with black paint or gouged with the marks of chisels. The stones themselves seem to carry a faint sheen, as if Xiatli’s influence has tainted the very walls.

You step into the palace entrance, pausing just long enough to get your bearings. You take a sharp breath, inhaling the thick scents of smoke, incense, and something else that tastes unnervingly like blood. The faint outlines of carved, proud faces, chiseled with painstaking care, stare down at you. They’re defaced and hollow-eyed, stripped of their former reverence. The remnants of the native ruler’s crest or emblem can barely be seen under the claw marks gouged into the stone.

The two of you press forward, slipping into the shadows that cling to the high-vaulted corridors. The palace’s once-pristine floors are littered with debris and trampled offerings left by the city’s last defenders. Dressed in their polished breastplates and clanking armor, the Legido soldiers march through the halls with newfound confidence. Their eyes gleam with reverence whenever they catch sight of Xiatli’s image emblazoned on the walls. Here and there, you catch sight of the twisted iron-and-blood knot symbol hastily painted over faded frescoes of the city’s previous rulers.

“We’ll need to get through there,” you whisper, nodding toward a side corridor as you duck behind a crumbling pillar. The path is narrow and dimly lit, but it leads toward the lower chambers, where you assume—and hope—the ruler’s personal artifacts might still be hidden.

Iker’s face twists in worry. “You think the chest’s even still here?”

You bite your lip, casting a wary glance down the hall. “We’re about to find out.”

As you move deeper, the sights and sounds of the palace grow more unsettling. The walls seem to groan under the impact of their desecration. Every whisper and murmur echoes as though they’re from some place beyond this world. Devotees prostrate themselves in small alcoves, muttering fervent prayers. Their voices rise and fall in unsettling harmony. You edge past them, straining to move without catching anyone’s suspicious eye.

In the distance, a faint glow spills from a room up ahead. You hesitate, but the need to keep searching propels you forward. You glance at Iker, who offers a reluctant nod. Silently, the two of you creep closer, careful to stay within the shadows. As you reach the doorway, you peer in and find a room filled with relics of Xiatli’s newly claimed dominion—stone sculptures, banners, and offerings arranged in haphazard heaps. In the center of the room sits a chest, plain but somehow radiant in its simplicity, standing out against the gaudy display around it.

You step forward, eyes fixed on the chest, but before you can reach it, you hear voices approaching from down the corridor. The footsteps grow louder, marching diligently toward you.

“Move, now,” Iker hisses, tugging you toward a darker corner of the room.

You crouch down, heart hammering as two figures stride into the room. One is a Legido commander, his red-and-blue armor gleaming as he straightens and bows before the makeshift idol cast in the room, muttering words you can’t quite make out. You hold your breath, watching as he meticulously inspects the offerings at the feet of this chaotically-built statue, reverently gazing at each relic.

After what feels like an eternity, the commander turns and exits, leaving the room empty once more. You and Iker exchange a tense glance before slowly emerging from your hiding spot.

You step toward the chest, with every sense on high alert. A modicum of relief washes over you as you approach it. The wooden surface is rough under your fingertips, worn from years of handling. You kneel down, reaching for the latch, then pull back the lid. Your heart thunders as you reach inside, hoping that this one piece of parchment might hold the answer to stopping Xiatli’s destructive rule.

But before you can even fully grasp the scroll, a sudden hand clamps over your mouth, dragging you backward. Without thinking, you let go of the parchment, letting it drop back into the opened chest. An arm locks around your shoulders, pinning you in place. You twist, a flash of terror surging through you as you struggle against the iron grip. Your elbows jab and your body writhes, but the grip only tightens.

“Quiet, for gods’ sake,” comes a low, urgent whisper. You freeze, the somehow familiar voice ceasing your panic. “It’s me.”

You turn, finding yourself face-to-face with none other than Landera.