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The wind carries the ash of forgotten fires. It scrapes against my skin, fine and sharp, like it’s trying to carve its mark into me. Pichaqta stands ahead, its gates swallowing the horizon. There, enormous slabs of blackened stone are etched with carvings of the Qiapu. The designs are still there, barely, but they’ve been scraped over, crudely overwritten with symbols that don’t belong—twisted shapes of fire and claws and things I don’t want to name. The defacement hits me like a blow to the chest. This was once sacred. I can feel the mockery of it, the deliberate erasure of something beautiful, something that belonged to the people of Pachil.

“It’s too quiet,” Paxilche mutters, breaking the silence. His voice is flat, but there’s a nervousness he tries to mask with annoyance. “Where are the guards? The patrols? The… those in gray robes?”

No one answers. I don’t have one. My instinct says they’re here, hiding in the shadows, waiting for us to stumble into their trap. The Eye in the Flame never leaves their territory unguarded. They’re bold, unrelenting. This… absence… is wrong, indeed.

I catch a glance of the cart and its tired llama trudging behind us. Upachu walks alongside it, lightly resting his hand on the animal’s flank, his face creased with worry. Noch pads close to her human companion, her ears swiveling with every sound, and with her body low to the ground.

Walumaq turns, her gaze lingering on the small procession. Her brow furrows as her hand drifts to her amulet, almost absentmindedly, fingers brushing the cool stone like it might grant her clarity.

“We need to decide what to do,” she quietly confides to me. “Upachu, the cart, Noch and the llama… they can’t come with us.”

She is, of course, correct. They all seem ill-suited for what we’re about to face. And I can’t, in my right mind, allow them to enter into the danger we’re likely to face.

Sensing our uncomfortable deliberations must pertain to him, Upachu clear his throat. He straightens, his brows lifting in mock surprise. “And leave you lot to face whatever’s in there alone? No chance. I’ve survived worse than this, princess.”

“You’ve survived worse because you’re smart enough to know when to stay back,” Walumaq calmly responds. “I will place you in the capable hands of Atoyaqtli and Pomacha, who will stay back with you for protection.”

“Stay back?” Atoyaqtli scoffs uneasily. He glances at the looming walls of Pichaqta, then looks back to the Sanqo princess. “And what happens if you don’t come out?”

“That’s exactly why you need to stay,” Walumaq replies. “If something happens to us, someone has to be there to help. Someone has to be able to come in to interfere should this take a turn for the worse, or to warn others and seek reinforcements.”

“And what about you?” Pomacha, who rarely speaks, interjects. “We were tasked with protecting you, not… him.” He gestures toward Upachu. “Siunqi entrusted us with your safety.”

“And I’m asking you to do this for my safety,” Walumaq counters resolutely. “If Upachu stays behind, I want someone I can trust to protect him. If things go wrong inside, you’ll be our only hope.”

Pomacha’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue further. Atoyaqtli shifts uneasily, exchanging a glance with Pomacha before nodding in reluctant agreement. “We’ll keep him safe,” he says, though making it clear he’d rather be anywhere else.

Upachu’s lips press into a thin line, his pride battling with the logic of her words. Finally, after looking to me for solace—and, to his dismay, not receiving much more than a consolatory glance—he sighs, waving a hand dismissively. “Fine. But don’t think for a moment I’m going to sit around twiddling my thumbs. If things go bad, I’ll find a way to make myself useful.”

“I know you will,” Walumaq says with a small nod and a smile. Her gaze shifts to Noch, who watches her with calm, knowing eyes. “Keep him in line, girl.”

As though she understands, Noch tilts her head, her ears flicking in what almost looks like agreement. Then, the ocelot and Saqatli exchange a solemn, heartfelt look before he turns away to join us.

The cart creaks as the llama shifts, and Walumaq steps back, her focus returning to the looming city ahead. “Let’s go.”

With one last glance over her shoulder, she leads the party forward, leaving Upachu, the cart, and the others in the growing shadow of Pichaqta’s walls.

We pass under the shadow of the gates. The faint metallic tang in the air sharpens, stinging the back of my throat. The streets are wide, paved with stones that must have been laid by the hands of the Qiapu generations ago. But the beauty they built has been marred. Walls that once held murals are smeared with crude paint, red and black streaks that claw across the surface like wounds. Statues lie broken, their faces smashed, the pieces scattered like bones.

Saqatli stumbles again, his hand clutching at his chest. He looks like he’s suffocating, his breaths shallow, ragged. Walumaq touches his shoulder, and I feel a faint pulse of her power ripple outward. She’s trying to soothe him, but whatever’s wrong with him runs deeper than any comfort she can give.

“It’s the city,” she says after a moment, her voice distant, strained. “The land. It’s… ill. Or wounded. Suffering. Everything here… it’s wrong.”

I nod, and my gaze sweeps over the ruins. I don’t have her connection to the amulet, but I don’t need it to feel what she means. There’s a heaviness here that settles in the chest and doesn’t let go. It feels like the land itself is mourning, like we’re standing on the tomb of something that’s not done dying.

We round a corner, and the plaza opens before us. It should be the heart of the city, a place of life and gathering. Instead, it’s a void. The ground is cracked, the stones scorched and warped. At the center stands a massive pyre, its wood blackened and splintered, as if it’s been lit and relit too many times. Around its base lie the remnants of offerings—broken pottery, scraps of cloth, the charred bones of what I can only hope were animals.

The five of us move further into the plaza, as the shadows lengthen around us. Saqatli stumbles again, and this time, he doesn’t catch himself. He falls to his knees, his face contorted in pain.

“Get him up,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. Walumaq crouches beside him with grave concern, her hand on his shoulder.

“It’s burning him,” she whispers, her eyes meeting mine. “Again. The amulet. The city. Something’s…” She shakes her head, unable to find the words.

Paxilche’s eyes sweep through the plaza as he retrieves his hefty war club. “It’s a trap,” he says, his voice rising. “I told you, it’s a—”

The barked words come from behind us, shattering the heavy stillness of the plaza. I spin toward the sound, my glaive instinctively at the ready. A group of men and women marches toward us, clad in polished breastplates that gleam red and gold in the dim light. Their weapons are unlike any I’ve seen before—long, metal rods resting on their shoulders, with edges that are cruel and unfamiliar. The warriors’ faces are pale, their expressions twisted into something colder than hostility, more rigid than anger. They speak again, their language clipped and harsh, words rolling over each other in a rhythm that feels like an argument.

I can’t make sense of it. None of us can. The sounds mean nothing to me, but the intent is clear. They’re commands, orders. A warning, perhaps. Or a demand.

“Who are they?” Paxilche mutters, his hand strangling the hilt of his weapon. “And what are they saying?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, keeping my voice low. My grip tightens on my glaive, though I force myself to keep it lowered.

Walumaq steps closer. “Don’t provoke them,” she calmly suggests. “We don’t know what they’re capable of.”

The warriors fan out into a tightening formation, and the lead figure—a man with a plume of crimson feathers on his helmet—steps forward. His commanding voice booms, though his words remain incomprehensible. He points at us, then sweeps his arm toward the center of the city. The gesture is unmistakable: move. Now.

I can see the calculation in Síqalat’s eyes, the readiness to fight. She doesn’t trust them. Neither do I. But we’re outnumbered, and their weapons—whatever they are—carry a quiet menace that makes my heart leap into my throat.

The warriors bark more words, leaving no room for argument. One of them gestures severely with their weapon. Paxilche glares but steps back, reluctantly lowering his hand from his war club. “This better not be a mistake,” he mutters under his breath. “I don’t like this one bit.”

We’re herded like alpacas through the streets of Pichaqta. With every step, the city’s transformation becomes clearer—and more grotesque. The blackened walls rise high on either side, their surfaces defaced with jagged symbols scrawled in red and gold, looking twisted together like knots. The air reeks of burnt wood and something sharper, acrid, that catches in my throat and stings my eyes.

Around us, the signs of life are muted, broken. The streets are littered with debris—shattered pottery, splintered wood, the remains of something once vibrant. Figures move in the shadows, their movements slow and furtive, like ghosts. I catch glimpses of them—gaunt faces, hollow eyes that dart toward us and away again just as quickly. These aren’t the proud Qiapu warriors I’ve heard stories about. These are survivors, stripped of everything but the barest instinct to endure.

In one corner, I see a small group huddled around a fire, their faces streaked with soot. They whisper to each other, low and franticly, but as we pass, they fall silent. One of them, a woman with a scarred face and a child clinging to her side, meets my gaze. There’s no recognition in her eyes, no plea for help. Just emptiness.

The warriors push us forward, their boots crunching over the scattered remnants of a city that once thrived. I try to imagine what Pichaqta must have been before this, but the destruction is so complete that the effort feels impossible. The Qiapu who built these streets, who carved these symbols, who stood on these walls to defend their home—they’re gone. Vanished.

We pass what must have been a marketplace once, the stalls now reduced to splinters and rubble. The air is thick with the scent of rot, heavy and sour, clinging to everything. Flies buzz in lazy, infuriating swarms over what remains of the wares—shriveled fruits no longer recognizable, gourds split and leaking their fermented contents, and scattered maize kernels ground into the dirt. Broken clay vessels lie in shards, their painted patterns dulled beneath a fine layer of ash. Spilled cacao beans gleam dully, mingling with wilted bundles of herbs, their once-vivid greens now reduced to lifeless brown. Woven baskets lie torn, spilling their contents: brittle feathers meant for adornment, blackened ears of corn, and clumps of what might have been dried chilies, now sodden and useless.

Bones have been picked clean by scavengers rest among the debris—some from the animals sold here, some too large, too human to ignore. The warriors shout at them sifting through the rubble, and they scatter like startled birds, their meager finds clutched to their chests.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Saqatli stumbles again, and this time, he goes down hard. His body trembles, his breaths shallow. Walumaq crouches beside him, her hand on his back, her brow furrowed with worry.

One of the strangely clad warriors shouts impatiently. He gestures for us to move, his expression contorted with disdain. I step between him and Saqatli, my grip tightening on my glaive. The warrior’s hand drops to his weapon, and for a moment, I think this will be it, the spark that ignites the fight.

But Walumaq rises, now stepping between me and these warriors. “We’ll move, we’ll move,” she asserts. “Give him a moment. Please.”

The warrior hesitates, then checks with his leader. The man with the crimson plume makes a sharp gesture, and the warrior steps back. Barely.

Saqatli pushes himself to his feet, his legs unsteady, his face pale as death. His eyes are wide, unfocused, and when he looks at me, it’s like he’s seeing something else entirely. He mutters something, attentively watching the walls that once stood erect to fortify a heavily battered palace.

Walumaq’s hand tightens on his arm, grounding him. “Stay with us,” she says softly, her voice steady. “We’ll get through this.”

The warriors urge us forward again, their weapons raised, their voices sharp. As we approach the heart of the city, the scale of the desecration becomes undeniable. The palace of the Tempered rises before us, its once-proud walls marred with deep gouges, its banners replaced with the crimson and gold of these invaders. The grand steps leading to its gates are stained with something dark, and the air is thick with the weight of what’s been done here.

We’re aggressively pushed toward the gates. Paxilche has to be restrained by Síqalat before he picks a fight with our captors. I glance at Walumaq, who inspects our surroundings with suspicion, though her hand hasn’t left her amulet.

The guards shove us forward, their foreign tongues grating on my ears like shards of obsidian grinding against stone. Their words are incomprehensible, and their tone is sharp and commanding. The palace of the esteemed Tempered looms ahead, though its grandeur twisted into something monstrous.

I’ve seen battlefields, razed cities, the aftermath of horrors that linger long after the final blade falls—but this is different.

The once-pristine walls, carved with the proud history of the Qiapu, are now defaced entirely. Their intricate patterns have been slashed apart and smeared with red-and-blue or red-and-gold symbols. Symbols I don’t understand. Their jagged lines are stark against the stone, almost glowing in the dim light. The crest of the Tempered and the Qiapu has been obliterated, replaced with crude emblems shaped into knots.

The warriors force us into a corridor lit by strange torches that sputter with a blueish flame. The stone beneath our feet is slick, stained with dark streaks I don’t want to name. Paxilche walks ahead of me, his shoulders tense, his fists clenched tight at his sides or around his war club. I can feel the anger radiating off him like heat from a forge.

“Keep your head,” I mutter under my breath, though I don’t know if he hears me.

We then pass a side chamber, and my breath catches in my throat. Devotees kneel in tight rows, their faces pressed to the cold floor. Their muttered prayers rise and fall in unsettling harmony, each voice blending into the next, creating a dissonant hum that claws at the edges of my mind. They wear no robes, no ornaments—only ash smeared across their skin in streaks and patterns that almost resemble tears.

“What is this?” Walumaq whispers, her voice trembling.

One of the guards snaps a command, then coils his arm back as if preparing to strike her. But Paxilche steps in, daring to grab the man by the wrist. The guard snarls, jerking his arm free and shoving Paxilche hard enough to send him stumbling back. Another guard reaches for his weapon, but the first man raises a hand to stop him, his lips curling into something between a sneer and a warning. I place a hand on Paxilche’s chest, and he quickly steadies himself, though he doesn’t look away. Whatever this moment is, it fortunately passes—hanging in the air like a blade suspended by a fraying thread.

Where we are herded, the hallways widen, leading into grand chambers that should be filled with light and life. Instead, they are suffocated by darkness. The faint glow of those unnatural torches barely illuminate the destruction. Perhaps it’s good we cannot see what these people have done to this place.

Stone altars, once adorned with offerings to Qiapu gods, now serve as pedestals for grotesque sculptures. Figures twisted and abstract, their forms resembling no living thing, only pain and power. The scent of incense burns faintly under the stench of charred wood.

The guards stop us at a set of massive doors. Once, they must have been carved with depictions of the Qiapu’s greatest victories—scenes of warriors and gods etched into the wood. Now, they are scorched black, the carvings barely discernible under the layers of claw marks and crude symbols.

With a shove, the doors groan open, revealing the heart of the desecration.

The chamber is vast, its high ceiling supported by enormous stone columns. At the far end, a figure sits upon a throne that doesn’t belong here. It’s not the simple, elegant seat of the Tempered, but a grotesque construction of iron and jagged stone, its angles sharp enough to wound.

He sits there, draped in crimson and gold. Yet his presence fills the room like a shadow that blots out the sun. His eyes glint like embers in a dying fire. I expected arrogance, maybe cruelty in his gaze. What I didn’t expect was indifference.

The guards shout something again, and Paxilche stiffens. I can see his restraint cracking from everything we’ve seen pressing down on him, threatening to split him open.

“Don’t,” I quietly warn, stepping closer to him. “Not yet.” But his fists clench tighter, his breathing uneven.

The figure on the throne glows faintly, as if he’s swallowed the sun and it is trying to escape. His tunic and armor radiate an unnatural golden hue, each fold and plate catching light that isn’t there. The feathers of his headpiece cascade down his shoulders like rays of sunlight, but the brightness isn’t warm. No, it’s harsh—something otherworldly. His face seems carved, like the statues that now lie shattered outside these walls.

He doesn’t move at first. His gaze sweeps over us, disinterested, as though we’re merely insects that have wandered into his domain. And then he speaks.

“I wondered,” his smooth and resonant voice cuts through the silence, “what kind of mortals would dare approach the city of My making.”

I stand there, stunned that I can understand the language he speaks. Merchant’s Tongue. Walumaq, too stiffens at my side, her fingers continue brushing the amulet at her chest. We all exchange confused looks before we attempt to speak ourselves.

“How…?” Walumaq starts, but the word falters as his apathetic gaze lands on her.

“You speak as the land does,” he says, dismissive. “The tongue of trade, of simplicity. It makes no difference to Me what language you understand. All will kneel, in the end.”

He slowly rises from the throne, the golden radiance around him intensifying, casting terrifying shadows along the walls. His suffocating presence grows, as though the air itself bends to accommodate him. “You are in the domain of Xiatli, the One who was cast aside so the weak could inherit a broken world. But I have returned to make it whole.”

“You’ve desecrated Pichaqta!” Paxilche bristles with barely contained fury. “The Qiapu—my people—you’ve turned them into nothing more than slaves.”

There’s something like amusement that curls at the corner of the mouth of this so called Xiatli. “Your people? You think this place still belongs to them?” He leans forward slightly, his golden radiance pulsing faintly with the movement. “The Qiapu were already crumbling. I have merely hastened the inevitable.”

The eyes of the one who calls himself Xiatli trace Paxilche’s arms, lingering on the dark patterns etched into his skin. “Even your marks—your tattoos—speak of a people trapped in time, too blind to see their own irrelevance. I’ve always found your kind’s obsession with such… ornamentation rather quaint. Perhaps I’ve been too kind to call it archaic.”

“You dare mock what you don’t understand,” Paxilche snarls, taking a step forward. “These marks, our traditions… they’ve endured longer than you ever will.”

This Xiatli ignores him, his focus shifting back to the group as a whole. “You are all relics of a dying world. Clinging to your fractured tribes, your fleeting traditions, your pitiful gods. This land has cried out for order—true order—for generations, and I will give it what it needs. You should thank Me for sparing you the slow decay of irrelevance.”

I cautiously step forward. “You speak as if you understand Pachil, as if you know its people. But you don’t. Clearly, you’ve brought only destruction.”

For the first time, Xiatli’s gaze sharpens, narrowing on me like a predator sizing up a potential threat. “You think destruction is new to this land? The Eleven—your so-called heroes—sowed more ruin than I ever could. Their amulets, their power, drained the very life from Pachil. I know because I was there.”

The words steal the air from my lungs. Walumaq looks at me, her eyes wide with alarm. The Eleven… This outsider knows of the Eleven?

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as my gaze locks on the golden figure. Upachu’s stories and discoveries suddenly slam into place like a blade finding its mark. My jaw drops, and the words escape me before I can stop them. “The twelfth,” I practically whisper, the sound barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

Xiatli catches the murmur, and his expression shifts with a faint, amused smirk. “The one cast aside by those who feared what true power could achieve. They called Me reckless, a danger to their precious balance. But balance is weakness. Control, domination—these are what hold a world together.”

Walumaq’s voice trembles as she speaks. “The amulets… their power was tied to Pachil’s life. You can’t believe—”

“Life,” Xiatli interrupts, “is a resource. Like iron, or stone, or blood. To shape a world, sacrifices must be made. The Eleven’s weakness left the world broken. I will not let it remain so.”

At this, Paxilche’s patience snaps. “You’re no savior,” he growls. “You’re a butcher.”

Before I can stop him, he lunges.

“Paxilche, no!” Walumaq warns, desperately calling out to him. But he doesn’t hear her—or he doesn’t care.

The guards tense, raising their strange, gleaming weapons. They shout something sounding like a threat in more of that language I don’t understand. Walumaq’s eyes dart between the warriors and Paxilche, her hand unconsciously moving to her amulet as if she hopes its power might somehow shield us all from what’s about to happen.

But Paxilche is a wildfire that refuses to be snuffed out.

A low rumble builds, a growl in the land itself as his hands twist and pull, summoning a force that feels like it could split the heavens. His shout is raw, primal, as if he’s tearing the power from the sky by sheer will. A spark jumps from his fingertips. It’s faint at first, but it grows and grows like an eager serpent coiling around his arms.

The guards advance, shouting more commands and leveling their weapons. Still, Paxilche doesn’t flinch. The spark becomes a blaze, a jagged arc of blinding energy that crackles and twists, reaching toward Xiatli like a hunter’s snare.

Xiatli watches it all with the same detached indifference. His golden radiance is unshaken, as if the lightning racing toward him were nothing more than an irritation in an otherwise uneventful day. But as Paxilche’s power surges to its peak, a spark of something—curiosity, perhaps—briefly flashes across Xiatli’s face. “Interesting…” he mutters, so faintly it might be lost beneath the storm’s howl. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone, and his expression hardens into one of faint disdain.

The brilliant glow around Xiatli intensifies into a blinding, golden aura that swallows the room. It pulses outward, a single wave of power that seems to stop the world for a heartbeat. The lightning fizzles mid-air, collapsing into harmless sparks that extinguish before reaching him. With his arms still raised, Paxilche halts, confusion flashing across his face.

Slowly and deliberately, Xiatli raises a hand as if he has all the time in the world. “You think you can challenge Me?” he says, as if the very idea were an insult. “A child playing with storms.”

Paxilche growls, taking a step forward, but Xiatli’s hand flicks downward, casual as brushing away an insect. A force slams into Paxilche, invisible but something that overwhelms him, and he’s thrown back like a doll. He hits the ground hard, skidding to a stop in a heap. His body doesn’t move.

Walumaq cries out, rushing to his side, but Xiatli steps forward, his golden light blanketing the Sanqo princess’s face. As a subtle smirk emerges on the demigod’s face, he asks, intrigued, “What else do you all bring?”

Before I can answer, I step forward—an instinct, a reflex, a desperate move to shield Walumaq as she kneels over Paxilche. But I don’t get far.

It happens before I even hear the sound like a clap of thunder.

A sudden force slams into my side, hot and wet, like someone’s smashed a branding iron into me and then tried to shove it straight through my torso. I stagger, my body not catching up to the pain yet, just the impact. It’s like I’ve been punched by a god, some divine blow to remind me how small I really am. My legs falter, knees threatening to buckle, but I force them to hold.

Then it comes—the pain. Sharp, blinding, and all-consuming, as if the air itself has turned to shards of glass and I’m breathing it in. The spot where I’m struck feels alive in the worst way. A throbbing, pulsating thing with a will of its own. My breath hitches, shallow and fast. I taste something metallic and bitter at the back of my throat. Blood.

My hand moves to my side instinctively. There’s warmth there. Sticky, spreading warmth. When I pull my hand away, it’s red, slick, trembling. It’s strange—part of me expected something more dramatic. An explosion of gore. A hole the size of my fist. But it’s just blood. Too much blood.

The world tilts. The sky lurches sideways. Then back. Then sideways again. As if it can’t decide which direction to fall. People are shouting—voices distant and muffled. Like they’re speaking through water. I think someone’s yelling my name. But it sounds wrong. Garbled. My knees finally give out. I hit the ground hard. The dirt is cool against my cheek. I feel grounded, even as everything else feels like it’s drifting away.

I try to breathe. But each inhale is a struggle. A rattle that feels like it might tear my chest open. Every heartbeat feels slower. Heavier. Like the drum of a distant war fading into silence.

I should be panicking, I think. I should be screaming or crying or begging. But there’s a strange calm creeping in. A numbing fog curling around the edges of my mind. It’s not peace—it’s the absence of everything. No rage, no fear, no hope. Just this slow, inevitable unraveling.

My eyes flutter shut. The ground presses harder against me. The world slips into nothing.