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The murmurs roll through the Qantua like a quake starting deep beneath the surface. It’s subtle at first, then rumbles into something that cracks even the air. Warriors who moments ago stood stoic now break into clusters, their heads bowed together, their hands gripping weapons tightly.
Inuxeq takes a step forward, her bow lowered but her hand resting near her blade. Her gaze flicks to the approaching figure, every muscle in her body coiled as if preparing for an ambush. “This… this can’t be possible,” she mutters to herself.
Taqsame stumbles forward, supported by two warriors who practically carry him by the arms. His legs drag against the dirt, his steps uneven and trembling, but there’s a fire in his eyes that doesn’t dim. His chest rises and falls in shallow, labored breaths, his battered armor a patchwork of blackened leather and scorched metal. Blood crusts along his jawline and streaks down his arms, seeping into the torn fabric of his tunic.
“By the stars,” Xelhua says under his breath, the word more an exhalation than a prayer. His face hardens, his brow furrowed with suspicion, but he doesn’t move.
I watch as Taqsame’s head tilts slightly upward, looking over the crowd. He’s barely standing, held together by will alone, and yet there’s something undeniable in the way the warriors look at him—like he’s already won a battle that no one else could.
The whispers swell again, louder now, and words begin to take shape within the hum: The gods saved him. He is chosen.
I glance at Inuxeq. Her nostrils flare as her sharp eyes cut through the crowd. She wants to say something to the warriors, I can tell, wants to silence their unabashed reverence for this foul person. But their gazes remain fixed on Taqsame, as though he’s the answer to something none of them knew they were asking.
He raises a hand—not grandly, but shakily, as if it costs him everything to do so. “Hae—” His voice is barely audible. He coughs, a horrible sound that rakes through his body, forcing one of the warriors to tighten their grip to keep him upright.
Inuxeq stiffens, her expression unreadable as she steps between the young Qantua general and me. “Taqsame.” She speaks his name like she’s testing the word, trying to decide if it’s worthy of her breath.
“Still…” His voice rasps, and he looks up at her to meet her gaze. “Still here.”
Her face is stone, her eyes sharp as obsidian. “You shouldn’t be.”
A faint, bitter smile touches his lips. “The gods… disagree.”
His words settle over the crowd, and for a moment, even Inuxeq seems unsure how to respond. Behind her, the murmurs begin again, spreading like wildfire.
“He is chosen. He is protected. He will rise again.”
Now Xelhua steps forward, gripping the hilt of his sword. “Faith is a dangerous thing,” he speaks aloud, as if to no one in particular and everyone, all at once, “especially when it’s misplaced.”
The nearest warriors bristle, their shoulders stiffening as their hands drift closer to their weapons. Are they truly ready for a confrontation? Ready to defend this hero they now worship?
Taqsame coughs again, a wet, rattling sound, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “You see it, don’t you?” His voice cracks, but the words are clear, directed at Inuxeq. “This isn’t the end.”
Her hand hovers so close to her blade that I think she might draw it. But then she exhales sharply and takes a step back. “You’re still breathing,” she says, her tone flat, almost dismissive. “But that doesn’t make you a savior.”
Yet the murmurs don’t die. If anything, they grow louder, more fervent. The Qantua warriors exchange glances, and it’s all I need to see to know the implications Taqsame’s resurrection has on the fate of Pachil. The shift, the way the warriors look at him now. He’s not just as a leader, but a symbol, a spark of something greater.
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The city feels like a broken bone, newly set, but still throbbing with pain. Its skeleton stands jagged and scorched, pieces of its spirit scattered like ashes in the wind. Yet somehow, against all odds, there’s movement, life trickling back into the ruins like water finding its way through cracks in a parched riverbed.
I stand at the edge of what was once the grand square of Qapauma, now a hollow husk of its former self. Once proud and gleaming under the sun, the great obsidian pylons are toppled or fractured.
But the people are here. And already, they are rebuilding.
Having a face streaked with soot, a woman bends to gather what remains of a toppled statue. She is small, her shoulders hunched with fatigue, yet her arms are strong as she heaves the fractured piece onto a pile of rubble. Silent, wide-eyed, and solemn from all that they’ve seen for their age, a group of children nearby picks through the debris, retrieving bits of charred wood and stone. They don’t play, don’t chatter, don’t make a sound. Their small hands work methodically, tirelessly.
An older man limps past me, his gait uneven, and a deep cut on his temple is crusted with dried blood. He carries a woven basket filled with shards of pottery, each piece handled with care as if they’re fragments of a memory he refuses to lose. He doesn’t look at me. None of them do. Their focus is on the work, on the act of reclaiming what they can from the ruins, as if that alone might tether them to the lives they had before the flames came.
It’s not the bustling energy of a city in recovery, though. There’s no chatter, no barked orders, no laughter to break the heavy silence. Instead, it’s a somber cacophony of shuffling feet, the scrape of stone against stone, the occasional grunt of exertion.
And yet, they continue. Step by step, stone by stone, they labor to fight back against their exhaustion and grief. Small acts of quiet defiance against the destruction that tried to consume them.
I can’t tell if it’s hope or futility that drives them.
They rebuild, but they do not mourn aloud. There are no public displays of grief, no wailing or lamenting the losses that hang heavy in the air. Instead, the sorrow is carried in their silence, woven into every movement, every lifted stone and salvaged fragment. It’s an unspoken agreement, a collective understanding that there’s no time for tears.
I feel the cold and inert amulet against my chest, like a stone pulled from some forgotten grave. Its presence is both grounding and unbearable, a reminder that my place here is tenuous at best. I’m not Qantua, not Achope. I’m not of this city or its people. Yet I’m here, watching them stitch their lives back together with trembling hands and raw determination. And I wonder if they even want my help, or if my presence is just another burden they have to bear.
Xelhua steps up beside me, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the fractured square. He says nothing at first, just watches the people with a quiet intensity that feels heavier than words.
“These people,” I say finally, my voice barely more than a whisper. “They’re strong, indeed.”
He grunts in response, a sound that could mean anything. His hand rests lightly on the hilt of his sword, the gesture almost absent, like muscle memory. “Strength doesn’t rebuild cities,” he says bluntly after a moment. “It just keeps you alive long enough to try.”
I nod, though his words make me feel a bit uneasy. “Do you think it’s enough? That they’ll make it through this?”
“Enough?” Xelhua asks, almost exasperatedly. “What’s enough, Quya? Enough to keep them alive? Enough to make them whole again? In order to persevere, it’s a question of what they’re willing to give.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. Instead, I watch the people of Qapauma move through the ruins of their home, their backs bent but unbroken. A silence settles between us. My thoughts drift, not to the people bustling in the square, but to the battle. To the flame. To Mexqutli’s last moments.
“Do you think he knew?” I murmur.
Xelhua tilts his head inquisitively. “Who knew? And what?”
“Mexqutli.” I hesitate, feeling the name catch in my throat. “Do you think he knew he wouldn’t survive?”
Xelhua’s face hardens, his hand tightening slightly on the hilt of his sword. “He knew. He must have.”
The certainty in his voice makes my stomach twist. Before I can ask how he can be so certain, Inuxeq’s voice interjects. “Mexqutli was always a mystery,” she says as she approaches us.
Her eyes flick to Xelhua, then back to me. “You think he knew? He was always lying. About where he was going, what he was doing… even why he came to Qapauma in the first place.”
Xelhua’s gaze shifts to Inuxeq. “And the colors he wore?” he asks pointedly. “You traveled with him. Tell me, did he ever explain why he wore the black and crimson?”
Inuxeq frowns, the exhaustion on her face momentarily giving way to confusion. “The black and crimson?”
“Of the Iqsuwa who served the Timuaq,” Xelhua clarifies, his words landing like a hammer. “He knew what they meant. Anyone who wore those colors knew.”
Inuxeq stiffens, her shoulders squaring. “He said he was an emissary for the Ulxa, sent to broker peace through diplomacy. But…” Her voice falters, her eyes dropping to the uneven stone beneath our feet. “But that’s what he said. Nothing about him ever fully added up. He lied about why he came to Qapauma. Lied about his intentions with Achutli. Then he disappeared. And now…”
“People lie for many reasons,” Xelhua asserts. “Some lie to protect themselves. Others lie to hide their true intentions. Mexqutli… Mexqutli lied because he was running. From what, I don’t know. But whatever he was, it wasn’t for Pachil.”
“Is that what you think?” Inuxeq snaps. “That he wasn’t for us? He sacrificed himself, gave his life to stop the Sunfire! How do you explain that?”
Xelhua doesn’t flinch. “And you think that erases everything else?”
Before the tension can boil over, a sharp cry echoes across the square. A group of Qantua warriors struggles to lift a fallen beam from the rubble, their strained shouts drown out the murmurs of the crowd.
Without another word, Xelhua strides toward them. His broad hands reach to steady the wood as the others strain under its weight. Inuxeq lingers for a moment, then lets out a frustrated snort before she moves to help.
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I remain where I am, watching. Watching the Qantua warriors as they nod their thanks. Watching Xelhua as he brushes dust from his hands. Watching Inuxeq as she wipes sweat from her brow.
And in the quiet that follows, I look back over all the subtle progress being made, the unity of people in an effort to rebuild. I think of everything that has led to this, everything that has allowed me to live. Mexqutli’s secrets are ashes now. But questions still linger.
Taqsame. Mexqutli. Achutli. Myself.
The thought whispers through me like a chill: Is anyone truly for Pachil?
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We gather in the shadow of a charred outcrop, the light of distant torches dimly illuminating this place. Xelhua, Inuxeq, and I stand in a loose circle, exhausted from a day’s work. We share a silence of a job well done, doing our best to not allow the work that looms tomorrow to take away from what we’ve achieved today.
Xelhua and Inuxeq swap a leather pouch between them. I hear the sloshing of liquid as they assertively yank the bag into their grasp. They take long—long—pulls from the pouch, allowing the cloudy beige liquid to trickle down their cheeks. The fermented smell makes me gag, and every time it’s offered to me, I passionately wave it away in disgust, trying to refrain from vomiting… much to their amusement.
It’s Inuxeq who speaks first. “You know we can’t just let this… thing grow.” Her voice is deliberate, conspiratorial, and low enough to avoid catching the ears of any nearby warriors. “If they think he’s some kind of gift from the gods, there’s no telling what they’ll do.”
“They’ll follow him,” Xelhua says bluntly, crossing his arms. “These warriors—they’re desperate. And that’s not to mention the Tapeu. They’ve lost their homes, their families, their leaders. The Qantua are likely to follow one of their own without question. But the Tapeu? Taqsame offers them a reason to believe they haven’t lost everything.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s real,” Inuxeq counters, taking another gulp from the pouch before tossing it to Xelhua. “He’s barely standing. He should be dead.” She looks over to me, her body swaying slightly. “You saw him, Haesan. Does that look like someone the gods are propping up? Or something else?”
I glance at Xelhua, then at Inuxeq. “It doesn’t matter what I think,” I say after a beat, choosing my words carefully. “What matters is what they think. And right now, the people think Taqsame is their last hope.”
“If Taqsame still breathes,” Xelhua says, nodding, his voice suddenly more gravely, “after what we’ve seen, then the gods are with him.”
“He’s merely a man,” Inuxeq scowls. “A man who happened to survive when others didn’t. That doesn’t make him divine.”
Xelhua shakes his head. “If Taqsame takes control of the Qantua… if they rally behind him, where does that leave the rest of us? What happens when he decides his survival is a sign that he’s the only one to sit atop that throne?”
I hesitate. The truth is, I don’t know what happens then. I don’t know if Taqsame is a savior or a threat or something in between. But I do know that whatever he is, he’s already changing the way the Qantua see the world—and that kind of power is dangerous, no matter whose hands it’s in.
The oppressive thought lingers until the murmurs of the crowd around us prick at my awareness. I blink, glancing toward the scattered groups of warriors and civilians. At first, I think it’s just the usual tension—exhaustion and frayed nerves taking their toll.
But then I hear it: a voice. Familiar, tinged with a warmth that cuts through the haze of gloom in which I’m enveloped.
“Does trouble follow you, or do you drag it behind you like a shadow?”
I whirl around, my heart lurching in my chest, and there she is. She’s leaning heavily on the arm of a shaman, her face pale but still set in that familiar wry expression. Her clothes are torn, stained with blood both hers and not, and a crude bandage wraps tightly around her left arm. Yet despite it all, she stands, her eyes sharp and alive as they find mine.
“Yachaman,” I breathe, my voice cracking and filled with relief. I take a step toward her, then another, and before I know it, I’m running, closing the distance between us in a heartbeat. She straightens just enough to catch me as I throw my arms around her, her body solid and warm despite the tremor in her limbs.
“You’re alive!” I exclaim, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I thought—after the battle, I thought—”
“Haesan,” she interrupts, grimacing as I realize I’ve hugged her much too tightly, and let go only slightly. “I’ve been nearly killed twice since I met you. Are you trying to make it a habit?”
I laugh, a sound that’s equal parts relief and disbelief, and step back just enough to look at her. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”
“And you’re too sentimental,” she retorts, though her smirk softens the bite of her words. “You know how much I care for… contact. But I suppose I’ll forgive you this once.”
The shaman clears his throat, drawing my attention to the fresh bandages covering her side and arm. “She shouldn’t be standing,” he says, disapprovingly. “It’s a wonder she’s alive at all.”
“I told you,” Yachaman mutters, waving him off with her good arm. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” I say, frowning as I take in the state of her injuries. “You look like you’ve been dragged through several battlefields.”
“That’s because I have,” she says with a faint, wry smile, though something darker lurks beneath the jest. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’ve survived worse.”
The shaman shakes his head, muttering something about stubborn Aimue as he steps aside to let us talk. I don’t miss the way Yachaman’s shoulders sag slightly once he’s gone, nor the wince she quickly hides when she shifts her weight.
“You should be resting,” I say, my concern outweighing my relief. “You don’t have to—”
“Haesan,” she cuts in. “I’m here. That’s what matters.”
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat making it difficult to speak. “I’m glad,” I finally manage, barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I could’ve done this without you.”
Her smirk returns, softer this time, and she places a hand on my shoulder. “You would’ve managed. You’re stronger than you think.”
The moment stretches between us, the noise of the square fading into the landscape. It’s as though the world itself has stilled to make space for this reunion. Yachaman’s eyes meet mine, and I feel the air shift with all the unspoken words and everything we thought we’d lost. For so long, I’d carried her absence, like a hollow ache I’d taught myself to ignore. But now, standing here with her, it feels as though something long buried has surfaced. I don’t know whether it’s the work of the gods, the Eleven, or some cruel twist of fate that has brought us back together, but I don’t care. She’s here. Flesh and bone, stronger than I dared imagine, and yet, somehow, more human than I remember.
I should say something—anything—but the words stick in my throat, swallowed by the tidal wave of relief and something I can’t quite name. All I know is that for this fleeting moment, it feels like the world is right again, and the thought of losing her is more than I can bear.
“She’s right,” Xelhua says, pulling me back to the present. “You’re stronger than you think. And you’re going to need that strength.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, though I have a sinking feeling I already know the answer.
“This city,” he says, gesturing to the ruins around us. “These people—they’re looking to you now. Whether you want it or not, you’re their Quya.”
The word still makes my stomach twist every time it’s uttered. “I’m not a queen,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m just trying to help.”
“That’s what makes you a good one,” Inuxeq says, surprisingly tender in demeanor. “But if you’re going to lead, you need more than strength. You need support.”
“Support?” I echo, frowning from not understanding.
“A council,” Xelhua says matter-of-factly. “Not just warriors or advisors, but representatives—people from all over Pachil. The Qantua, the Tuatiu, the Sanqo… all of them.”
“A council?” I repeat, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. “You think they’ll listen to me?”
“They’ll listen if you make them,” Inuxeq says. “And if they don’t, you’ll have us to back you up.”
I look at her, then at Xelhua, my mind racing. A council. A group of people from every corner of Pachil, coming together to rebuild, to protect what’s left. It’s an idea that feels both impossible and inevitable, a thread of hope woven into the fabric of everything we’ve been fighting for.
“This could work,” I say as the vision of what such a council will look like. I look upon the faces of those gathered and can only smile warmly. “And having you all here to be a part of it will give us the best chance we have to rebuild and unite Pachil.”
But then Inuxeq’s expression hardens, resistance flashing across her face. “I won’t be part of it,” she says, firmly.
“What?” I ask, the word slipping out before I can stop it. “Why not?”
“I can’t stay here,” she says, shaking her head. “My people need me. The Tuatiu need me. I’ve been away for far too long. I can’t abandon them.”
“Inuxeq,” I start, but she cuts me off.
“No,” she says, her tone final. “I won’t do it.”
“But you said it yourself,” I say, my voice rising despite myself. “If we’re going to rebuild, we need everyone. And that includes you.”
She hesitates, then looks away. The right words to say seem to elude me, but to my fortune, Xelhua steps in. “You’ve fought for this, Inuxeq. For a chance to make things better. A council like this—it’s something Achutli never would’ve considered. But you can.”
The mention of Achutli seems to strike a nerve, and she exhales sharply, her shoulders sagging slightly. “I can’t leave my people,” she says again, though her voice wavers.
“You won’t be leaving them,” I say, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be giving them a voice. A place in something bigger. There’s never been a representative for the Tuatiu in Qapauma. You could be the first.”
She looks at me, her eyes searching mine, and I can see the conflict warring within her. Finally, she sighs, her expression softening just enough to give me hope.
“Fine,” she says, though the word is heavy with reluctance. “I’ll consider it. But don’t think for a moment that this means I’m staying here forever.”
“That’s all I ask,” I say, relief washing over me like a wave.
Xelhua nods, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s a start.”
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The night settles over Qapauma like a shroud. The air is cooler now, the faint breeze carrying the scent of ash and distant fires still smoldering beyond the city walls. In the courtyard below, I can hear the quiet murmurs of warriors tending to their wounds, sharing rations, and watching the stars as if the heavens have put on a display just for them. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, there is no shouting, no clashing steel, no chaos. Only this fragile calm.
I stand at the edge of the balcony, staring out at the jagged silhouette of the city. The rubble and ruin look different under the moonlight, the sharp edges softened by shadows. It should feel like a victory, this silence, this chance to breathe—but it doesn’t. There’s something about the quiet that feels wrong, feels uneasy.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly, trying to ease the knot in my chest. My thoughts drift back to the idea of the council, to the hesitant agreement, the tentative hope I saw in the eyes of those around me. It’s a start. It has to be.
But the memory of Taqsame lingers, unsettling and vivid. His voice, his conviction—it all felt too certain, like a blade held just a little too close to my throat. Even now, I can feel the way the Qantua warriors whispered his name like a prayer, their eyes alight with something I couldn’t quite name. Something I didn’t trust.
I step away from the balcony, turning back toward the dimly lit hall that leads to my quarters. My legs feel heavy, the exhaustion creeping in with every step. The torches cast a light that stretches and twists the carved faces of old rulers, now battered and cracked. I glance at them as I pass, their empty eyes staring back at me like silent judges.
Then I hear it.
A voice—low and hurried—slipping through the stillness like a blade through cloth. I stop, and strain to listen. The words are muffled, indistinct, but they’re there, layered and overlapping like waves crashing in the dark. My heart quickens as I take a step closer to the sound, my bare feet silent against the cold stone floor.
“…not ready… too soon…”
The words drift toward me, faint but unmistakable. My stomach tightens as I inch closer, my back pressing against the wall. The voices are just around the corner now, hidden in the shadows of an alcove where the light from the torches doesn’t reach. I hold my breath, leaning in as much as I dare.
“…she’s weak… not like him…”
A cold sweat prickles at the back of my neck. My hand brushes the amulet that feels cool against my chest. My fingers tighten around it as if it might somehow steady me. But it doesn’t. Not while the voices continue.
“…wait for the right moment… no mistakes…”
My chest tightens, my mind racing. Who are they talking about? Who are they waiting for? The shadows shift, and I hear the scrape of boots against stone, the faint rustle of cloth. They’re moving. I step forward, the hesitation falling away as I turn the corner, ready to confront them.
But there’s no one there.
The alcove is empty, the darkness undisturbed. My eyes dart around, searching for any sign of movement, any trace of the voices I know I heard. The silence presses in. My pulse thunders in my ears as I step further into the alcove, my hand trailing along the wall. It’s cold, as if it’s been untouched for years.
I kneel, my fingers brushing over the floor, searching for something—anything—that might explain what I heard. But there’s nothing. No footprints, no disturbed dust, no sign that anyone had been here at all.
I straighten slowly, my breaths come in shaky gasps. The voices echo in my mind, each word a jagged edge that buries deeper into me.
I turn away, my steps slow and deliberate as I make my way back to my quarters. The light of the torches feels dimmer now, and the shadows darker, deeper. The faces carved into the walls seem to watch me as I pass, their empty eyes following my every step, judging me.
When I reach my door, I hesitate. My hand hovers over the worn wood. I glance back down the hall one more time, just to be certain. The silence stretches out before me like a vast, empty plain. The voices are gone, swallowed by the dark, yet their words linger.
“…not like him…”
I push open the door and step inside. The faint light of a single candle casts long, creepy shadows across the room. I close the door behind me and lean against it, my breath shallow and unsteady.
The calm I felt earlier, the fragile hope that had begun to take root—it’s gone now, swept away by the voices and the darkness they left behind.