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Captain Lema watches Pahua pace furiously between the gathered Sanqo nobles, his bronze cape dragging through the mud. The young ruler’s arms flail as he gestures toward Lema and Gartzen, and his voice rises and falls in heated bursts of his native tongue. Lema doesn’t need to understand the words to know what’s being said—the pointed fingers and tense postures are enough. The boy-king is losing his grip, and everyone knows it.
The nobles stand rigid, scowling, unamused by this spectacle. One, an older man with vast crevasses creasing his aged face and draped in bronze chains that catch the fading light, steps forward, shouting something sharp and accusatory. He spits his words at the boy, his hand slicing through the air in Pahua’s direction before pointing squarely at Lema and Gartzen.
Gartzen grunts, crossing his arms as he leans casually against a tree. “Well, that’s not a friendly tone, I’d reckon.”
Lema exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. The young king’s desperation oozes from every erratic movement, every misplaced shout. It’s not just that the nobles don’t respect him—it’s that they see an opening. Weakness is an invitation in their world. But in which world would it not be?
“They’re not wrong to be angry,” Lema mutters. He feels he and Gartzen are almost lost in the tension crackling between the two factions. “He’s floundering, and the worst part is that he’s dragged us into his ordeal.”
“So what’s the plan, Captain?” Gartzen asks dryly, his eyes never leaving the gathering. “Because if Pahoowa’s got one, I’d love to hear it. Or, you know, _understand_ it.”
Pahua spins toward them suddenly, his eyes wild. He jabs a finger at the two Legido, then hollers something that makes one of the nobles gasp. The older man steps forward again, angrily shouting and gesturing wildly toward the jungle. The exchange grows louder, more heated, until Pahua slams his hand against his chest and yells over them all. His voice noticeably cracks, the rawness of it cutting through the din like the first crack on a frozen lake.
Captain Lema straightens, and instinctively brushes his hand over the hilt of his sword. He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, but the shift in his posture draws Pahua’s attention. The young ruler taps his chest again, then the ground, then sweeps his arm toward the nobles, who regard him with confusion and more stern looks. His meaning is clear, even if his words are not: these men are a threat, and he doesn’t know how to deal with them.
“He wants us to clean up his mess,” Gartzen grumbles.
Captain Lema’s mind races, trying to piece together their next move. This isn’t just about keeping the nobles in line—it’s about survival. He realizes Pahoowa doesn’t have the political clout to control them, and if they turn on him, it bodes terribly for his crew and the prospects of getting out of this stinking place. But stepping in now, taking sides in a conflict he barely understands with a boy who is struggling to hold his own, feels like an even greater risk.
“Damn it,” Lema mutters under his breath. He steps forward, his boots sinking into the mud as he closes the distance between them. Pahua watches him carefully, tense in his expectant posture. Lema finally meets his gaze, then gestures to the jungle, mimicking the young ruler’s earlier motion. “What’s out there?” he asks, knowing full well there will be no answer.
Pahua hesitates, then lifts his hand. He points to the nobles, then the forest, then back to himself. The message is disjointed, but Lema believes he’s pieced together enough: the threat isn’t just here—it’s out there, too.
Gartzen’s jaw tightens into a glower. “You think he’s hiding something?”
“I think he doesn’t know what he’s dealing with to be hiding anything,” Lema replies. He looks back at Pahua, at the desperation etched into every line of his face. It’s not just weakness—it’s a liability. But it’s also an opportunity.
“Maybe this is not such a bad thing,” Lema says finally.
Gartzen raises an eyebrow, switching his attention between his captain and the boy king. He scoffs, his skepticism plain. “What, you want to board a sinking ship? Thought you were smarter than that, Captain.”
Lema turns, his eyes narrowing as he watches Pahua’s argument falter, the nobles exchanging smug glances. “A sinking ship can still be steered,” he says. “You’ve seen it yourself. It’s the ones gasping for air who are the most desperate to be rescued.”
“You planning to explain how this benefits us,” Gartzen inquires sarcastically, “or should I start digging our graves now?”
Lema smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “Pahoowa’s a puppet, and he knows it. And if he doesn’t know it, he’ll find out soon enough. But a puppet’s strings can be pulled in more than one direction. If we help him now, he owes us. That’s leverage.”
Gartzen snorts, shaking his head. “And what happens when the nobles decide they’ve had enough of this little alliance? They outnumber us, you know. You think they’re going to let us walk away unscathed?”
“No,” Lema admits. “But we’re not walking away until we get what we need. Supplies, repairs, safe passage—we’re not leaving until we have it all. And if we play this right, we might just get it.”
Gartzen doesn’t reply, but his frown deepens. He doesn’t quite like the sound of that, of what it implies with this situation. Still, Lema steps closer to the young king. He knows how this will look—an intervention, an alignment—but that’s exactly the point. If he’s going to insert himself into this tangled web of Sanko politics, he needs to make his intentions clear, even if they’re a lie.
Pahua’s eyes snap to him as he approaches, a touch of relief breaking through the haze of frustration. The boy-king doesn’t speak, but his gaze is pleading, almost childlike. Lema stops a few paces away, chin elevated to force himself to look down his nose at the young ruler and nobles. He doesn’t need to understand the language to convey authority; he’s spent years perfecting the art of making himself the center of attention without saying a word.
The nobles fall silent, their eyes narrowing as they assess this new development. Lema doesn’t miss the way their suspicious gazes dart between him and the boy. Good. Let them wonder. Let them think twice before making their move.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Lema says calmly, his voice low enough that only Pahua can hear. “But I know you need me. So let’s make this work.”
Pahua stares at him for a moment, then, slowly, he nods. He steps back, gesturing toward the nobles, then the forest, then to himself. Lema turns to Gartzen, who’s watching the exchange with a mix of amusement and exasperation.
Yet before any further words can be exchanged, the conversation is interrupted by a sharp shout from one of the nobles, a middle-aged man with a weathered face and a face littered with piercings of all sorts—_perhaps an indication of his authority,_ Lema thinks. He steps forward, pointing at Pahua and then at Lema. His voice rises with each word, and the other nobles murmur their agreement.
Pahua stiffens, and his hands ball into fists at his sides. He shouts something in return, his voice cracking under the strain. The exchange escalates quickly, as the nobles’ disdain gives way to outright hostility.
Captain Lema steps forward, deliberately placing himself between Pahua and the nobles. The nobles falter, not expecting such a move, such a silent declaration of intent. Their attention shifts between this outsider and the boy-king. For a moment, the clearing is filled with nothing but the sound of the forest and the nearby sea, the tension thick enough to choke on.
Lema raises a hand, gesturing for calm. He doesn’t speak—there’s no point when they can’t understand him—but his presence alone is enough to give them pause. He turns to Pahua, the thin line of his pressed lips almost forming a smirk.
“You want to lead?” he says quietly, almost urging the young ruler into action. “Then act like it. Show them you’re worth following.”
Pahua stares at him, and if Lema didn’t know better, he’d think the words were sinking in despite the language barrier. Slowly, the boy-king nods. He turns back to the nobles, his posture straighter, his movements more controlled. He says something, more assertive, more confident. The nobles exchange wary glances, but less defiant than moments earlier.
Gartzen steps closer, mumbling to Captain Lema. “You think this’ll hold?”
“For now,” Lema quietly replies. He continues watching the nobles attentively, his mind already working through the next steps. “But it’s not about holding—it’s about _pushing_. If we can push Pahoowa just enough, he’ll do the rest for us.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Gartzen asks skeptically.
Lema smirks again, this time with a hint of genuine amusement. “Then we cut the strings and let the whole thing collapse.”
The answer hangs there, unsettling as it is confident. A whisper of gulls breaks the silence, carried on the briny wind that brushes the men’s bearded faces. Jagged shadows stretch along the shores and twist with the breeze. To Gartzen, they probably look like omens.
To Lema, they’re a map of possibilities.
----
When the decision is made, it feels inevitable. The rebellion is swift and brutal—but clumsily executed, a haphazard show of strength that reeks of desperation more than strategy.
Night unfurls itself across the isle of Sanqo. The darkness is broken only by a pale sliver of moonlight that cuts through the mist. Captain Lema moves with his men like a shadow through the broken streets, footsteps softened by the perpetually rain-slick stones.
Pahua leads from the front—if you can call it leading. Flanked by Lema’s contingent of Legido soldiers and his own disjointed band of Sanqo warriors, the boy-king marches toward the dissidents’ stronghold. The village lies nestled against the cliffs, its defenses a jagged line of wooden barricades and watchfires, far more formidable than expected.
Captain Lema studies the scene with a practiced eye. _Desperation breeds mistakes,_ he thinks. Pahua’s orders come fast and sharp, barked in a voice that wavers under the strain. There’s no finesse to it—no real command—only a raw, trembling need to strike first, to crush resistance before it can find its feet.
“Fear makes men sloppy,” Gartzen mutters, barely audible above the wind.
Lema doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to. He watches Pahua stumble through his own authority. Every cracked word and rushed movement exposes just how close the boy is to falling apart. The nobles who questioned him earlier aren’t here now—only those desperate enough, or foolish enough, to fall in line.
_This is how kingdoms break,_ Lema thinks. _Not with war, but with clumsy ambition and a push in the wrong direction._
“This is going to be a disaster,” Gartzen mutters frustratedly. “Boy doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing.”
“He’s learning,” Lema replies tersely, though the words sound hollow. He gestures sharply to his own soldiers, issuing quiet orders. The Legido troops form up with their muskets at the ready. Unlike Pahua’s warriors, they move as one, shaped by years of unbroken discipline.
The first crack of musket fire splits the air, followed by the unmistakable screams of those caught in its path. The defenders falter, their primitive weapons no match for the Legido’s firepower. Smoke and chaos descend upon the village as Pahua’s warriors surge forward, emboldened by the thunderous booms and the sight of their enemies falling.
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But the triumph is short-lived.
Inside the stronghold, the resistance stiffens. The rebels fight like cornered beasts, clawing and striking with the reckless fury of those who know they are already dead. Lema watches with a mixture of detachment and irritation as Pahua plunges into the fray, wildly swinging his bizarre and primitive weapon. The boy-king moves like someone trying to prove something—not to his warriors, not even to his enemies, but to himself. His unpracticed strikes lack finesse, his movements erratic and fueled by raw emotion.
“He’s going to get himself killed,” Gartzen grumbles, already moving to signal a detachment of soldiers.
“Let him,” Lema says, though he knows he doesn’t mean it. With a sigh, he gestures for the Legido to move in, clearing a path through the chaos with their muskets.
The tide of battle turns quickly once the Legido fully engage. Their formations are tight, their shots precise, and the rebels crumble under the unrelenting pressure. Within hours, it’s over. The defenders lie in heaps among the smoking ruins of their village. Some are still breathing, though their groans of pain can barely be heard over the crackle of fires and the occasional cry of a Sanqo warrior finishing the job.
Pahua stands at the center of it all, his chest heaving, his weapon dripping with blood. His face is pale, his eyes wide and glassy as he surveys the carnage. There’s no triumph in his expression, only a hollow sort of disbelief, as though he can’t quite reconcile the destruction with his intentions.
“You did what you had to,” Captain Lema says, stepping up beside him. “This will send a message.”
Pahua doesn’t respond. His grip tightens on the hilt of his weapon, and for a moment, Lema wonders if the boy will shatter, the strain carved into his pale, tight-knuckled hands. But then he straightens, his shoulders squaring as he turns to his warriors and raises his weapon high. A fractured cheer rises from the Sanqo warriors, carried more by sheer will than strength.
“Idiots,” Gartzen mutters under his breath. “Cheering for this mess like it’s a bloody victory.”
“It’s what they need right now,” Lema replies, though he knows Gartzen’s right. The rebellion may be crushed, but the boy-king’s grip on power feels as fragile as ever. And this was just one possible uprising that’s been dispatched. Will there be others? Additionally, the Sanqo warriors are loyal for now, but loyalty built on fear and desperation is a shaky foundation, at best.
As the smoke begins to clear, Pahua orders the captured dissenters to be brought forward. With their ceremonial garb tattered and stained by blood, a handful of nobles are dragged to the center of the village square. Captain Lema can see the defiance burning in their eyes, even as they kneel before the young king. There’s a hollowness in Pahua’s eyes that Lema recognizes all too well. The cost of leadership, how every decision carved into his soul. But Lema doesn’t linger on it. The boy will learn, or he won’t. Either way, it’s not Lema’s concern.
One noble, an older woman with a deep gash across her cheek, spits at Pahua’s feet. The act sends a ripple through the gathered warriors, some of whom mutter uneasily among themselves. Pahua’s face hardens, his jaw clenching as he raises his black blade. He shouts something in his native tongue, his voice trembling, but loud enough to carry over the crowd.
“Here it comes,” Gartzen says grimly.
With their blades still drawn, Pahua’s warriors step forward. But to everyone’s surprise—particularly Captain Lema’s—the boy-king raises a hand, stopping them. His voice rings out in sharp commands, and suddenly, the dissenters are dragged to their feet, their hands bound with rough cords. One by one, they’re marched toward the remains of a fortified structure. Lema assumes it’s been transformed into a makeshift prison, carved into the rock at the edge of the village.
The nobles resist as much as they can, some spitting insults or struggling against their captors. But their defiance is met with swift, forceful strikes from Sanqo warriors eager to silence them. Lema watches as the prisoners are thrown into the dark confines of the cell.
The crowd murmurs uneasily. Pahua’s warriors exchange glances, some visibly relieved, others stiff with dissatisfaction. The cheers that might have erupted at executions are replaced by a quiet, strained silence. Even now, it’s clear that not everyone agrees with the boy-king’s decision, and the questions that course throughout the gathered residents come from a place of genuine concern.
Gartzen shifts beside Lema, skeptically asking, “Imprisoning them, huh? Smart move or just delaying the inevitable?”
Captain Lema doesn’t respond immediately. He keeps his eyes on Pahua, who stands at the center of the square, his chest rising and falling as though he’s run a great distance. The boy’s face is pale, his lips tight, but his gaze is steady—resolute, even. For all his youth and inexperience, there’s a determination radiating from him that catches Lema off guard.
“We’ll see,” Lema mutters finally. His tone is measured, but his mind churns with uncertainty. Pahua’s choice to imprison—and not execute—the rebels may have spared him the immediate burden of bloodshed, but it’s also left him with enemies who’ll fester and plot in their confinement. And when they rise again, as they surely will, the boy will have an even greater challenge on his hands.
As the last of the prisoners disappears into the makeshift jail, Pahua turns to face his warriors. He raises his arms, shouting a string of sharp words in his native tongue. Whatever he’s saying is enough to stir a response, albeit a muted one, as the Sanqo warriors let out a ragged cheer.
Captain Lema feels Gartzen’s gaze of heavy, unspoken judgement upon him. He knows what his second-in-command is thinking: that they’ve tied themselves to a sinking ship, as he put it. That this alliance is a mistake. And maybe he’s right. But Lema also knows a captain doesn’t turn back when the seas grow dark—he sails on. And besides, no ship ever made history by drifting safely in the shallows.
As Pahua turns to address his warriors, the Legido captain watches with a growing sense of detachment. The boy may have won today, but the cracks in his rule are widening. And Lema knows that when those cracks finally give way, the Legido will be there to pick up the pieces—whatever that might mean.
----
The executions begin the next day.
Emboldened by his victory the day prior, Pahua orders the immediate arrest of suspected conspirators. They are dragged into the village square, their wrists bound, their faces etched with terror. The young ruler watches stone-faced from his makeshift throne as the executions proceed one by one.
This takes up the entirety of the day. At first, the killings are met with intense rejoicing as each dissenter’s murder is celebrated by those faithful to Pahua’s rule. But as they continue on until the sun begins its descent back to the land, the people grow more tense, nervous, as the severity of what’s being done finally starts worming its way into their conscious. Many begin to depart the square, returning to their homes. It’s the ones who stay to witness the executions that Captain Lema finds to be the most concerning, the most disturbing.
Lema stands at the edge of the square. His arms are crossed as he observes the scene with disgust. Gartzen stands beside him, his face, too, is a mask of disapproval.
“Look at him,” Gartzen finally says, cuttingly. “Boy doesn’t even know what he’s done yet.”
Lema doesn’t respond. He keeps his eyes on Pahua, watching as the young king barks orders to his warriors. A few captured rebels—Sanqo nobles in tattered, ceremonial garb—are dragged before him, their faces pale but defiant. One, a woman with streaks of dried blood across her cheek, spits at Pahua’s feet. The gesture sends ripples through the crowd, murmurs rising like smoke.
Pahua hesitates, his hand twitching at his side. Lema can almost see the thoughts tumbling through his head, the indecision clawing at his resolve. But then the boy raises his arm and shouts something sharp and final. A warrior steps forward, sword gleaming in the firelight, and the rebels’ fates are sealed.
Gartzen lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Reckless,” he mutters. “Short-sighted. And they’re going to remember that.”
“They were already plotting against him,” Lema replies evenly. “This was bound to happen.”
“Sure, but there’s a difference between putting down a rebellion and painting a target on your back. He just made martyrs out of them.”
Lema doesn’t argue. He knows Gartzen’s right. Pahua’s actions tonight won’t inspire loyalty—they’ll breed resentment. Fear only works for so long before it curdles into defiance. But this isn’t Lema’s kingdom, and Pahua isn’t his king. He’s here to survive, to secure what they need and leave this place behind. Whatever chaos follows is not his concern.
“This is madness,” Gartzen mutters. “He’s creating more enemies than he’s eliminating.”
Once more, Lema finds his gaze lingering on Pahua. The boy’s shoulders are stiff, but trembling, his eyes locked on the blood-stained ground. _He’s losing himself_, Lema realizes. _The fear, the desperation—it’s consuming him._
“It’s not our place to interfere,” Lema says finally.
“Isn’t it?” Gartzen counters, echoing Lema’s earlier words. “That’s how all this happened! If he falls, we lose **everything**.”
Lema glances at him. “He won’t fall. Not yet.”
“How can you—“
“He won’t. Fall.” Captain Lema interrupts, punctuating each word.
But as the screams reverberate the square, and the Sanqo people avert their eyes, Lema can’t shake the feeling that they’re standing on a knife’s edge—and that the slightest misstep will send them all tumbling into the abyss.
Pahua turns suddenly, his gaze sweeping upward until it lands on Lema and Gartzen. He raises a hand, beckoning them forward. Lema exchanges a glance with Gartzen, whose expression is of pure irritation, before they descend the ridge to join the boy-king.
The smell of blood and smoke grows stronger as they approach. The captured dissenters lie in a crumpled heap, their lifeless eyes reflecting the flames. The warriors who surround Pahua are silent now, as their earlier shouts are replaced by a grim, oppressive quiet.
“Pahoowa,” Lema says, his tone carefully neutral. He gestures toward the scene around them, as if to ask, _Was this worth it?_
At first, Pahua only stares at him in silence. His eyes dart to the bodies, then back to Lema. He says something in his native tongue, the words sharp and clipped. Then, he turns to the remaining nobles, those who were somehow spared from the culling, and barks orders that send them scattering like leaves in the wind.
As the fires burn low, Lema and Gartzen stand in silence, watching Pahua retreat to his tent. The boy’s silhouette is a sharp contrast against the flames, as he retires to his private quarters.
“You think he’s salvageable?” Gartzen asks, his tone heavy with doubt.
“I think he’s useful,” Lema replies. “And for now, that’s enough.”
----
The night air is heavy with the scent of damp terrain and woodsmoke. Pahua sits alone in his quarters. His fingers trace the smooth edges of the bronze pendant he wears around his neck—a symbol of a rule he’s beginning to think was never truly his after all. The shadows in the room feel alive, stretching and shifting along with the lone flame burning in a carved obsidian bowl. The whispers have returned, threading through his mind like roots seeking a crack to burrow into.
He presses his fingers to his temples, trying to drown them out. They are the words of his whisperers, the men and women who linger in the shadows of the court, gathering secrets like water from a leaking roof.
The latest secret drips slowly, steadily, into his ears.
_The Lehito captain speaks with the nobles at night._
_They linger too long in hushed tones._
_They offer him what they denied you._
Pahua’s fingers tighten around the pendant, his knuckles turning white. He had invited the Lehito here, hadn’t he? Asked for their help, their guidance. He thought he could control them, bend their foreign strength to his will. But now, the whispers suggest otherwise—that perhaps the Lehito see him as weak as his own nobles do. That they, too, are waiting for him to fail.
_Fool,_ the grating voice sneers, deep in the back of his mind. _You thought you could play king? You, with your soft heart and trembling hands?_
Pahua freezes, his breath catching in his throat. He knows that voice. It has haunted him since he was a boy, cutting through every moment of doubt with the precision of an obsidian blade. Siunqi. His father. Even in death, the old man’s disdain hangs over him, like a mist that seeps into every breath.
“You’re not here,” a trembling Pahua whispers aloud. “You’re not here.”
The cold voice laughs sharply. _No, I’m not. You saw to that. But look at you now—failing just as I knew you would. I warned you, didn’t I? Walumaq was always the stronger one. The smarter one. She would have united the Sanqo. And you? You’ve brought them to the brink of ruin. Everything I sought to build, you destroy in one simple action._
Pahua’s pulse quickens, and he rises from his chair abruptly, pacing the narrow room. The shadows dance with each movement, darkening the corners. His mind spirals, his thoughts racing ahead to what this means. He imagines the one Lehito leader, with his sharp eyes and unreadable expressions, sitting in quiet conference with the rebels. And his general, always watching, always assessing, his silence more damning than any words. What promises were exchanged in those whispered conversations? What plans are being made?
_Fire without discipline burns everything it touches,_ his father’s voice sneers. _Is that what you’ve become, boy? A blaze left to rage wild until it chokes on its own smoke?_
“Enough!” Pahua hisses, his voice sharp enough to cut the silence. He presses his hands to his temples, his nails digging into his scalp. The pendant around his neck feels like a chain tightening with every word, every imagined mocking remark from a father who never believed in him. “You’re dead. Your words mean nothing.”
The shadows don’t answer. But the whispers return, louder now, almost accusing.
_What will you do, Pahua?_
He stops pacing and stares out of the small, barred window. The forest beyond is a black mass, its treetops swaying gently in the wind. Somewhere out there, the rebels are licking their wounds, plotting their next move. And somewhere closer, the Lehito are deciding whether to betray him.
Pahua’s clenches his jaw. He must act. He must remind them all—his nobles, his warriors, the foreign interlopers—who holds the throne. Who wears the bronze cape. Who commands the Sanqo.
And yet, the voice creeps in again, softer now, almost mocking. _But how, Pahua? How will you command when they see through you so easily? Even the Lehito. Even the foreigners know you are nothing but a fraud._
The words cut deep, but Pahua draws in a sharp breath, pushing the voice aside. He balls up his fists, his nails biting into his palms until they hurt. He cannot let this happen. Not after everything. Not after he has sacrificed so much to hold on to what little power he has left.
_Foolish boy,_ Siunqi’s voice murmurs, fading into the edges of his mind. _In the end, you’ll only destroy yourself._
Pahua exhales shakily. “Then let it be so,” he whispers to the empty room.
Tomorrow, he will act.
The shadows press closer as the flame in the bowl dims, plunging the room into near darkness. Pahua lets it happen, lets the shadows swallow him whole. In their embrace, he feels a strange clarity, a certainty that has eluded him until now.
_The Lehito cannot be trusted._
The decision is made.