image [https://miro.medium.com/v2/format:webp/1*MBlqTNYjU5VczkC5mHb2qg.jpeg]
“Not. A word.”
Landera whispers her command and places her pointer finger across her lips. You wouldn’t speak anyway if you could; you’re too stunned for words. Is that really her?
Though she still wears her disguise as Lander, the fleeting familiarity of her face in the dim light stops your breath. She’s changed—hair shorter, clothes patched and roughened like a mercenary’s, her frame leaner than before. But it’s the unmistakable fire in her eyes that gives her away.
She doesn’t give you time to process. Her hand releases your mouth, but her grip finds your arm. Tight. Inescapable.
“Do you have any idea how close you just came to getting caught?” she hisses, her voice barely audible over the blood pounding in your ears.
You glance back at the chest. So close. Inches away. Its lacquered surface gleams in the torchlight, practically urging you to return. What was she doing here? How did she find me? The questions swirl, but none reach your lips.
“I—”
“Quiet.” Her hand flashes up again, cutting off your protest as a faint murmur drifts from the corridor. Landera stiffens, her eyes narrowing as she glances toward the sound. You hear it too: boots on stone, armor clinking. Guards.
The sound draws closer. Her grip on your arm tightens as she pulls you back into the shadows of an alcove. You resist for half a second, your gaze darting back to the chest—the object that has consumed your thoughts for days. The object that Xiatli had abandoned so casually, as though it was worthless except for the amulet it once held. But it’s still here. Could it be that Criato—and perhaps, Ulloa, too—had treated it differently, seeing something of interest in it?
“What’s your plan?” you whisper, sounding more biting than you intended. “To run? That chest could hold everything we need to stop them—”
“Or nothing.” Her retort is immediate, her expression hard. “You think there are secrets just sitting in an unlocked box, waiting for you? You think you’ll survive long enough to find out?”
You feel the anger sparking in your chest. “What are you even doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” she snaps. “I didn’t come to save your skin. But I see that I came in time to stop you from getting us all killed.”
Before you can respond, a faint voice echoes down the hall, too distant to make out the words. Landera stiffens, pulling you closer into the shadows. Iker squeezes into the alcove beside you. He’s silent, as he always is, but you can feel the unease radiating off him—his shoulders tense, his wide eyes darting between you and Landera in alarm.
The guards’ footsteps grow louder. Three of them, by the sound of it. As they near, their voices become more distinct.
“Criato wants it examined before we leave,” one says, sounding almost bored. “Says he saw something. Always sees something.”
“Sure he’s not just losing it?” another mutters. “It’s a box of junk, just like the others. The Great Xiatli already got what He needed from it.”
“Not for us to decide. Keep moving.”
The voices fade, the sound of boots retreating. Landera exhales sharply, though the relief is fleeting. She turns to you, her expression grim.
“There. Happy?” she whispers. “Now we know it’s not important enough for him to guard it properly.”
You shake your head, the frustration boiling over. “You don’t get it. He saw something. They said that. If Criato thinks—”
“If Criato thinks it’s important,” she says, cutting you off, “he’ll still have it tomorrow. And the day after that. Do you have any idea what he’d do to you if he caught you here? To all of us?”
You bite your lip to prevent yourself from saying something you might regret. You don’t know if it’s anger or shame twisting in your chest, but you can feel Iker’s eyes on you. Somehow, his silence is louder than anything she’s said.
“Listen to me,” Landera says, now a bit more softly. “We don’t have time for this. Whatever’s in that chest, it’s not worth your life. Or mine. You want answers? We’ll find them. But not here. Not like this.”
You glance back at the chest one last time. Its surface gleams in the low light, a tantalizing mystery you can’t shake. You’re so close. It doesn’t make sense to turn away from your prize now. Not after all you did just to get here. What if Landera is wrong? What if this is your only chance? Real quick, just reach in and grab the parchment. But the sound of footsteps—more guards, somewhere in the distance—snaps you back to reality.
“Fine,” you mutter, the word bitter on your tongue.
“Good.” She gestures for you to follow her, slipping out of the alcove and into the shadows of the corridor. Iker moves behind her, his movements quick and quiet. You hesitate for a moment longer, your thoughts lingering on the chest, on Criato, on the lingering question of what he might have seen.
The corridor twists and narrows as the three of you move deeper into the palace. The air grows colder, heavier, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and iron. Landera leads, her steps soundless despite the rough-hewn floor beneath her. She doesn’t look back, doesn’t need to—every flick of her hand, every shift of her body communicates what you need to know. Keep quiet. Keep close. Keep moving.
Iker follows her without question, his head low, his frame drawn tight like a spring. You bring up the rear, your thoughts still snagged on the chest, on Criato’s strange obsession, on how close you were, on the lingering possibility that you’ve left something crucial behind. It presses against you, threatening to slow your steps, but the distant clink of armor keeps you moving.
Landera freezes, throwing out an arm to halt you both. She presses herself flat against the wall, gesturing for you to do the same. The faint glow of torchlight dances on the far side of the corner ahead, accompanied by the low rumble of voices.
“You think it’s true? About what He did to them? Those invaders?” one guard asks, stumbling over the words, as if afraid of speaking them aloud.
“Does it matter?” another replies. “You saw them—the ones who were left. Could barely speak, let alone fight.”
“Yeah, but… snapping His fingers and just poof? That’s not… that’s not normal.”
“Nothing about Him is normal,” a third voice cuts in, flat and final. “He’s a walking god. Best we keep our heads down and do what we’re told.”
A pause. Then, quieter: “And the worshippers?”
The second voice snorts. “Fanatics. Can’t swing a blade to save their lives, but they’d charge a wall of spears for Him. Let them.”
“Fewer mouths to feed,” the third mutters.
Landera doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, as the guards’ footsteps draw nearer. You hold your breath, your pulse hammering in your ears. The guards pass, their voices fading with distance.
“Did you hear that?” you whisper as soon as the corridor is clear.
Landera whirls on you, her eyes narrowing. “Quiet.”
“They’re talking about Him. About what He did. You heard them—”
“I heard them,” she snaps, cutting you off. “And if we stay here any longer, we’ll be next on His list.”
She turns on her heel, stalking further into the shadows. You hesitate, glancing at Iker, who gives you a small, tense nod before following her. You grit your teeth and fall in behind them.
The walls close in as the three of you descend deeper into the palace. The stone grows darker, rougher. The torches here burn lower, their light barely enough to chase the shadows from the edges of the narrow hallways. You catch glimpses of strange carvings on the walls—figures intertwined, faces turned skyward in anguish or ecstasy. Every step feels louder than the last, the echo of your boots threatening to betray your position.
“Where are we going?” you hiss. “You said we needed to get out, but this—this isn’t out.”
Landera doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even glance back, her focus fixed forward.
You grab her arm, forcing her to stop. “What’s your plan? Because it doesn’t look like you have one.”
“My plan is to get us out alive. Your plan, as far as I can tell, is to get us killed chasing answers you’re not ready for.”
Her words hit harder than you’d expected, and for a moment, you can’t respond. She’s been touchier, prickly. It’s difficult to determine what to make of this. Perhaps it’s the seriousness of the implications should you get caught. But the silence stretches between you, broken only by the distant drip of water and Iker’s quiet shifting.
Finally, she exhales, the tension in her shoulders softening, as though she can read the concern on your face. “Look,” she says. “I get it. You want to know what’s going on—what Xiatli’s up to. I do too. But running headfirst into danger isn’t going to get you answers. It’s going to get you dead.”
Her eyes meet yours, and for the first time, you see something else behind the fire. Doubt. Fear. A crack in the unshakable mask she’s worn since the moment you two met.
“Why are you here?” you ask. “Really. What are you doing?”
Landera hesitates, and for a moment, you think she won’t answer. She wrestles with how much to divulge—if she should at all. Then she glances away, her gaze cast down to the shadows ahead. “Trying to fix something,” she says eventually, barely audible. “Trying to make things right.”
Before you can press her further, Iker clears his throat. “Someone’s coming.”
Landera moves instantly, gesturing for you both to follow her into a narrow side passage. The three of you press against the wall as footsteps echo from the corridor you just left. The shadows here are thicker, the air colder, and the faint, metallic scent of blood lingers in your nose.
The footsteps pause, and your heart freezes. A voice calls out—a single word you don’t understand, spoken in a harsh, guttural tone. For a moment, the silence feels suffocating.
Then the footsteps resume, fading into the distance.
Landera exhales slowly, then gives you a glance. “We’ll talk,” she says. “But not here. We need to find a way out.”
“A way out?” Iker repeats. “But… how?”
“Look,” she says simply. “If we stay out here, we’ll run into more guards. The only way to avoid them is to stay off their patrol routes, and that should give us the opportunity we need to locate some kind of exit.”
Iker doesn’t argue, but his discomfort is clear. You feel the same unease curling in your chest, but you nod anyway, following her lead. The questions in your mind remain unanswered, but for now, survival takes precedence.
As you move deeper into the palace, the shadows grow darker, the walls closing in like the grip of some unseen hand around your throat. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched, that the darkness itself is alive, waiting for the moment you let your guard down. Landera silently and stealthily leads the way. You cling to the hope that she knows where she’s going, and that you arrive soon.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Keep up,” Landera mutters over her shoulder. Iker trudges behind her, his face pale, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword like a talisman.
A faint noise ahead stops you all in your tracks. Landera raises a hand, her eyes narrowing as she tilts her head, listening. The sound grows clearer: footsteps. Heavy boots on stone. Then, a harsh bark of orders in a tongue you can’t quite make out.
Guards. No—not just guards.
You round the corner just in time to see them.
First, the guards. Their armor gleams dully in the torchlight, the sigil of Xiatli already emblazoned on their shields. Their faces are hard, expressionless, their disciplined steps marching in rhythm. But it’s not the guards that make your breath catch.
It’s the prisoners.
There are five of them, chained and flanked by guards. Their hands are bound, but their spirits are seemingly untouched. Despite appearing to be captives, they walk with a defiance that twists unease into your chest.
At their center, leading the group, is a woman unlike any you’ve seen before. Her tunic is a deep blue, the shade of the ocean depths, with bronze jewelry gleaming at her wrists and neck. A single red-and-blue feather sits in her hair, its vivid colors a stark contrast to the dim surroundings. Her piercing eyes are the color of a cloudless sky, and they seem to see through everything—the walls, the guards, even you. She carries no weapon, but there’s a coiled energy about her presence that suggests she wouldn’t need one.
Behind her, a man walks with the bearing of a warrior carved from stone. His square jaw and sharp features are framed by long, flowing black hair that trails behind him like a dark banner. Gold necklaces hang over a tunic of black and gold, with intricate and mesmerizing patterns stitched in red. There’s a quiet but commanding power in the way he moves, as though the chains around his wrists are mere inconveniences.
A boy follows them, a lean and wiry figure no older than fourteen, you’d guess. His startling amber eyes catch the torchlight like trapped sunlight. He’s dressed in earthy greens, his tunic embroidered with patterns that, you determine, must have some meaning. He’s the most nervous out of all of them, yet there’s something strange about him—something you can’t name, but it makes your stomach twist.
Beside him, a woman strides forward, glaring as she inspects her surroundings. Her dark hair is threaded with golden beads, and tattoos swirl across her sun-kissed skin in patterns that seem to shift as she moves. She wears rugged, practical clothing—leather pants and a sleeveless tunic embroidered with gold thread.
At the rear of the group, a man whose features are accentuated by tattoos curling up his arms follows. His hair is unbound, falling to his shoulders over a red-and-white garment. His movements are restless, his gaze darting around the corridor like a hawk searching for prey.
For a moment, the group passes in silence, the faint clinking of chains the only sound. Then the leader—the woman with the ocean-blue eyes—turns her head. Her gaze locks onto yours.
You feel it like a physical blow, a jolt that sends your heart racing. Though a chilling blue, her eyes are warm, assessing, and in that instant, you feel stripped bare. It’s as though every thought, every secret, every lie has been laid open before her. There’s power in her gaze—an ancient, unrelenting force that makes your knees threaten to buckle.
“Move,” one of the guards growls, shoving the chain forward. The moment breaks, and the woman’s gaze shifts back to the path ahead. She doesn’t give away your position, doesn’t let the guards catch on to what she saw. The group continues down the corridor, their presence swallowing the quiet, leaving silence brittle and strained in their wake.
Landera exhales sharply, her hand dropping from her blade. She doesn’t look at you, her eyes fixed on the retreating figures. “That changes things,” she murmurs, almost to herself.
“What?” you whisper, uncertain what she means.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns, her movements quick and purposeful. Iker follows without a word, but you hesitate, your gaze lingering on the path the prisoners have taken. Something about them lingers in your mind—their defiance, their power, their sheer presence. For the first time, you feel a touch of doubt—not in yourself, but in the inevitability of Xiatli’s rule.
“Did you see them?” you whisper, trying your best to control your eagerness. “They’re—”
“Yes,” she cuts you off, sounding annoyed. “I saw.”
“Who are they?” you press. “Those—those people—”
“I don’t know,” she mutters, “but now’s not the time. We can learn more later, if we can just get out of this place.”
You glance over your shoulder as you move, the image of those five figures burned into your mind. Warriors. Heroes. Myth made flesh.
The vaulted room looms ahead, its arched doorway half-swallowed by shadow. Landera stops short, her hand raised in a signal for silence. You’re already quiet, still pondering the captives you encountered.
The room is vast, its high ceiling disappearing into the gloom above. The musty air here feels heavier, older, as though it’s been lingering inside this place for generations. Faint carvings line the walls, their patterns unfamiliar and unnerving. It’s quiet, save for the distant echo of footsteps far above—guards patrolling corridors you’re thankful not to be in.
She doesn’t speak at first. Her steps are slow, measured, her eyes sweeping the room as though searching for something unseen. Iker lingers near the entrance, his gaze darting between you and Landera. You glance at him briefly, but it’s Landera who holds your focus.
After a pause that stretches an eternity, you’re no longer able to contain it, and the question bursts from you. “Who were they?”
For a moment, she doesn’t answer. Then she exhales, her hand brushing against her side where her blade is hidden. “Prisoners,” she says simply.
“That much I figured,” you reply, your frustration slipping into your tone. “But prisoners of who? Criato? Ulloa? Or… Him?”
Her jaw tightens at the mention of Xiatli, her gaze flicking toward the door as though expecting someone—or something—to appear. As though speaking His name will somehow summon Him. When she speaks again, her voice is notably quieter. “Does it matter? Whoever’s holding them… it means they’re important.”
You feel the anger building. “Important enough to chain, but not to kill? What kind of threat are they if they’re alive? Those invaders weren’t given the same mercy.” You gesture back toward the corridor. “They didn’t look like soldiers. They looked like—like—”
“People,” she finishes. “They looked like people.”
“You’re hiding something,” you accuse. “You’ve been hiding something since the moment you showed up. No more waiting until we’re in the clear. We deserve answers. What are you doing here, Lander? What are you really trying to accomplish?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she moves to the center of the room, her footsteps echoing faintly against the stone. She looks up, her gaze fixed on the shadows above. “To stop Criato,” she finally answers. “To stop whatever he’s planning.”
Then she lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Well, that’s what I thought, once. I thought I understood what was happening here—what Xiatli was to them.” She pauses, her hands clenching at her sides. “I thought He was a symbol. Nothing more than an indifferent god among us who kept the Legido safe.”
Your stomach tightens at her words, the implications sinking in. “And now?”
Her gaze shifts back to you, her expression dark. “Now I think I was wrong.”
Her lips press into a thin line, worry forming creases in her forehead. Then she exhales, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Whatever He is, He’s more powerful than anyone imagined. More dangerous. He’s set a plan in motion, and whatever it is, I fear we’re not going to like what we find out when it’s completed. The concern has been about Criato and Ulloa this whole time, when, really, it should have been with Him.”
Her words send a shiver down your spine. “And the prisoners?”
“They’re part of it,” she answers simply. “His plan. I don’t know how, but they are. Otherwise, they’d be dead.”
You glance at Iker, who stands near the doorway. He doesn’t say anything—he rarely does—but the way he hovers there, one hand braced against the stone, makes his unease plain. He’s waiting, though whether it’s for you or for some final calamity, you’re not sure.
Landera moves toward you, her steps slow but deliberate. When she speaks again, there’s an undercurrent of urgency. “We can’t stay here. Not now. Not after what we’ve seen.”
You nod, knowing what is truly being spoken. She doesn’t mean this room, this shadowed corner of the palace where you’ve all been hiding in for too long. She means the whole of it—Xiatlazán, the city, the strange land. You feel the truth of it settle into your chest like a stone.
The hallway beyond the door is empty, but the silence makes it worse. Every creak of the ancient floors beneath your boots, every shuffle of fabric, feels like a shout in the dark. You press forward, each step slower than the last, a constant war between urgency and the need not to be heard.
Landera gestures ahead, her finger a sharp jab toward a side passage shrouded in shadow. You nod and follow, with Iker at your heels. The corridor is narrow and cold, the walls slick where moisture clings to the stone. Somewhere, faintly, you hear a muffled shout, the sound bouncing through the empty palace like a ricochet.
Someone’s looking. You don’t say it, but you know they all feel it too.
The path twists downward, a stairwell carved into the rock itself, spiraling tightly like the throat of a snake. You grip the crumbling banister as you descend, counting each step as though it might anchor you to something solid. Below, the light is weaker—just the occasional sliver of light bleeding through cracks in the palace’s battered walls.
Iker stumbles. The sound is a wet slap of boot against stone. You snap your head back, but Landera is faster—her hand shoots out, clamps around his arm, and drags him upright before he can fall completely. She doesn’t say anything, just presses a finger to her lips and waits until Iker’s frantic breathing steadies again.
Finally, you see it: a splinter of open air beyond a cracked door at the far end of a storage chamber. The three of you freeze, staring at it like a mirage, as though it might blink out of existence if you move too quickly.
“Go,” Landera murmurs, her voice so low you almost don’t hear it.
She pushes Iker first. He hesitates for just a moment—long enough to glance back at you—but then he ducks through the gap and disappears into the dark. You follow next, pressing your shoulder against the warped wood and squeezing through.
The cold hits you first, a sudden slap of mountain air. You’ve made it outside. Not safe—not yet—but out.
The uneven ground catches your feet as you stagger forward, your lungs aching as they pull in the freezing air. You glance back just in time to see Landera emerge, her eyes darting across the courtyard, searching for any sign of pursuit.
The three of you move, half-stumbling, half-running toward the low edge of the outer wall. Beyond it, the arid landscape stretches out like a dead sea—jagged rocks, pale dust, and long shadows that look too much like soldiers.
You drop to a crouch, pressing yourself against the cool stone of the outer wall. Iker hunches beside you, his breath misting faintly in the moonlight. Landera stays standing, scanning the darkness with a steady, calculating gaze.
“Do you hear that?” she asks softly.
You do. A low hum, almost imperceptible at first, but growing louder as though the stone itself is vibrating beneath you. A voice, or something like it—too distant to be understood but close enough to make your skin crawl. You don’t know if it’s real or just the memory of everything you’ve seen. You’re not sure which would be worse.
Landera pulls you up by the arm, and you stumble into motion again. The three of you skirt along the base of the wall. Every step feels heavier, like the city itself is trying to drag you back.
Finally, the wall breaks. A fissure in the stone, just wide enough to slip through. Iker doesn’t wait. He wedges himself through first, vanishing into the dark. Landera urgently motions for you to go next. You duck through, feeling the rough scrape of stone against your shoulders. And then you’re out—fully out—on the other side of the wall.
You turn, waiting for Landera, but she’s already there, brushing dust off her sleeves and looking back toward the palace. The hum is gone now, replaced by a silence that feels more unnerving than it should.
For a long moment, none of you move. You just stand there, breathing hard, staring back at the ruin you’ve escaped. The palace rises behind you, its dark spires like teeth against the sky.
“We need to keep moving,” Landera says at last. Her voice is steady, but you hear the tremor beneath it.
You nod, swallowing hard. The moon gradually appears in the dimming sky, and the distant stars above hang like frozen pinpricks of light. The chill of the mountain air hits you as you step outside the palace walls. Every muscle in your body is taut with exhaustion.
Every step feels like a battle. The stone beneath your boots is uneven, threatening to twist your ankle with every misstep. The thin air claws at your lungs. Your legs ache, your mind races, but the memory of the figures in chains—those people—pulls you forward. They didn’t look like soldiers. They didn’t look like the poor natives forced into captivity upon your people’s arrival. They didn’t look like anyone who should be here. And yet, they carried themselves like they were destined to be.
Landera slows as the rocky path narrows. She tilts her head slightly as though she’s listening for something. You don’t hear anything at first—just the wind whistling through the cracks in the stone, the faint rustle of loose gravel underfoot. But then, faint and distant, there’s a sound. Voices.
She stops abruptly, holding out a hand to signal silence. You and Iker freeze, and you glance around the uneven terrain. The voices grow louder, closer, but you can’t make out the words. The language is unfamiliar—harsh, guttural, like the scrape of stone against stone.
Landera motions for you to slip behind something for cover, and the three of you sink into the shadows cast by an outcropping of rock. The voices are clearer now, and with them comes the unmistakable sound of footsteps—light, careful, deliberate.
Three figures emerge, their silhouettes blending into the darkness of twilight. The leader—an elder clad in heavy white robes—walks with an almost ceremonial gait. His hands rest lightly on the crooked staff he carries. His face is weathered, and he astutely watches the landscape like someone who has learned to be wary of these mountains.
Behind him, a younger man moves with the fluid grace of a predator. His clothing—a mix of coral, teal, and bronze—gleams faintly in the starlight, and his every step seems measured, purposeful. His dark and piercing eyes sweep over the terrain, lingering just a moment too long in your direction. You feel your breath hitch, your body tensing instinctively.
The third figure is taller, broader, his copper skin is like polished stone in the faint light. His shaved head and minimal attire—just a loincloth and a few accents of sage green and slate gray—seem incongruous with the cold night air, but he doesn’t appear to feel it. His movements are slower, heavier, but there’s a power in the way he carries himself, a quiet strength that slips under your skin, setting your nerves alight.
Landera’s hand inches toward her blade. Her body is coiled and ready to spring. Iker glances at her, and nervously crouches low as if he’s shriveling. All you can do is stand in place, hoping
The elder stops abruptly. His staff strikes the ground with a soft but assertive thud. To your dismay, his eyes fix on the outcropping where you’re hiding, and your stomach drops. He knows.
Before you can react, he raises a hand, signaling to the two men behind him. The younger man in coral and teal steps forward, his hand drifting to the hilt of the weapon at his side—a short, curved blade that’s entirely black and gleams faintly in the dark. The broad-shouldered man beside him hefts a mighty paddle filled with obsidian blades.
The elder raises his staff slightly—a subtle, but unmistakable signal. The younger man draws his blade with a quiet rasp of steel, and the broad-shouldered man steps forward, his bladed paddle angled menacingly low.
For a moment, everything stops—motion, sound, even the passing of time itself. The stillness thickens, as if the very air has forgotten how to move. It presses against you skin and ears like the weight of deep water. Then the elder speaks, his voice low and resonant, the words sharp and guttural, their meaning lost to you.
You glance at Landera, but her gaze is fixed on the elder. Iker shifts uncomfortably beside you, as though trying to make himself smaller still.
And then, as the elder raises his staff one final time, you realize there’s no escape.