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It was Yachaman’s idea, if I’m being honest. A ceremony to honor the fallen, to weave the broken threads of Pachil into something whole again. She said it with her usual bluntness, as though it were obvious. You want unity? Start by showing the people you care about their dead.
Now I stand before the crowd, who gaze at me expectantly. They’re a patchwork of Pachil’s fractured state. The Tapeu nobles sit closest with impeccable postures, wearing vibrant tunics in orange and red that are stiff with embroidery. A row of Qantua warriors stands apart, their expressions carved from stone. Tired glances exchanged, the slump of a shoulder here and there betraying the exhaustion beneath their stoic fronts. Among them, I catch a fleeting glance of unease—a young warrior clutching his spear too tightly, his gaze darting between me and the brazier. Scattered among the common folk, the Aimue farmers who fought alongside warriors wear simpler garments, their hands calloused from work, their faces lined with grief.
At the center of what was once a bustling marketplace square, a brazier burns steadily. It’s fed with cedar, copal resin, and bundles of sage, mingling with the ever-present tang of damp stone, ash, and something metallic, like old blood soaked too deeply into the land to be washed away. Somewhere, faintly, I catch the distant clatter of tools against stone—those who labor even now to rebuild, unyielding like the mountains that cradle this city.
In this moment, there’s a quiet I’m not used to. Not the peaceful kind, but the strained silence of a city that’s waiting to see if we will allow it to crumble completely or cause it to rise once more. Where once stalls brimmed with color—vendors hawking golden papayas, smoked chilies, carved obsidian figurines, painted gourds, jade jewelry, feathered fans, woven tapestries, and garlands of fragrant marigolds—the square is now stripped bare, its only adornments are the marks left by battle. Scorch marks streak the walls, and uneven rubble still lines the edges of the square, piled as though waiting to be carted away.
For all its ruin, though, there’s something stubbornly alive about Qapauma. The people here—those who’ve stayed, those who’ve returned, those who’ve fought and lost and keep fighting—have begun to stitch their home back together. I see it in the small things: patches of clean, repaired fabric on otherwise tattered clothes, children’s toys carved anew from scraps of wood, the faint green of saplings planted near the square’s edge. Where the cracked flagstones that spiderweb beneath our feet once told only of ruin and bloodshed, they now glimmer faintly beneath the glow of torchlight, meticulously cleaned and adorned with symbols etched in white ash. These glyphs—borrowed from the Aimue, the Qiapu, and even fragments of Tuatiu tradition, among other factions—spiral outward from the central brazier. Their patterns are intricate and deliberate, telling stories of battle and rebirth.
Around the square, the people of Qapauma stand in hushed reverence. Some hold small tokens: woven armbands, clay figurines, carved stones—all made as offerings to their loved ones. Chosen from among the surviving elders of various factions, the ceremonial attendants move through the crowd, collecting these offerings with solemnity. Each is carefully placed into the fire, and the flames crackle as they consume the gifts meant to guide the spirits of the dead to their next journey.
The ceremonial attendants are dressed in garments that blend Aimue and Tapeu designs—feathered capes in deep indigo, accented with saffron red trim. They wear headdresses adorned with quetzal feathers, moving measuredly and deliberately as they approach the brazier in procession. Each attendant carries a bundle of offerings bound in bright cloth, and I note how the vivid colors are a stark contrast to the muted tones of the general crowd’s attire. As they approach the brazier, they pause, chanting softly in Merchant’s Tongue—a prayer of unity, though its cadence is borrowed from the Aimue’s burial songs.
This was Yachaman’s doing, her way of preserving Aimue tradition while allowing it to evolve. But I made my own changes. At her suggestion, I had the ashes of the previous fires scattered into the land surrounding the square, planting saplings that now stand in a ring around us. These trees are young, but rooted deeply, representing a future that could grow from the ashes of our past—a metaphor I hoped the people would understand.
The procession halts as the final offering is placed into the brazier. A sudden burst of light fills the square as the fire leaps higher, consuming the cloth bundle in a cascade of orange and gold. The crowd inhales collectively, as though the flame has drawn their breath. Then, one by one, the attendants step back, allowing the people to come forward.
It begins with the common folk—Aimue farmers, Qantua warriors, and Tapeu merchants stepping hesitantly toward the brazier. Some kneel before it, murmuring private prayers; others simply stand in silence before adding their tokens to the fire. A woman holds a tiny woven doll aloft, her lips trembling as she speaks a name too softly to be heard. With rigid shoulders and head bowed, a Qantua warrior offers a fragment of obsidian carved into the shape of a jaguar.
Each token carries its own story, its own grief. Each is consumed by the flames.
As the fire continues to burn, I rise from my place beside the brazier, stepping onto the dais. My gaze sweeps over the crowd. Even in their stillness, there’s an intensity in their presence—a hunger for something to believe in, for a leader who can make sense of their pain. My fingers tighten briefly around the edge of the dais as I draw in a breath.
I am not here to mourn alone I remind myself. This was meant to unify us, to remind them that we’ve all suffered, and to lead. But as I step forward, the words I’d rehearsed in my head crumble into dust.
I clear my throat, the sound too loud in the stillness. “We… we gather here today to honor those who gave their lives in defense of Qapauma, and of Pachil. Their bravery—” My voice falters, and I force myself to meet the eyes of the crowd. “Their bravery will not be forgotten.”
The words feel hollow, devoid of emotion. I see it in their faces: the nobles’ polite indifference, the warriors’ skepticism, the farmers’ quiet grief. A bead of sweat slides down my temple, but I don’t wipe it away. My palms itch, but I clasp them together to keep from fidgeting.
I glance at Yachaman, standing off to the side. Her eyes meet mine, and I think I see the faintest nod. But it could just be the way the shadows shift across her face. Either way, it steadies me.
I let my eyes wander over the crowd, and for a moment, the faces blur together. I see only the shapes of loss—the absence of those who should be here, the gaping holes left by the numerous battles. A father without his son. A brother without his sister. Friends, comrades, lovers… all gone. The ache of it swells in my chest, and the words I’d planned slip away, replaced by something rawer.
“I… I know words won’t bring them back,” I begin, my voice faltering as the opening I’d rehearsed falls flat in my mind. “I know nothing I say can fill the spaces they’ve left behind.”
I see it in their faces—those spaces. A mother clutching the woven shawl of a daughter who will never return. A warrior gripping a spear, his shoulders sunken with the weight of guilt or grief. The crowd feels vast, yet each face tells its own story.
I swallow hard and take a step closer to the brazier. Its warmth brushes my skin, grounding me. The smoke rises, curling into the overcast sky as if carrying our grief to a place beyond reach. To the heavens, as Yachaman had said when she explained the Aimue ritual to me.
“But we must honor them,” I say, finding my voice again. “Not just in ceremony, but in how we move forward. They fought for Pachil, for all of us, and we owe it to them to build a future worthy of their sacrifice.”
The murmurs subside, replaced by a heavy silence. My pulse slows as I draw in a deep breath. I look at the faces before me—not the masses, but individuals. The farmer with calloused hands, the warrior with a jaguar pelt across his shoulders, the noblewoman sitting stiff-backed in her embroidered tunic. They’ve all lost something. And yet, here they are.
“I won’t stand here and pretend I have all the answers,” I continue. My words come slower now, more considered. “I won’t pretend I understand the pain each of you carries, or what you’ve lost.
“What I can promise is this: I am here now.” I hear my voice strengthening, and I feel my confidence steadily growing. “I may not have lived through the suffering you have, but I see it. I feel it. And I refuse to let it be for nothing. Qapauma has been shattered time and again—by enemies from within and without. But every time, you have rebuilt. You have endured. And together, we will endure again.”
The flames crackle louder, as if in agreement, and the crowd leans in. I don’t miss the burgeoning hope in the Aimue farmer’s eyes, or the way one of the Qantua warriors shifts slightly, lowering his spear.
“This is not just a time to mourn,” I say, finding that the words coming easier now, “but a time to remember that we are still here. Tapeu, Qantua, Aimue, Tuatiu… we are all still here. We are the pieces of Pachil that remain, and if we are to survive—if we are to rebuild this land—we must do it together.”
The applause begins hesitantly among the common folk, swelling as the Tapeu nobles add their measured claps. Even some of the warriors join in, though not all. Yet among the applause, the Qantua warriors remain still. Their silence is not rejection, exactly, but something I can’t quite name. Something perhaps like the absence of disdain.
As the applause dies down, I step back, the brazier’s glow fading into the periphery. The ceremony has done its work, for now. But as I watch the smoke curl into the sky, a thought lingers: What if this fragile truce, held together by grief and fire, is all I can offer? Would it be enough?
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The council chamber is a shadow of what it once was. Light spills through cracks in the high stone walls, dappled by the scaffolding and latticework erected by the workers repairing the palace. Streaks of ochre and faded indigo cling stubbornly to the walls where the old murals have not yet been restored. The echoes of footsteps and hammering drift faintly from the upper levels, where laborers replace shattered beams and fortify crumbling arches.
Once symbols of Tapeu dominance, the great hall’s tapestries have been stripped away. In their place hang lengths of plain cloth—interim placeholders for the designs I’ve has commissioned from the various factions. Each faction’s contributions will hang side by side when finished, as a visual promise of unity. For now, the blank fabrics flutter faintly, like the gaps in the cohesion I’m trying to build.
The hallway is quieter than I expect. The usual bustle of palace servants has been reduced to a handful of hurried footsteps echoing against the stone walls. The council chambers are just ahead, their heavy doors shut, and I pause to collect my thoughts before entering.
That’s when I hear it.
“Lady Haesan! Our radiant Quya!”
I turn sharply, my chest tightening at the sight of the man approaching. Chalqo strides toward me, his long scarf trailing behind him like a banner in the wind. He bows extravagantly, his arm sweeping low, the flourish exaggerated to the point of absurdity.
“Chalqo,” I breathe, the tension in my chest easing, replaced by a rush of relief. “You’re alive!”
“Alive, well, and ready to grace the world with my brilliance,” he replies, his grin as bright as the sunlight filtering through the high windows. “I must say, Lady Haesan, your speech earlier—it was nothing short of magnificent. Rousing, poetic, and, dare I say, almost as captivating as my flute playing.”
A short laugh escapes me despite myself. “Almost?”
“Well, I must leave room for improvement,” he quips with a knowing look. “But truly, you have a gift for inspiring the masses. Even I, a humble purveyor of melody and mirth, felt stirred to action.”
I study him for a moment, his playful demeanor masking the weariness in his eyes. The chaos of Qapauma’s recent battles has left its mark on all of us, but seeing Chalqo now, alive and intact, feels like a victory in itself.
“I was worried about you,” I admit softly. “With everything that happened, I thought—”
“That I had met some tragic, poetic end?” he interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “Perish the thought, my lady! Fate would never deprive the world of my talents so easily. Besides,” he adds with a wink, “the rebels had no ear for music. A terrible crime, but one I chose to forgive in favor of survival.”
His words bring a small smile to my lips, but it’s fleeting. “Chalqo, I need your help,” I say, stepping closer. “Nuqasiq—she needs to know about… her son. My… father. But also, that it’s safe to return. Can you get word to her?”
His expression shifts, the playful glint in his eyes giving way to something more serious. “You trust me with such a task?”
“I do,” I reply, meeting his gaze. “You’re the one she trusts most in this world, and one of the few who can reach her without drawing too much attention. And if anyone can convince her, it’s you.”
Chalqo straightens, his grin returning, though tempered now with a hint of pride. “Consider it done, Lady Haesan. Nuqasiq will hear your call, and she will not resist reuniting with her granddaughter.”
“Thank you,” I say sincerely.
“Think nothing of it,” he replies, inclining his head. “Though, if I may ask for a small token in return…”
I raise an eyebrow, wary of where this might lead. “What kind of token?”
“A promise,” he says earnestly. “When all this chaos is behind us, you’ll let me perform at your formal coronation. No—insist on it.”
I can’t help but laugh, the kind of laugh only Chalqo can pull from me—something I haven’t felt in what feels like a lifetime, but what I didn’t know I needed. “It’s a deal.”
Before either of us can say more, a young servant appears at the far end of the hall, bowing deeply before speaking. “Quya, the council awaits your presence.”
I nod, glancing back at Chalqo one last time. “Be careful,” I tell him, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently.
“Always,” he replies, flashing one last grin before turning and disappearing down the corridor.
The servant gestures toward the council doors, and I take a deep breath. With one last glance at the now-empty hallway, I straighten my posture and step forward.
The council members are seated around a long table of polished stone, its surface etched with years of wear. The chairs are mismatched, cobbled together from what could be salvaged after the recent battles. It gives the room a feeling of impermanence, as though even this fragile moment of order could crumble with one careless word.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
I sit at the table’s head, the position feeling both natural and foreign. Achutli had ruled from this very room, though under very different circumstances. But I try not to think of him now. This is my council, not his.
To my right sits the Tapeu representative, Tapanali—short and lean with graying temples. He had been suggested by a gathering of merchant guild leaders who valued his impartiality and expertise in brokering delicate trade negotiations. His distance from Achutli’s administration, along with a reputation for fairness, made him an obvious choice to ensure the Tapeu’s interests were represented without undue bias.
To my left, Yachaman is silent and watchful. Next to her, Xelhua leans slightly back in his chair, arms crossed. Admittedly, his presence is more like a stoic sentinel than a councilor. Seated across from Yachaman, Inuxeq shifts restlessly, her discomfort in this setting painfully obvious. Maqochi, the valiant Qantua veteran who whole-heartedly supported Inuxeq’s efforts, rounds out the group. His burly frame is stiff with unease, and his eyes dart to the Qantua warriors stationed near the chamber’s entrance like a nervous tic.
I clear my throat. “Thank you all for coming. Before we begin, I want to recognize the monumental task ahead of us. Rebuilding Qapauma, restoring order, and ensuring all factions of Pachil are represented—these are not small undertakings. But I believe, together, we can achieve them.”
I gesture to the plain cloths hanging behind me. “As you’ve likely noticed, I’ve asked the artisans to begin recreating tapestries for this hall, with each faction contributing their own. It is a symbol, yes, but symbols matter. If we are to rebuild Pachil, we must do so with unity, not division.”
A murmur of approval ripples through the room. Yachaman nods slightly. Even Maqochi’s stern expression softens at the mention of representation.
At this, I continue. “Our first matter: we must reach out to the remaining factions—the Achope, Qiapu, Sanqo, and the Atima in Qelantu Loh—and invite them to join this council. Representation is not just ideal; it’s necessary if we are to move forward. I’ve also asked for quipus to be prepared for each faction, in their respective colors, to deliver our message.”
The Tapeu quraqa, Tapanali, speaks first. “I agree, Lady Haesan. Full representation will lend credibility to this council and its decisions. I volunteer to oversee the crafting of these quipus and ensure they are delivered swiftly.”
The Qantua general, Maqochi, nods. “I support this, as well. However…” He glances at the warriors near the door. “Taqsame will undoubtedly attempt to position himself as our representative. He is… not fit for such a role.”
A ripple of unease passes over the council at the sound of his name. Inuxeq stiffens, her jaw tightening as she glares at Maqochi. The Tapeu warriors exchange furtive glances, uncertain about what to do.
“That man will ruin us if given the chance,” Maqochi adds firmly.
“He nearly ruined us already,” Tapanali murmurs, earning nods of agreement from some and frowns from others.
“We can argue the role of Taqsame later,” Xelhua interrupts. “Right now, we need to focus on securing the remaining factions. And that means addressing all of them.”
The council’s attention snaps to him. “That includes the Ulxa.”
Tapanali sits straighter, his lips pressing into a thin line. Maqochi’s brow furrows, and he leans forward as though preparing to object.
“They are troublemakers,” Tapanali says coldly. “Their history is one of defiance and disruption. They’ve never cooperated willingly, and they won’t start now.”
“They are part of Pachil,” Xelhua replies simply. “You cannot unite a land by leaving pieces of it behind.”
The general grunts. “The Ulxa are not just defiant; they are dangerous. To bring them into this council is to invite chaos.”
“They’ve been excluded for years,” Yachaman calmly interjects. “Perhaps if they’d been included sooner, their defiance wouldn’t have grown into hostility.”
Tapanali shakes his head. “You can’t rewrite history with good intentions. The Ulxa have earned their isolation.”
Inuxeq slams a hand on the table, her frustration boiling over. “Isolation breeds resentment! You talk about unity, but you’re too afraid to take the first step toward it.”
The room falls into a tense silence, broken only by the faint creak of the scaffolding above. Tapanali’s gaze narrows, his tone cutting as he replies, “Perhaps if you spent less time shouting and more time thinking, you’d understand the cost of your ‘first step.’”
Inuxeq recoils slightly, her anger faltering into embarrassment. My heart twists at the sight, but I cannot waver.
“Xelhua is right,” I state, meeting my gaze with the Iqsuwa warrior. “Unity cannot come from exclusion. But I also understand the concerns being raised. The Ulxa have been isolated for a reason, and inviting them will require careful negotiation.”
Tapanali exhales sharply, but I don’t let him interrupt. “We are rebuilding, not just Qapauma, but all of Pachil. If we allow old grudges to dictate our decisions, we are no better than the chaos we’re trying to mend.”
Xelhua leans forward, his voice low but firm. “Then decide, Lady Haesan. Do we move forward with unity, or do we keep dragging the past behind us?”
Suddenly, the doors burst open with a resounding thud. The sound abruptly silences the arguments as all eyes turn to the threshold. Two guards enter, their faces drawn and apologetic. Between them, they drag a figure bound and kneeling, and I recognize her immediately—Anqatil. Her head is bowed, dark hair spilling over her face, but even in this state, there’s no mistaking the rigid line of her shoulders, the simmering defiance in the way she holds herself.
The last time I saw her, she was a shadow behind my father’s throne, whispering poison into his ear. Now, she’s nothing but a prisoner, stripped of her power and dignity—or so they think. I can see it in her posture, in the sharpness of her gaze when she finally raises her head to meet mine. Anqatil is not broken. She’s waiting, biding her time.
My sandals scuff against the cracked stone floor as I step forward. More quraqas swarm around us, causing a spectacle as they’re eager to see what will come of Achutli’s councilor. Scorch marks streak the walls where Achutli’s men made their last stand. The air smells faintly of ash and something sharper, like burnt hair. There’s no grandeur here, no comfort. Just me, her, and a decision that feels impossible to bear.
“Anqatil,” I say, my voice as steady as I can make it despite the storm raging in my chest. “You’ve served my father for years. You advised him on matters of war, of trade, of law. You stood by his side as he ruled this city with cruelty and fear.”
She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she lifts her chin, her dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my stomach twist. “I served him,” she says as sharp as obsidian. “Your father was the only one strong enough to hold Pachil together.”
Her gaze hardens, making sure to emphasize every last syllable. “And you? You are his blood. His curse. Do not forget why the prophecy spoke your name.”
The words land like a slap, and a ripple of outrage spreads through the room. A few of the quraqas step forward, their faces red with anger. “She dares speak!” one hisses. “Execute her, Quya, and be done with it.”
If Anqatil is afraid, she doesn’t show it. And that makes it worse. If she’d begged, pleaded for her life, this would be easier. I could wash my hands of it, tell myself I’m doing what needs to be done. But she doesn’t give me that. She just watches me, waiting to see what kind of ruler I’ll be.
“This city has seen enough bloodshed,” I say finally to those who have gathered, my voice cutting through their murmurs. “We’ve lost too many lives, too much of what made Qapauma whole. Killing her might satisfy your sense of justice, but it won’t bring us closer to unity.”
The room falls silent. Even Anqatil looks momentarily surprised, though she quickly masks it. I take another step forward, my shadow falling over her like a mantle. “You served my father,” I continue. “You stood by him as he oppressed his people, as he tore this city apart. For that, you will answer.”
She scowls, but doesn’t speak.
“But I will not kill you,” I say, the words tasting strange but right. “That would be too easy. You will be imprisoned, held accountable for your actions. If there’s any justice left in this city, it will be found through truth, not vengeance.”
A gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by a surge of whispers. I ignore them, my gaze fixed on Anqatil. Her expression doesn’t change, but there’s something in her eyes now—something I can’t quite name. Respect? Resentment? Maybe both.
“Take her to the cells,” I order, turning to the guards. “See that she’s treated fairly. She is a prisoner, not an animal.”
The guards hesitate for only a moment before stepping forward. They lift Anqatil to her feet, her hands still bound, and lead her away. She doesn’t struggle, doesn’t look back, but I can feel her presence lingering even after she’s gone.
When I turn back to the room, the quraqas are watching me with a mix of shock and barely concealed disdain. Some of them look ready to argue, but I raise a hand to silence them. “This is how we move forward,” I say firmly. “With justice. Not vengeance.”
They don’t cheer. They don’t applaud. But I don’t need them to. I’ve made my decision.
Emboldened, I take a deep breath, and turn back to the table. “We will reach out to the Ulxa,” I declare. “But we will do so cautiously. Tapanali, you and Yachaman will oversee the negotiations. Your experience and balance will be invaluable.”
With that, I determine the meeting over and abruptly depart the chamber. The others stand as I depart, and one of the guards announces that I am leaving—that the Quya is leaving. It’s still not a title I’m accustomed to hearing, nor the formality, and this only makes me want to escape the chamber sooner.
The courtyard is alive with movement as the messengers prepare to leave. Each is draped with quipus—braided cords adorned with intricate knots that speak in the silent language of their makers. The colors shift with every turn of the runners’ movements: deep indigo for the Achope, vibrant saffron red for the Tapeu, emerald and gold for the Aimue. Even the Qiapu’s signature crimson and ivory weave is represented.
I stand at the edge of the activity, hands clasped behind my back. The runners move with purpose, striding confidently as they briefly bow to me before departing. They carry not just cords and messages, but the fragile hope I’ve tried to weave into every word we send.
Will the other factions listen? I wonder. Will they come? Will they even care?
The last messenger disappears through the palace gates, as the soft thud of their sandals against stone fades into the din of rebuilding efforts. I turn away, making my way to the quieter halls of what remains of the palace. The courtyards and chambers hum with the sounds of workers and artisans. At first, my ears were filled with the sounds of their tools tapping rhythms into the air, but I don’t hear them anymore. My thoughts are louder, replaying the council meeting in disjointed fragments.
Inuxeq’s voice, cracking from her immense passion.
Tapanali’s cold and cutting retort.
Xelhua’s steady presence, his words slicing through the tension like a blade.
I pull my cloak tighter against the chill as I turn away from the scene and head back into the palace.
The walk to my chambers is longer than I remember, though that could be the fatigue setting in. The corridors are cold and silent, save for the occasional echo of hammering from somewhere deeper in the building. These walls have seen so much—too much. Jagged cracks run along the floor, and every now and then, I pass a pile of rubble waiting to be cleared.
The workers have done what they can to make the palace functional, but it’s hard to ignore how temporary everything feels. The woven screens meant to block the wind flap weakly in the drafts, and the scaffolding creaks overhead like the groaning of an old giant.
My chambers are no different.
The room is small, tucked away in a corner of the palace that had miraculously escaped total ruin. I suspect it used to be a servant’s quarters or perhaps storage for grain or linens. The walls are plain, the stone floors cold against bare feet, and the ceiling still bears faint smoke stains.
It’s not the grand suite the palace workers keep insisting I deserve, but I can’t bring myself to care. There’s no sense in luxury when so much of Qapauma lies in shambles. My resources are better spent elsewhere—on rebuilding, on the people.
I’ve made small changes to make it livable. A simple reed mat softens the floor near the low cot I’ve claimed as my bed. A narrow shelf holds a few items: a clay cup, a small woven pouch, and a single red feather resting on its surface. A few flowers I’d plucked from the remnants of the palace gardens sit in a clay vase on the table. I note how their bright petals stand seemingly defiant against the drabness. The brazier from the ceremony has been brought here and sits in one corner. Its embers still glow faintly, causing the faint aroma of cedar and sage to linger in the air.
I close the heavy wooden door behind me and sink onto the edge of the cot, my head in my hands.
The council meeting replays in my mind like a song I can’t shake. The arguments, the accusations, the sharp glances that cut deeper than words. Did I handle it well? Did I fail Inuxeq by not defending her more? Her passion was genuine, but her words were reckless, and the Tapeu representative wasted no time using them against her. Perhaps I should have said something, anything, to support her argument. But instead, I let the moment pass.
Tapanali’s face comes to mind—calm, measured, and entirely too shrewd. He’s what I needed to convince the quraqas of my intentions, but moments like today make me wonder if I’ve traded too much in return. His disdain had felt so final, like a door slamming shut. Would stepping in have made a difference? Or would it have shattered the fragile balance I’m trying to hold together?
And then there’s the Ulxa. Inviting them to the council is the right choice; I know that. But I saw the tension in the room, the way Tapanali and Maqochi bristled at the suggestion. They think it’s foolish at best, dangerous at worst. And maybe they’re right.
I rub my temples, the beginnings of a headache creeping in. Unbidden, my thoughts drift to my father. Achutli wouldn’t have hesitated to shut down the debate. He would’ve silenced opposition with a single look, his authority unquestioned.
For all his faults—and there were many—Achutli never wavered. He didn’t second-guess himself, didn’t lose sleep over the opinions of others. Would that kind of ruthlessness have been better today?
The thought is bitter, but it lingers, persistent as the faint scent of smoke in the room.
The prophecy comes back to me then, the one spoken over my father’s blood. By the hand of your blood, he was supposedly told.
I don’t believe in prophecy—not truly. But I can’t ignore the way its words have rooted themselves in my mind, like seeds planted in fertile soil.
Achutli believed the prophecy justified everything he did. He thought he was securing Pachil’s future, but all he left behind was a fractured land and a daughter who barely knows how to hold it together.
The embers snap softly, pulling me from my thoughts. I realize my hands are trembling slightly and clench them into fists to steady myself.
I force myself to stand, pacing slowly as I try to shake the heaviness pressing down on me. For all the doubts that haunt me, one truth remains: I have to keep moving forward. For Qapauma, for Pachil, for everyone who has lost more than I can fathom.
The knock at the door is firm, not hurried, but insistent enough to pull me from my thoughts. I sit up, as the fragile cocoon of quiet I’ve wrapped around myself has been shattered. For a moment, I consider ignoring it, letting the messenger or guard or whoever stands beyond it wait. But another knock follows, more insistent, and I know I can’t.
“Enter,” I call, trying to mask my weariness, and knowing I’ve failed.
The messenger steps in, his face flushed and damp with sweat. He’s one of the younger runners, barely more than a boy, and his sandals are caked with the dust of the roads. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he struggles to catch his breath, clutching a folded strip of cloth knotted in a distinct Qantua pattern. He bows hastily, then straightens, casting his eyes low and to the ground, never meeting mine—the typical Tapeu signal of respect.
“Forgive the intrusion, Quya,” he says, the words tumbling out. “But… I bring urgent news.”
I nod, gesturing for him to continue. “Speak.”
“It’s Taqsame,” he says, the name hitting the room like a gust of cold wind. “He’s recovered far faster than expected. Some say it’s unnatural.”
I try to keep calm, though the knot in my stomach tightens. “Go on.”
“It’s said that,” he continues, “before her capture, he was seen speaking with Anqatil. Openly. Some claim they spent a significant amount of time together, though what passed between them remains unknown.”
The name sends a ripple of unease through me. Anqatil—calculating, sharp-tongued, and dangerous in her pragmatism. The one who played the loyal counselor to my father. And Taqsame—the man who, after fighting to defeat Achutli, has already begun to turn the Qantua warriors against me. Why would Taqsame, of all people, seek her counsel?
The brazier’s embers crackle softly behind me, the sound unnervingly loud in the silence that follows. Rallying support among the Qantua is obvious, this much I can understand. But what is his plan with such brazen acts? Why meet with Anqatil? Is this some effort to win her over, using what influence she has to gain support from the Tapeu?
“Thank you,” I say finally, dismissing him with a wave of my hand. He bows again and backs out of the room, leaving me alone with the suffocating quiet and the implications of his words.
Taqsame. Anqatil. The names swirl in my mind, tangling with the questions they raise. Two forces I thought I could control. Taqsame’s recovery should’ve taken time—several moon cycles, at least. But here he is, already moving, already working to undermine me. And Anqatil—what could he possibly want with her?
If their meeting was planned, if it was deliberate, then Anqatil has been playing this game longer than I realized. And worse, I walked right into it, letting her live, letting her linger.
What did they talk about? What was said between them? And what have I allowed to take root under my own roof?
I stand and move to the brazier, staring into its dying flames. The smoke rises in thin, curling wisps, dissipating into the dim light of the chamber. My hands grip the brazier’s edge, the heat biting into my palms. I don’t pull away.
The pain steadies me, grounding my thoughts as they threaten to spiral. Taqsame’s name feels like a storm cloud on the horizon, growing darker, closer, with every moment I waste. The Qantua warriors’ loyalty to him is a tide I can’t turn back, but killing him outright would only make him a martyr—if I even had the stomach for it. And I most certainly don’t.
If they rally behind him, if they believe his promises… My breath catches as the thought blooms. Everything I’ve built—this council, this fragile truce, this vision of a united Pachil—it will crumble before it can take root. The factions will splinter further, dragging the land into chaos.
I press harder against the brazier, the heat searing through my skin. The smoke stings my eyes, blurring the edges of the room. I wonder, briefly, if this is what it means to lead: to feel your own pain and the pain of the land you’re trying to save, to carry both like weights around your neck.
How do you stop a man like Taqsame? Not through fire. Not through force. And not through fear, because he doesn’t seem to have any. He walks through my city, speaking with my prisoners, and the people cheer him for it.
The flames shrink into embers, but I don’t move. I stay there, gripping the brazier, the pain sharpening my thoughts into one jagged, unavoidable question.
How do you unite a land that refuses to be tamed?