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You feel it in the air, the way their eyes cling to you like smoke, filling your lungs until it hurts to breathe.
You sit rigid on the cold, uneven ground, your back pressed against a jagged stone that jabs uncomfortably through your coat. It’s the only thing that keeps you anchored as the three figures before you size you up with expressions that betray nothing. The one in the deep blue tunic, taller than the others, holds a blade so black it seems to drink the light. It’s not steel, that much you’re certain, but it gleams like it could shear through bone just the same.
Beside him stands a brute with shoulders as broad as a ship’s mast. His weapon is massive, an axe with a polished stone head bound to the haft with intricate bindings. His eyes dart to you every so often, his lip curling in disdain. You don’t need to understand his language to know he wouldn’t hesitate to strike if given the slightest excuse.
And then there’s the elder. His white robes are stark against the dim light, and his features are etched with the lines of a hundred battles or a hundred years. Maybe both. He leans on a staff that looks like it could snap under his weight, though he doesn’t seem to need it. His gaze is the sharpest, cutting through the silence like the ringing of a distant bell.
Around you, the alien sounds of this strange land press in: the soft snorting of the beast they brought with them—a creature unlike anything you’ve ever seen, its neck absurdly long, its fur coarse. Its eyes regard you with almost human curiosity, as if it’s trying to figure out what your motives are.
And then there’s the feline. At first, you thought it was some kind of overgrown house cat. But now, with its sleek muscles rippling under its spotted coat as it prowls around the edges of the group, you know better. There’s nothing domestic about it. It’s a predator with a turquoise-tipped tail, and the way it watches you attentively alarms you.
“Iker,” Landera hisses beside you, her tone sharp enough to draw blood. “Would you sit still? You’re making them nervous.”
He stops fidgeting, though his hands still twitch against the dirt. “They’re already nervous,” he mutters, just loud enough for you to catch. “Look at the way they keep shifting their weapons. We should run the first chance we get.”
“And go where?” she snaps. “Straight into the arid mountains where we’ll be hunted down within moments? They’d have our heads on spikes by sunset.”
You glance at your captors again, and sure enough, the one in blue—the warrior with the obsidian blade—takes a step forward, tightening his grip on the hilt.
“Stop, you two,” you scold, turning to Landera and Iker. “Just stop. You’re going to get us all killed.”
The elder murmurs something in his language—soft, measured, and entirely incomprehensible to you. Though he appears to speak calmly, the warrior stiffens visibly at his words. The brute with the axe widens his stance like he’s preparing for something, perhaps a fight.
Your chest tightens. Whatever the elder said, it wasn’t good.
To her credit, Landera catches the shift in mood and falls silent, though her hand lingers near the hilt of the dagger at her belt. Oblivious as ever, Iker glances at you with a look that says, Well, do something.
You wish you knew what to do.
The elder calmly gestures toward the distance. The warriors’ gazes follow the motion, looking on with uncertainty. You follow their line of sight, but see only shadows stretching into the thickening gloom. Whatever they’re looking at, whatever they think is out there, it’s hidden from you.
Unbidden, your mind drifts to the chest you left behind in the palace. The scrolls. The amulet that it once contained. You try to focus on the here and now, but the memory claws at the edges of your thoughts. The way Xiatli had taken the amulet and slipped it around His neck, like it was His birthright. The way He had changed after.
Your stomach churns. You can’t let it happen again. Whatever’s in those scrolls, whatever secrets they hold, you have to find a way back to them.
An elbow jabs you in your side. “Focus,” Landera chides. “You’re staring.”
The elder’s voice rises slightly—not in volume, but in urgency. He points again, his gnarled hand trembling slightly. This time, the warrior steps forward, holding his blade low. The brute follows, resting his axe on his shoulder.
You try to decipher the elder’s gestures, to make sense of the exchange happening right in front of you. It’s not anger—it’s fear. Whatever he’s trying to say, it’s making the others nervous. The tension wraps itself around you like a noose, tightening with every silent moment that passes. You’re certain now—they’re waiting for something. Or someone. Could it be your fate, your doom?
Iker shifts beside you, his boots scraping against the stone. You can almost physically feel his growing unease. He’s been restless since the moment you were captured, becoming more and more anxious as the uncertainty of the situation continues. It’s only a matter of time before he does something.
And then, right on cue, he does.
The tall one in blue (you’ve started thinking of him as “The Blade" because of how his hand never leaves that jagged weapon) narrows his eyes, his posture tensing, tightening. The axe wielder beside him shifts slightly, tilting the weapon just enough to more swiftly strike you down, you fear.
“Iker,” Landera remarks. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he presses his palm to his forehead, then touches his chest. It’s a clumsy, awkward motion, perhaps made out of nervousness. Or perhaps it’s to wipe away the sweat that profusely streams down his chubby cheeks. Either way, you hope it’s not taken the wrong way by your captors.
Alas, it’s the reaction that catches you off guard.
The Blade moves first. He barks a word—loud, sharp—his hand flying to his weapon. The Axe follows immediately, stepping forward and raising his weapon slightly.
The Elder doesn’t move at first. He stands there, silent and still. He studies Iker as though he’s trying to peel back layers of skin to see whatever lies beneath.
Then, slowly, gravely, he nods.
What is happening?
The Blade barks again, a flurry of sharp syllables that mean nothing, but sound like orders. The Elder raises his hand in response, gesturing broadly toward the horizon. The Axe moves closer, tightening his grip once more as if choking the weapon’s handle. His gaze darts between the three of you as though he’s expecting you to bolt.
“What—what did I do?” Iker stammers, his voice higher than usual.
“I don’t think they liked your little gesture,” Landera snaps out of nervousness.
“They—” Iker’s voice cuts off as The Blade steps toward him, pointing toward the path ahead with his weapon. It’s not quite a threat, but it’s close enough, you think.
The three of you exchange a look. There’s no time to argue, no chance to resist. The Blade impatiently gestures again, and you don’t need words to know what he’s saying. Move, or be moved.
The air changes the moment the group starts moving. The faint breeze, tainted by ash and decay, carries distant echoes—voices, perhaps, or the metallic clatter of weapons being readied. Behind you, the cart creaks softly as it rolls over the uneven terrain. The creature pulling it moves without hesitation, its dark eyes placid. It’s the only thing here that doesn’t seem affected by the city’s atmosphere, and you find its indifference both reassuring and unsettling.
The jagged remains of buildings loom on either side, their warped frames casting skeletal shapes against the dim sky. Windows gape like empty sockets, staring down at you. Whatever safety might have existed at the city’s edges vanishes as the ruined streets of Xiatlazán stretch before you.
The Blade stops abruptly, his head tilting slightly as though he’s unsettled by the commotion in the city. The Axe takes the rear, gripping his weapon a little tighter. Even the Elder pauses, his lined face darkening with recognition, perhaps, or dread.
And then there’s the three of you—awkward, alien, and woefully out of place. Iker is pale, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as though trying to shake off the unease. Landera’s jaw is tight, her eyes darting toward every shadow that shifts in the periphery. You catch her muttering something under her breath, too low to make out.
None of you speak. There’s no point. The natives wouldn’t understand you even if you tried, and their occasional murmurs in that strange, fluid language are just as incomprehensible to you. Instead, the silence is punctuated by the soft rustle of fabric, the scrape of metal against stone, and the distant, ever-present hum of a city brought to its knees.
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Your eyes keep straying back to the Elder. His age is impossible to guess, but his frail frame and lined face remind you of the ancient mariners back home who would sit and recount the endless expanse of the sea. He murmurs something again, gesturing toward a distant alley, and the Blade stiffens visibly. The Axe tilts his head, and both seem to understand the Elder’s meaning instantly.
“They don’t know where they’re going,” Iker whispers, sounding somewhat annoyed despite the nervous quiver in his voice.
“Neither do we,” Landera snaps back, her tone sharp enough to cut. “So unless you’ve got a better plan, keep your mouth shut.”
Iker opens his mouth to retort, but you cut him off with a look. “Quiet.”
The word comes out harder than you intended, but you don’t regret it. The last thing you need is for your captors to think you’re plotting something. The Blade glances back briefly at the sound, but when you hold up your hands, palms out, he seems to take the gesture as submission. He turns back to the path, but his grip on the weapon doesn’t relax.
The ruins of Xiatlazán are a labyrinth of broken stone and gutted buildings. The streets are littered with debris, some of it clearly remnants of the city’s former life—ceramic shards, torn fabric, the occasional glimpse of a tarnished ornament. However, most of it is ash and rubble, the aftermath of the Legido’s arrival, you knowingly confess. Here and there, you catch glimpses of crude fortifications: makeshift barricades, half-collapsed watchtowers, and pits that look more like hurried graves than proper defenses.
The carvings, though—they’re what you can’t stop looking at. Some are pristine, somehow untouched by the chaos. What stories their intricate lines weave, you can’t begin to understand. Others have been defaced, scraped away or overlaid with crude marks. You saw symbols like these near the chest—the ones you left behind. You don’t know what they mean, but you’re only determined to find out the longer you go without any answers.
“Do you think they’re looking for something?” you ask Landera quietly.
“I think they’re trying not to get us all killed,” she replies flatly. “Unlike you, apparently.”
Her words sting, but you don’t respond. She doesn’t understand. She hasn’t felt the pull of the chest, the way it seemed to hum with something alive. You tried to forget it, to focus on survival as Landera wishes, but the memory keeps clawing its way back. You have to know what was inside. You have to.
It’s then that it all comes together for you. The chest, those strangers captured in the cellar of this once-grand palace. These three must be searching for their companions! That has to be what they’re looking for!
“I know where to go!” you say excitedly, to no one in particular. The sound of your squeaking, strained voice—one that tries to restrain itself, yet can’t contain the sensation of solving this riddle—is jarring, and soon, you find five pairs of eyes glaring at you.
“Sorry,” you mutter, then, in an effort to placate everyone, you whisper exaggeratedly, “I think they’re looking for those captives led to the prisons. We need to return to the palace.”
“Are you mad!” Landera exclaims. Meanwhile, the three strangers look at you, confused. Ignoring Landera’s tirade, you gesture toward the palace, then make some kind of awkward motion with your hands to mimic the feather in the hair of the blue-eyed captive.
Right away, the Blade perks up. He utters something to his companions, which causes them to stare at you with great urgency. They speak to you, but once again, you can’t make out the words. Yet it’s clear that they want you to lead them to the palace, to where they can find the rest of their party.
You crouch low and begin to move. But your momentum is immediately halted by a hand grabbing your shoulder and forcing you backward. You quickly find Landera glaring at you.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she comments. “This is suicide!”
“We need to lead these three to their friends,” you declare, as determined as ever. “What happens after is their challenge, but I can’t sit idly by any longer. Not while Xiatli’s power is allowed to continue unchecked.”
Landera gnashes her teeth, but ultimately, the battle raging within her settles. She winces, as though she knows you’re right, but hates what it means for her safety. “Let’s go,” she huffs.
You all move as hurriedly as you can down the torn apart streets. The Elder makes another sharp gesture, this time pointing toward a narrow alley. He urgently murmurs something to the others, to which the Blade nods, then motions for the group to follow.
The alley is barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. The walls rise high on either side, cracked and pitted but somehow still standing. You don’t like it—too narrow, too enclosed—but what other choice do you have.
The Axe continues to take the rear, scowling as he looks left to right. You can feel his eyes on your back, a constant reminder that any wrong move could end with your head rolling across the stones. Not that you need the reminder.
And then, faint at first but unmistakable, comes the sound of voices—low, rhythmic, and growing louder with each passing moment. Not speech, but chanting. Eerie chanting, their syllables strange and guttural. You catch Landera’s sharp intake of breath as the sound swells, and even Iker stops his nervous shuffling, frozen by the unnerving harmony.
The Elder’s head tilts slightly, mutters something else to the others, then motions for the group to halt. The Blade’s body coils like a spring, while the Axe’s knuckles whiten around the shaft of his weapon.
“What are they doing?” Iker whispers, his voice trembling. “Is that—?”
“Quiet,” Landera cuts him off. Her eyes dart toward the source of the chanting, her hand inching toward her concealed dagger.
You peer around the edge of the crumbling alley, and your breath catches as the scene unfolds before you. A procession winds its way through what must have once been the grand thoroughfare of the place before it became Xiatlazán, now a shadow of its former glory. Clad in the gleaming remnants of armor, Legido soldiers march in two disciplined lines. Between them, bare-chested men and women walk barefoot, their bodies marked with crimson streaks that glisten wetly in the torchlight. These are not Legido, but rather, natives of this strange place. They look panicked, uncertain about what’s happening around them. Hemp ropes bind their wrists and ankles, and they shuffle along, flanked by soldiers that prod at them whenever they don’t move as quickly to their liking.
In their hands, they hold peculiar objects—golden sunbursts, obsidian daggers, and bundles of herbs that smolder faintly, sending wisps of fragrant smoke curling into the air. At the head of the procession is a figure draped in dark robes, his face obscured by a heavy hood. His hands are raised, palms outward, as though addressing the heavens, and his voice leads the chant with a zeal that borders on madness.
“They’re… worshiping,” you murmur, unsure of what your eyes are taking in. “They’re—”
“Praying,” Landera finishes, her tone as disbelieving as your own. Your people have prayed to Xiatli before, but not like this. Not as fervently as this.
You watch as the procession halts before a makeshift altar—nothing more than a slab of stone heaped with offerings of food, trinkets, and what might be bones. The robed figure raises an obsidian dagger high above his head.
“Don’t look,” Landera hisses, pulling at your arm, but your feet refuse to move. You can’t look away.
The dagger descends brutally. The cries that follow are sharp and fleeting, swallowed by the chants that rise to a deafening crescendo. The soldiers bow their heads in unison, their fists pressed against their chests in a gesture that strikes you as disturbingly reverent.
Before you can fully process the sight, another sound splits the air—a distant crash, low and thunderous, echoing from the direction of the palace. The procession falters, the chant wavering as heads turn toward the source of the noise.
The Elder stiffens, his hand shooting upward in a sharp, commanding gesture. The Blade is already moving, his weapon drawn and his eyes fixed on the palace in the distance. The Axe follows, his massive frame cutting a path through the rubble.
“What’s happening?” Iker stammers. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Landera snaps, her hand now gripping her dagger tightly. She turns to you, scared, panicked. “But whatever it is, it’s not good.”
“They must think something’s there,” you say, the realization dawning on you. They leave the three of you behind without so much as a backward glance.
“They’re going in,” Landera mutters, incredulous and annoyed. “What are we supposed to do?”
“I’m going,” you say suddenly, stepping forward before you can second-guess yourself. “We can help. I can help.”
The Elder pauses, seemingly assessing you. For a moment, you think he’ll dismiss you, but then his attention shifts to the Blade. There’s a brief exchange—quick gestures, clipped words—and then a begrudging nod.
Landera groans softly behind you. “This is a terrible idea,” but she follows nonetheless, Iker trailing behind her like a reluctant shadow.
Your group moves cautiously, as though one wrong move could unsettle the fragile balance of whatever is keeping this place together intact. As you near the palace’s entrance, the faint sound of voices drifts toward you—low at first, but growing louder with each passing step. The Blade halts abruptly, motioning for silence. You all freeze, your breaths shallow as the voices become clearer, resolving into fragments of a guttural chant.
Landera leans closer, her voice barely audible. “That doesn’t sound like—”
She’s cut off by a sudden commotion: a clash of metal, a barked command, and the sharp crack of what could only be gunfire. The Axe stiffens, and the Blade exchanges a tense glance with the Elder. Their quiet urgency turns frantic as they press forward, gesturing for you to keep up.
Inside, the palace is a maze of destruction. Hallways twist and split, their walls lined with the remnants of what must have once been lavish tapestries and ornate stonework. Now, they’re nothing more than tatters and rubble, the air heavy with the scent of damp stone and decay.
The voices lead you to a narrow corridor, where the flicker of torchlight spills through a jagged opening in the wall. The Blade peers cautiously through the gap before stepping aside to let the Elder look.
When it’s your turn, you step up hesitantly. All you can hear now is your heart pounding in your ears. Through the crack, the scene inside unfolds like a grotesque tableau. A wide, open chamber stretches before you, dimly lit by flickering torches. Crude iron bars section off a handful of figures, their movements sluggish and weighed down by heavy chains.
One figure stands out, bound to a central pillar by thick iron manacles. His tunic is more red than white now, due to numerous gashes and wounds that streak his garments. He looks dazed, struggling to breathe. A shell of the warrior you saw being marched to this place by the soldiers. What happened to him?
You know these figures. You know who these strangers are. You passed them as you attempted to escape. Now’s your chance.
The feline moves first. The sleek, spotted creature darts across the room with a startling grace, heading directly toward the boy with the amber eyes. He flinches at her sudden approach, but relaxes almost instantly as she presses against him, her body curling protectively around his legs. The sight of her unsettles you—not because of her size or the predatory glint in her eyes, but because she is utterly unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Not a lion, not a panther, but something in between. And yet the beast is so warmly embraced by the young boy, as gentle as a kitten.
The three strangers quickly run up to their companions, relief tangible in this dank and dark chamber. Words are exchanged, and the three you traveled with urgently examine the bindings of the captives. Confused and desperate looks are exchanged, and you wish more than anything that you could help rescue them, free them. The men you traveled with look around the chamber frantically, shouting something to the others. You can’t make out any of what’s being spoken between them amidst their anxious exchange.
All except one word.
Xiatli.
You try to make sense of what you’re seeing, when a voice cuts through the tension like a knife.
“Ah, more guests.” The words are spoken in Legido, thick with derision and amusement.
Your stomach drops. Turning toward the source of the voice, you catch sight of him—Criato. He steps into view, his smirk as sharp as the blade at his side. His eyes flicker over the group before landing on you, and the air in the chamber seemingly vanishes as you struggle to catch your breath.
“What perfect timing,” he continues, his voice dripping with condescension. “I was just wondering what to do with the ones we already have.”