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The map mocks me.

Every ridge, every carved river twisting across its polished surface, every tiny mountain range jutting out like accusations—each detail screams that I’m too small for this, that I’m not prepared for leading the people of Pachil.

My father must have seen this as his empire. He would have stood where I stand now, staring down at these slabs of wood like they were all meant to be conquered, claimed. He’d trace his fingers over the borders, as his mind tirelessly worked out how to push them further.

I press my palm against the edge of the map, feeling the cool and polished wood beneath my hand. The sacred lumuli wood gleams faintly in the brazier’s light. For a moment, I imagine the map moving. The rivers flow. The mountains grow taller. The cities stretch and sprawl. Each slab fits perfectly together, but instead of giving me clarity, it twists my thoughts into knots, its interlocking edges binding me to something I don’t know how to hold.

The map is too perfect, and I am not.

Inuxeq slams her hand down on the nearest slab, which cracks through the room like a thunderclap. “We’re wasting time,” she snaps. “Every second we sit here talking, he’s gaining ground.”

“He’s posturing,” Xelhua counters, keeping calm as an undisturbed lake in the morning. He doesn’t flinch at her outburst. With his arms are crossed, he gazes at the part of the map where Taqsame’s forces have reportedly begun to gather. “Taqsame’s making noise because he knows we’re still recovering, that we haven’t begun imprinting the land with our rule yet. He’s hoping we’ll act without thinking, so he can claim we’re volatile and reactive.”

Inuxeq rounds on him, her frustration visible in every line of her body. “And what? We just sit here and let him turn our people against us? Allow him this campaign of lies? Let him chip away at everything we’ve only just begun to build?”

“Build?” Xelhua’s voice hardens slightly. “You’ve just said it yourself, that we’ve barely begun building, Inuxeq. If you think we can survive another full-scale conflict right now, you’re either naïve or reckless.”

“Enough,” I shout. The room goes silent, the tension crackling like fire catching dry grass. Perhaps it was louder than I intended, but my frustration with the continuous bickering has finally boiled over. Control needs to be regained in this room.

The palace servants freeze in place, not daring to move. Seated to my left, Maqochi clears his throat softly, while Inuxeq and Xelhua watch me closely. I glance over at Yachaman, who stoically stares at the carvings of the map.

I grip the edge of the map’s wooden frame. My fingers brush over its smooth, polished surface, and I take in the sight of its curvatures that look ominous in the dim torchlight. Generations of rulers have touched this same wood, their hands shaping its history as much as their choices shaped the land. This revelation is enough to make me dizzy.

“We are not here to fight each other,” I say, forcing my voice to steady, then give a nod to the servants to carry on with their duties. “We’re here to figure out how to handle Taqsame. Together.”

Inuxeq’s jaw twitches, but to her credit, she doesn’t speak. However, her frustration radiates like heat. Xelhua stands as still as a carved figure himself, waiting for me to continue.

After a long exhale, I say finally, “We need both. Caution and action. Xelhua, focus on strengthening our defenses. We need to be ready if Taqsame forces our hand.”

Xelhua inclines his head, in a gesture of quiet approval.

“Inuxeq,” I continue, meeting her restrained glare. “Your instincts aren’t wrong. If we wait too long, he’ll only grow bolder. But we can’t strike without preparation. Work with Yachaman to ensure we have the Aimue support, should Taqsame begin rallying support of his own. I fear–“ I glance briefly at Maqochi before pressing on with my thoughts, my prediction, “–that the Qantua warriors within the capital’s limits cannot be trusted. I need to ensure that Qapauma has the strength to defend itself should, Eleven willing, it must come to that once again.”

Her lips press into a thin line, but after a tense pause, and glowering at Yachaman, she eventually—and reluctantly—nods.

“That means, Maqochi,” I turn to the Qantua general, “I need you to gather intelligence. Find out exactly what he’s planning. I don’t want any surprises. When we reconvene, I expect complete updates.”

The silence that follows isn’t relief. It’s the kind of quiet that hangs in the air after a blade has been drawn but not yet swung. Yet, one by one, the council rises to depart. Their movements are stiff and careful, like they’re afraid even the scrape of a chair might break something fragile. Even the servants linger for a beat too long, glancing at me and then at each other, as if waiting for permission to flee. When I nod, they scatter, relief more than evident in their hurried steps.

The heavy doors close behind them, leaving just me and Maqochi. The faint echo of the departing crowd lingers for a moment, and then even that fades, swallowed by the stillness of the chamber. He stands across from me, as tall and proud as the mountains etched into the map between us. His hands are clasped behind his back as he struggles internally about how to say what he feels needs to be said.

“You handled yourself well in there, Quya,” he says, his voice measured.

It’s not the compliment it sounds like. His tone is too even, his words too deliberate. “Thank you,” I reply, trying to remain cordial. “Though I imagine you didn’t stay behind just to offer praise.”

His lips twitch into a brief, wry smile. “No, I didn’t.”

He moves closer, his shadow falling over the map. The slabs of lumuli wood gleam faintly, as their interlocking edges catch the light. He doesn’t look at me as he speaks, his eyes fixed instead on the carved rivers and valleys that stretch across Pachil.

“You know the whispers,” he says, sounding casual. “Taqsame rallying defectors. Warriors questioning their loyalties. It’s growing faster than anyone anticipated.”

I nod, curious as to where this is going. “I’m aware.”

“And?” He looks up at me now, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s your plan, Quya? It can’t just be getting information and waiting.”

“I’ve already given my orders,” I state plainly. “We strengthen our defenses. We prepare for whatever move Taqsame makes next.”

“Defensive,” he says, sounding disappointed. “Safe. Predictable.”

“It’s strategic,” I counter, as his words burrow under my skin. “It buys us time to gather intelligence, to understand his next move before we act.”

Maqochi exhales sharply, his fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the map. “So you’re being reactive, not proactive. What happens when he forces your hand before you’re ready to move it?”

“Then we respond. Decisively.”

He leans forward slightly. “Responding is what you do when you’re already losing.”

My fingers curl into fists at my sides, but I force myself to stay still. “Do you have a better suggestion, General?”

His silence stretches long enough to be an answer itself. Finally, he straightens, his hand brushing against one of the map’s carved cities. “Grant him territory.”

I blink, certain I misheard him. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” he says calmly. “A small concession. A portion of land he can claim as his own. Something to pacify him, to keep his ambitions contained.”

“You can’t be serious,” I scoff.

“It’s pragmatic,” he replies. “Give him just enough to feel like he’s won. You keep the rest of Pachil intact, and you avoid a conflict that could rip this land apart before it’s even had the chance to heal.”

My pulse quickens, thundering in my ears, so loudly that I nearly miss what he says. “And how long would that last, Maqochi? How long before he decides that what we’ve given isn’t enough? That he wants more? How long before he’s at our gates again, demanding another ‘concession’?”

Maqochi’s gaze hardens. “You think this is about what he wants? It’s about what you can afford to lose.”

“I won’t lose anything,” I snap. “This land is not to be bargained. That’s not how this works. It’s not his to take, and it’s not mine to give.”

He looks at me for a long moment in silence, closely watching me. Finally, he steps back, his hands clasping behind his back once more.

“You have conviction,” he says quietly. “That’s good. But conviction alone won’t keep you on that throne, Quya. Idealism is a luxury you can’t afford.”

I’m taken aback by his statement. What does he think this is? Who is misreading this entire situation, him or me? “And what would you have me do, general? Rule without conviction? Without ideals? What kind of ruler would that make me?”

“A surviving one,” he says.

He doesn’t wait for me to respond. Instead, he moves to one of the chairs, lowering himself into it with a heavy sigh, resting his hands on his knees. I can feel the tension coiling tightly between us, unsettling.

I stand motionless, my fists curling at my sides. Survival? The word echoes in my mind, sharp and cutting. A surviving ruler. That’s what Maqochi thinks I should aim for? That’s the height of his ambition?

I stare down at the map, tracing the carved rivers and mountains with my eyes, as though the ridges might offer me some clarity. The idea of giving up land—of handing a piece of Pachil to Taqsame—makes my blood boil. What kind of ruler would I be if I caved to a man like him? Taqsame isn’t just some rogue warrior. He’s reckless. Arrogant. Insatiable. A man like him wouldn’t stop at a single concession. He’d see it as an invitation to take more.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye, irritation simmering just below the surface. He sits there calmly, his hands resting lightly on his knees. He stares off into the distance like he’s wrestling with something that has nothing to do with me. Who is he to offer advice like this? He’s a general, yes, but one who’s already admitted he’s only here as a stopgap until the Qantua appoint someone else. Why does he care so much what I decide? Have I made a mistake giving someone like him too much power?

But then, as I shift my gaze fully to him, I see it: the look. It isn’t the expression of someone satisfied with the argument they’ve just won, nor is it the smug face of a man who thinks he knows better than some undeserving child whose birthright gave them a throne. No, Maqochi’s look is something else entirely. It’s like he’s already bracing for the next fight, the next empire he’ll have to watch crumble due to someone else’s choices.

“Inuxeq warned me about that look you’ve got,” I say, breaking the silence before it becomes unbearable. His brow lifts a fraction, curious, as he leans forward now, elbows resting on the table.

“Oh?” he says somewhat halfheartedly.

“The one that says you’re about to tell me something I don’t want to hear,” I continue, narrowing my eyes.

He lets out a dry laugh. “Does it matter whether you like it or not?” he asks dryly.

“No, but it’s your job to tell me anyway. You’ve already upset me with your advice about conceding territory to Taqsame. What’s one more blow to pile on?”

Maqochi snorts, his lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Yeah, well, whether you listen is up to you.”

“Then tell me,” I press. Now I’m leaning forward myself. “Though you must think your words will fall on deaf ears, know that they won’t. Not mine.”

For a moment, Maqochi seemingly weighs the truth of what I’ve just said. As he makes his determination, the heavy and awkward silence stretches. And still, I hold his gaze, even though it feels like staring into the judgment of someone who’s seen far more than I ever will. Someone who has walked through fires I’ll never know. Seen battles I’ll never understand.

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“You’re young,” he says finally. “And young rulers always want to do everything. They want to act quickly and decisively, to prove to the world—and to themselves—that they’re the ones in control.”

He pauses, still uncertain whether he should speak his blunt observations about the world, especially to a young ruler who could take offense to his criticisms. But he shakes away his concerns, and continues, “There’s a difference between doing something and doing the right thing. And if you’re not careful, Quya, Pachil will cause you to burn yourself out before you even figure out which is which.”

Heat rises in my chest, burning up my throat. “You think I don’t see that?” The words come out harsher than I intend, and I regret them almost as soon as they’re spoken, but I can’t pull them back now. “I know the city’s already been attacked twice. I know we’re vulnerable.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m saying it,” he replies calmly, appearing unshaken by my tone. “Because it’s easy to let fear steer the reins. You’ll think you’re acting out of strength when you’re really just running from shadows.”

I bite back my retort, my mind churning. He’s not wrong—he never is, damn him—but that doesn’t make his words any easier to hear. I quickly realize I’m being defensive. This isn’t some criticism of my rule, but rather words of caution, hoping I won’t make the same mistakes.

“You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?” I ask quietly, almost somberly.

“More times than I’d like to admit,” he says. “I’ve seen leaders try to crush every flame, thinking they can end the chaos by snuffing it out. But fire doesn’t work that way. Left unchecked, it’ll burn everything it touches, sure. But if you learn its nature, if you work with it, it can warm, it can protect, it can sustain. Ignore that, and you’ll lose everything trying to put it out.”

I ask, folding my arms across my chest, trying to keep the petulant frustration out of my voice. “Stand by while everything crumbles? Wait for the next attack to tear us apart?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No. But I’d have you think before you act. Measure your steps. You don’t fight fire with blind strikes and rage, Quya. You understand where it burns and why. Taqsame is a flame, yes, but not one you can snuff out without consequence. If you try to crush him outright, you’ll only scatter embers, and they’ll burn where you least expect.

“A man like Taqsame doesn’t fight without reason, no matter how reckless he seems. If you don’t know what’s driving him, you’ll never stop him. You’ll just spend your reign putting out sparks while he fans the flames somewhere else.”

I turn over his words in my mind. “But I fear Inuxeq may be right. That, if I do nothing, he’ll see it as weakness.”

“He’ll see you as weak if you act without understanding,” Maqochi counters. “Strength isn’t in how quickly you strike—it’s in striking where it matters. Let him see you as a fire he can’t predict. Warm when you need to be, but dangerous when he comes too close. Make him question his every step before he takes it.”

I press my hands flat against the table, staring down at the grain of the wood as if the patterns there might give me answers. “And what if I can’t control it, this fire? What if it burns everything before I figure out how to guide it?”

“It might,” he says practically. “It’s fire—it doesn’t always obey. Sometimes it burns too hot, too fast. Sometimes you’ll make the wrong choice and add fuel instead of pulling it away. That’s the nature of it.”

“That’s not overly reassuring,” I lament.

He chuckles. “But fire only destroys when you ignore it or fear it, Quya. But you can learn how to manage it, how to control its path. And when it burns too far, you don’t run from it. You learn where it will burn next and prepare for it.”

“And what if I fail?” I ask after a moment, forcing myself to look up at him.

“Then you start again,” he says simply, letting out a slow breath. “A scorched field isn’t the end. It’s the beginning. The ash feeds the next harvest, and the flames leave the soil soft and ready to grow. You just have to keep going, even when the fire feels too big.”

He gestures faintly to the world beyond these walls, where the scaffolding and half-built structures rise against the skyline of Qapauma. “The city’s doing it now. The fire took so much, but it’s still here. Still standing. Rebuilding. Stronger, maybe, for what it endured. Maybe I’ve been talking too long, mixing metaphors,” he interrupts himself with another hearty chuckle. “But the same will go for you. For Pachil. Just don’t lose sight of what you’re growing.”

For a moment, the room is quiet except for the faint creak of his chair as he shifts his weight. I take in his words, let them fester in my head. My reflex is to pout, to meet him with hostility. But deep down, I know that, while he may not be reassuring or comforting me, he’s giving me what I actually need: the truth.

“I’ll learn,” I finally reply. “I’ll figure out how to work with it.”

Maqochi studies me, his expression unreadable, before he nods. “Good,” he says, standing slowly, the scrape of his chair against the stone floor echoing through the chamber. He steps toward the door, but stops just before leaving, glancing back at me over his shoulder. “Taqsame is young. Hot-headed. I was him once, in my own way. Make sure he understands who commands the fire—and who gets burned.”

The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with his words. The brazier’s embers pulse like a dying heartbeat, each flare struggling to hold against the dark. Wisps of smoke coil upward, twisting into shapes that dissolve into the sea of black.

The others have gone, but the map remains. Its smooth slabs glowing faintly in the dim light. The room feels hollow now, emptied of voices. But the silence isn’t calm. I stand there, staring at the map, its intricate reliefs glowing faintly in the dim light. My gaze drifts over the borders Maqochi spoke of, the lines he would redraw to appease Taqsame. I run my fingers over its surface, tracing the ridges and valleys as though the answers might be hidden there, waiting for me to find them. Instead, what circles in my mind, over and over, is the one phrase, the one sentiment, Maqochi spoke of regarding my rule.

A surviving ruler.

Is that all this is meant to be? Survival? Holding just enough to stay on the throne, making decisions not to lead, but to endure? My father might have scoffed at the notion of conviction. To him, the throne was power, and power didn’t need a reason beyond itself.

But I’m not my father.

Power without purpose is nothing but a game of theft. My father taught me that, even if he never meant to.

I take a step back, my hands falling to my sides. For all its grandeur, the map can’t offer me clarity. Only the reminder of how much I still don’t know.

My footsteps echo faintly in the corridor as I leave the chamber. Outside, the cool night air brushes against my skin, gently caressing my cheeks. I breathe in deeply, letting the chill calm me, ground me.

The wind moves gently through what remains of the palace gardens. It rustles the brittle leaves of skeletal bushes that survived the destruction. Creeping vines crawl across shattered stone walls, their tendrils clawing upward as if reaching for a way out, a way to escape. The paths are choked with weeds, their once-precise lines now blurred and wild.

This place was meant to be beautiful. A space for peace, for contemplation. My father never mentioned it, and I doubt he ever set foot here. I’m certain he wouldn’t have seen the point in something that couldn’t be conquered. But standing here now, I wonder if it once gave someone the kind of solace I’ve been searching for, what I used to find when I visited here what feels like another lifetime ago.

Now, it feels like a monument to what’s been lost. Cracked benches, overturned urns, the faint scent of damp soil mixing with ash and dust. It’s hard to tell where nature ends and destruction begins. The flowers that haven’t withered entirely grow at strange angles. The trees bow under the weight of broken branches.

And in the middle of it all, a single bloom catches my eye.

It’s small, only a cluster of pale blue petals rising from the ruin of a stone planter. Somehow, it’s survived the ash and the upheaval. Its fragile, little stem refuses to bow to the weight of it all. I crouch beside it, brushing away the dust that clings to its leaves.

It shouldn’t be here. But it is.

I wonder if Qapauma can be the same. If Pachil can be the same. If the people and the land can rebuild from this wreckage. Find a way to grow again, even when it seems impossible.

Even when I doubt myself.

I stand, and note my uneven steps on the cracked stone as I begin to pace the narrow paths. My fingers brush against the cool and rough edge of a broken urn. The stars above seem brighter tonight. There’s a peculiar serenity in this place, even amidst the devastation. A peace that has found its way here, among the life that fights its way through the rubble and ruin.

“You’ll wear a hole in the ground if you keep that up.”

Startled, I turn and find Yachaman standing at the edge of the garden. Her soft silhouette is framed by the faint glow of the moon. She looks at me expectantly, pleased with herself and her comment, yet waiting for my reaction.

“I didn’t hear you enter the gardens,” I say breathlessly, still somewhat surprised.

“Perhaps because you were so busy glaring at the dirt.”

I sigh and fold my arms, suddenly self-conscious. “I needed… space. After everything today.”

She slowly steps closer, like she’s wary of intruding. “And did the dirt offer any wisdom?”

I can’t help it—I laugh, albeit faintly. “Not yet.”

Yachaman tilts her head, eyeing me carefully. “Well, whatever is in your head seems to be causing a lot of grief.”

“I don’t have a choice,” I say, hating how much it sounds like I’m pouting. “Everyone has advice. Everyone thinks they know what I should do. Like my choices should be obvious. Inuxeq, Xelhua, Maqochi… Do you think I haven’t already questioned myself enough? Do you think I don’t know how close everything is to falling apart?”

The silence that follows is an eternity, and I brace myself for the reprimand. But when Yachaman speaks, her tone is surprisingly calm. “That’s quite the tantrum for someone trying to lead a nation.”

Heat floods my cheeks, and I look away. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “That was… uncalled for.”

“It was honest,” she replies with a shrug. “And honesty isn’t always clean or polite.”

She takes a seat on a low stone bench, gesturing for me to join her. For a moment, I hesitate. But given how this day has been going, I realize that I could use a much-needed rest, and I sit beside her with a frump.

For a while, neither of us speaks. The sounds of the garden fill the silence between us. The gentle wind rushing through the plants. The soft creak of the bamboo stalks leaning into one another. A bird calls out, then falls silent again. The chaos in my mind briefly fades, replaced by the steady rhythm of this place. Peaceful, but not still.

“When I was chosen to represent the Aimue,” Yachaman finally says, “I thought you were making a mistake. I’m not like the others. I’m not a warrior, not a farmer, not anything they could pin a title to. I am just a servant. And I’m just… here. And yet, somehow, I’m supposed to speak for an entire people.”

A stray blossom drifts down from a tree overhead, landing softly at my feet. I want to say something, but I don’t interrupt. Instead, I stare at the blossom while she continues.

“I’ve made mistakes. I’ve let people down. And every time, I wonder if someone else would’ve done better—if someone else, someone more worthy, should’ve been standing where I’m standing.”

Her confession is so quiet, so raw, that it takes me a moment to process it. “Yachaman…”

“But I’m still here,” she says, cutting me off gently. “And so are you. Whatever doubts you have, whatever mistakes you think you’ve made, they don’t matter as much as the fact that you’re still here, trying.”

The words settle over me like a warm blanket. But the warmth doesn’t last. There’s a quiet ache that I can’t quite shake. I glance down at my hands, tracing the rough calluses forming on my palms. They’re small things, barely noticeable. But they feel like marks of everything I’ve been trying to become. Days spent gripping quipu cords until my fingers ached. Helping to clear rubble and lift stones, much to the chagrin of the other quraqas. My hands are becoming the tools of a ruler, but I don’t know if they’re just holding everything together long enough to stop it from falling apart.

“I don’t feel strong,” I admit, my voice barely a whisper. “I feel like I’m walking on the edge of a cliff, and every step I take is just one more chance to fall.”

I close my eyes for a moment, the garden sounds wrapping around me like a fragile cocoon. “And it’s not just the fall that scares me. It’s what happens if I take everyone else down with me. Pachil deserves someone steady, someone who won’t slip. Someone who won’t hesitate.” My throat tightens, the words coming slower now. “But I’m not sure that’s me.”

Yachaman reaches out, lightly resting her hand on mine. “Then how them how you walk it. They don’t need someone who never falters. They need to see someone who’s willing to take the risk.”

“I can’t promise I’ll get it right,” I say with a tremble in my throat.

“Good,” Yachaman says with a faint smile. “Only the gods could get it right—and half the time, even they don’t.” Her smile widens just a bit, warm but wry. “Any ruler who thinks they’re perfect is either a liar or a fool. Probably both.”

My hand darts to my mouth, trying—and failing—to stifle a gasp. Then the two of us give in, bursting into laughter. When it finally tapers off, fading into the stillness around us, my chest aches faintly from it, but in the best way—like something heavy has been shaken loose.

The garden feels quieter now, as though even the night has decided to rest. Yachaman and I sit, immersing ourselves in the silence. Even without a spoken word, we enjoy each other’s company, taking in the scene around us. The cool stone of the bench presses into my back as I let my head tilt upward. The stars are still there, scattered across the sky like shards of bone-white light. They twinkle indifferently, accompanying the moon that hangs proudly among the sea of black.

Just for a moment, I let my eyes drift closed and focus on the sounds around me: the soft rustle of leaves, the faint chirp of an unseen insect, the steady rhythm of my own breathing.

And then the moment shatters.

The footsteps shatter the stillness. Quick, urgent crunching against the gravel like distant thunder. I glance at Yachaman, who stiffens beside me. She watches attentively as a figure emerges from the shadows at the edge of the garden.

The messenger is young, barely past his first cycle of service. His chest heaves with exertion as he grips something tightly in his hands. His sandals are caked in dust, and his face glistens with sweat despite the cool night air. A servant lingers behind him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as though bracing for something unpleasant.

“Quya,” the boy gasps, bowing low before straightening. His voice trembles as much from nerves as exhaustion, I gather. “I bring a message.”

I rise to meet him, my pulse quickening. “From where?”

“Qelantu Loh,” he says. “It came from the Atima musician, Chalqo, with urgency.”

Relief floods my chest. Of course, Chalqo would send word. Of course, it would be urgent. The thought of Nuqasiq, the last great matron of the Tapeu, returning to Qapauma—returning to me—feels like a salve against the day’s mounting doubts. She would know what to do. She always does.

I extend my hand, and the boy stumbles forward, placing a bundle of quipu cords into my palm. I take it carefully, my fingers brushing against the rough fabric. The knots are intricate, each thread feels like a heartbeat under my touch. Or perhaps that’s only my own.

“Have you read it?” I ask the boy.

He hesitates. “I… I haven’t, Quya. But Chalqo said the words were clear.”

I nod and glance at the cords again. “And those words?”

The boy’s gaze drops, his fingers twisting nervously at the edge of his tunic. “He said… she told him to say it plainly.”

“Say what plainly?” I press, eager for my grandmother’s message.

The boy swallows hard, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper. “She said, ‘I come not to celebrate. I come because the embers still smolder.’”

My breath catches. I pause, certain I’ve misunderstood, and await his clarification. When he only stares back, I ask, “Are you sure you translated it correctly?”

He nods, his face pinched with unease. “Those were her words, Quya. Spoken directly to Chalqo.” The cords in my hand feel heavier now, set to knock me off-balance.

“She’s angry,” Yachaman mutters.

“No,” I say quickly, laughing off the confusion. “She wouldn’t—she wouldn’t come here angry. She’s coming to help. To… to advise.”

Yachaman doesn’t reply. Her eyes drop to the quipu, lingering on the patterns as though they might offer some clarity.

“She’s always been direct,” I say, more to myself than to anyone else. “Maybe this is her way of saying there’s work to be done. That the rebuilding isn’t finished.”

“Maybe,” Yachaman says evenly. But the doubt in her tone is clear.

I tighten my grip on the quipu, the fibers rough and almost cutting through my palm. I force myself to breathe, though I exhale in shallow bursts.

She’s coming. That much is certain.

But why does it feel like a warning?