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Criato’s voice drips with irritation as he surveys the scene. “More guests,” he says, gesturing lazily toward the armed soldiers at his side. His gaze flicks to the natives standing before him, looking upon their strange weapons with disdain. “What perfect timing. I was just wondering what to do with the ones we already have.”
You see his men shift uneasily, looking to one another in hopes that someone, anyone, knows what to do. One of the younger soldiers, barely more than a boy, raises his musket. The barrel trembles as he levels it at the group of captives.
“Stand down, you idiot!” Criato snaps bitingly. “Have you already forgotten what happened the last time one of you fired that thing?” He steps closer, his polished boots thudding across the stone floor. “The Great Xiatli forbade it. Do you want to end up like the others? Besides, look at the size of this chamber! Are you trying to make us all go deaf?”
You watch the soldier falter, and his face blanch as he lowers the weapon. The older man beside him sneers, looking at his lifeless gun. “Useless. These should’ve stayed on the ships.”
But Criato ignores them. His attention now is fully on the strangers standing next to you. He takes a step forward, tilting his head as though observing some peculiar insect. “You can’t even understand me, can you?” he says condescendingly. “What’s the point of showing up to Xiatlazán if you don’t even know what you’re facing? Or do you want to get yourselves killed, as a sacrifice to the one true god?”
The natives who joined you don’t flinch. You sense that their silence is not ignorance, but rather, they’re merely biding their time, waiting for the right moment. One strangles haft of his massive war axe, while the other’s grip on his obsidian blade is light, seemingly hoping to draw his foe nearer.
Oblivious to the storm building before him, Criato turns to his men with a smirk. “They don’t even have real weapons,” he mocks, pointing at the axe. “This? A stick with a rock? Pathetic.”
A blur catches your eye. A streak of gold darts across your vision as the feline leaps from the gloom. Criato’s smirk vanishes as a guttural scream rips from his throat. Her claws rake across his face, leaving angry red gashes that trail from his cheek to his jawline. He staggers back, flailing wildly. In an instant, his smug composure is shattered.
“Shoot it! SHOOT IT!” he screeches, voice cracking. But his men hesitate. Their hands remain frozen on their weapons, wrestling with his previous command—and the repercussions, should word get back to Xiatli.
The native in coral doesn’t hesitate. With a mighty roar, he surges forward with his obsidian blade. So, too, does the one wielding the axe, cleaving the air with devastating force.
Criato’s men scramble, shouting in panic as the first blow lands. The obsidian blade slices clean through a musket’s barrel. The soldier holding it stumbles back, clutching his mangled weapon, as The Axe barrels into the fray like a storm unleashed.
With blood streaming down his face, Criato shrinks back into the shadows, clutching his wounded cheek. His voice rises in a desperate scream: “You imbeciles! KILL THEM! KILL THEM ALL!”
The roar of chaos ignites the chamber. Criato’s flustered men scurry about, fumbling with their muskets as the natives descend on them. A musket is raised, but The Blade steps aside almost casually. The crack of a shot rings out, deafening in the enclosed space. But the bullet finds only stone, colliding with a heavy thwack! and sending chips of rock flying.
You flinch at the sound. That’s what guns do—cause you flinch. But the natives don’t.
The Axe is something else entirely, driving each blow of his weapon as though he’s trying to take down the palace walls. A soldier tries to parry, raising his musket to block, but the axe carves through wood and metal as though they were parchment. The soldier crumples with a cry, clutching his ruined arm as the axe comes back around in a brutal arc, slicing through his foe’s limb.
Criato is screaming again, though his words are barely audible over the cacophony inside the cramped chamber. You catch flashes of him retreating further and further, as blood continues streaking down his face like a grotesque mask of scarlet.
The feline darts quickly among the chaos. She leaps onto a soldier’s back, sinking her claws into fabric and flesh. His ear-piercing scream cuts through the noise of the fighting. He twists, trying to shake her off, but she holds firm, her teeth flashing as they find his shoulder.
Your heart hammers in your chest, each beat louder than the clash of weapons and the shouts of men. You’re rooted to the spot, torn between the urge to run and the strange pull of the scene unfolding before you.
Landera grabs your arm, her grip like iron. “We have to move. Now.”
“But—”
“There’s no time!” she shouts, pulling you back. Her glances at the captives, the ones chained beyond the fighting. A figure stirs among them—a young man in crimson and white, seemingly coming to amidst the battle. He doesn’t flinch as the melee rages around him, his foggy gaze watching Criato with an eerie calm.
You hesitate, eye switching between him and the warriors fighting to reach him. Something about his presence is magnetic, commanding in a way that makes your skin prickle. But Landera yanks you harder, her grip dragging you back to the moment.
“Do you want to die here?” she snaps, almost incensed.
Behind her, Iker stumbles, his face pale and damp with sweat. He doesn’t speak, just nods nervously and follows as Landera pulls you both toward the shadows. The crack of another musket shot echoes through the chamber, followed by a wet, choking sound that turns your stomach.
Smoke and blood fill the air, making it nearly impossible to see or breathe. Your lungs burn with each shallow breath as you weave through the carnage, following Landera’s lead. Your legs tremble beneath you, as the instinct to survive barely keeps them moving.
And then you hear it: a sound so jarring, it freezes you in place. It’s a low and resonant vibration that seems to press against your skull. The fighting stops, and even Criato’s men lower their as they glance around in confusion. Then, every figure in the chamber turns toward the sound.
From the far end of the chamber, a figure shrouded in shadow steps forward. The light doesn’t seem to touch him. No, it’s as though the light dares not get close, bending away from him as he approaches.
The natives stiffen, and for the first time, they lower their weapons. Even the feline retreats slightly, her golden eyes narrowing as she crouches low to the ground. But you know who it is before Landera even whispers the name.
“Xiatli…” she says in astonishment.
Bloodied and wild-eyed, Criato drops to his knees the moment He appears. His voice, that was once so full of bluster moments ago, now cracks with desperation. “Great Xiatli! These savages dared to—”
Xiatli raises a hand, and Criato’s words vanish, as if stolen from the air itself. He gapes, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, but no sound comes. Xiatli doesn’t even look at him, as if acknowledging his presence might sully His own divinity. Instead, He inspects scene before Him—the defiant strangers, the feline crouched low and coiled, and the shattered remnants of Criato’s soldiers.
“You can’t handle a few pesky natives on your own?” the Great Xiatli questions. “Pitiful. Useless.” Criato visibly cowers, flinching at the rebuke.
In this still moment, in this pause, The Axe erupts into action. His grip tightens on the haft of his weapon, and he lunges forward. The woman with the tattoos struggles with her chains as she tries to get free. The Axe moves toward her, nostrils flaring as his eyes lock onto her bindings.
Xiatli tilts His head, watching the matter unfold with a faint, almost curious expression—something slightly more than the usual indifference normally displayed. He takes a single, slow step forward, observing with interest.
The warrior swings.
The axe strikes the chains binding the woman, sparks flying as it meets metal. The links rattle, but still hold. The Axe growls low in his throat, wrenching the axe free and swinging again, then again, then again. Each strike brings with it a louder, more intense growl.
The Great Xiatli scoffs in amusement. “You think that will save her?” He taunts. He speaks again, though this time, it’s in a language you don’t understand. Is He… speaking to them in their native tongue?
The warrior doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at Him. He swings again. This time, one of the links snaps, sending a shard of broken metal skittering across the floor.
A soft chuckle escapes Xiatli’s lips. “Persistent,” He says, now in the tongue of your people, yet it’s as though He speaking to Himself. “But useless. The people of Pachil have always been needlessly stubborn.”
The axe-wielder pulls back for another strike, sweat gleaming on his brow. He pants, breaths coming in short, sharp bursts. Yet he carries on, undeterred by The Great Xiatli’s words.
Xiatli lets out an exasperated sigh, as if this all bores Him. Then, He raises a single hand, His fingers spreading slightly. The ground begins to tremble slightly, as though it’s nervous over what’s about to happen. A low hum grows louder and louder, eventually drowning out any sound coming from the axe wielder’s strikes. Just then, the axe freezes mid-swing, as though caught by an invisible force. The warrior strains against it, his muscles bulging, his teeth bared in a snarl. But no matter how hard he tries, the axe doesn’t move.
The Great Xiatli’s hand closes into a fist.
And just like that, the wielder of the battle axe vanishes.
No flash of light, no cry of pain. Just gone. Erased.
The axe clatters to the ground where he stood. The sound is startlingly loud in the sudden stillness.
The tattooed woman stares at the empty space, her hands still bound to the partially broken chains. Around her, the others freeze, unable to make sense of the sheer impossibility of what they’ve witnessed.
You can’t look away. Your stomach churns, a sour taste floods your mouth as bile rises, and the urge to retch claws at your throat. Landera’s nails dig into your arm as she drags you back, but your legs don’t move.
“Do you understand now?” Xiatli says, His gaze shifting slowly to the remaining natives. “I could erase you all. But where would the lesson be in that? No, it is better to let you see how futile it is. To let you fight, and fail, and crumble beneath the weight of your own ignorance.”
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He pauses, his face contorting into a subtle snarl as he looks upon the natives. “You build your walls, carve your symbols, whisper your prayers—but they mean nothing. I have seen what comes of your unity, your trust. The ash remembers. The rivers carry it. And still, you stumble forward, blind to the truth: you were always your own undoing.”
As he speaks in your language, you wonder who this is for, who He is speaking to. It’s when He begins speaking in the foreign tongue again that you question what this is all about, why He is here, why the Legido have been led to this strange land in the first place.
During his speech, the Blade looks mortified, for the first time, you note. He almost reluctantly takes a single step forward, overcoming his sense to run. His eyes are locked on Xiatli with a defiance that borders on suicidal. The feline growls low, her golden eyes narrowing, and the chains binding the captives rattle faintly as the others move.
The Blade halts, his attention snapping to the space where his companion once stood. Chains clatter to the ground as they fall away from another captive, and the feline darts to their side. The Elder is crouched beside the young boy with amber eyes, and both the feline and the boy appear beyond relieved to be in each other’s company, as though reunited after eons apart. They know each other? Is she his animal companion?
Landera pulls you away, and you’re quickly dragged out of the chamber, past the indifferent Xiatli. You can barely hear her over the pounding in your ears. You don’t get more than a couple steps beyond the threshold when your gaze locks onto the captives.
“They’re going to die,” you mutter to no one in particular.
“Not our problem,” Landera replies, still tugging on your arm. “Do you want to end up like him?” She jerks her head toward the space where the axe-wielder once stood.
You hesitate. The rational part of you screams to follow her, to run and never look back. That would be the wise option, to leave this place. To survive. But something in you pulls toward the captives, toward the warriors still fighting despite the impossible odds.
Before you realize what you’re doing, you’ve freed yourself from Landera’s hands… and you’re moving.
“Are you insane?” Landera snaps in panic. “What are you—”
“I can’t just leave them!” you shout back over your shoulder.
Iker lets out a small, concerned whimper, but he doesn’t follow. Landera curses under her breath, but doesn’t attempt to stop you either.
The chains on one of the captives clink and clank on the stone ground as they eagerly pull against them. You stumble forward, your hands trembling as you grab hold of the links. Your eyes meet those of the man in crimson and white, who spits something at you, some venomous words.
A shadow falls over you, and you freeze. Slowly, you glance up, and you’re overwhelmed by the fear that consumes you. Xiatli glares at you, one corner of his mouth curling into a snarl. His fingers curl as though he strangles the air between you, and you feel your throat slowly begin to close. You can’t breathe. Instinctively, your hand leaves the chains and clutches at your throat. Your eyes bulge as your panicked stare begs to Xiatli to stop, to let you free. You’ll stop what you were doing, you swear! You swear! Just let go of your windpipe, please!
A flash of light nearly blinds you, as a crackle of lightning soars past your face. Suddenly, you can breathe again! You take in large gulps of air, coughing as precious breath returns to your lungs. Next to you, the hands of the man in crimson and white being glowing as bright as torches, even in their bindings. His fingers splay toward The Great Xiatli, and another bolt of lightning rushes toward Him. Xiatli is thrown off by this abrupt attack, staggering back for just a moment.
But the blade-wielder steps between you and Him, weapon raised. The Great Xiatli smiles menacingly, almost lustfully. He wants this fight, yearns for it.
“Move!” Landera’s command cuts through the haze. She’s closer now, pulling at your arm with an unreal strength you didn’t know she had. “We can’t help them if we’re dead!”
You persist, heart hammering like a war drum. Your fingers dig into the icy metal of the chains, trembling as you fumble with the bindings. The crimson-and-white-clad man looks at you, his dark eyes wide, clouded with pain and desperation. He tries to speak, but his voice is drowned out by the oppressive hum of the air itself—the sound of the Great Xiatli’s power shifting like an impending tidal wave.
“Leave him!” Landera’s voice cracks, her nails biting into your arm. She yanks hard, nearly toppling you. “You can’t—”
The chain resists your frantic pull, its rusted links biting into your palm. Your teeth grind together as you lurch forward with all the strength you can muster. A sharp pain shoots up your arm, but the chain gives. It finally gives! The man in crimson and white slumps forward, dropping into your arms for a brief moment before he pushes himself upright, shaking off his daze.
“Go!” you urge, shoving him toward the others.
A guttural roar fills the chamber as the feline lunges toward Xiatli, her golden form a streak of defiance against the suffocating shadows.
Landera screams, something incoherent. But your legs obey, stumbling into motion as the Great Xiatli turns His gaze toward the feline, glaring at the disruptive creature.
Landera pulls you toward the far side of the chamber, where a narrow passage opens into darkness. Iker follows, clumsily hurrying behind you. The sound of the battle fades behind you as you flee.
You don’t know if the captives will make it. You don’t know if you’ll make it.
The shadows of the passage swallow you, the air growing colder and damp with every step. The faint glow of torchlight flickers ahead, illuminating jagged stone walls and uneven steps carved into the rock. The passage twists and turns, a labyrinth that seems to fold in on itself, and every step feels like you’re descending deeper into the mountain’s grasp.
You’re disturbed by a sound, faint at first, but growing louder—a rhythmic pounding, like boots against stone.
“Who’s following us?” Iker questions nervously.
“It might be the soldiers,” you murmur, though even as you say it, doubt creeps into your mind. Something about the cadence feels off, like a heartbeat that’s been tampered with.
Iker stifles a cry, his trembling hand clutching at your sleeve. “What do we do? They’ll kill us—they’ll—”
“Quiet!” Landera shushes him, her head snapping toward the faint light spilling into the tunnel behind you. “Keep it together.”
Your eyes strain against the dark, watching the shadows shift and twist unnaturally in the torchlight. Your pulse quickens as the shapes move closer, figures carrying torches, their long, warped shadows stretching toward you like gnarled claws. The smell of burning resin is thick and cloying as it wafts toward you.
You hear it before you see it: a low, guttural murmur of voices, mumbling in an eerie cadence. It’s more of a chant than speech, but regardless, the sound burrows into your mind like a creeping vine.
And then you see it—the chamber ahead. The one you recognize.
Your heart stutters. The scroll. You’re certain of it now. The chamber is unmistakable, the remnants of the chest scattered across the stone floor. The memory of your last attempt flashes in your mind, the way you were forced away. The missed opportunity gnawing at you ever since.
Not this time.
“I’m going for it,” you declare.
“Going for what?” Iker’s question barely registers in your ears as you start to sprint forward.
Landera’s eyes are wide with disbelief. “Are you mad?! They’re right there! We barely made it out the last time, and now you want to—”
“If it’ll stop Xiatli,” you cut her off. “If there’s even a chance, I have to try.”
“Try what? Getting yourself killed?!” Landera is fuming. “You don’t even know what’s on that thing! It could be useless!”
“Or it could save us all,” you snap, shaking her off. Your chest heaves as your breaths come faster, louder. “You don’t get it. Neither of you do.”
“Don’t you dare—” Landera starts, but the sound of approaching boots cut her off.
Iker lets out a choked gasp, pointing toward the advancing figures. “They’re coming!”
You lunge toward the chamber. Your feet pound against the stone as Landera curses under her breath. She grabs Iker and pulls him back into the shadows of the passageway. The chest is closer now, you can feel it. The scroll is there, taunting you with its presence, summoning you toward it.
You slide and practically tumble toward the chest. Without hesitation, you throw open the lid. Your fingers close around the parchment. The brittle texture of the aged material sends a jolt through your arm. For a moment, everything else falls away—the pounding boots, the rising voices, the cold sweat dripping down your cheeks and back. All that exists is the scroll in your hands, the potential it holds, the answers it might reveal.
But the moment doesn’t last.
“They’ve seen us!” Landera’s panicked voice rings out. The chanting grows louder, the figures move faster now. Your time has run out.
“Run!” you shout, clutching the scroll tightly as you sprint back toward Landera and Iker. Ahead, the stone walls press in on either side. Your lungs burn with the effort, as the three of you bolt through the twisting, crumbling corridors. The relentless steps of their pursuit grows louder, closer.
You stumble forward, the uneven stone ground seem to claw at your feet. The pounding grows louder, the torchlight brighter, and you feel constricted by the continually narrowing passageway.
Iker trips, scraping his hands against the rough stone as he falls. The sound of his yelp loudly reverberates through the passage. Landera whirls around, heat rising to her cheeks, and her hands twitch at her sides as though she needs something to grab, to break.
“Help him,” she orders, shoving you toward Iker.
You drop to your knees, grabbing Iker’s arms and pulling him upright. His face is pale, eyes wide with terror. He apologizes profusely as you haul him to his feet.
“Come on!” Landera presses. “They’re getting closer!”
The muffled panting of the pursuers keeps getting louder and louder. They’re on to you. Quickly, you rush off, hoping to make up ground. The passage ahead twists sharply to the left. Landera doesn’t wait, darting around the corner and you and Iker chase after her, desperate to keep up.
The light ahead grows brighter—a faint promise of freedom. Landera leaps into an open chamber. The sudden and seemingly vast space is disorienting after trudging through the claustrophobic tunnel. You can see the faint glow of the moon filtering through a jagged crack in the ceiling. For once, you have hope.
She glances around, searching the room for another exit. “There,” she says, pointing to another narrow passage on the far side.
But before you can move, the first zealot emerges from the tunnel behind you.
He’s young, barely older than you, just as surprised to find you. He clutches his musket tightly in his hands. As he raises the weapon, you notice how the barrel subtly trembles.
Landera lunges forward, blade in hand. The young cultist stumbles back, fear emanating from his wide eyes. His cry is cut short as her knife strikes, rammed deep into the boy’s ribs. The weapon clatters from his hands as he collapses. The stunned expression that precedes death rests permanently on his face.
“Go!” she shouts through gritted teeth.
You don’t need to be told twice. Grabbing Iker’s arm, you sprint toward the far passage. Landera follows close behind, her blade slick with blood.
Another cry rings out, followed by the crack of a musket. The sound is deafening, and there’s a ringing in your ears as you run away. You flinch, and your steps falter as the shot ricochets off the stone wall.
A sharp pain slices through your side. Instinctively, your hand clutches at your ribs. The burn of the searing wound is immediate, and you bite back a cry as you push on.
“Almost there!” she exclaims, now more encouraging than chiding, as she has been.
The light ahead bursts into view. The cool night air rushes to meet you as you stumble out of the tunnel and onto a rocky outcrop. The jagged edges of the mountain stretches out before you, and seeing the open sky above feels like a tremendous relief.
You collapse onto the stone, gasping to catch your breath. Iker stumbles out of the tunnel behind you, sweat beading across his forehead and staining his shirt. He collapses beside you, his chest heaving.
For a moment, the world is silent, as the chase fades into the night. But Landera doesn’t allow you to rest, doesn’t allow you a moment of respite.
“They’re not stopping their pursuit,” Landera mutters reluctantly. “They’re still coming after us. We need to go.”
You know she’s right. This brief, rare instance of relief was always fleeting. You don’t know when you’ll ever feel safe, but that time is certainly not now.
You force yourself to your feet, the flaring pain in your side reminds you it still remains as you stagger forward. The outcrop narrows ahead, dropping into a steep, winding path that cuts down the mountain. The light of the moon barely brushes the jagged stones, and the drop beyond the edge is a merciless void.
The stone shifts beneath your feet. Loose gravel tumbles into the abyss below. Iker nervously clings to your arm, pulling you slightly off balance. The drop feels impossibly close, and the edge crumbles away with every hurried step.
A musket fires.
The deafening crack of the shot ricochets off the mountain. A chunk of stone explodes near your feet. You stagger, and the edge of the path digs into your boot as you catch yourself. Iker yelps, and his grip tightens on your sleeve.
“They’re gaining on us!” he wails.
You can’t make out the incoherent bursts of shouting behind you, but it sounds like your pursuers are wondering how to navigate these mountains. You can break away. If you just persist and keep going, you can break away.
After carefully traversing the cliff edge, the path splits. Two jagged trails diverge, one climbing steeply into the darkness, the other descending toward a narrow ravine. Which way do you go?
“This way!” Landera barks, choosing the lower path.
You don’t question her. You follow. Your steps are clumsy, each one a fight to keep from tumbling into the abyss. To your relief, the path ahead eventually widens just enough, opening into a small, uneven plateau. You’re about to make it, about to reach freedom, if you can just get to the other side.
Another shot. This one misses high, the whistle of the bullet slicing through the air above your head. You duck instinctively, slipping on the loose gravel. Landera’s hand shoots out, grabbing your arm and hauling you upright. “Keep going!” she barks. “We can’t stop now!”
You feel it before you see it. As you flinch from the gunshot, the scroll’s weight vanishes from your hands. Time slows as you watch it tumble, descending down the cliffside.
“No!” The word tears out of your throat. You lunge forward instinctively, your fingers brushing the frayed edge of the parchment as it spins, impossibly out of reach.