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The storm is coming.
It can be felt in the salty air, the electricity of it. The wind carries the sound of drumbeats—not the rhythmic pulse of ceremony, but a jagged, uneven pounding. Discordant. Unnerving.
Captain Lema stands at the edge of the encampment, staring down at Haqiliqa. The Sanqo capital sprawls beneath the cliffs, its narrow streets winding like veins, clogged with the movements of Pahua’s loyalists. Their ranks are thin and ragged, a patchwork of spears, shields, and grim faces that look more suited for fishing boats than battlefields.
It’s a mess. A fractured kingdom pretending it can still hold itself together.
Lema stands at the cliffside fortification’s edge, stoically watching the disorganization with disgust. Below, the rebel forces gather in uneven clusters, frantically moving about the encampment. Crude weapons glisten in the dim moonlight—axes sharpened from repurposed steel, spears tipped with obsidian, and slings loaded with stones that appear too jagged to fly smoothly.
“Desperate,” Gartzen grunts from behind him. Captain Lema barely hears him over the distant sound of voices shouting orders in Sanqo tongue.
Gartzen’s boots crunch softly against the gravel. He gestures toward the activity below, his face nearly entirely concealed by the light of the torches. “That boy’s warriors are desperate, the rebellious Sanko nobles are hungry to seize control for themselves, and we’re sitting in the middle of it all like fools.”
Lema exhales slowly, nonchalantly watching the chaos unfolding. “Desperate people can learn to swim. If they want to survive, that is.”
Gartzen folds his arms, shaking his head at the analogy and standing rigidly now. “He thinks everyone’s plotting against him—including us.”
Lema’s lips twitch into a faint smirk. “He’s not wrong.”
“That’s exactly my point,” Gartzen presses. “He’s going to snap. He’s going to turn on us, and when he does, we’ll be stuck fighting both sides of this little skirmish at the same time.”
Lema finally turns to face him. “What would you have us do? Sail back to Xiatli empty-handed?”
“If it keeps us alive a little while longer? Yes,” Gartzen says bluntly. “Pahoowa is a sinking ship, and we’re clinging to the mast. You promised him our aid, if you happen to forget. I told you, we should just let him drown. Let this whole damned island burn. It’s not worth dying for. We can explain what happened to us to Xiatli.”
Lema’s gaze hardens. “Xiatli won’t listen to us if we return with nothing. However, Sanko has resources, and a strong position. If we play this right—”
“Play this right?” Gartzen cuts him off, thrown off by the remark. “You think this is a game? They’re going to keep fighting each other until there’s nothing left. These people are going to kill each other for scraps. There won’t be nothing left here, Captain. Nothing worth saving. So what could we possibly salvage from all that?”
Lema doesn’t flinch. He looks back toward the Sanqo city, and his mind turns over the possibilities, the risks. Gartzen isn’t wrong. But there’s more opportunity here than his right-hand man realizes. What this island contains may not be what Xiatli directly commanded he retrieve, but there is something more precious here, he can sense it.
“This place is more than just a kingdom heading toward ruin,” Lema says finally, quietly now. “It’s an opportunity.”
“An opportunity?” Gartzen’s laugh is bitter. “What could possibly be an opportunity in this place? All that remains are a handful of Legido sailors and a boy who can barely hold his throne. These people have little to offer us; if they did, we could’ve been rid of this stinking place long ago.”
Lema doesn’t respond immediately, instead looking on at the scene in silence. The wind shifts, carrying with it the faint hum of voices from the boy king’s loyalists below. It’s not the sound of confidence. It’s the sound of people clinging to something they likely no longer believe in.
“We stay,” Lema says finally, decisively.
“Captain—”
“We stay,” Lema repeats, turning to face Gartzen fully. “But we don’t fight for Pahoowa. We fight for what’s left when this is over. If Sanko is going to fall, we make sure we’re the ones holding the pieces.”
Gartzen can only stare at Captain Lema, his jaw working as though searching for an argument that hasn’t already been made. Finally, he exhales sharply, and his shoulders slump slightly. He nods only a single time, before turning and disappearing into the dark of night.
The drumbeats are relentless. Low, guttural rhythms that roll up from the battlefield below like the tide, swelling and breaking against the cliffs. They remind Lema of a heartbeat—his heartbeat—hammering faster with each passing moment. The sky, streaked with ash and smoke, presses down on him as if Pachil itself were leaning in to watch what unfolds.
Lema lingers at the edge of the cliff, his boots planted firmly on the rocky ground. Below, the Sanko people are assembling. Their warriors are disjointed and unorganized—a far cry from the rigid precision of Legido formations. Still, there’s something raw about them, ferocious, eager to prove their might.
But Lema knows all too well: it’s a ferocity that will ultimately destroy them.
Lema exhales slowly at the realization, at what this all means. He’s conveyed confidence to Gartzen in their long history together, made it appear he’s the steady hand guiding the wheel at all times. But here, alone with the echo of those drums, he allows himself the truth: he doesn’t know if this will work. He doesn’t know if he’s making the right decision. All he knows is that doing nothing isn’t an option.
The wind shifts, carrying the faint scent of blood and smoke. Or maybe that’s in Captain Lema’s head. His jaw tightens as he imagines the battlefield below—the boy king’s forces, barely holding themselves together, and the rebels, driven by anger. The outcome seems inevitable, no matter which way he tilts the scales. And yet…
This isn’t the first time he’s stood on the precipice of a decision that could end him. But it’s the first time he’s felt so powerless, so uncertain. The people of this land aren’t like the Legido. They don’t move with the same predictability, don’t break the same way when pressure is applied. They’re a tide he can’t control.
And yet, there’s something valuable in that unpredictability. Something he can’t quite put into words, but Xiatli would recognize instantly. The Great Xiatli, whose will burns hotter than the sun. Lema can already hear His voice. He can imagine the disappointment, the fury, if he were to return with nothing but excuses.
Lema swallows hard, the lump catching in his throat as he thinks about the prospect. Xiatli doesn’t forgive failure. Lema’s seen it firsthand, the way His anger manifests, swift and absolute. No. Returning empty-handed isn’t an option. But if he can’t deliver the muskets and gunpowder, he’ll deliver something else. The Sanko people themselves. Their land, their resources, wrapped in a bow of conquest.
He stares down at the haphazard battlefield below. Pahua’s warriors are forming lines, their leaders barking commands that barely carry over the rushing winds. The rebels are rallying on the far side, their voices rising in a feverish roar. It all looks awful. A bloodbath waiting to happen. And here he stands, watching from above, like a vulture waiting for the scraps.
“What am I doing?” he mutters under his breath. The wind doesn’t answer, of course. Nor do the drumbeats, which grow louder now, faster, like thunder rolling in.
For a brief moment, he considers stepping in. Joining the fight. Lending his men to tip the scales. But the thought dies as quickly as it comes. Sure, it’s what he agreed to with Pahoowa, but maybe there was a misunderstanding. Something lost in translation. Besides, this isn’t his fight. These people aren’t his responsibility. Why risk Legido lives unnecessarily? All that matters is what he can take from them when the dust settles.
But that justification feels hollow, even to him.
His gaze drifts back to the battlefield, as the drumbeats surge in his ears. He imagines the blood, the screams, the bodies that will litter the ground by the end of the day. And he imagines himself, standing amidst the ruins, sifting through the wreckage for whatever he can salvage.
Without warning, the battle begins. Not with a roar, but with the clatter of obsidian scraping against stone. With the unsettling noise of a conch shell horn, followed by half-hearted war cries.
Captain Lema watches from high above as the first warriors break from their ranks, sprinting toward the rebel line. The rebels respond in kind, their own shouts rising to meet the charge. He grinds his teeth in anticipation of the two sides meeting, wincing at the inevitability.
They meet in a savage collision of bodies and weapons. There’s no method to the chaos, no elegance—just the raw, animal sound of combat. Obsidian-tipped macanas rise and fall, smashing against bone and flesh with dull, wet thuds. Warriors twist their round and brightly-painted shields to deflect strikes. But the brutal edges of stone blades still find gaps, biting into exposed arms and legs. Blood sprays in dark arcs, descending to stain the dirt below.
A rebel warrior swings a star-shaped stone mace, and its jagged edges catch one of Pahua’s men in the side of the skull. The crack of bone reaches Captain Lema’s ears, and the man crumples lifelessly into the dirt. But he’s barely down before another warrior barrels into the rebel. With a face streaked with soot, he drives a bronze-tipped spear through his chest. The rebel gasps a wet choke before falling back, dragging the spear with him.
Pahua’s warriors press forward, holding for now against the fervor of the rebels. A woman leaps over a fallen comrade, spinning a short war club in her hands. She swings low, taking out the knees of an advancing warrior, and finishes him with a savage blow to the throat before disappearing back into the fray.
Captain Lema watches from his perch, tightening his fingers on the hilt of his cutlass. He can see the desperation in Pahua’s warriors, wide eyed and frantic like cornered beasts. They dig their heels into the terrain, shouting as they throw everything they have into each strike.
From the corner of Lema’s eye, he spots a rebel hurling a slingstone with a snap of his wrist. The polished rock whistles through the air before slamming into a warrior’s shield with enough force to split the wood. As the shield shatters, the warrior stumbles, clutching his arm as another stone whips past his ear. He doesn’t have time to recover before a rebel armed with twin bronze axes charges him, teeth bared in a feral grin.
Captain Lema is overwhelmed by the sounds. The crunch of shields splintering. The slap of sandals on blood-slick ground. The guttural cries of men locked in combat. Somewhere below, a wounded man screams, but the sound is swallowed by the roar of warriors surging forward again.
The hillside trembles beneath Lema’s feet. But he doesn’t flinch. Refuses to show how much he’s sickened by the sights. He searches the battlefield for any sign of a shift in momentum, any sign of hope. But the rebels hold fast, and they keep pressing forward. Lema curses under his breath, his mind already racing ahead to the assured conclusion of this battle.
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No, it’s not a battle. It’s a massacre. Savage. Grotesque.
“Captain.”
Gartzen’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. The older man stands at his side, with his grim gaze fixed on the carnage below. “This is worse than the last encounter. They’re tearing each other apart like animals.”
Lema can only watch the shifting lines of warriors, the broken bodies scattered about the ground like debris after a hurricane, the blood that glistens like oil in the moonlight.
“We can leave now,” Gartzen insists. “Slip away while they’re too busy killing each other to notice our departure.”
Lema shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“Not yet?” Gartzen snaps, his frustration boiling over. “If we wait any longer, we’ll be caught in the middle of it! Pahua’s already lost control—you can see it as clearly as I can. His men are breaking, Captain. They’re breaking, and when they do—”
“I know,” Lema cuts him off with a growl. Nostrils flare as he stares down Gartzen. His loyal right-hand man wants to protest, wants to declare how this is all madness. Yet he stands down. Reluctantly.
A group of Pahua’s warriors breaks from the main force and frantically retreat. The rebels see an opportunity and press the advantage. They’re already shouting rising in triumph as they cut down the fleeing loyalists without mercy.
At the center of the fray, Pahua stands in his ornate armor, raising his obsidian blade high. His voice is hoarse from shouting orders, and his movements are frantic, but he swings wildly at the rebels closing in around him.
But no one is listening. His warriors falter, their resolve crumbling as the rebels press forward, their sheer numbers and desperation overwhelming the young ruler’s forces.
Lema swears under his breath. “He’s going to get himself killed.”
“And why does that matter to us?” Gartzen asks bitterly. “You just said this isn’t our fight. That we only pick apart what’s left. So let him fall, Captain. Let him reap what he’s sown.”
Lema doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t hear Gartzen. He turns, stepping quickly and deliberately as he descends the hill.
“Captain!” Gartzen’s voice fades into the background. “What are you doing?”
“What I have to,” Lema responds, more to himself than to Gartzen.
Lema moves through the chaotic battlefield like a specter. He doesn’t charge blindly into the fray—he flows through it, weaving between clashing bodies. This is where he belongs. Not in council chambers, not barking orders from a hilltop, but here. Where death lingers on every breath, and survival is earned with every swing of a weapon.
A rebel lunges at him, spear thrust forward. Lema pivots to the side, as the tip of the weapon just grazes his shoulder. He counters with a downward slash. The cutlass bites deep into the man’s collarbone with a loud crack as he splits bone. The rebel crumples, and Lema doesn’t even pause to watch him fall.
A slingstone whistles past his ear, close enough to leave a burn on his skin. Another rebel with an obsidian sword rushes him. Lema meets him head-on, ducking low at the last moment. He drives the hilt of his cutlass into the man’s ribs. The rebel staggers with a grunt. Lema finishes him with a brutal upward slash. The blade carves through his neck in a spray of blood that streaks the air.
Pahua’s sword is knocked to the ground as one of the rebels slams his macana into the flat paddle of the weapon, leaving him unarmed. He stumbles against the wall as his attackers close in. One swings his club, but before the blow can land, Lema’s cutlass whistles through the air. The strike cleaves through the man’s side. The rebel lets out a gurgling scream and collapses, clutching at the gaping wound.
The second rebel turns to face Lema, his war paint streaked with sweat and blood. He roars and charges, wielding a bronze axe with both hands. Captain Lema steps forward to meet him, deflecting the first wild swing with his cutlass. Their weapons collide in a shower of sparks. Lema presses the attack, driving the rebel back with quick, relentless strikes. His blade soon finds its mark, cutting deep into the man’s thigh. The rebel falters, dropping to one knee. Lema ends it with a clean strike to the chest.
He reaches Pahua just as the boy-king stumbles, his footing slipping on the blood-slick ground. Another rebel warrior lunges at him. Their spear is aimed right for his chest. Lema steps between them, and he slices his cutlass through the attacker’s torso in one move. The rebel falls, crumpling to the ground.
Captain Lema turns to Pahua, and coldly commands, “Get up.”
Pahua looks up at him. His face is pale, and his eyes are wide with fear and disbelief. He growls something, something fast and sharp-edged. The boy spits the last of his sentence like venom, his face contorted in rage.
Lema exhales through his nose, as his patience grows thin. He takes another step forward, motioning to the ground with his cutlass. “The battle is over, Pahoowa. Kneel. Surrender while you can.”
But Pahua doesn’t. He barks another string of words, his raw voice rises with every syllable until it cracks. Against better judgement, there’s a pride that blinds him to the reality closing in.
“Fool,” Lema mutters under his breath. He’s seen too many stubborn leaders dig their own graves. It appears this boy is no different.
Pahua lunges. It’s clumsy, the strike of a boy swinging more out of uncontrolled rage than skill. Of course, Lema sidesteps easily. Pahua stumbles, as his own attack nearly takes him off balance. Somehow, he catches himself and swings again.
This time, Lema doesn’t move back. He parries the strike with a simple twist of his shoulder, then steps into Pahua’s reach. The boy flinches as Lema’s free hand snaps out. He grabs the boy’s wrist and contorts the arm back and up. For a brief moment, they’re locked together—Lema’s strength against Pahua’s anger.
The boy snarls something, his teeth bared in frustration, Lema shoves Pahua back, sending him staggering.
“That’s enough, boy,” Lema spits. He gestures again with the tip of his cutlass aimed at the ground. Stop it.
For a moment, Pahua’s body seems to sag, the realization of his failure pressing down on him. But then his gaze hardens again. He wills his body back into a defiant stance.
Lema sighs. He doesn’t lower his blade, but he doesn’t strike, either. “Stubborn little bastard,” he mutters.
And then the rebels break through.
The cries of the dying fill the air, mingling with the faint crackle of flames consuming what’s left of Haqiliqa. Blood pools in the uneven ground, staining the jagged rocks and the broken remains of shields and weapons.
Lema watches as Pahua stumbles through the wreckage, his ornate armor dented and smeared with mud and gore. The boy-king retrieves his blade from the ground and rushes toward his warriors to lead them in battle once more. He swings his weapon wide, but there’s no strategy to it, no skill—just fury and the refusal to fall without a fight.
Behind them, the battle continues in broken fragments. Small skirmishes. Desperate final acts. The rebels are relentless, brutally cutting down the last of Pahua’s loyal warriors.
Pahua’s hands tremble as he raises the ornate obsidian blade with blood-streaked arms. He shouts something again, louder this time, his voice cracking with fury. Whatever the words mean, it’s one last gasp to rally his warriors, meant to defy death that is staring them down.
Lema doesn’t move. He doesn’t even react. He just watches as the boy takes one shaky step forward, then another, toward the oncoming rebels.
Pahua swings the blade with both hands, a sloppy arc that leaves him wide open as he staggers forward. One of the rebels with a macana almost casually steps into his path. The boy lashes out with a clumsy strike. The rebel has to jerk his shield upward to block the frantic blow. Lema almost winces at the blundering sight.
Another swing. Another miss. Pahua’s feet slide in the blood-slick mud. His next strike barely grazes a rebel’s shoulder, drawing nothing more than a sneer. Still, the boy pushes forward with a shaking blade in his hands.
The rebels surround him now, circling like wolves scenting weakness from their trapped prey. One lunges forward, testing him with a feint. Pahua’s footing gives way for a split second, causing him to stumble. He barely catches himself, but the slip costs him.
Captain Lema knows what’s coming. Yet he doesn’t step in. What is the point? The boy’s pride won’t let him yield, and the rebels won’t let him live.
The spear comes from the edge of the melee. It flies through the air and strikes Pahua cleanly. The obsidian-tipped blade punctures through the thin metallic armor and punches through his chest with a sickening crunch.
For a moment, the boy just stands there, frozen, stunned. His blade is still raised as though he might strike again. His wide, startled eyes meet no one, staring instead at something far beyond the battlefield. Then the strength drains from him all at once. His blade falls first, slipping from his fingers and clattering to the dirt.
The boy-king follows soon after, crumpling to his knees. Blood spills freely down his chest, soaking the tattered remnants of his tunic. He gasps, choking on the blood that he coughs up in quick bursts, before toppling forward into the mud.
The rebels surge past him. Their focus is already shifting to the next target, the next kill. But Lema doesn’t move. He watches as the life fades from the boy’s body.
For a moment, the captain feels nothing. Not anger, not triumph. Just a hollow, unshakable certainty.
It was always going to end like this.
When the combat finally concludes, the rebels move through the battlefield and search the bodies of the fallen. They don’t look at Lema, don’t even acknowledge him. Nor does Lema look up to meet their eyes, doesn’t even acknowledge them.
Gartzen approaches slowly. He glances down at Pahua’s lifeless form, then at Lema.
“Well?” he asks, his voice quiet.
Lema is still looking down at the dead king. Something on the boy’s chest catches his eye. He crouches down next to the body, eyes sweeping across the torso. When he sees it, he reaches out and snatches the pendant from around the boy’s neck. The cord snaps, but he can find some thread, some piece of leather to tie it all back together. What’s important is what’s in his hand. This vibrant pendant in deep reds and oranges, like a misshapen stone that’s been smoothed by something—by diligent hands? No, something bigger than that, something more forceful, powerful.
He clutches the pendant in his hand, feeling the soft contours of the off-white stone. Then, after he rises, he turns to Gartzen. Now his gaze shifts to the broken remnants of the capital city in the distance.
“We leave,” he says finally. “Get the men ready.”
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The battlefield smolders beneath the pale morning light. Smoke curls lazily into the sky, carrying with it the acrid scent of blood and ash. Bodies lie scattered across the ground, their weapons gleaming faintly in the sun’s first rays. The sounds of the fight have faded into silence, leaving only the occasional groan of the dying and the quiet rustle of scavengers picking through the debris.
Captain Lema stands at the edge of the ruin, with his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze sweeps over the wreckage, the once-proud city now little more than rubble.
“It didn’t have to end like this,” Gartzen grumbles beside him.
Lema tilts his head slightly. “Didn’t it?”
Gartzen frowns. “They tore themselves apart while we stood by and watched.”
“We didn’t watch,” Lema corrects, almost detached. “We facilitated.”
Gartzen glances at him, his brow furrowing. “Facilitated? That’s what you’re calling it now?”
Lema steps forward, his boots crunching softly. “The Sanko were already broken. We just let them show it.”
“And what did that get us?” Gartzen presses. “A city in ruins? A kingdom that can’t rebuild itself? What’s left for us to take back to Him now? Rubble?”
Lema’s lips twitch into a faint smile, though there’s no warmth in it. “Rubble can still be useful,” he says quietly.
Gartzen stares at him with growing unease. There’s something in Captain’s voice, something cold and calculating that he doesn’t recognize. Something unsettling.
After another stretch of silence, Lema feels the need to explain, “He was never going to lead them. Not for long, anyway. He was a child playing king. They needed someone who would give them purpose.”
“And did we give them one?” Gartzen snaps, his frustration bubbling over. “You think handing these people over to Xiatli is going to save our souls, and theirs?”
Lema’s smirk fades. “The Sanko have been tearing themselves apart long before we arrived. Their hatred, their division—that’s not on us, Gartzen. That’s just who they are. You saw how savagely they ripped each other apart. And I’d wager they’re going to continue to do so until we return with Xiatli. He made a civilized people out of us, and He can do the same for the Sanko.”
Gartzen exhales sharply, his hands clenching at his sides. He doesn’t respond. Knows that whatever he says, whatever sense he tries to put into Captain Lema’s head, is going to fall upon deaf ears.
The ship sways gently against the dock. The repaired hull is a sight to be seen, and a tremendous relief to the captain and crew alike. The Legido sailors move methodically through the rubble, gathering what supplies they can salvage.
Lema stands at the edge of the pier and inspects the broken city one last time. The rebels have claimed what remains, and what they’ll do with it is anybody’s guess. It won’t matter. Xiatli will see to that. He takes a deep breath, cringing while his lungs are filled with the decay-laced air, and exhales slowly.
Then he turns around, and his gaze sweeps over the horizon. The endless expanse of water calls to him with a quiet, insistent pull. It’s there, just beyond reach—the freedom he’s craved since the moment they set foot on this cursed island. Finally.
“Captain,” Gartzen’s voice interrupts his thoughts.
Lema doesn’t turn. “What is it?”
“We’re almost ready to sail,” Gartzen replies mechanically. “Shouldn’t be long now.”
Lema nods, though he doesn’t move. His eyes remain fixed on the water, his mind churning with thoughts that refuse to settle.
Gartzen hesitates, then clears his throat. “It’s done, Captain. Whatever this was, it’s done. We leave, we report to Him, and we put this place behind us.” He knows it’s pointless to try, to attempt to sway Captain Lema’s thoughts. When Uxío sets his mind to something, he’s committed. There’s no changing it. But he has to try.
“You think it’s that simple?”
“It can be,” Gartzen says.
Lema lets loose an exasperated laugh. He shakes his head and waves away the notion. The anticipation of returning to Xiatli with what little they’ve managed to gather only breeds doubt. Maybe Sanko will be a suitable replacement for what they failed to retrieve. But instead, there’s a hollow ache that he can’t quite shake.
“We can only hope this is something that proves we’re worthy of His favor,” Lema says to no one in particular. “This is a piece of the new world that could belong to Him. It’s ours for the taking. Every empire starts with a single stone. Why not this one?”
Captain Lema steps closer to the edge of the pier, fixing his gaze on the ship as his men continue to load the last of the supplies. The sunlight catches the edges of their muskets, their bayonets, the faint sheen of sweat on their brows.
He thinks of Xiatli, of the impossible expectations that have followed them since they first set sail. He thinks of the endless expanse of this foreign place stretching out before them, a land untamed, unclaimed, and waiting. For a moment, everything presses against him—Xiatli’s demands, the crumbling kingdom behind him, the endless possibilities ahead.
And then, like the tide receding, the decision becomes clear.