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Even out here, where all I should be hearing is the shuffling of my boots against the loose gravel scattered everywhere around Qapauma, the rumblings from the council meeting still flood my ears. The cold, indifferent gazes cling to me like smoke after standing around a fire. I clench my fists, forcing my breath to steady, but my pulse drums louder and louder and louder in my ears with every step through the palace corridors.
How do they sit there so calmly? Debating, repeating the same words, the same ideas, over and over, as if they’ll mean something different this time. I wanted to slam my hand on that polished map and shout, Do you think Taqsame is waiting for a debate? Okay, maybe I did one time. But watching Maqochi flinch, and the rest of them scrambling for their composure, was pretty thrilling, I must admit.
But Haesan’s glance stopped me. That calm, measured glance of hers, like she thought she could hold it all together just by looking at it hard enough. That is what hurts the most. I can tell she was disappointed, that I had let her down in some way. But it was Xelhua’s fault, goading me on like that! Insufferable fool. We should’ve left him on that solitary cliffside.
I kick at a loose stone on the pathway, sending it clattering against the crumbling palace walls. This place feels more like a tomb than a revered capital. What’s left of Qapauma isn’t worth fighting over—scarred and blackened stone, shattered gates, and people too tired or broken to rebuild it all. Yet here we are, talking about rebuilding it anyway. Like that’s going to stop Taqsame, or anyone else with ambition, from taking it again.
Fighting makes sense. You see the enemy, you aim, you strike. It’s simple. You win or you die. The Eleven will sort it out, whomever they deem worthy of victory. But this? Sitting around a table, arguing over whose warriors should do what, who gets to lead this or defend that… it’s maddening. They want me to lead? Fine. I’ll lead. I’ll lead an army. I already have. I’ll take the fight to Taqsame’s door myself if I have to.
Except… no one wants to be fighting wars forever. Not even me. Or, so I think. It’s difficult to determine.
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
The courtyard is empty except for a few stragglers, Aimue farmers-turned-warriors who linger near the broken fountain like it’s some kind of meeting place. They glance up with wary gazes as I pass. One of them mutters something too low for me to catch, and the others nod. I keep walking. Let them talk. I’ve got nothing to say to them right now.
I find Yachaman waiting for me near the edge of the garden. Her arms are crossed, and she slightly shifts her weight onto one leg like she’s been standing there too long. She doesn’t flinch at my approach, doesn’t so much as blink when I stop a few paces away. She just watches me walk over to her, staring at me stoically.
“What, are you just going to stand there?” I demand.
She tilts her head, unimpressed. “I wasn’t aware I needed to speak first.”
We fall into silence. Her eyebrow arches, like she’s waiting for me to realize how ridiculous I sound. When I don’t, she lets out a small, exasperated breath.
“Well, that behavior is certainly not going to help,” she remarks.
“I’m not here to help,” I snap. “I’m here to—” I stop, biting down on whatever half-formed excuse was about to spill out.
“To what?” she asks.
I wave her off. “To… not make things worse.”
“And how’s that going?”
“What do you want from me, Yachaman? To act like they’re all going to suddenly fall in line because I ask nicely? I’ve got to tell people they’re not going to go home just yet. Your people, who’ve already given up everything to be here. And now I’m supposed to tell them to stay? How do I do that without disappointing them?”
My voice wavers, and the words start spilling out from me like a broken pot. “You think I don’t know what that feels like? To be stuck in a place I don’t want to be, doing something I never asked for? I’d rather be back home, where the air doesn’t taste like ash and the trees don’t look half-dead. But I can’t. And now I have to tell them they can’t, either.”
All I can do now is shake my head and scowl. “It’s not fair. None of it is fair.”
“It’s not about fair,” she says calmly. “It’s about what needs to be done.”
The simplicity of her words only makes my frustration boil over. “Easy for you to say.”
“Do you think this is easy for them?” Yachaman replies. “Or for anyone? The Aimue are scared. And angry. And they don’t need me to tell them why they’re still here. They need to know that they’re seen. That someone understands what this is costing them.”
“So then why don’t you do it?” I mutter as we walk down the path that was likely surrounded by vast plants and greenery once. “I mean, why are you even here if you’re not going to talk to your own people? You’re good at all this—talking, leading. So why don’t you do it?”
Yachaman frowns, and I think I see the faintest hint of weariness in her eyes. “Because I’m not the one they look to. And because I’m not sure I’m the one they should look to.”
The admission catches me off guard. I stare at her, unsure of what to say. She doesn’t wait for me to find the words. Instead, she abruptly turns and starts walking away, toward the decimated gates of the palace grounds.
I hurry to catch up, trailing behind her. “Hey! Wait!” I shout. “So, what’s the plan then? I mean, they don’t even like me!”
Yachaman stops suddenly. Then, she turns to face me, her eyes meeting mine. “Then give them a reason to. It’s not about liking you. It’s about believing in you. It’s about knowing that someone is fighting for them, when no one else has.”
I nod, but Yachaman doesn’t see. She whips around and resumes walking toward the gates, and I do my best to pick up my pace. The uncomfortable silence that follows is like the aftermath after a botched hunt. A twinge of frustration wells up inside me as we briskly move toward the Aimue settlement. But I force myself to swallow whatever biting comments come to mind and quietly walk alongside her.
Ahead, the streets open up to what used to be a bustling city. The Tapeu people work tirelessly amid the rubble. Their stooped figures haul stones and timber. The faint clang of tools echoes across the open space, mingling with the occasional murmur of voices. A child laughs, a bright sound that cuts through the heavy air like a spark in the dark.
I’m overcome by a strange and foreign feeling of hope. These people lost everything. Families. Homes. Futures. And they’re already piecing it back together.
I glance sideways at Yachaman. She walks with her head high, her shoulders squared, like she’s not bothered by any of it—not by the destruction around her, or our precarious predicament. Or maybe she is, and she’s simply better at hiding it than I’ll ever be.
Perhaps I’m unnerved by silence, or the way it leaves too much room for my thoughts to spiral. Either way, I clear my throat and say, “Your people… they’re from the plains, right? You’re fine with all of that open sky, flat land?”
“You’ve never been, have you?”
I shrug, forcing a smirk. “I’ve been through Aimue. All that open land, beige as far as the eye can see. Never thought so much nothing could be crammed into one place.”
Yachaman slows her pace. “It’s not nothing,” she replies, while her face notably remains impassive. “It’s just not what you’re used to.”
“Oh, come on,” I say, waving a hand dismissively. “What’s there to miss? A whole lot of dry grass and endless sky? I’ll take my jungle any day.”
Yachaman’s calm gaze flicks toward me. “You must’ve been in a hurry to miss what was right in front of you.”
“Like what?” I scoff. “Dust storms and endless stretches of flatland? Sure, I was a bit ‘distracted’ because I was, you know, fighting the Eye in the Flame and what have you, but I’m confident I wasn’t missing much of the scenery.”
Her shoulders shift slightly, like a hawk adjusting its wings before the dive, a movement so small it might have been missed. “Like the way the wind moves when a herd crosses the horizon. Or how the light changes just before the rains come, and the grass turns gold for a moment. Like how every sound—every bird, every rustle—tells you something, if you know how to listen.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. I’d meant it as a joke, a jab, but the way she speaks, I can feel the reverence for her homeland in her words. A longing for the familiar tranquility home. There’s a ping of regret for my poorly executed quip. I should’ve known better anyway. I don’t know her well enough to attempt such a thing.
“Well,” I say, shrugging again, “I guess you’d have to grow up there to notice that kind of thing.”
“And I guess you’d have to grow up in the jungle to know what you’ve been missing there,” she calmly counters.
“Heh, I know the jungle alright. The heat that wraps around you like a wet cloth, sticking to you no matter how much you fight it. The noise, too—birds screeching at the dawn, insects humming like they’re trying to carve their way into your ears. The way everything is alive, all the time. The jungle doesn’t give you time to think twice—it just teaches you how to survive. You figure it out, fast, or you don’t last long.”
She hums, a sound somewhere between acknowledgment and dismissal. “The plains are quiet. Peaceful. Not like here. And not like your jungle.”
I snort. “Quiet sounds boring.”
Yachaman glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and I think I see a hint of amusement tugging at the edges of her lips. “With quiet, you can hear the herds before you see them. You feel the wind change before a storm rolls in. That kind of quiet? It’s never boring.”
A chuckle escapes my pressed lips. “When something’s hunting, it’s like the jungle goes quiet right before something bad happens.”
Yachaman nods slowly, thoughtfully. “That sounds familiar.”
Another pause stretches between us. My thoughts are restless, and initially, I decide not to bother Yachaman with them. But, unable to keep it to myself, as always, I glance her way and say, “You ever notice how it’s always us? The Aimue, the Tuatiu. We don’t get the luxury of pretending the silence means peace. Not like the others.”
“You think it’s only us?”
“Yeah. That’s what the Tapeu, the Achope, all of them think. They see us as feral—not monsters like the Ulxa or the Auilqa, but not far off. We’re just simple savages to them.”
Yachaman keeps her focus fixed on the path ahead. “They call you ‘simple savages’ when they don’t want to understand you. When they want to think they’re above you. It’s easier to dismiss what you don’t know. They can think what they like, but that doesn’t change who we are.”
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“Right. But it doesn’t change anything, does it? They’ll always look down on us.” I hesitate, caught off by the bitterness in my voice. “You think Haesan’s different? That she really believes this ‘unity’ nonsense she’s preaching?”
She looks like she’s about to say something, but then stops herself before committing to saying, “I think she believes in what she’s trying to do. Whether that’s enough… unfortunately, I don’t know.”
“You don’t sound so sure,” I press.
“I confess, my time with her has been brief, but what I’ve seen…” She trails off, then shakes her head. “She’s trying to hold something together that’s been broken for generations. That’s not easy. Maybe it’s not even possible.”
“So you think she’s doomed to fail? That we’re all going to fail?”
“I didn’t say that,” Yachaman corrects. “I believe in what she’s trying to do. That doesn’t mean I don’t have doubts. But doubt doesn’t excuse inaction. Rebuilding trust is harder than rebuilding stone, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”
“More of that sagely farmer wisdom?” I tease. This time, Yachaman allows the tiniest of smiles to cross her lips, before we both fall contemplatively silent again.
The Aimue camp starts to come into view. It’s a cluster of makeshift tents and scattered belongings around the remnants of an old courtyard. Farmers, every single one of them—though you wouldn’t know it at first glance. Their hands are calloused and cracked, their skin bronzed from years in the fields, but there’s a wary edge that wasn’t there before. Like they’ve seen too much, and don’t trust that they’ll survive what’s coming next.
Their weapons tell the same story. Spears and clubs carved from wood that’s seen more harvests than battles. There are a few swords—Aimue-crafted, judging by the rough-hewn edges and the dark stains that haven’t been entirely scrubbed clean. Their shields are mismatched, some reinforced with leather patches, others barely holding together.
They’re gathered near the broken fountain, sitting or leaning or pacing in that restless way people do when they don’t know if they should stay or run. Some are packing what little they have left, while others lean on their spears like they’ve already carried too much. Conversations buzz low, and the fragments of mutterings reach me even from here.
“We’ve done enough.”
“When do we get to go home?”
“Qelantu Loh needs us more than this place does.”
Yachaman slows her pace, attentively watching the group. She stops at the edge of the clearing and waits, giving me a sidelong glance.
“Well?” she says quietly, nodding toward them. “Show me how a jungle warrior does it.”
I bristle at her words, knowing she’s trying to be friendly, but finding her less than encouraging. “Fine,” I say, eventually pushing past her and walking toward the group.
As I approach, the murmurs among the Aimue fade into uneasy silence. Dozens of eyes turn to me—suspicious, tired, and so full of doubts I can almost feel them burning into my skin. I take a breath, but the air feels heavy, sticking to my ribs like the heat of a jungle morning before the storms roll in.
I ignore the knot twisting in my stomach as step toward the group that’s gathered to address them. “Aimue,” I call to them, simply. “I need your attention.”
A few heads turn, then more. The movements are slow, reluctant, like they’re weighing whether to bother. Those who don’t look are nudged by neighbors or glance up warily as the silence creeps in. I hold my ground, letting the quiet stretch just long enough before I speak.
“You’ve fought hard,” I begin, though it feels like every word scrapes against my throat. “Harder than anyone should ever have to. And you’ve lost more than anyone deserves to lose.”
Their eyes are on me now, more curious than combative. I see a woman clutching a bundle of tattered blankets, her shoulders hunched as she watches me warily. A young man with a makeshift spear leans forward slightly with a guarded expression.
“But I need you to hear me,” I continue. “Because this isn’t over. Taqsame… he’s not done. Not with Qapauma. Not with Tapeu. And certainly not with you.”
A few Aimue glance at one another skeptically, but they don’t speak. Despite this, I press on. “I know what you’re thinking, that you’ve done enough. That you’ve earned the right to go home, to rebuild, to rest. And you have. You have. But if you leave now—if we let Taqsame regroup, rebuild—he will take over the throne here in Qapauma, and then he will come for everything you’ve fought to protect. Your homes. Your families. All of it.”
The grumbles start again with a low, buzzing unrest that prickles my skin. A man whose leathery face lined with years of labor under the sun steps forward from the crowd. He plants the butt of his farming tool into the dirt.
“We’ve already given all we can,” he yells to me, sounding exhausted, like he hasn’t rested since marching south from Aimue territory. “And what did it get us? More war. More blood.”
His words ripple through the crowd, stirring nods and muttered agreements. I want to snap back, to tell him he’s wrong, challenge him about whether he thinks I don’t understand. That I don’t know what it feels like to give everything and wonder if it’s enough, or why it isn’t enough and have more demanded of me. But for a moment, I falter as I try to hold my tongue. And in that moment, Yachaman’s hand lands lightly on my arm.
“They’re scared,” she says softly, low enough that only I can hear it. “You can’t fix that with orders.”
I pull my arm away. “And what do you suggest?” I hiss through my clenched teeth. I want to call them cowards, simple farmers clinging to old ways. But instead, I just glare at her, waiting for her answer.
Yachaman shakes her head and exhales slowly. Moving past me, she steps forward without hesitation, placing herself between me and the crowd. She doesn’t raise her voice, but somehow it cuts through the restless murmurs like a blade through tall grass.
“You’re right to feel the way you do,” she says, looking over the group. “You’ve lost so much already. Your homes, your fields, your families. No one here can deny that. And no one is dismissing your pain, nor asking you to forget it.”
The crowd falls into a hush, leaning in as her surprisingly calm demeanor draws them in.
“What she’s trying to say”—she gestures briefly to me without looking back—“is that everything you’ve fought for, everything you’ve given, it still matters. You’ve kept it alive by fighting for it. But Taqsame won’t stop until it’s gone. All of it. Forever. And that’s why we’re asking you to stay.”
The farmers shift uncomfortably, and the grumbles start up again. But Yachaman carries on, “We’re not asking for more than you can give. Just for enough to make sure that what you’ve already given wasn’t for nothing.”
“I know what it’s like to watch the fields you poured your life into turned to ash,” she says. “To lose the people you thought you’d always have by your side. I know because I’ve felt it, too. But so has she.”
Her words settle over the group like a heavy rain, sinking into the cracks left behind by anger and doubt. One by one, their postures shift. Tense shoulders relax. Wary eyes soften. They look to one another, to see if anyone is brave enough to respond. No one is.
“I’m not asking you to fight for Tapeu,” Yachaman continues. “Or for Quya Haesan. I’m asking you to fight for Aimue. I’m asking you to fight for the people you left behind. For the ones who can’t fight anymore. For the ones who are counting on us to protect what’s left. And that can only be done if we defend the throne.”
The man who spoke earlier clenches his jaw, his gaze locked on the ground. Slowly, he nods. One by one, the others follow, some with reluctant shrugs, others with quiet determination. Not all of them. Not enough to make me feel like we’ve succeeded entirely. But more than I expected.
Yachaman calmly steps back, her eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. There’s no smugness there, no cruelty. Just a quiet resolve. A relief that it’s done.
I nod, swallowing the frustration knotting my throat as I turn back to the group. Because my voice struggles to speak, I mouth the words “thank you.”
As the Aimue begin to disperse, I linger near the fountain, watching them go. Yachaman stands silently beside me. We take in the scene, in that rare pause between moments that appears to be an unspoken ritual we share.
“That was…” I search for the right words, but they don’t come. “Something.”
“It was about being honest,” she says quietly. “I will never lie to my people, and I will never take their trust for granted.”
Yachaman closes her eyes and lifts her chin slightly, as though she’s taking in the breeze that brushes her cheeks. Her beige tunic gently flutters, and she inhales deeply, holding the air in her chest and releasing it slowly before speaking. “People are like the fields. They need to be tended to, nurtured, shown that someone cares enough to pull the weeds and plant the seeds. If you neglect them, they wither. But if you give them the time and care they deserve, they flourish—and they’ll give back more than you ever expected.”
She doesn’t say anything after that, instead taking in the sun that fights its way through the dark gray clouds. I let her words wash over me, resonating within me like a distant drumbeat. I linger as the last of the Aimue drift away, their murmurs fading into the restless air. I should feel relief. Yachaman convinced them, or at least some of them, to stay. That’s what matters, isn’t it? But all I feel is this overwhelming sense of failure, of inadequacy, that won’t let go. I can lead a charge, take down a dozen warriors without flinching. I can track prey through the dense jungle without losing my footing, or my way back home. But this—this—isn’t a battlefield I know how to fight on.
I thought words would come as easily as commands, that the farmers would feel the fire in me and follow it. But they didn’t. They saw through it, through me. And Yachaman—she stepped in like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like she didn’t have to try, like she’s been leading them all her life.
I dig my nails into my palms to keep from punching the crumbling stone of the nearby fountain. This isn’t about Yachaman. She did what I couldn’t, what needed to be done. It’s not her fault I’m not enough.
The thought stings worse than I want to admit. My whole life, I’ve fought to prove myself—against the jungle, against the warriors who doubted me, against anyone who thought I couldn’t stand where they stood. But now, with these Aimue, and this council, it’s obvious I don’t belong, and I feel like I’m scrambling for footing on uneven ground.
They don’t see a leader when they look at me. They see someone who talks too much and knows too little about the lives they’ve lived, the losses they’ve carried. And maybe they’re right. While we’ve both fought on foreign soil for people who are indifferent to us, at best, what do I know about farmers who’ve become fighters, who’ve seen their fields burned and their homes destroyed? I know war, but I don’t know their war.
With a concerted effort, I swallow back a rising lump in my throat. I glance at Yachaman, still beside me, quiet and composed as ever. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at me, but I can feel her presence like a steadying hand on my shoulder. She’s not judging me. That almost makes it worse.
I can only shake my head, as if I can cast off the doubt clinging to me. There’s no time for this. Whatever I am or am not, they need to believe I’m steady. Strong. Even if I don’t believe it myself.
“You’ve got that look on your face.”
Yachaman’s voice interrupts my thoughts. Somehow, I’m both grateful and annoyed.
“What look on my face?”
“Like you’re about to yell at someone,” she observes. “Like you’re about to needlessly hit some innocent bystander. Just don’t let it be me.”
“You act like you know me,” I say. I know I’m pouting, but I don’t need someone to call me out for it.
“I know enough to see when someone’s beating themselves up for no reason,” she says plainly.
I turn away from her, focusing on the cracked stones beneath my boots. I don’t need her pity, or her quiet reassurances. I need to be better.
“Well, I’d say there’s a reason,” I mutter. “I messed up.”
“Yes,” Yachaman says simply.
My head jerks up, and I glare at her. She remains stone faced.
“But so what?” she continues. “You messed up. It happens. You think no one else has?”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen to me,” I snap. The fire in my chest surges, though it burns more at myself than her. “I’m supposed to be better than this. Stronger than this. How can I lead…” I’m too upset to finish the thought, the rhetorical question she’s probably going to answer anyway.
Yachaman tilts her head slightly, like she’s studying me, trying to figure out how much I’ll let her say without me snapping again. “You are strong,” she says after a beat. “But strength doesn’t always mean charging forward. Sometimes it’s knowing when to stop, to listen. These people don’t need someone barking orders. They need someone who understands what they’ve been through.”
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me. “I don’t know how to be that person,” I admit quietly.
“You don’t have to know everything right now,” she says gently. “No one does—not at the start. But you can’t stop trying. That’s what they’ll see. And that’s what matters.”
The two of us watch as the Aimue move through their preparations. They’re no longer packing, but instead, getting ready to fight. Once again.
Slowly, my breathing evens out, the fire in my chest dimming to a low ember. “Thanks,” I say finally, the word awkward on my tongue. Yachaman nods, offering me a faint, knowing smile before turning back toward the courtyard.
Then, we hear the commotion—a ripple of unease that spreads through the Aimue like the first hint of a storm. Urgent shouts rise from down the long, wide road that leads to the palace as figures stumble into view.
Two Aimue bloodied and battered fighters collapse onto the uneven stone. Their tunics are torn, darkened with streaks of dirt and blood. Their breaths are ragged as they clutch at their sides. What was once so full of quiet preparation only moments ago, the settlement now stills into a tense silence.
“Get them water!” Yachaman barks, already moving toward them. Her voice snaps the Aimue out of their daze, and a flurry of movement follows as someone fetches a jug while others help the fallen fighters sit upright.
I follow close behind and crouch beside the nearest fighter. His face is pale, his eyes wide with a mix of pain and fear.
“What happened?” I demand. “Who did this?”
The man struggles to speak. His breath hitches as Yachaman presses a damp cloth to his forehead. The other fighter, a younger woman with a gash running down her arm, lifts her head just enough to meet my gaze.
“They came out of nowhere,” she says, her voice trembling. “On the road, in the fields to the south. No colors, no banners… but they said they came for him.”
Her words land like a blow. “Who?” I ask, though I already know the answer. “Who did they mean?”
The fighters exchange a glance, their fear deepening. The man finally finds his voice, though the words threaten to be lost to the gentle breeze. “The one they called the Sun. They said they followed him.”
One of the fighters lifts a trembling hand, offering something clutched tightly in his fingers. It’s a crude blade with uneven edges, and its metal is dark and pitted with rust. But it’s the symbol etched into its hilt that makes my breath catch.
A twelve-pointed sun.
The image burns itself into my mind, familiar yet elusive, like a memory just out of reach. My heart races as I turn the blade in my hands, inspecting the symbol that defiantly glimmers in the dimming light.
“I’ve seen this before,” I mutter, more to myself than to Yachaman or anyone else. “I know it… but from where?”
I force myself to stand with the blade still clenched in my grip. My voice cuts through the mounting noise. “We need to be ready. This isn’t just an ambush—it’s a warning. He’s coming.”