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The ache in my skull pulses in time with the distant echoes of shouting. My vision swims, the torchlight smearing the edges of the room into strange, shifting shapes. I blink hard, willing myself to focus, to push through the fog that clouds my mind.

The faint scrape of boots against stone pulls my attention to the far side of the chamber. The invader's military leader, the invader who reeks of arrogance and cowardice in equal measure, is on his knees. His bloodied face glistens in the dim torchlight of this chamber. He babbles in his grating foreign tongue, and I wish so badly to understand what he’s rambling on about.

It’s when a cold pressure settles over the room that everything abruptly and unsettlingly changes. The invaders’ voices falter, and their movements appear to be stilled as though they’ve been caught in an unseen grip. When I look toward the chamber’s entrance, I realize why. I can’t see him at first, but I feel him—that oppressive presence that turns my blood to ice.

When Xiatli steps into view, the torches fade as if simply being in this chamber commands the light to bow. His gaze sweeps the room, taking in the chaos, the broken chains, the shattered weapons. When he eventually speaks, his voice is soft, almost gentle. Disturbingly so. “What a mess you’ve made of my plans.”

I’m still disturbed by this one’s ability to speak the language of our land. How does he know it? Has he learned it this quickly, or is he of Pachil? Something in his appearance makes me think the latter, but I can’t be sure.

The invader’s warrior leader scrambles forward on his knees. The words leaving his bleeding lips sounds desperate, almost pleading. The foreign words tumble out of him in a rapid stream, and though I can’t understand them, the meaning is clear: excuses, apologies, pathetic attempts to shift blame. Xiatli doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Simply staring at the babbling fool causes the invader general’s voice to falter, and his pleas trail off into a whimper.

The chains bite into my wrists, and every time I move, their jagged edges scrape against my skin. I grit my teeth and pull, straining against the rusted links. Every muscle in my body screams for release, for the chance to fight back, to strike at the monster standing so smugly in the center of this nightmare.

I glance to the side, and that’s when I see it—a stranger. Pale-skinned, soft-looking, their eyes wide with fear as they fumble with the chains. They’re touching my chains. For a heartbeat, I think they’re one of Xiatli’s, here to secure my bindings. Through my clenched teeth, I snarl, “Do your worst, you pathetic child!”

But then their eyes meet mine. Their raw, unguarded terror stills my seething anger. It’s as though they realize they’ve stumbled into a fight they’re hopelessly unprepared for. They’re no warrior. Just a desperate, young fool. And for some reason, they’re trying to help me.

What are they doing? The thought rises unbidden, tangled with suspicion. Nearby, I see Upachu bent over Saqatli’s bindings. Others are here. We could be rescued. Strangely, I begin feel… hope. As though this entire situation will finally turn around.

That hope quickly fades as I catch a figure out of the corner of my eye—Teqosa’s body sprawled on the cold stone floor, motionless. His arms lie limp at his sides, his face pale, and his chest unnervingly still. My stomach twists. Teqosa was the one who always seemed indestructible, and now, he’s been reduced to this. What happened to cause him to be in this state?

Mid-thought, my lungs seize as I follow the stranger’s gaze upward to the towering figure of Xiatli. His hand curls into a claw, and suddenly, the stranger’s throat collapses. It’s as though invisible fingers have wrapped around it, squeezing the life out of them. They drop their hands, clawing at their neck, their face contorted in panic as they choke, nothing but gargled sounds escaping their trembling lips.

Something in me snaps. My own body trembles with rage, with the need to do something, anything, even as the bindings hold me down. My fingers tingle, the familiar surge of power clawing its way through my veins.

The storm inside me demands release.

With a guttural roar, I thrust my bound hands forward. A rumble quakes the ground. My fingers splay as lightning tears free from me. It arcs wildly through the air and slams into Xiatli’s torso. The crackle of power is deafening, and for a brief, glorious moment, the invisible grip on the stranger breaks. They stumble back, gasping for air as their hands clutch their neck.

I don’t wait for Xiatli’s reaction. Another searing bolt follows, aimed directly at him. My energy is unfocused, but it does the job. He falters—not much, but just enough. Enough to remind me that even he isn’t untouchable.

A sharp voice shouts amidst the chaos. A smaller figure, equally pale pulls at them, dragging them away. The stranger’s companion, I think, and I hold off on loosing another bolt of lightning toward the sound. The stranger hesitates, and their eyes dart to me again. But their companion jerks them hard, practically hauling them away.

I grit my teeth and try to summon another bolt, but the storm inside me sputters, drained by the effort and exhaustion. I’m still exhausted from whatever happened to me before. The metal cuffs dig deeper into my throbbing hands as I strain against them. Stunningly, the stranger hasn’t left entirely. Their hands return to the chains, fumbling and trembling as they tinker with them, but determined to finish what they started.

Another shadow falls over us, and I barely have time to react before Xiatli steps forward. I feel the energy within me barely able to form a spark, and I worry I won’t be able to prevent Xiatli from whatever he plans to do to my rescuer. But then, Atoyaqtli moves between us with his blade raised.

Xiatli says something, then smirks. Like this is exactly what he wanted. Like he’s savoring the though of what horrific act he’s about to do.

The stranger’s panicked hands yank at the chains. Despite the metal constricting my wrists, I pull with them. We tug, and tug, and tug, putting all the strength we have into loosing my bindings. My eyes are drawn to a glow, and I realize the source is Xiatli’s hands. We don’t have much time! With whatever energy remaining inside me, I jerk and pull at the chains. The stranger’s eyes grow wide in fear as they, too, desperately work the clasps. Finally, the rusted links are forced to give. The chains fall away with a clatter, and I nearly collapse forward, catching myself on the cold stone floor.

The stranger shouts something again, more urgent this time, and gestures wildly toward the passage behind us. Xiatli’s gaze shifts to us, and I see the young invader flinch. My body reacts before my mind can catch up—I surge forward, placing myself between the invader and Xiatli. It’s a foolish move, reckless. But they have risked their life for mine, so what other choice do I have?

Xiatli tilts His head with a cold expression. “Interesting,” he murmurs. “You think to shield them?”

My hands flex, instinctively curling into fists. I glance at Teqosa again, then at Upachu struggling with Síqalat’s chains. The invader who freed me steps back, their companion shouting something incomprehensible as they pull them toward the corridor. I see the hesitation in their movements, the brief glance over their shoulder, but then they’re gone.

Upachu grunts as he tries to break Síqalat’s chains. Xiatli watches us with the calm indifference of a predator that knows its prey has no chance of escape. The invader's general lies in a heap, while the warriors grip their strange weapons, seemingly frozen between fear and indecision.

“You’ve caused quite the mess,” he says, peculiarly without a hint of anger. His gaze sweeps over the room, lingering on each of us in turn. “And now you will face the consequences.”

He calmly stands in the center of the room, returning his focus to Atoyaqtli as his hands glow blindingly white. My fists clench so tightly that my nails bite into my palms. As Xiatli raises his hands, Atoyaqtli coils with his sword to strike, bracing for impact. My legs move before my mind catches up.

“Paxilche, no!” Síqalat’s voice cuts through the din. But it’s already too late.

I lunge at him with a roar that tears from my chest. I raise my arms and summon the storm that’s been building up within me. Lightning arcs from my fingertips, illuminating the dim chamber with bursts of electric fury. A blinding streak crackles toward my foe.

But Xiatli doesn’t move. He lifts a single hand, and the lightning bends.

I barely have time to realize the impossibility of it before my own power is hurled back at me. The bolt splits the air. It slams into my chest, sending me sprawling to the ground. An all-consuming pain rips through my body, like molten metal poured into my veins. My muscles seize, locking me into a contorted spasm. Every nerve screams at once. The world around me blurs, shrinking into a haze of white-hot agony that blocks out everything else.

“You fight as if your rage is a weapon,” Xiatli says, sounding bored. “But anger doesn’t make you strong.”

With ragged breaths, I stagger to my feet. Through gnashed teeth, I desperately loose another crack of lightning that bursts from my hands. It streaks toward him, splitting into twin arcs as it nears. Xiatli raises both arms, and the lightning collides with his palms. As he traps the bolts within his grasp, he tilts his head slightly. Another one of those annoying, faint smiles tugs at the corners of his lips.

“You don’t even understand the storm you wield,” he says, his voice carrying over the roar of the lightning. With a simple flick of his wrists, he disperses the energy, sending it crackling harmlessly into the walls.

Behind me, I hear the sound of chains falling to the ground. Síqalat flies forward, her spear now split into three jagged blades. She dances around Xiatli, aiming each strike at his throat, his joints, his heart—anything to bring down the enemy. Sparks fly as her blade meets his defenses, the clash of obsidian and bronze ringing out.

His expression turns from disdain to mild curiosity. “And you,” he says, stepping smoothly aside as her blades slice through the air. “Well, I respect the gumption. But that is enough, child.”

Her blade connects—or it should. Xiatli raises a hand, and the weapon stops a hair’s breadth from his chest. It’s as if her trifurcated weapon is held in place by an invisible force. Then, he merely flicks his fingers, and Síqalat is sent flying backward. Her body slams into the wall with a sickening crunch.

Saqatli cries out at the sight, and charges wildly toward Xiatli. In a few breaths, his form blurs, and his features stretch and morph. Within moments, his body shrinks into the sleek, deadly frame of a jaguar. With claws extended, he leaps at Xiatli while loosing a thunderous roar.

Xiatli pivots, and his hand snaps up to meet the beast mid-air. Saqatli’s claws rake against an unseen barrier, sparks flying as his momentum is abruptly halted. Xiatli simply takes a singly step forward, then slams Saqatli to the ground, instantly dropping him like a stone.

Nochtl is a streak of gold and black as she darts under Xiatli’s arm and sinks her claws into his calf. Xiatli hisses, with the first sign of irritation crossing his face as he shakes his leg to dislodge the small cat. The ocelot is flung across the room, her body hitting the ground with a soft, heart-wrenching thud.

When Saqatli comes to, he howls at the sight of his injured companion. His form quickly shifts back into human as he scrambles to the ocelot’s side. She appears to be breathing, but her movements are sluggish, her eyes half-lidded.

The invaders then charge, jabbing with the knives fixed to their weapons. Atoyaqtli meets them head-on with his obsidian blade. He ducks beneath a thrust, then slices his blade upward to catch the warrior under the ribs. Another comes at him from the side. He spins, and the sharp edge of his weapon catches the attacker’s neck.

“Paxilche!” Síqalat’s voice alarms me. She’s on her feet again, spinning the spear in her hands as she fends off two warriors. “Now would be a really good time to unleash a storm of some kind, please!”

I hesitate, as the memory of Xiatli bending my power remains fresh in my mind. But then I see her struggling to fend off the relentless warriors who have suddenly found renewed vigor. I see Atoyaqtli overwhelmed by the sheer number of warriors. I see Saqatli kneeling over Nochtl, lovingly cradling her with his shaking hands.

The storm doesn’t hesitate. Neither should I.

I raise my hands, and the air around me hums with static. I feel lethargic, as though I’ve been pushing a large boulder up a hill. Maybe I’ve been expending myself too much. The lightning comes slower this time, like coaxing a reluctant beast. But when it strikes, it strikes with ferocity. A crackling arc surges through the air, slamming into the ceiling above Xiatli. It’s not where I was aiming, but stone crumbles and falls, forcing him to step back. I’ll take it.

I pull at the storm again, the energy flowing through me like fire in my veins. This time, I aim lower, sending a bolt streaking toward the warriors. It crashes into the ground at their feet, scattering them like leaves in a gale.

Xiatli steps forward, unharmed by the calamity. His eyes lock on mine, and for a moment, the room seems to shrink, the walls closing in around us.

“You think this will stop me?” he asks, slightly amused.

I don’t answer. I let the storm speak for me.

With every measure of fury left in me, I call upon the storm one last time. There are no windows to this chamber, no access to the outside world. Yet a sweeping wind begins to howl throughout the room, kicking up the dirt and dust and debris. The air shudders as the untamed lightning arcs from my hands. The bolt hurtles with a deafening crack, and slams into Xiatli with everything I have.

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For a heartbeat, he staggers. Not much, just a step back. But it’s enough. The glow of his piercing eyes dims, the light goes out from his hands, and a faint grimace flashes across his face. It’s the first sign of struggle I’ve seen from him—an encouraging sight.

But the hope is short-lived. Xiatli straightens as if the storm were a mere annoyance. His robes remain unscathed, and now his expression hardens into something colder than death.

As the crackle of energy dissipates, he growls, “You will see, all storms pass.”

A blur of movement rushes by me, as silent as a shadow. Atoyaqtli moves like the wind, positioning himself behind Xiatli. Can he do it? Will he strike down this deific foe?

The invaders snap out of their stupor. One barks in their guttural tongue, lifting his long, metallic blade. The others follow hesitantly, but are too eager to obey.

Atoyaqtli is forced to pivot, deflecting a crude swing with his obsidian blade that aimed for his ribs. The force of the blow sends him staggering, but he doesn’t fall. He glances at me, then points with his head, telling me to move.

I don’t want to leave him surrounded by these enemies. I refuse to allow him to be overwhelmed by these invaders. But the moment I begin to run over to him, he snarls, “I’ve got this. You need to grab Teqosa and go!”

Reluctantly, I grab the Qantua warrior’s limp body, slinging him over my shoulder with a grunt. The weight nearly topples me—I shouldn’t be so surprised with how heavy he is—but I grit my teeth and push forward. My legs burn, and I feel them wanting to give out, but I tell myself I must keep going.

Síqalat spins her trifurcated spear in her hands in a flurry. She blocks an incoming overhead strike, and then her weapon splits into two jagged ends that lash out in quick, successive jabs. The invaders recoil, unprepared for the ferocity of her attacks, trying to figure out what to do next.

In the midst of their confusion, Síqalat shouts, “Go!” She parries another attack, then another, stepping between Xiatli and the rest of us with no hesitation. “Go find Walumaq. Make sure she’s safe!”

Her words pierce through my haze. Walumaq. I’d almost forgotten in the mayhem. The thought of her, defenseless, alone in some other chamber, sends a new surge of adrenaline through me.

But I hesitate. What do I do with Teqosa? I should be the one fighting Xiatli, not them. But Atoyaqtli’s glare is all the command I need, leaving no room for argument.

There’s no way I can carry Teqosa’s lifeless body and search for Walumaq. It’s too impractical. It makes no sense. My eyes connect with Upachu, and I signal for him to take care of his friend. I lay down the Qantua warrior and stumble toward the corridor. Behind me, I hear Síqalat letting out a feral cry as her spear crashes against another invader’s blade. Maybe something is shouted to me. But as much as I want to, I don’t look back.

The dim and suffocating corridor stretches ahead. Everywhere I turn, the walls close in on me, eager to halt my search. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the distant echoes of clashing weapons and shouted commands. I can’t stop. I can’t fail her.

Suddenly, the corridor splits. From the left come distorted shadows stretching across the walls. More of those guttural voices follow. The invaders.

I could turn back. I could take another path. But the thought of leaving Walumaq here alone—of what Xiatli might do to her—roots me in place. No. I must face the challenge head-on.

I press myself against the wall. The cold stone bites into my shoulder. The voices grow louder, clearer. Three of them. Maybe more. The invaders round the corner. Their weapons are raised… strange, jagged blades, unlike anything I’ve seen crafted by Qiapu blacksmiths. Their leader barks something incomprehensible, and they fan out.

The storm explodes from my hands before I can second-guess the decision. Just as they see me, lightning races from my hands down the corridor. It slams into the one of the men. His armor glows white-hot for a fraction of a heartbeat before he collapses.

The others leap out of the way, shouting in their harsh, alien tongue. What I would give to never hear such a grotesque language again. One lunges at me, swinging his blade low. I twist aside, but the edge nicks my thigh. Not enough to slow me. I unsheathe the dagger at my side. The blade catches him in the ribs, and he stares at me in stunned silence.

The third warrior stalls. His eyes dart between me and his fallen comrades. He’s smart enough to realize he’s outmatched, but not smart enough to run. Before he can decide, another crack of lightning leaps from my palm. It finds him before he can raise his blade. The smell of smoke and singed skin permeates the air. He lets out a quick yelp before being flung onto his back, then ceases to move.

The corridor falls silent again, save for the faint hum of the storm dissipating around me. My chest heaves, my lungs straining against the suffocating air. I nearly collapse, having expended everything within me. I step over the bodies, forcing myself to move, to keep going. No matter what.

The corridor ends at a heavy wooden door. Its surface is scarred with deep gouges and scorched marks. What could have done this? Was this remnants from the assault by the Eye in the Flame? I press my ear to it, straining to hear anything over the rush of blood in my ears. Nothing.

I shove the door open. The room is dimly lit, the torches barely causing the darkness of the oppressive gloom to retreat. And there, in the center, bound to a chair and slumped forward, is Walumaq.

Her blue tunic is torn, and the bronze jewelry that once adorned her is shattered and scattered across the floor. Her hair hangs in dark, tangled strands around her face, streaked with dirt and blood. But it’s her eyes that hit me hardest. Even as she raises her head, I see the exhaustion, the pain she’s trying so hard to hide behind those piercing blue eyes.

“Paxilche,” she says weakly, coughing as soon as she speaks my name.

I don’t answer. I sprint over to her side. Unsure how much time we have, my hands fumble with the chains as I frantically attempt to loosen the cold metal that bind her wrists. I curse under my breath, frustration boiling over as I yank at the links.

I think she says something, but I can’t hear her over the clattering of metal and my heartbeat thundering in my ears. With a snarl, I raise my hand. The storm gathers instinctively, lightning crackling at my fingertips.

“Stop,” she warns. “You’ll break it.”

“That’s kind of the idea,” I snap back as the energy builds and builds.

“Paxilche,” she warns, but it’s too late. The bolt slams into the chains, shattering them with a deafening crack. The recoil sends me stumbling, and the smell of burnt metal fills the room.

Walumaq glares at me as she pulls her wrists free. She rubs at the raw, bruised skin. “You could’ve killed me!”

“But I didn’t,” I say, offering her my hand. She doesn’t take it.

“Where are the others?” she demands.

“They’re waiting outside,” I reply, avoiding her gaze. “They managed to escape, but I remained in the building to search for you. Now that I’ve found you, we need to move, because those invaders are looking for us.”

She narrows her eyes. I try to mask my lie through my stare, but she’s clearly unconvinced. I can tell she wants to say something, to ask me to explain in detail what happened while she’s been trapped here. Yet for some reason, thankfully, she doesn’t press the issue. She starts to get up off the ground, and I go to help her, to rush us out of this gods forsaken place.

She abruptly brushes me off. “My feather!”

“Your what?”

In a panic, she searches the ground. “My blue and red feather! I had it in my hair, but it must have been jostled loose.”

“We can get you another one,” I remark, aware that my annoyance is not disguised at all. “We need to move! Now!”

“Not until I find my feather,” she insists, stubbornly. I go to pull her away from this prison, but she pushes me away—she actually punches my shoulder! “Can’t you see? It was given to me by my mother! If I don’t find it…”

She doesn’t finish the thought, but her lip begins to quiver. I let out a sigh. “We’ll find it. I promise.”

The bronze jewelry remains broken on the floor. Precious gemstones wedge themselves between the cracks of the stone. She retrieves none of them. Her head swivels hurriedly like a bird inspecting the ground for its potential meal. Her breathing starts to hasten as she desperately pats the floor, hoping her hands will find it.

Footsteps slowly begin to resound off the stone walls. They’re coming. It takes every measure of restraint within me to not force this spoiled Sanqo princess out of this prison so we can try to reach safety. No, no. We must find this stupid feather. As if hundreds upon hundreds can’t be found the moment we leave Pichaqta.

“Walumaq,” I say, trying my best to gently urge her to give up this ridiculous search. She ignores me. She continues to look at every stone, every bit of this cursed chamber for a feather.

I feel the fury welling up inside me. Like Xutuina about to erupt. Are we seriously going to be recaptured and killed, all because of some stupid feather?

Mercifully, she triumphantly raises the blue and red feather high above her head. “Oh, praise the Eleven!” she exclaims. She dutifully places the feather into her hair, securing it with a pin or something—frankly, I don’t care at this point. All I care about is getting out alive.

“Can we…” I wave toward the heavy wooden door, willing her to finally move, to finally get out of this place.

She calmly strolls out of the chamber, as though there’s nothing more urgent than escaping the clutches of Xiatli. With another sigh, I follow behind, checking both sides of the hallway for enemies. We take off in the direction I came, back toward the prison where we were held initially, only because it’s the place with which I’m familiar. And I just hope we’re heading toward the exit.

We snake our way through the twisted corridors. At every sound of hurried footsteps and muffled voices, we dart into the shadows, hoping to not be seen. It takes several such instances before the halls start to become illuminated in something other than torchlight.

“The outside,” I remark, growing equal parts excited and impatient in reaching freedom. We’re so close. Just a little further…

More footsteps thump behind us. “We need to–“ I don’t need to finish my thought; she’s already running as fast as her legs will carry her toward the sliver of light. There are footsteps surging toward us from another hallway. My heart leaps into my throat, and my grip tightens on my blade. But it’s not the invaders.

Atoyaqtli rounds the corner first, his obsidian sword slick with blood. He’s carrying Teqosa’s limp body, and when he recognizes me, his glare nearly burns me alive. Behind him, Saqatli helps Upachu, who struggles to keep up, cradling the wounded ocelot in his arms. Síqalat brings up the rear, pivoting her head from side to side as she watches for incoming threats. To my great relief, they’re all alive. Well, most of them, that is.

Walumaq looks over the group, eyes growing wide. “What happened?” she asks with grave concern.

“Later,” Atoyaqtli grunts, still glaring at me. “We need to move.”

Saqatli’s amber eyes glance at me with some kind of unspoken accusation. Walumaq, too, doesn’t hide her disdain. “What did I do?” I ask, but my question appears to fall upon deaf ears as the group quickly hurries away.

After trudging through the narrow corridors for what feels like an eternity, we finally see it. The exit. The faint light of the outside world spills into the hallway, beaconing us forward. It’s just the pale glow of a struggling moon, but after the suffocating confines of the palace, it feels blinding. We stumble into the open air, taking in the sweet, sweet outside air that refreshingly chills our lungs. We’re safe, for now.

Upachu lowers himself onto a jagged stone in the ruined courtyard. He cradles the wounded ocelot in his arms draped with the heavy cloth of his white robes. The small creature is barely stirring, and Saqatli looks on with concern. Atoyaqtli sets Teqosa’s limp body down carefully, sagging his own shoulders under the strain of carrying him.

Walumaq turns to me and furiously points a finger near my face. “You lied to me,” she says sharply. “You said the others were outside. You left them to die, didn’t you?”

“They didn’t die,” I answer. “They’re here, aren’t they?”

“Only because they fought their way out,” she retorts.

Before I can respond, Síqalat interrupts. “You both can sort this out later. Right now, we need to move. Those strangers are hunting us, and they could find us any moment.” Atoyaqtli grunts in agreement, his focus on Teqosa’s unconscious form.

“Before we do anything,” Upachu chimes in, “we need to tend to the wounded. The ocelot should recover, but Teqosa won’t survive if we keep dragging him around like this.”

“We need a safe place,” Atoyaqtli states. “Somewhere to regroup. Somewhere they won’t find us.”

“There’s a place,” I note. “It’s not far, just beyond the palace walls. There’s an opening near the aqueducts—we once used it to slip into the palace unnoticed. But we’ll need to move quickly.”

The party agrees to my plan. But even so, I can tell they’re doing so reluctantly. It’s as if they no longer trust me or something. I’m telling the truth, I want to shout to them, to clear their minds of this fog of doubt they appear to be in. But they carry on with my idea, as Atoyaqtli lifts Teqosa once again, while Upachu holds the ocelot in his arms.

“They’re this way.” I gesture toward the far side of the courtyard, where a crumbled section of wall offers a glimpse of the shadowy ruins beyond. The aqueducts were once a lifeline for the palace, feeding its fountains and gardens. Now, they’re little more than a forgotten escape route—a memory of better days.

I lead the way, motioning for them to follow. The path is tight and treacherous, leaving very little room to squeeze through. Every sound feels amplified—the crunch of stone under boots, the sharp scrape of metal against rock, even our breath. It feels like anything we do will give away our position. We need to hurry.

I reach the aqueducts first. The narrow opening is barely visible in the faint glow of the night sky. There’s a jagged gap in the palace wall partially hidden by fallen stones and overgrown brush. “There,” I whisper, pointing.

Atoyaqtli hesitates as he surveys the gap. “It’s too small,” he mutters, shifting Teqosa’s weight again. “I’ll need help.”

Without thinking, I step forward. “Here,” I say, extending my arms to offer my help. Atoyaqtli forces his way through with Teqosa draped over him like a broken banner. Together, we manage to guide Teqosa’s unconscious form toward the opening. The sharp edges of the rocks catch at his tunic and scrape his skin, but we manage to maneuver him through, little by little.

“Move faster,” Síqalat urges us through the opening. “They’re close.”

The rhythmic thudding of footsteps grows louder. She guards the rear, holding her spear steady as her eyes dart toward every flicker of movement in the shadows. My fingers clench into fists as I squeeze through the gap, the rough edges tearing at my sleeves.

Behind me, Upachu makes it through with surprising ease, as his wiry frame slips into the narrow space. The ocelot stirs in his arms, letting out a faint growl that causes Saqatli to exhale in relief. Motivated, he follows next, gracefully moving through the cramped space.

Finally, Síqalat ducks into the opening, twisting her body to keep her spear at the ready. She pauses for a moment, checking the darkness behind us before slipping through the last of the gap. “Clear,” she mutters, and she hurries away from the opening.

We emerge on the other side of the wall, stumbling into the embrace of the Qiapu mountains that stretch endlessly before us. The air here is colder, thinner, yet it’s a relief to have it fill my lungs. The palace looms behind us, foreboding under the pale light of the stars.

We tirelessly march through the rugged landscape, wordlessly pressing onward. I don’t look back once, fearing that doing so will cause our pursuers to suddenly appear behind us. We navigate the rough and uneven terrain under the light of the moon, hoping our presence will be shrouded just enough to allow us to reach safety.

The sharp cliffs jut out like teeth from the ground. Sparse vegetation clings to the rocky terrain, as stubborn tufts of grass and thorny shrubs seem to mock the desolation around them. We continue on, and each one of us listens for the faintest sound of pursuit.

Finally, Atoyaqtli stops ahead of us. “There,” he says, pointing to a dark hollow nestled between two towering boulders. The space is just wide enough to shelter us, shielded from prying eyes by the natural formation of the rocks.

We slip into the crevice, passing through the cool stone. Inside, the hollow opens slightly, offering a narrow but functional refuge. The ground here is softer, padded with scattered debris of dried leaves and crumbling terrain. The wind whistles faintly through the gaps above, carrying the chilling air that prickles my skin.

With great care, Atoyaqtli gently lowers Teqosa onto the ground. Síqalat joins him as they treat the Qantua warrior of his scrapes and wounds. Upachu hands Nochtl to Saqatli, who kneels nearby, cradling the ocelot as he murmurs something under his breath—a quiet prayer in his native tongue, perhaps, though I can’t tell. Walumaq leans against one of the boulders, staring blankly at the crevices.

I slump against the stone, as my muscles ache, my lungs heaving. My thoughts switch between relief and frustration, while my mind replays the chaos of the escape.

I glance around, waiting for someone—anyone—to acknowledge what I did back there. The lightning, the chains, the effort it took to pull Teqosa free. But no one says a word. My teeth grind as I bite back the urge to demand recognition. “A thank you would be nice,” I almost say, but the words die in my throat.

Before anyone can move, a noise cuts through the stillness—a low, rhythmic thudding, like footsteps on stone. We freeze, every muscle in my body going taut. The crunching steps grows louder, closer.

Saqatli’s eyes narrow, his body coiled like a spring. Síqalat grabs her spear, pointing the tip toward the sound. Atoyaqtli raises his obsidian blade and crouches into a defensive stance. Even Upachu shifts, his grip on the ocelot tightening as his eyes dart toward the shadows.

“Who is it?” Walumaq whispers.

No one answers. The shadows seem to shift, the darkness taking on shapes that aren’t there. The soft scrape of something against stone.

Whoever—or whatever—it is, they’re close.