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I wake with the taste of iron on my tongue and the cold bite of stone against my back. My chest aches—not the sharp pain of a wound, but a dull, hollow ache, like something vital has been ripped away. My hand drifts to my neck, searching for the weight of the amulet that should be there. My fingers find only bare skin. The absence feels heavier than the amulet ever did.
Around me, the world slowly comes into focus. Out of the haze, shapes sharpen. The jagged stone walls, the faint flicker of dying embers, the strained faces of those who must have carried me out of that nightmare. Walumaq crouches nearby, her jaw tight as she diligently monitors the shadows. Paxilche paces restlessly, his movements jittery like a storm looking for something to destroy. Síqalat leans against the wall, clutching her spear in one hand with a distant gaze. Noticing I’m stirring, Saqatli gently tugs at Walumaq’s sleeve and directs her attention toward me.
“You’re awake,” Walumaq says as relief flickers across her face. But no sooner than it appears, it’s quickly buried beneath urgency. “Can you move?”
I try to sit up, but my body resists and fights me. My limbs feel sluggish and heavy. A hand presses firmly on my shoulder, steadying me. Saqatli. His amber calm and watchful eyes meet mine. He doesn’t speak, but strangely, I find his presence comforting.
“What happened?” My voice is a cracked and dry rasp.
“What do you think happened?” Paxilche snaps, still pacing. “Xiatli happened. He walked through us like we were nothing. Like we didn’t even exist. We’re only alive because for whatever reason, he didn’t pursue us. At least not urgently.”
My fingers curl into the dirt, grounding me as I wrestle with the fragments of my dream and the reality we’ve returned to. Glimpses of that moment before my world turned black come to me, but they’re lost in the haze of everything that occurred after. I can’t determine what events happened when, and who was involved with what.
“Pomacha is gone,” Upachu says quietly from where he sits cradling Nochtl, the ocelot barely stirring in his arms. His voice is steady, but his expression is haunted. “And we’re lucky the rest of us aren’t.”
Paxilche halts his pacing, crossing his arms with a sharp exhale. “We’re not lucky,” he mutters, his voice low. “We’re trapped. Outnumbered, outmatched, and barely holding on. It’s only a matter of time before Xiatli and his savages hunt us down, and we have to confront him again.”
“We survived,” Walumaq interjects bitingly. “All things considered, we’re fortunate to have escaped with our lives. But he’s right”—she sighs, casting her eyes to the ground and speaking to everyone and no one in particular—“we can’t stay here.”
“Where would we go?” Paxilche asks, voice rising. “Every step we take just leads us deeper into his territory. There’s nowhere safe. Not in Qiapu. Perhaps not anywhere. We don’t even know what happened to the Eye in the Flame; they’re still out there somewhere.”
Walumaq’s gaze narrows. “You’re not helping. We find safety by making it. We don’t sit here and wait to be hunted down.”
“And what about him?” Paxilche points toward me. “How he’s still alive is a clear blessing from the gods, but he can barely walk, let alone fight.”
“I’ll manage,” I say, even though I’m not sure it’s true. I force myself to sit up, ignoring the way my body protests. The world tilts slightly, and my vision blurs, but I grip the rough fabric of my tunic and hold steady.
A faint sound echoes through the cavernous corridors. A rhythmic noise—low, deliberate, like heavy boots pounding against the loose rocks. Paxilche’s eyes widen, and he jerks his head toward the direction of the disturbance.
“There’s that noise again,” he notes, tightening his grip on his huge war club. “I told you. They’re already looking for us.”
The group stiffens as the sound grows louder, closer. Walumaq is the first to move, looking gravely in the direction of our pursuers. “We can’t wait for them to find us. Let’s move.”
Atoyaqtli hefts my weight onto his shoulder without a word, wincing slightly, but powering through the strain. Upachu rises slowly, cradling Nochtl, while Saqatli positions himself protectively at the rear. Síqalat joins Walumaq at the front, holding out her spear at the ready.
Walumaq gestures for us to follow, her eyes carefully inspecting the shadows ahead. “Stay close,” she murmurs.
The group moves as one, slipping through the jagged passageways of the fractured rock formations. The air feels colder now, the natural walls pressing in closer as the faint light of the embers fades behind us.
No one speaks. The only sounds are the shuffle of our footsteps and the faint rustle of cloth and armor. My chest tightens with every step, with the absence of the amulet being a constant reminder of what we’ve lost.
Though we’ve tried our best to evade them, the footsteps grow louder. They’re too deliberate to be aimless. Whoever is behind us must know the terrain better than we do. Walumaq gestures sharply, leading us through a narrow crevice in the stone. The rough walls scrape against my shoulders, forcing me to focus on the immediate moment and not the storm of thoughts swirling in my mind.
We reach a small clearing, and Walumaq signals for us to stop. Everyone presses into the shadows, weapons drawn, breaths held. The footsteps slow, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant hum of the wind through the arid landscape under the night sky.
Then, a voice rises—a clipped command in a language I don’t understand. It’s followed by another, closer now. They must be the ones searching for us. My grip tightens on Atoyaqtli, who clutches me as we navigate this rugged terrain.
Walumaq’s hand shoots up, signaling a halt. We press into the uneven grounds of the narrow crevasse. She peers ahead, investigating every shadow and corner. The faint light from the distant moon filters through a fractured opening in the natural ceiling, scattering patterns across the ground.
“This way,” she whispers, pointing in a direction with her head before advancing onward.
We follow her lead, the group moving tentatively through the caverns. Saqatli’s footsteps are unnervingly quiet, and I’m alarmed at how his movements are almost too smooth, too fluid. He lingers near Upachu, who struggles to carry Nochtl, with the ocelot limp in his arms. Atoyaqtli adjusts his grip on me as he continues to assist my clumsy movement. Paxilche takes up the rear, his gaze alertly darting back and forth. Storms swirl just around his palms as they begin to glow like lightning waiting for an excuse to erupt.
A faint scrape of stone ahead stops us in our tracks. Walumaq raises a hand again, her posture shifting as she crouches slightly. The sound grows louder, a shuffling noise, like someone—or something—is being dragged across the ground. My fingers twitch, instinctively seeking the weapon I no longer carry.
Paxilche leans close, his voice barely a breath. “That’s not them.”
“What do you mean?” Síqalat asks. “Then who?” Amidst the confusion, her grip on her spear never loosens.
Walumaq gestures for silence, her eyes narrowing as the sound fades. She motions for us to keep moving, stepping away more cautiously now.
The narrow path widens into a rocky overhang. Its ceiling is jagged and uneven, like the broken ribs of the mountain. Towering spires of stone jut from the ground, their weathered forms reaching skyward like the remnants of some ancient, crumbling spine. Walumaq inspects the area quickly before signaling us to stop.
“We’ll rest here,” she says, barely audible. “Just for a moment.”
Atoyaqtli carefully lowers me gently onto a flat slab of rock. Upachu settles beside me, with his weathered hands never leaving the ocelot’s fur. Saqatli closely watches over his animal friend, whispering something like words of encouragement to her. Nochtl stirs faintly, her tail twitching, but she remains still, and her breathing continues to be shallow, much to Saqatli’s chagrin.
Meanwhile, Paxilche’s stormy demeanor doesn’t waver. He grows restless in the short time we’ve paused our escape, fidgeting with his tunic and shaking his head. “We shouldn’t stop. They’re close.”
“We need to regroup,” Walumaq counters, her tone brooking no argument. “We find a place to regroup. Somewhere to think. Somewhere to recover. Somewhere safe.”
“Safe?” Paxilche laughs bitterly, the sound hollow in the damp, lichen-scented air. “Nothing is safe anymore. You think Xiatli’s just going to let us go?”
“No,” she says firmly. “But we can’t fight him in this state. I know it. And deep down, so do you.”
I get the sense that something occurred between these two, something that has placed their trust in one another into question. The way they’re so short with one another, how they are quick to confront the other, to challenge the other’s opinions or observations. It’s unsettling, and I worry what the fractures in their friendship means for us moving forward.
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We sit in the quiet, the kind of quiet that feels too fragile to last. Paxilche ultimately relents, muttering something under his breath. I lean against the jagged wall of rock, the cold seeping through the fabric of my tunic. Without having her eyes meet Paxilche’s, Walumaq makes her way over to where I’m resting and crouches beside me, her ocean blue tunic spilling around her onto the ground.
“How do you feel?” she asks softly, her piercing blue eyes looking upon me with great concern.
“Like I fell off a mountain,” I manage, sounding more like a croak. “Twice.”
I adjust my posture slowly, but find that the movement makes my head spin. “I saw her,” I say quietly, the words surprising even me. I’m not sure what compels me to talk about it, yet I am too exhausted to resist.
Walumaq tilts her head slightly, furrowing her brow. “Who?”
“Entilqan.” Her name feels strange on my tongue, like speaking it gives life to something I’m not ready to face. “In the dream… or whatever it was. She was there.”
“And what did she say?” Walumaq asks, leaning in closer now.
“She spoke of cycles,” I say, my gaze drifting to the jagged ceiling above us. “Of ends feeding beginnings. Of… balance. I don’t know what it means yet, but it felt important. Like she’s trying to tell me something, to warn me about something, but I don’t know what.”
“Entilqan was one of the Eleven. If she’s reaching out to you, it’s because she believes you can face whatever comes next.”
Overhearing us, Paxilche scoffs, breaking the moment. “She could’ve been more helpful if she told you of a way to survive the night.”
“We will,” Walumaq says firmly, her gaze snapping to him. “We will find a way to persevere. Of this, I am certain.”
I let out a slow breath, as the ache in my chest eases slightly. The dream still lingers in the back of my mind. Who I saw. What occurred. I still can’t make sense of it all, of what it’s supposed to mean. But for now, I push it aside. There’s too much at stake in this waking world to dwell on what I don’t understand.
“We need to move soon,” I say, as I attempt to steady myself on the nearby rocks. “If they’re still looking for us, it won’t take them long to pick up our trail.”
Walumaq nods, shifting her focus back to the group, and signals for us to move. She walks ahead, not stopping once to catch her breath, though I can see the stiffness in her movements, the way her shoulders stay just a little too tense. She thinks no one notices, but I do. I notice everything now.
Behind me, Paxilche mumbles something under his breath. It’s clear that he’s angry—he’s always angry, I’d argue—but this anger feels different. Restless. Like a fire burning too hot, too fast. I half-expect him to start another argument, but he doesn’t. For now, he keeps pace, his storms brewing quietly beneath his skin.
Upachu lags behind with Saqatli, who still refuses to leave the ocelot’s side. The old man moves like he’s made of brittle wood, as though testing the ground for traps only he can see. Saqatli murmurs something to him, his voice low and soothing, meant more for the feline than the elder, I take it. The sight stirs something deep in my chest—something close to admiration, or guilt, or maybe both. All of this is happening because I undertook this quest, and what fate and the Eleven and the gods have planned for us seems to only be occurring because I refuse to leave the secrets of Sualset and the Eleven alone. Or maybe there was never a choice to do so. Maybe this was always going to be my fate.
“Teqosa,” Walumaq says, breaking me out of my downward spiral. She doesn’t look back, eyes fixed on the setting unfolding before us. “Do you feel it?”
I don’t answer right away. I know what she’s talking about, but the words won’t come. Instead, I close my eyes and let the world around me seep in. The air hums faintly, like a string plucked just out of tune. It’s not a sound, exactly, but a resonance—a pressure that sits behind the ears, just shy of pain. It’s familiar, and that familiarity makes my skin crawl.
“Yes,” I say finally. “Whatever it is, it’s close.”
“What’s close?” Paxilche demands. “You keep talking about this… this feeling, but the rest of us can’t see or feel a damn thing. What on Pachil do you keep going on about?”
Walumaq stops then, turning to face him. Her expression isn’t angry, but there’s something hard in her eyes, something unyielding. “Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” she says evenly. “You’ve felt it before. In Analoixan. In Qasiunqa. Don’t pretend you don’t remember.”
Paxilche doesn’t respond right away, but his jaw tightens. I can see the storms flickering in his irises. “What I remember,” he says slowly, “is almost dying. Over and over again. And every time, it’s because we’re chasing something we can’t fight, or get lucky to survive.”
“We’re not chasing anything,” Walumaq snaps, her calm finally cracking. “We’re defeating the evil that threatens the prosperity of Pachil. This was never going to be an easy quest, but it’s a fight we must all undertake if humanity is to survive. And if you’d stop looking to fight your allies, maybe you’d see that.”
I step forward, placing myself between them before the sparks can catch. “Alright, stop it, you two. We don’t have time for this. Whatever happened between you two while I was….” I’m not sure where I was, and I struggle for the words to explain it. “You two need to figure it out.”
Walumaq’s gaze flicks to mine, and for a moment, I think she’s going to argue. But then she exhales sharply, turning away with a shake of her head. Paxilche doesn’t look at me, his jaw set tight as he mutters something I can’t quite catch. It’s better this way. We can’t afford another fracture.
“Where are we even going?” Síqalat asks. She’s been uncharacteristically quiet most of the journey. Now, though, there’s an edge to her tone, a weariness that is a result of the exhaustion that has dulled her otherwise sharp observations. “You keep leading us further into the shadows, but what’s the plan? Where do we go? Where do we stop?”
Walumaq hesitates, just for a moment. “We stop when we’re safe,” she says finally. “And not a moment before.”
“And where’s safe?” Paxilche presses, his storms flickering again. “Because the way I see it, we’re running out of places to hide.”
Walumaq doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The silence speaks for her.
I swallow hard, my gaze drifting to the horizon—or what little I can see of it through the jagged cliffs and dim glow of the moon. The feeling is stronger now, the resonance buzzing at the base of my skull. Atoyaqtli follows close behind with his obsidian blade at the ready.
The mountainside opens before us like a raw wound in the stone. Its edges are splintered where time and erosion have carved their mark. Towering rock spires jut at odd angles, some leaning precariously as if frozen mid-collapse. The ground is uneven, fractured by deep crevices and strewn with loose shale that shifts underfoot. In the center of the clearing, a weathered rock formation—once a cairn, perhaps, or the remnants of an altar—stands defiantly against the elements, half-buried by windblown debris. The distant wind howls as it threads through the peaks.
And then, there it is again. The faint shuffle of footsteps in the near distance. If I had to guess, I’d believe that not a one of us dared to take a breath upon hearing the sound.
“Told you nowhere is safe,” Paxilche complains. “We just walked right to them.”
“Stay close,” Walumaq whispers, ignoring Paxilche’s remark. She doesn’t look back, her focus fixed on the darkness ahead. “And stay quiet.”
The sound grows louder, closer—a measured rhythm that sets my teeth on edge. Everyone tenses, and Paxilche’s storm is barely contained. We need to determine what our next move is, before he forces our hand.
“Three,” Atoyaqtli quietly informs us. “Maybe four. They’re moving together.”
Walumaq nods, then commands, “Spread out. Keep to the edges. We don’t know who we’re dealing with, so use caution.”
We fan out, sticking to the shadows as best we can. The air feels colder now, with each breath of the chill mountain air feeling brittle in my chest.
The creeping figures slowly emerge from the shadows. Three of them, with features obscured by their hoods. Their clothing is strange, unlike anything I’ve seen before—layers of muted fabric, belts and buckles that seem more ornamental than practical. They stop at the edge of the clearing, and I note how their silhouettes are stark against the faint light.
“Who are they?” Paxilche mutters, bringing his war club out in front of him. “Zealots? Eye in the Flame?”
Walumaq is too focused on the strangers to answer. She takes a step forward, looking upon the figures with curiosity. “They don’t… move like those zealots,” she says measuredly. “And they’re unarmed. At least, visibly.”
One of the figures is clutching something in their hands. My eyes strain to make out what it is, and eventually, I determine it must be a scroll or parchment, with its edges frayed and worn. It’s being secured tightly to their chest, as though they’re protecting it from whatever threat they fear is out in the darkness. Perhaps we’re that threat about which they’re worried.
“What is that?” Atoyaqtli asks, his grip tightening on his blade as he holds it aloft.
“A trap,” Paxilche growls, his storms flickering brighter now, his hands glowing faintly. “It has to be.”
“Wait,” Walumaq says, holding up a hand. “Let’s see what they want.”
The figure stops a few paces from us, the item still held tightly. Their companions remain behind warily, but not indicating any sign of aggressiveness.
“Can you understand us?” Walumaq calls out to them.
Síqalat looks at her as though she has lost her mind. “Are you mad? You don’t know what their intentions are! Why are you risking our position?”
“They’re invaders,” Paxilche spits, his storms flaring brighter. “They don’t belong here. This is most certainly a trap”
“It is not a trap,” Walumaq retorts, her eyes never leaving the strangers. “They’re just as scared of us as we are of them.”
“How can you be so sure,” Paxilche counters, his statement less a question than a fact.
“Lower your weapon, Paxilche,” Walumaq commands. She takes another step forward, staring him down as though to confront him, challenge him directly.
For a moment, I think he’s going to defy her. His storms crackle faintly, his jaw tight with anger. But then he exhales, the energy fading from his eyes as he lowers his hand.
The strangers speak to one another, conversing. It’s likely they’re trying to figure out their next steps just as we are. There’s this sense that we both might be running from the same threat.
“Why don’t they say something?” Síqalat wonders aloud. “What are they waiting for?”
“They’re scared,” Walumaq says without turning. So she agrees with my assessment, it appears. Good. Perhaps we can figure out what is going on, without any blood being needlessly shed.
“We need to act,” Paxilche hisses. “We can’t stand here waiting for them to make the first move.”
“Agreed,” Síqalat mutters, drawing her spear and crouching down low. “That they haven’t done anything decisive yet makes me even more nervous.”
Atoyaqtli shifts beside me, adjusting his grip on his obsidian sword, while Walumaq, Upachu, and Saqatli look on anxiously.
I take a slow breath, steadying myself. The ache in my body lingers, a dull reminder of how close I came to dying in that cursed city. And yet… I step forward.
It’s the only thing that makes sense.
“What are you doing?” Paxilche scolds in a whisper.
I ignore him.
Walumaq notices my movement and immediately stiffens. “Teqosa—”
“I’ll go.”
The words leave me before I fully comprehend saying them.
Atoyaqtli’s head snaps toward me. “You’re barely standing.”
With a grunt, I gingerly begin shuffling toward the three strangers. “I’m standing enough.”
Paxilche doesn’t even try to mask his irritation. “This is the dumbest—”
“They’ll see me as less of a threat,” I interrupt. “Look at me. I’m injured, limping, unarmed.”
“You are never unarmed,” Walumaq states. “Here, you should take your—“
I hold up a hand to silence her, then let out a quiet breath. I feel a flicker of a smile pull at the corner of my mouth.
She’s right.
But I need to do this.
I’ve spent my life watching others make choices about war and peace. I’ve followed orders, carried out duties. But here, now, I choose.
Paxilche exhales sharply in both frustration and resignation. “Fine. Get yourself killed if you want.”
“I won’t.”
I push forward before anyone can say another word.