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The crumbled remains of what was once a window frames a fractured view of the chaos below. I watch the courtyard as though staring hard enough might force it into order. Once a monument to Tapeu elegance, the palace grounds now feel like the skeletal remains of a dream. Workers move in uneven rhythms, lifting beams, and hammering stone into what can only be described as temporary repairs. Dust hangs in the air like a curtain no wind is strong enough to pull aside. Much work has been done, yet, sadly, so much more work remains.
Somewhere behind me, a clay plate sits untouched. Its contents cool under the dim morning light of the room. The rich aroma of atole and roasted maize lingers in the air, mingling with the fainter scent of fresh tamales wrapped in steaming banana leaves. A piece of golden fruit that’s ripened to perfection has been sliced neatly beside a bowl of thick cacao, and its surface is still dusted with the ghost of foam that has long since dissipated. It should be comforting. It should be familiar. But the food may as well be stone for all the attention I can give it.
The quipu rests heavily at my side. The fibers feel rough against my palm as I run my fingers over the knots. I don’t know why I keep touching it—it won’t give up its meaning any more than the embers can be asked to explain their smoke. I keep hearing her words. I come not to celebrate. I come because the embers still smolder.
It’s maddening. What fire, grandmother? What flames do you see that I don’t? I grip the deteriorated edges of the windowsill under my fingers. My thoughts are running wild, and there’s no space to outrun them. The courtyard doesn’t help. Everything there speaks of ruin. The scattered debris, the workers’ faces creased with exhaustion, the ache of what this place once was.
When I was a child, I used to run barefoot through the shaded courtyards of my family’s estate in Chopaqte. The scent of crushed hibiscus was thick in the air, and my nursemaid’s voice was always calling after me to slow down. The fountains there were alive with green and gold light, their water so clear I could see the carved stone fish resting at the bottom.
Qapauma’s fountains are silent now. Their basins are cracked, and their once-proud sculptures—those that survived the slew of assaults on the capital city—have been swallowed by vines. The gardens that once framed the palace in color have turned brittle and gray, and the air is filled with the scent of dust and old stone.
Everything is a ruin now, I think. Not just the palace. Not just Qapauma. Everything. And it all feels like its capability for renewal sits squarely on my shoulders.
I glance back at the quipu, as though the knots might suddenly untangle into something useful. They don’t. Instead, Nuqasiq’s warning rings in my mind again.
I pull the quipu tighter into my grasp, hating how much her words have unsettled me. Is it a warning? A threat? A promise? Her timing, her cryptic phrases… what can they mean? Should I be worried?
The door creaks behind me. A servant enters, his footsteps careful as though afraid to disturb my thoughts. He bows slightly, his head low. “Quya,” he says softly, cautiously. “The council is gathering.”
“Thank you,” I reply. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t wait for me to add anything more, retreating just as quietly as he came.
I turn back to the courtyard one last time. With their slow and uncoordinated movements, the workers below are struggling with a shattered beam. Each strain of muscle, each groan of effort, feels like a reflection of my own state. They’re trying to rebuild something they don’t believe in, I realize. And I’m asking them to do it anyway.
The thought weighs heavier than the quipu. I tuck it into my sash, as its fibers press into my side like a brand. There’s no time to linger, no time to let this spiral of doubt swallow me whole. The meeting with Maqochi and the Qantua leaders looms ahead, and if I don’t have answers for them, they’ll find their own—answers I won’t like.
The corridors feel colder as I move through them. The once-polished floors are dull and gritty underfoot. My footsteps echo faintly, reminding me of how empty this place feels now. I pass by a fractured mural, with its colors dulled and chipping away. I’m struck by how much it mirrors the state of the world I’ve inherited. Not built. Inherited.
I reach the doors to the council chamber and hesitate. What lies beyond presses against me like a tide threatening to spill through the cracks. I find it difficult to calm myself, to will myself into the room. I know I must, but I struggle to persevere.
The words of Maqochi, Yachaman, and even Inuxeq from the last meeting churn in my mind. Their doubts, their challenges, their questions. All of it feels like a storm I can’t control, a tide I can’t hold back.
I press my palm against the door, taking a steadying breath. You can’t hold back the tide, but you can ride it. The thought doesn’t feel comforting, but it’s something. I straighten my back, lifting my chin, and push the door open.
The council awaits, and with it, the fire I’ve been tasked to quench.
The council chamber feels colder than it should, with a quiet hostility in the air that clings to the room like the dust in its neglected corners. The Qantua leaders sit in a loose semicircle and scowl, and their postures vary between being guarded and openly defiant. These are the faces of people who’ve endured war, who’ve tasted victory and loss in equal measure, and who now find themselves caught between loyalty and survival.
Maqochi stands beside me, and I find his broad frame to be a silent anchor in the shifting currents of their moods. His presence is supposed to lend me strength, and it does, but it’s also a reminder of how tenuous this moment is. Maqochi’s loyalty is solid, but it’s not gentle. He’s a hammer in a room full of cracked clay, and I’m trying to rebuild without breaking what’s left.
“Thank you for coming,” I begin, trying to steady my voice steady despite the pressure threatening to choke me. “I know many of you would rather be home. That’s what I want for you, too. For all of us. But we’re not done yet.”
A low murmur ripples through the group, quiet enough to seem like agreement at first, but the edge in their tones cuts deeper the longer it lingers. One of the leaders—a man with a weathered face and a scar running from his temple to his jaw—crosses his arms. He doesn’t speak, but the way his gaze narrows feels as though he’s waiting for the right moment to strike down my statement of declaration to them.
Nevertheless, I press on. “We’ve all fought to protect our homes, our families, the factions to which we are loyal, and to Pachil. To push back the darkness that threatened to swallow us. And we won. But that darkness hasn’t disappeared. It’s only waiting, growing stronger while we turn away.”
Maqochi steps forward, appearing as though he’s already heard enough, though I’ve only just begun. “Do you all really think Taqsame will be the one to lead Qantua into something better? You think once he takes the throne, he’ll stop? That the war ends there? It won’t. It never will—not for him. Because Taqsame doesn’t want peace. He wants power. And you all know it.”
A few faces harden, but no one speaks.
Maqochi presses on in frustration. “He doesn’t see Qantua as something to be strengthened—he sees it as something to control. The moment he sits that throne, he’ll need another war to keep his claim. First, it will be the factions that didn’t bend the knee. Then it’ll be the ones who did, but aren’t loyal enough. Then, when no enemies remain, he’ll turn to us—because men like him always need someone to fight.”
The murmur grows louder, more agitated. A woman with silver streaks in her braids shakes her head. “We’ve given everything we had,” she says wearily. “Qantua has given its sons, its daughters, its land and resources. And now you want more, for us to resist our own.”
Before I can respond, another leader—this one younger, his tunic still bearing the stains of the battlefield—cuts in. “The real war is over,” he says. “Our duty is done. You can’t command us anymore.”
Maqochi’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he might snap back. Instead, he looks to me with his hard and unyielding eyes. The room feels like it’s closing in, the walls pressing against my ribs. Everything is still so fragile. Somehow, I must find a way to meet this challenge. Think, I command myself. Think…
“You’re right,” I say quietly, calmly. “You’ve given more than anyone should ever have to. And if I could tell you to go home, to rest, to rebuild, I would. But if we let Taqsame rise, if we let him tear apart what we’ve started to rebuild, then all of this—all of your sacrifices—will be for nothing.”
The scarred man leans forward with skepticism clear across his marked face. “And what makes you think you’re any different? You speak of unity, and that’s a sweet sentiment. What young and hopeful ruler doesn’t claim to want peace? But all I see is another Tapeu leader trying to drag the rest of us into Tapeu problems. The Qantua must take care of their own, and their future, however that must be done.”
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“This isn’t about Tapeu,” I reply. “This is about Pachil. About all of us. Taqsame doesn’t care about unity or sovereignty. He cares about power. He’ll use any means to take it. And he’ll wield it any way he chooses, against any and all he deems a threat—including his own people.”
The murmurs rise again, louder this time. My declaration may be somewhat speculative, certainly, but it’s steeped in truth—that, I am absolutely most confident. Maqochi abruptly steps in. “She’s right, and you know it. You think Taqsame will fight for you? For Qantua sovereignty? The only thing he cares about is his own ambition.”
It appears that his words don’t land the way he intends. A woman in the back stands with her piercing gaze. “And what if that ambition actually aligns with ours? He’s promised us a chance to rebuild, to lead ourselves without answering to Tapeu or anyone else.”
The revelation sends a shockwave through the room, and I feel the ground shift beneath me. My mind races, scrambling for a response, but it’s Maqochi who reacts first.
“His promises are lies,” he scoffs in disbelief, teetering on the edge of fury. “You’ve seen what he’s capable of. What he did to the innocent Aimue. The blood on his hands isn’t just Tapeu’s—it’s ours. He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t care about Pachil. He cares about the throne, and what catastrophes he can conduct from it.”
The leaders exchange doubtful glances. I take a calming, deep breath, then force myself into their line of sight. “I know you’re scared,” I say, softer now, even among the din of debate and deliberations. “I am, too. But we can’t let that fear divide us. If we stand together, we can stop him. But if we let him turn us against each other, against the other factions seeking to defend Pachil in the name of peace, then he’s already won.”
The room falls into a tense silence. For a moment, no one speaks. No one moves. Blinking even comes across as seeming to be too loud. And then, slowly, the scarred man nods.
“You speak well, Quya,” he says with grudging respect. “For a young ruler, I admire your drive, your passion. But words won’t be enough.”
I meet his gaze, refusing to let nerves interfere. “You’re right,” I confess. “Words alone won’t stop Taqsame. But neither will wars we cannot afford. Neither will—”
“Taqsame isn’t some distant threat,” Maqochi interrupts, too infuriated to sit silently. “He’s already moving, plotting, scheming, preparing. Not joining his misguided cause will absolutely paint a target onto your backs, but running is not an option. You think you can hide in Qantua lands? He’ll find you. He’ll break you. The only chance we have is to stand together.”
“And follow her?” one of the younger leaders shoots back, gesturing toward me. “A Tapeu ruler who claims to care about Pachil but sits on a throne built on the backs of the rest of us?”
“All Taqsame can offer you,” I respond, looking directly into the young leader’s eyes, “is endless battle, endless sacrifice. A fire that never stops burning until nothing is left of Pachil but ash.”
I see it in their faces, the lines of doubt, of anger, of fear they won’t address. “You call yourselves warriors, and you are. But warriors don’t just fight—they choose their battles. And the greatest battle is knowing when to fight, and when to build something worth fighting for. You think Taqsame will give you that choice? No. He wants to rule through you, not with you. To use Qantua’s strength for his own, until you’re too bloodied, too broken to resist him.”
They stare at me curiously, but I press on nonetheless. “I know what you’ve lost,” I say, my voice quieter now but no less resolute. “Your sons. Your daughters. I’ve seen it. Felt it. And I know it wasn’t just the Eye in the Flame that took them from you.”
The younger leader bristles, clenching his fists at his sides. “Careful, Quya,” he warns. “You tread on dangerous ground.”
“I know,” I say, refusing to back down. “But you’re not wrong to question me. The factions have been at each other’s throats for generations, well before the Timuaq came to power. We’ve all suffered because of it. But we can’t keep fighting each other while Taqsame tears us apart. He’s the real enemy, and we can’t afford to lose sight of that.”
“Easy for you to say,” the scarred man retorts. “You sit in a palace while we bury our dead.”
The words strike harder than I expect, but I force myself to stand firm. “You think I don’t understand? I’ve lost people, too. My home. My family. And now I’m here, trying to keep this from happening again—to you, to all of us. But I can’t do it alone. We can’t do it alone.”
“Why should we trust you?” another leader asks skeptically. His prominent, black beard drapes over his worn leather armor, bouncing erratically as he speaks. “You say you want unity, but you’re still a Tapeu. Your people have always taken more than their share. Why should we believe this time will be different?”
Their relentless and persistent doubt feels insurmountable. Why should they believe this time will be different? Because it’s me! But that’s no answer, I know. I look to Maqochi for support, but he stays silent. Then, even though it addressed a different matter altogether, I remember Yachaman’s words: They need to see that you care. Yes, that applies here, as well.
“Because I’m not just asking you to follow me,” I say. “I’m asking you to stand with me. To fight for a future where no one has to bury their children because of another faction’s war. A future where we’re not just surviving but thriving. Together.”
I feel myself standing taller now, my chin inclining, making the effort to address them as though I was speaking directly to each individual. “You don’t have to let Taqsame decide your future. You have that power. Here. Now. Stand with me, with Pachil—not for me, but for yourselves, for your families, for a Qantua that isn’t just strong in war, but strong in its own right. A Qantua that doesn’t kneel to any ruler, but walks beside them.”
“And what happens when this is over?” the man with the scarred face asks. “When Taqsame is gone? Do you expect us to bow to Tapeu rule again?”
“No,” I say firmly. “I don’t want you to bow to anyone. I want us to build something better—together. Where every faction has a voice. Where decisions are made not by one ruler, but by all of us.”
Silence swallows the room. Each leader is too deep into thought, contemplating the choice that sits before them. The leaders exchange skeptical glances, but in their eyes, I can see a hint of something—curiosity, maybe, or hope. All but the younger leader, who crosses his arms and remains guarded. Eventually, the scarred man says, at last, “You ask a lot of men who have only ever won their freedom with steel.”
I nod. “Then let’s win something greater.”
There’s a crease in the corner of the mouth of the man with the scarred face. “We’ll stay,” he says. “For now. But if you go back on your word—if you betray us—we won’t hesitate to walk away.”
“Fair enough,” I reply, my voice steady despite the tightness in my chest. “All I ask is a chance to prove myself.”
I keep my hands folded tightly before me, as though the simple act of stillness might hold me together. The Qantua leaders disperse into smaller clusters, speaking in hushed tones. Their words slip away like sand through fingers. Even Maqochi now seems distant, standing by the brazier with his back turned. The faint smell of charred herbs drifts through the chamber.
I take a steadying breath, but it feels thin. My thoughts churn, still tangled in the barbed thicket of everything that was said—and everything that wasn’t. It doesn’t feel like a victory. It feels like an extremely fragile truce.
Then, a sound like the soft rumble of a gathering storm reaches my ears. It grows louder, clearer—the unmistakable rhythm of heavy footsteps echoing through the stone corridors. The murmurs fade, the Qantua leaders turning toward the noise with wary eyes.
“What now?” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else.
The footsteps stop just beyond the doors. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence and held breaths. Then the doors creak open, their hinges groaning under the deliberate force.
She steps inside, and the room shifts around her.
Nuqasiq.
She’s somehow smaller than I remember, though her presence is anything but diminished. Once streaked with threads of silver, her hair is now wholly white, pulled back in a tight braid that trails down her back. Has it been that long since I’ve seen her? Her eyes sweep the room, taking in everything and everyone with a gaze that feels like it could strip the palace down to its foundation. Her clothes are uncharacteristically simple—a dark tunic cinched at the waist with a woven belt, wearing no jewelry. But the way she wears them makes her seem regal, as though the fabric itself has been imbued.
Behind her, a handful of guards linger in the doorway. Their weapons remain sheathed, but the stand at the ready, perhaps expecting a confrontation with the Qantua. They don’t need to say anything. Her presence alone commands enough power to silence the room.
Nuqasiq’s gaze lands on me, and I feel the breath leave my lungs. She doesn’t speak at first, doesn’t move, but her attention is crushing, like the stillness before an avalanche.
Finally, she steps forward, her plain leather boots tapping against the stone floor. “This,” she says with a touch of disdain, “is what I’ve come back to?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer—I don’t believe she much expected one. “A house divided,” she now continues, shifting her gaze to the Qantua leaders, who bristle under her scrutiny. “A throne teetering on the edge of collapse. And you, Haesan”—her eyes snap back to me—“standing at the center of it all.”
I’m confused entirely. Why am I suddenly receiving scorn when I have hardly sat atop this throne of which she speaks? From where does this vitriol for me come? I open my mouth to speak, and my mind races, trying to find something—anything—to say that won’t sound hollow in her presence. But she doesn’t give me the chance.
“Do you know what I saw on my way here?” she asks, her tone deceptively calm. “Villages left in ruin. Fields burned to ash. People wandering aimlessly, their faces etched with fear and doubt. That is the legacy of this war. That is what you’ve inherited.”
This only confuses me more, but she carries on anyway. “And now,” her voice begins rising, “I find you here, squabbling over scraps of power while the embers of rebellion threaten to ignite once more. Have you learned nothing?”
The room feels smaller, the walls pressing in as her words settle over us. The Qantua leaders shift uncomfortably as their bravado is stripped away under her scrutiny. Even Maqochi, who had stood so resolute moments ago, now looks uncertain, watching her with guarded eyes.
Nuqasiq’s gaze softens—just slightly—as it returns to me. “You took the throne, Haesan,” she says, her voice quieter now. “You accepted the mantle. Now you must bear it.”
Her words sink into me like stones dropped into still water, each one rippling outward until it fills the room. I want to argue, to tell her I didn’t choose this, that it was thrust upon me. She makes this seem as though this was all my doing. That I am a conduit for the prophecy that took her son, and I did nothing to resist nor stop what fate had planned for Achutli. Is this her way of mourning my estranged father?
Instead, I lift my chin, forcing my voice to remain steady. “I’m doing everything I can,” I say. “But this won’t all be rebuilt with the snap of my fingers. I can’t fix this alone.”
Nuqasiq studies me for a long moment. Then she nods, just once. “Good,” she says simply. “Because you won’t have to.”
She turns to the Qantua leaders once more. “And as for you,” she says, “you would do well to remember that your loyalty to this throne is not a favor—it is an obligation. If you cannot see that, then perhaps you are not the leaders your people need.”
The silence that follows is deafening, as the confounded leaders look at one another with confusion. Nuqasiq turns back to me, her eyes locking onto mine with a fierce intensity.
“This is not the end,” she says. “It is only the beginning. And if you are not prepared for what comes next, then Pachil will burn.”
Before I can respond, she turns and strides toward the door, and the guards fall into step behind her. All that remains in the room is the stillness from the aftershocks of an earthquake.