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I barely slept.
I thought I would find some peace in the quiet of my chambers, that the impact of the quipu message would lessen with time. Instead, it sits on my table as though an unspoken accusation has been woven into its knotted fibers. I come not to celebrate. I come because the embers still smolder. The words have gnawed at me through the night. Their meaning has been elusive and suffocating all the same.
Nuqasiq has arrived. And with her, a storm I may not be strong enough to withstand.
I inhale deeply, steadying myself as I step onto the stone terrace overlooking the city. The view does nothing to soothe me. Qapauma still bears the scars of war—charred rooftops, collapsed walls, streets littered with the debris of what once was. The rebuilding has begun, but it is slow and uncertain. The people go about their tasks with cautious movements, their eyes wary, waiting for the next disaster to strike.
They look to me to prevent that disaster.
My hands tighten against the balcony’s edge. You never wanted this, Haesan. But here you are.
“Up early, child.”
The voice slithers into my ear, smooth, deliberate. I stiffen before I even turn, already knowing who stands behind me.
Nuqasiq moves like she’s always belonged here, stepping onto the terrace with measured ease. Draped in indigo and embroidered silks, she looks every bit the royal figure my father once was—composed, commanding, effortlessly in control. She meets my gaze with eyes that are too knowing, the kind that see past words and into the marrow of things.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I admit, though it’s an unnecessary confession. Of course she knows. Nuqasiq always knows. And I’m sure I look worse for wear.
She hums in response, stepping to my side and resting her hands lightly on the balcony’s edge. Her nails are clean, trimmed, uncalloused—hands that have held power, not weapons. “A restless night, then. That is good. A ruler should not sleep too easily.”
The way she says it unsettles me—like it’s a lesson, like I’m meant to absorb this as truth.
“This city, this throne… it is not kind to those who hesitate.” Her fingers tap idly against the stone. “Even if it has seen better days.”
Her nose scrunches up as though she’s smelled something repulsive as she looks upon the remains of Qapauma in the morning light. “I suppose it’s in better condition than I expected, but…” She doesn’t finish her thought, much to my relief.
“Besides,” she carries on, “Taqsame is watching. Waiting. And you?” She tilts her head slightly, studying me. “What are you waiting for, child?”
I bristle, squaring my shoulders. “I’m not waiting for anything. I’m preparing.”
“Are you?” she muses, smiling wryly. “It does not seem so. I’ve been updated on what’s occurred in my absence. You hold court, but do you rule? You call councils, but do you command?” She exhales, something like pity laced in the breath. “You remind me of Achutli when he was young. He, too, thought he had time. That the future would wait for him to decide its course.”
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. Through my teeth, I forcefully declare, “I am not my father.”
Nuqasiq’s gaze lingers on me, though her expression betrays nothing. If I may be honest, her silence is worse than any reprimand.
I exhale sharply, trying to steady myself, but my hands remain clenched at my sides. She doesn’t understand. She thinks being his daughter means knowing him. But I never did. Not beyond the stories, the resentment that clung to his name like rot on old wood. I grew up hearing of him in bitter whispers, in the warnings of mothers clutching their children closer, in the fearful murmurs of merchants of Achope. Only now do I realize it’s because they knew. They must’ve known. Why else was I treated the way I was? Regardless, his rule was something to be endured, not followed. And by the time I finally stood before him, it was already too late to be anything but a stranger in his eyes.
She speaks of him like she understands something I don’t, and maybe she does. She was his mother, after all. She knew him before he was The Arbiter, before he was the ruler who sent out decrees like threats, who saw every faction of Pachil as a piece in a game only he could win.
But I knew him only as Achutli, the ruler who hoarded power like a miser hoards gold. The man who saw his people as tools to be used, as means to an end. I knew him as the force that swept through Tapeu like a storm, taking what he wanted and leaving everyone else to bear the consequences.
I never had the chance to know him the way Nuqasiq did. And maybe that’s why I hate this comparison more than anything.
But she’s right. I have hesitated. I have faltered, waiting for an opportunity that may never come. For a peaceful solution that may not exist. I have spent these past weeks calling councils, listening to grievances, measuring my steps carefully—too carefully, perhaps.
Did he do the same, once? Before he became the Achutli the world feared, was he ever like me? Did he start with doubt before he chose a path that could not be undone?
I shove the thought away. It doesn’t matter. I will not be like him. Ever.
But the truth is that Nuqasiq’s words still linger, like the scent of smoke in my clothes after standing close to a bonfire. I can resent the comparison, I can reject it all I want, but she has power over me that I cannot fight. I respect her. She has been right too many times before, and even now, I cannot shake the sinking feeling that she is right about this, too.
“I am not my father,” I say again, softer this time, as if repetition will make it true.
Nuqasiq does not argue. Because she knows I’m inside my own head, even though there is no time to process, no time to untangle the resentment from the doubt. And anyway, the conversation has already moved forward, leaving me scrambling to keep up.
I feel her scrutiny as she continues, casting aside my statement, “If you do not move first, Taqsame will. Do you understand what that means?”
I nod, but she isn’t satisfied.
“Do you truly?” she presses. “Taqsame does not dream of coexistence. He dreams of erasure. The old ways will be torn apart to make way for his rule. And the longer you wait, the more ground you cede.”
The knot in my stomach coils tighter.
“I will not sit idly by and let him claim Qapauma,” I say, forcing steel into my voice.
Nuqasiq smiles—a small, knowing thing. “Good. Then act like it.”
The command lingers between us, an unspoken challenge.
She straightens, smoothing the embroidered folds of her garment. “The council is expecting a leader. When we meet with them later, do not let them see uncertainty, Haesan.”
With that, she turns and disappears into the corridors of the palace, leaving me alone with her words.
We? I can’t help but think as she vanishes. What did she mean by “we”?
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The meeting should have ended already. I should be walking out of this chamber, my decisions finalized, my word carried out. But instead, I sit at the head of the carved wooden map, watching Nuqasiq take my rule apart piece by piece, thread by thread, as if it was never mine to begin with.
The discussion started simple. Supply routes, troop rations, repairs to the palace’s outer walls—matters I have been struggling to keep in order, true, but ones I have made efforts to understand. I came prepared today. I had a plan. A decision.
I barely get a word in.
Nuqasiq speaks, and the room listens. She does not need to raise her voice or press for attention. It is given. Where I have had to demand my council’s respect, she receives it in full, unquestioned. She directs, never suggests. And the room moves around her as she does.
A servant approaches, bowing low before carefully refilling her cup. She never even needs to gesture for it—it just happens. Another stands nearby, waiting with a fresh cloth. His eyes are fixed attentively on her, in case she so much as lifts a hand. When she speaks, they move. When she pauses, they hover just enough to remind me that their deference belongs to her first.
I do not receive the same treatment.
A brief glance at my own cup reveals that it remains untouched, the dregs of tea long cooled at the bottom. A small thing, insignificant on its own, but I notice.
The others notice, too.
Maqochi is the only one who hesitates when she speaks, the only one who glances at me first before acting on her words. Xelhua does not even bother to mask his distaste. But the rest? Tapanali and the quraqas? They bow to her presence, subtly, but completely.
Tapanali leans in when she speaks, nodding at every proposed change, as if her will is some divine decree. When a lull in the conversation presents itself, he clears his throat and shifts forward with an expression of carefully measured solemnity.
“Queen Mother,” he says, and the words fall so naturally from his lips that I feel something in my stomach twist. “I would be remiss not to acknowledge the gravity of your loss. All of Pachil mourns for your son.”
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Nuqasiq receives the words as if she had been waiting for them. She does not weep, nor does she bow her head in grief. Instead, she inclines it ever so slightly, an acknowledgment without submission.
“The loss of a ruler is the loss of a nation,” she says softly, yet still sounding sure. “But the true tragedy would be to let that loss fester into disorder. What Achutli built cannot be allowed to crumble.”
What Achutli built? Is she being serious? And the way she says it, so easily, so absolutely, as if she still stands in his place, as if his throne was never truly empty.
Tapanali nods, brow furrowed in agreement. “Your wisdom is well received, Queen Mother. We are fortunate to have your guidance.”
We.
Not me, not my rule. We.
Nuqasiq exhales a slow breath. “Pachil must be held together by strong hands,” she says, and when she looks at me, it is not with the warmth of a grandmother speaking to her granddaughter. No, it’s more like the gaze of a potter measuring what is hers to mold.
“We must ensure our hold on Qapauma does not waver,” Nuqasiq says with that tone of effortless certainty. “Without firm leadership, without direction, this city will fall apart.”
She continues smoothly, barely noticing my discomfort—or maybe she does and simply does not care. “We must set firm laws in place. Reinforce order, redistribute authority where necessary.”
My laws. My authority. But I say nothing.
Tapanali clears his throat, yet does not look me in the eyes when addressing me. “With all due respect, Quya, your efforts are noble, but without structure—without decisive action—we risk losing what was gained. The people of Qapauma follow strength. That is what has always guided them.”
Not you. Not your leadership. Strength. I hear what he isn’t saying. Implying that I’m not strong enough.
Nuqasiq inclines her head, as if in agreement. “He is right, Haesan,” she says, and the way she says my name, without addressing me by my title, makes me feel smaller. “You must be willing to make the difficult choices. Those who falter in times of uncertainty are swept away by those willing to act.”
What is she saying? Is she telling me to act according to her wishes, or I will be replaced?
I straighten in my seat, lifting my chin. I will not sit here and let her talk over me. “I have been making those choices. I have been securing Qapauma. There is more to leadership than mere displays of power.”
Nuqasiq nods, but there is something patronizing in the motion. “Of course. And that is why you need support. Guidance. Even the strongest leaders require wise counsel.” She gestures around the table. “That is why we are here, after all.”
The council nods. All of them. The quraqas in attendance, too.
I tightly grip the edge of the wooden map. My fingers press into the smooth grooves of the carved rivers and valleys, as though my hands are trying to reshape the lands. This was supposed to be my rule. My choices. My voice. Though it was never a position I sought for myself, I have done all I can to lead these people out of the darkness. To rebuild Qapauma in spite of everything it’s been through. And yet, the moment Nuqasiq entered these halls, the council turned to her, without question. It’s as if the past moon cycles had been nothing but a temporary phase until the true authority returned.
I swallow my frustration. I cannot lose my composure here. Not in front of them. Not in front of her. It would only prove them right, justify their biased perceptions. “Then allow me to make a decision now,” I say. “Regarding the distribution of rations—”
Nuqasiq smiles—if I didn’t know better, almost condescendingly. “I have already arranged for that,” she says smoothly. “I took the liberty of instructing the stewards this morning.”
“Without consulting me?”
“I acted in your name, of course. It was clear the decision needed to be made swiftly. If you were present and available, it’s what you would have done, I’m certain.”
Maqochi shifts slightly in his seat. Xelhua tightly crosses his arms over his broad chest. Neither say a word.
I glance at Tapanali, who does not even look up from the map. The attending quraqas nod fervently, some even clapping at the declaration. With all of this combined, it’s as if my authority has already been resigned to the past tense.
Nuqasiq sits back, the matter settled in her mind. “There is much to do. It is good that we are of the same mind.”
I do not respond. I cannot. Because if I speak, I will give something away—the anger, the humiliation, the quiet, simmering fear that my rule is already slipping away.
I press my fingers harder against the wooden ridges of the map. The relief of the carved land is still there, still tangible beneath my fingertips. I take a slow, steadying breath.
I am still here, I remind myself. This is still my rule.
For now.
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I sit stiffly in my chambers, still gripping the edge of the table as if bracing for an argument that’s already ended. My tea has gone cold, untouched. I don’t bother calling for more. My mind swirls with everything that just happened.
I want to tell myself that my voice mattered, that the agreements made were shaped by my will, my authority. But that would be a lie.
Nuqasiq led that meeting, and I let her. Not once did I stop her. Not when she redirected the conversation, not when she dictated terms with the confidence of someone who had already made the decision before stepping into the chamber.
I exhale slowly, pressing my fingertips against my temple.
A knock at the door.
Before I can answer, Maqochi subtly steps inside. His expression is unreadable, as it often is, but his posture is relaxed—arms crossed, stance firm. I’m thrown off by this, wondering what’s coming, what he has to say. But more so than anything, I grow slightly annoyed with the fact that, even in my own chambers, I have no control over anything; he just helped himself and entered.
“You should be proud of how you handled things,” he says, voice even, something that feels less like praise and more like an assessment.
I scoff, shaking my head as frustration curls tight in my gut. “Is that what you think happened? That I handled anything? My council meeting was completely overrun by her!”
He studies me for a moment, and I hate that I can't tell what he's thinking. Then, he shrugs. “You chose your battle today.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “No, she chose the battle—she made several decisions on her own, in fact—and I nodded along.”
Maqochi doesn’t argue. He moves toward the window, peering out over the city. The fires of the forges glow faintly in the distance, flickering like stars brought to the ground against the dark.
“A ruler doesn’t win by fighting every battle,” he says. “You knew when to push and when to step back. That’s not weakness, Quya. That’s strategy.”
I cross my arms, suddenly feeling cold despite the thick walls of the chamber. “I suppose I picked my battle today, didn’t I? Letting her set the course instead of waging a war on every front. I mean, after all, she just wants to help,” I mutter, but even I can hear the weakness in my own voice.
“Help,” he repeats, turning from the window to face me fully as he sharply exhales. “And how long before that help is no longer offered, but expected? How long before people stop looking to you for guidance, because they already know she’ll speak first?”
I open my mouth, then close it again. I have no answer for him.
His gaze sharpens, though his tone remains level. "This is how rulers lose their thrones, Haesan. Not in a single night. Not in some grand betrayal. It’s a slow bleed. A decision made without you. A voice louder than yours in a room you should command. And by the time you realize it’s happening, you’ll have to fight to take back what was yours to begin with.”
I look away, focusing on the flickering brazier in the corner of the room, watching the way the flames dance and shift. Weak. Flickering. At the mercy of the wind.
“I don’t want to be like him,” I say quietly. I don’t need to clarify. We both know who I mean.
Maqochi doesn’t hesitate. “Then stop acting like a child.”
My breath catches, but I manage to utter, “It’s not that simple.”
Maqochi’s expression remains unreadable. “Nothing about ruling is simple. If it were, we’d have far fewer dead kings rotting beneath Pachil’s soil.”
I clench my jaw. I hate how easily he says it. Like it’s just another lesson, another thing I should already know. Everyone teaching me lessons, unsolicited.
I press my knuckles against the table. “You think I should push back?”
“I think you should act like you belong on that throne,” he says. “Or one day, you’ll wake up, and it won’t be yours anymore.”
I push away from the table suddenly. “I need air.”
Maqochi doesn’t stop me. He just inclines his head slightly, as if he expected this.
I step past him and out the door, my pulse thrumming uncomfortably in my ears. I tell myself I’m going to clear my head.
I’m uncertain what’s changed and when or how, but the palace is different in the light. Softer. Less like a ruin, more like something trying to stand tall and proudly again.
Maqochi’s words still linger in my mind, tangled with the ones spoken in council, the ones I didn’t say, the ones I should have said. A ruler who does not rule is nothing more than a puppet.
I step out into the open corridors, past the wide stone balustrades that overlook the palace courtyard. Below, workers move in steady rhythm, hauling beams, resetting stones, patching the wounds left behind by war. The scorch marks on the walls are still there, but faded, like old scars that time hasn’t fully erased. No matter what, it’s progress. Qapauma is being rebuilt, perhaps even stronger and better than before.
A group of laborers carry bundles of dried reeds for the roof repairs. Among them, a woman wipes sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. She catches sight of me and stops mid-step. The others do the same. Then, as if pulled by an unseen string, they bow their heads.
It still startles me—this instinctive deference. It feels unearned. Yet, after the events in the council chamber earlier today, I can certainly appreciate it now more than before.
Servants quietly drift past with lowered gazes and hands clasped. One approaches with a tray, a small clay cup of steaming tea balanced on it. The faint scent of coca leaves and muña rises with the vapor. Without a word, they hold it out to me, offering warmth, clarity. I take it, though my throat feels too tight to drink.
Everywhere I look, people are moving, working, rebuilding. For me. For my rule.
One of the architects overseeing the repairs calls out and gestures toward the scaffolding, explaining something to a scribe who hurriedly makes notes onto a quipu. They are planning, strategizing. Rebuilding the palace I am meant to rule.
And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I am the only thing not being built up in these walls. I exhale slowly, rubbing my thumb over the rim of the cup. I haven’t seen Nuqasiq since the council meeting, but I feel her presence everywhere, settling into the palace like she was never gone.
I sip the water, more out of obligation than thirst. It’s warm and soothing against my lips. But it does nothing to loosen the knot in my chest.
I turn away from the courtyard, stepping back into the shaded corridors. The quiet of the hallways is almost suffocating after the steady rhythm and commotion of the workers outside. Even my own footsteps seem too loud, echoing off the stone in a way that makes the silence feel deeper.
Then I see movement in the corridor. A figure slipping down the hall, quiet as a shadow. A familiar sight, though at first, I believe my eyes are playing a trick on me. It isn’t until I squint, looking hard to discern the person that I recognize him immediately.
Chalqo.
My heart tugs instantly at the sight of him. He survived! He’s here! But, he looks around almost nervously, as though attempting to avoid being spotted. He slips between the shadows of the hallway, fleet of foot. Why is he sneaking about?
Without thinking, without hesitating, I move to follow him.
Chalqo weaves through the hallways, slipping past servants unnoticed. He doesn’t see me. He’s too focused on his destination.
I stop just before the open doorway, pressing myself against the stone wall, listening.
And that’s when I hear her voice.
Nuqasiq.
I crawl ever so slightly closer, leaning toward the opening to listen to her conversation without being noticed. One more step, then another, until their words eventually become clearer, more intelligible. She is speaking in low, measured tones, but I know command when I hear it.
“I will arrange the negotiations,” she says. “Not Haesan.”
I do my best to stifle a gasp.
Chalqo speaks next. “Are you certain? If she finds out—“
“She will find out when it is done.”
The floor beneath me might as well vanish.
Nuqasiq’s voice is unwavering. This is not a discussion. This is a declaration. One being made at my expense.
“Taqsame’s men are already reaching out to the Qantua leaders,” she continues. “We do not have time to waste. We must pull them back before they are lost to us completely.”
She is negotiating behind my back. Taking my authority. Taking my rule.
I swallow hard, pressing closer to the wall. My fingers clutch the rough stone.
This is what Maqochi meant, about waking up to find the throne is no longer mine.
Nuqasiq isn’t helping me. She’s replacing me.
Chalqo’s voice lowers. “And if they refuse?”
There is a long, heavy pause. Then Nuqasiq answers, her tone smooth as water over stone. “Then we remind them of what happens to those who defy the will of Pachil.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine. I step back, careful, quiet, my heart hammering so loudly I fear they might hear it. I don’t need to hear any more.
Nuqasiq is taking control. And I have no idea how to stop her.