image [https://miro.medium.com/v2/format:webp/1*oAru2LU-f6y_cQuqTk8tOw.jpeg]
I’m disgusted by the realization, but the truth is undeniable: Taqsame’s camp is larger than I expected.
From our cover in the sparse brush, I count at least four rows of tents, each one arranged with a precision that tells me this isn’t just a haphazard gathering of rogues or rebels. This is a methodical assembly of a well-disciplined army. The camp sprawls across the valley floor like an infection, with flickering campfires in the cold, dry night air. I watch figures move between them—warriors sharpening weapons, men hunched over small fires and sharing a meal between them, scouts returning from their rounds.
A hand on my arm pulls me from my thoughts. I glance at Yachaman, who barely spares me a look before her eyes return to the scene below. She doesn’t need to say anything—I already know what she’s thinking.
Taqsame is preparing to overrun and overwhelm Haesan’s forces. We should leave and warn her.
I exhale slowly and force my grip to loosen on my obsidian dagger. Not yet. Not before we know what we’re completely dealing with.
Behind me, the Aimue scouts crouch low, their faces shadowed. Some press themselves flat against the ground, ensuring that their bodies are barely visible against the brittle grass and dirt. For a bunch of farmers, they’re proving they could be good hunters—silent, careful, patient. Not warriors in the way I was raised, but capable nonetheless. That’s not a compliment I give out lightly, mind you.
A cold wind slides between the trees, kicking up dust. The scent of burning wood and roasting meat drifts from the camp, mixing with the more familiar stink of sweat and iron. This close, I can hear deep, confident voices belonging to warriors who believe they’ve already won. Just look at them, striding about the grounds and joking with one another. Being so arrogant, just like their leader.
Speaking of their leader, Taqsame’s voice doesn’t carry above the others, but he’s very clearly here. He’s always here, weaving himself into the minds of the warriors who’ve chosen to follow him. They believe in him, like a demigod, the chosen one by the gods themselves. What else can explain how he survived the attack by the Sunfire?
An unbidden memory rises. Two wounded Aimue warriors collapsing at our feet. Blood drying in streaks against their faces. Their tunics were torn and dirt-stained. Their breaths ragged as they told me about the ones who attacked them.
“No colors, no banners… but they said they came for him.”
The one they called the Sun.
A hint of movement near the camp’s center draws my focus. With their heads bowed and voices low, a group of men clustered around a patch of dirt, using twigs to draw lines into the ground.
Yachaman shifts beside me, her voice barely above a breath. “Okay, Tuatiu. I think we’ve seen enough.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I let my gaze trace the movements of the warriors below, watching how they organize themselves, how they carry their weapons. I know these men. Not personally, but in the way all warriors know each other. The way they move, the way they stand, the way they grip the hilts of their blades. This is what they’re built for. War. This is the challenge we’re set to face. And I don’t know if Haesan is ready for it.
----------------------------------------
The fire crackles, sending out a slow coil of smoke into the cool night air. The Aimue sit in loose clusters, eating, sharpening weapons, or just staring into the flames, hoping the embers hold all the answers to the multitude of questions that plague their tired and restless minds.
I stand near the edge of the encampment, watching them. Waiting.
Yachaman is beside me, arms crossed. We simply remain in silence. But what more is needed to be said to one another? The Aimue agreed to stay. She managed to convince them, cutting through their reluctance like a blade through old rope. They’ll fight, to protect Qapauma, Tapeu, and, tangentially, their own homelands.
But scouting? That’s another matter entirely.
“Alright,” I say, loudly enough that most heads turn, and startling Yachaman with my abruptness. “We need a small group to scout Taqsame’s camp. Just to get a count on their numbers, their movement. No heroics. Just sharp eyes and quick feet.”
I’m met with nothing but silence.
None of the faces before me meet my gaze. Some pretend to look busy, inspecting their weapons, or wiping their hands on their tunics, as if that somehow removes them from the conversation. One of them coughs. Another stokes the fire, suddenly fascinated with rearranging the embers.
I exhale sharply through my nose. “Well?”
Still nothing.
Yachaman doesn’t look surprised.
“This isn’t a battle,” one of them finally mutters. “It’s just sneaking around. Not really worth the risk, is it?”
Another Aimue, a middle-aged man with scarred knuckles, grunts his agreement. “If Taqsame’s men catch us, we’re dead. Better to face them head-on in battle where it matters, rather than skulk in the shadows like rats.”
I grind my teeth. “Right. So you’ll march blind into a fight without knowing how many warriors he has? What weapons he’s gathered?n How they’ll likely set up on the battlefield? Where his weaknesses are?” I let the words sink in before adding, “Sounds real smart.”
More silence.
Then, someone shifts. A young boy, barely out of adolescence, stands up. His shoulders are squared, and he looks me directly in my eyes, even though his hands tremble as he grips his tattered spear.
“I’ll go.”
The others turn to look at him. Someone chuckles under their breath. A few shake their heads.
“Sit down, boy,” one of the older farmers mutters. “You’ve barely fought in a real battle.”
The boy winces. Something in his face cracks, like a mask he’d barely managed to hold in place. His fingers shift on the spear’s shaft, gripping tighter, then looser, as if he can’t decide whether to stand up for himself or flee to the shadows. His confidence evaporates, and his lips press into a thin line as the defiance in his gaze wavers, like he’s already halfway back to his seat.
I know that feeling.
It’s a familiar sting, that sharp collapse of courage when met with the world’s scorn. Standing in that council chamber, where I clearly didn’t belong, feeling the nobles’ stares as they dismissed me before I’d even opened my mouth. The rest of the session went similarly, or perhaps even worse. I had felt that same creeping humiliation then—the silent confirmation that I was not meant to be there, not worthy of the fight.
I should have made them regret underestimating me.
I look at the boy again, as his knuckles pale around his spear. If he sits down now, it will not be because he was wrong or unworthy, but because they made him believe he was.
And I won’t allow that.
My eyes flick between the boy and the others. I recognize this for what it is.
Cowardice. That’s all these farmers have. And it grates against every fiber of my being.
“At least this one has the spine to face a challenge,” I say flatly, cutting a sharp glance toward the men still hunched near the fire. “The rest of you? I guess you’d rather wait for the fight to come to you.”
The laughter dies instantly. A few of them bristle, hands tightening around their weapons.
Good.
I fold my arms across my chest. “So? Who else?”
A long, begrudging silence stretches between us.
Then, a man stands. The same one who told the kid to sit down. He rolls his shoulders, muttering something under his breath before stepping forward.
“Fine,” he grunts. “I’ll go.”
Then, another.
And another.
Before long, we have just enough.
Yachaman’s lips press together—not quite a smirk, but close. She gives me the smallest nod before turning to the others. “We move before dawn.”
----------------------------------------
I exhale through my nose, pulling myself back to the now. The Aimue scouts are waiting for my signal. Yachaman is waiting. I curl my fingers into fists, my knuckles pressing against the cold terrain.
We’re not in the throes of battle, but my heart beats like a war drum anyway. I have never belonged in Haesan’s world. I never will. She talks of unity. Of something greater than ourselves.
This? This is where I am meant to be. In the dark, hidden among the brush, feeling the wind shift and the ground beneath me hum. This is where I excel. This is where I have always belonged. Haesan wants me to be something more. But this—this is all I know.
The dull, beige grasslands stretch below me under the moonlight, rippling in slow, uneven waves as the wind rolls across the valley. I breathe slow and steady, keeping low, my body pressed against the ground. The scent of damp soil and dry grass clings to me as I shift my weight, trying to remain out of sight, but trying to get a better view all the same.
Taqsame’s sprawling camp sits in the basin. There are too many fires, too much movement for warriors who claim to fight for the will of the gods. If he really believed in their favor, he wouldn’t need this many men, wouldn’t need to gather deserters and restless blades like a condor picking through a battlefield.
I press my back against a knotted tree at the edge of the clearing. The Aimue scouts and Yachaman murmur somewhere behind me. Their voices weave into the wind, into the rustling of the dry grass. They talk about numbers, about warriors I used to command, men who woke up one morning and decided their loyalty belonged to Taqsame instead.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Because he survived the Sunfire. Because he is the chosen one.
Because he gave them something to believe in while I was busy fighting battles to protect Pachil. How ignoble of me.
Instinctively, I retrieve Sachia’s bow, as some kind of means for comfort, for consoling. My fingers curl around it, now resting the weapon across my knees. His bow. The lacquered wood is warm against my palms, warmer than it should be in the cold night air. My grip tightens. This should be his hands holding it. Not mine.
”They don’t trust you.”
I haven’t heard that voice in ages.
”Maybe they shouldn’t.”
The voice isn't real. It isn’t. But I don’t turn around. If I do, I’ll see him, sitting against the tree next to me, arms draped over his knees, head tilted in that easy, insufferable way that always meant trouble. I can already feel him there, like an itch just under my skin.
“Go away,” I mutter.
”Can’t. I’m you, remember?”
I dig my fingers into my temples. Not now. Not now.
”You’re brooding. Like a damn orphaned dog. And you don’t even like dogs.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
”Do you? ‘Cause last I checked, you’re perched up here, watching like some miserable spirit while Taqsame steals your men.”
I grip the bow tighter, letting the edges bite into my palms.
“They were never my men,” I say, keeping my voice low. “They were the Qantua’s, remember? They were merely a borrowed sword—useful for as long as they were needed. They don’t owe me their loyalty.”
”But they owe it to Taqsame?”
I say nothing.
”You fought beside them. Ate with them. Bled with them. And you think that meant nothing?”
“They followed orders, Sachia. Just like me.”
”Right. And now that there aren’t any orders, they’re following the loudest idiot who calls himself a god.”
The camp below swells with movement. A shifting beast of warriors and flickering torchlight, a thing with no true shape, just hunger. Hunger for battle. A needless battle.
“They’re scared,” I admit. “And Taqsame gave them something to cling to. That’s all it takes. Fear and faith. That’s all it’s ever been.”
”You think that’s why they followed you? Fear? Faith?”
I scoff. “They aren’t here for me. They were never here for me. It’s all because of Teqosa. They followed me because I was the best bridge between them and their real goal—fighting the cult. That’s done now. So they’ve gone back to following their own.” I gesture toward the camp, toward the lingering shadows of warriors who no longer belong to me.
He’s quiet. And that’s worse than his usual quips.
I shake my head. “They’ve made their choice.”
”So that’s it? You’re just gonna let them go?”
“They were never mine to begin with,” I snap. “They fought beside me, not for me. There’s a difference.”
”And that’s why you’re up here, staring at them like a dog waiting for scraps?”
I tense. “My mind is crafting too many dog analogies. And besides, I’m scouting them. Not hoping or wishing for them to return to me like some long, lost lover.”
”Yeah. Sure. And I bet you tell yourself you carry my bow because it’s a good weapon, not because you can’t stand the idea of letting go.”
I grit my teeth. The campfires blur at the edges. Not because I’m tired. Not because of the cold wind slithering through the grass.
He sighs, and for a moment, I swear I can hear him shifting beside me, brushing the bark with his shoulder.
”Remember the jaguar?”
The question is so out of nowhere that I actually turn my head before catching myself. “What?”
”The one we found near the river when we were kids. The starving one.”
I hesitate. It comes back to me in pieces, stitched together by memory—dappled fur stretched over sharp bones, ribs pressing against skin, the smell of rot where the flies had started their work. It had been half-dead, slumped by the water, too weak to hunt, too stubborn to let itself die.
I nod. “Yeah.”
”And remember what you said?”
I do.
”You said we should put it down,” Sachia continues. ”Said it was cruel to let it suffer. And I said—?”
I close my eyes. “You said it would get back up. That it just needed time.”
”And?”
“And you were wrong,” I mutter.
Sachia chuckles. ”Was I?”
It takes a second for me to realize what he means.
That damn jaguar. It had gotten up. Days later, when we’d come back, expecting to find a carcass, it was gone. Just a few tufts of fur left in the grass, a streak of blood leading back into the jungle. Moon cycles later, I swear I saw a jaguar with a scar where the wound was. It just nodded at me, like a sign of respect, before slinking back into the jungle. At least, that how I took it to mean. Maybe I was seeing what I wanted to see. Like I am doing now.
I exhale, slow. “This isn’t the same.”
”Isn’t it?” He sounds amused now. ”They followed you because they needed to. And now they follow him because they need to. But it doesn’t mean they’re gone forever. Doesn’t mean they don’t remember.”
I shake my head. “You really think they’ll remember and choose me over their own blood?”
”Not all of them. But some? Maybe.”
The wind shifts, dragging the dry scent of grass and smoke through the trees. Below, Taqsame’s warriors move like currents in a river, swirling between the torchlight. I can pick out faces I know. Men who once stood beside me, shouted war cries beside me, bled beside me. And yet here they are.
They chose him.
But Sachia’s voice lingers, a splinter under my skin.
The jaguar got back up.
I look up.
Sachia is gone.
Of course, he is.
But the bow feels lighter in my hands.
I focus. The tents aren’t haphazardly scattered like those of desperate raiders. They’re placed strategically. Larger tents sit in the center, surrounded by smaller ones, forming a core of leadership, with the rank-and-file positioned around them in tight, controlled formations.
I count at least six posts, each manned by at least two warriors. They stand with spears and bows, as their eyes search the darkness unamused.
I spot a group of men near the eastern ridge, working with ropes and wooden stakes. Fortifying defenses, digging trenches. They know something is coming, as only they would know, and they’re preparing for it.
Yachaman grinds her teeth quietly. “So he’s planning a siege.”
I nod, watching as warriors drill in the open spaces, practicing with spears, shields, and swords. Taqsame isn’t waiting for an opportunity. He’s creating one.
A group of warriors moves toward the campfires. I grip my obsidian dagger tighter. My stomach twists as the firelight catches a familiar mark on the hilt of their weapons.
A twelve-pointed sun. The same symbol as the blade the wounded Aimue had shown me. The same symbol that stirred something unsettlingly familiar in the back of my mind.
I glance at Yachaman, who is staring hard at them, her jaw clenched.
The warriors with no colors, no banners. Just that sigil. A sun, stretching out like jagged teeth.
I don’t just see defectors. I see cowards hiding behind the illusion of duty. The same warriors who once stood with me, who shed blood alongside me to protect our land from the Eye in the Flame, now fall in line under a man like Taqsame, as if their loyalty is nothing more than a shifting tide, dictated by whoever spews rhetoric out the loudest.
And what disgusts me most is that they must really believe they’re doing the right thing. That Taqsame is somehow the rightful ruler of Qantua, of all of Pachil. That this—this—is what our ancestors fought for. They’re blind, willingly so, just as I suspect so many others will be.
But I remember him. Taqsame.
The first time I met him, back in Hilaqta, when Teqosa still commanded warriors with the kind of steady, unquestionable presence that even I respected. Taqsame had been arrogant, talking like the world owed him deference just because of the blood in his veins, because of his few good battles against the Timuaq. I remember how he dismissed Teqosa—Teqosa, of all people—like he was some old relic of a forgotten time, unworthy of speaking to the future of the Qantua.
I wonder if he’s any different now. If anything, I imagine he’s worse. Insufferable. A man who already thought he deserved power now finally given the means to take it. A man who sees all of this—these warriors, this growing army—not as people, but as tools to build the legacy he envisions for himself.
And that’s the part that cuts the deepest. That these warriors—the ones I once thought of as comrades—would throw their lives away for him.
That maybe this isn’t so different from what we all fought for in the War of Liberation after all. Maybe we didn’t carve a path for a better Pachil. Maybe we just made room for another tyrant to take his turn at the throne.
I hate this. I hate feeling powerless. Hate watching them—warriors who should know better—fall into line with unquestioning obedience, waiting for their next command.
I don’t realize I’m grinding my teeth until Yachaman touches my shoulder. A small reminder, an anchor to keep me from doing something stupid.
But my rage burns hot, coiling in my gut like a viper waiting to strike.
And I think, You’re all fools. And if you can’t see it now, I’ll make you see it soon enough.
I shift my focus toward the far end of the camp, where a makeshift forge has been constructed. Men pound metal into shape, hammering out weapons and armor over a roaring fire. The rhythmic, constant ringing carries over the wind. A warrior strides past the forge, inspecting a newly made spear. The smith offers it up with a respectful bow.
I feel a growl rise in my throat. He’s got them making weapons now?
And it’s not just for his loyalists. These are meant for more warriors. For new recruits.
The realization slams into me, and I have to fight the urge to move now, to run in and put an end to this before it festers. A fight now would be suicide. But every heartbeat we let this grow, Taqsame gets stronger.
The dagger in my grip feels small, useless. I want to break something, to shatter the careful order Taqsame has created in this place.
But I hold still. Patience. I unclench my jaw and exhale, steadying myself.
Long, slow breath in. Long, slow breath out.
“We need to go back,” Yachaman whispers, then points away from the camp with her head.
I move back slowly, and my body sinks into the shadows as Yachaman signals for the scouts to retreat. The night air clings to my skin, thick with the lingering heat of the forge, the acrid bite of burning charcoal threading through the crisp cold that rushes through the plains.
The camp is alive with movement. It’s a slow, rolling tide of warriors sharpening blades, tending wounds, murmuring over steaming bowls of food. Not the makeshift gathering of desperate men I had once assumed as we approached this encampment. This is something else entirely.
I glance at Yachaman, catching the subtle furrow in her brow. She can sense what I’m feeling, what I’m planning, what’s churning inside my mind like a swirling storm. She has to. It’s why she follows up by murmuring, “We have enough. Let’s move before—”
“Before what? Before we see something worse?”
A sudden motion draws my eye. A figure stepping out from a cluster of tents, moving with the kind of easy confidence that sets my teeth on edge.
At first, I think my eyes are deceiving me. That I’ve been too long in the shadows, too exhausted from exerting myself in concentration, my vision twisting the dim firelight into something it’s not.
But no. It’s him.
Chalqo.
I almost don’t recognize him at first. Not because he’s changed—he still wears the same loose, flowing garments, the same air of practiced nonchalance—but because he shouldn’t be here.
The firelight dances across his face as he laughs at something one of the Qantua warriors says. Laughs. Like he isn’t standing in the middle of Taqsame’s war camp. Like he isn’t betraying everything he once stated, to comfort Haesan.
I grip the dirt beneath me, pressing my fingers into the dry terrain to ground myself. Yachaman is still beside me, but I barely feel her anymore.
The Qantua warrior Chalqo is speaking to listens with an air of familiarity, nodding along occasionally in agreement. Not like a subordinate to a commander. Like an envoy. A messenger. A chasqui. Someone passing along information.
Chalqo’s hands move in lazy gestures as he speaks, emphasizing points with an easy confidence. Then, he reaches into his sash and pulls out a sealed bundle. I tense as he hands it over.
The Qantua warrior takes it, glancing at the bundle of knots from the quipu, then back at Chalqo. A slow, knowing nod. I think I hear it—or maybe the wind is playing tricks on my ears. It’s a remark that I barely catch from this distance: “The old woman is more reasonable than the girl.”
“She’s negotiating behind the Quya’s back,” Yachaman can barely get the whispered statement out from behind her lips.
I should’ve expected this.
Nuqasiq didn’t return to Tapeu just to advise Haesan. She came to rule. I saw it in the way she commanded the palace courtyard while it was under attack, the way people bowed a little deeper. And now, here’s more proof.
She’s reaching outward, to Taqsame. To the very war we’re trying to prevent.
I exhale slowly, steadying the anger rising in my chest. My knuckles ache from how tightly I’ve curled my fists.
Chalqo. That lying, smooth-talking…
The Qantua warrior tucks the bundle into his tunic, muttering something else. Chalqo smirks, shaking his head as if to dismiss whatever was said.
Then—his eyes flick toward the darkness.
Toward us.
I go still, breath caught in my throat. For a heartbeat, it feels like he’s looking right at me. Does he see us?
His gaze lingers a moment too long. Then, the faintest twitch of his lips—a hint of amusement, of acknowledgment. A knowing smile. And just as quickly, he looks away.
Yachaman grabs my arm with a firm, urgent grip. “We need to go. Now.”
But I don’t move. I can’t. If we leave now, what do we have? A stolen glance. A half-heard exchange. It’s not enough. Not for me.
I glance at Yachaman, at the Aimue scouts waiting for my command. I know what she wants. I know what’s smart.
But I can’t leave. Not yet.
I push Yachaman’s arm away. “Go,” I tell her. “Inform the Quya.”
She stiffens. “What?”
“You heard me,” I hiss. “Take the scouts. Get back the palace.”
Her expression tightens, frustration flashing in her eyes. “You’re not seriously thinking—”
I don’t let her finish. I shove her.
“Go.”
Yachaman curses under her breath. I watch as she signals the scouts, pulling them back toward the safety of the trees. They vanish into the darkness, swallowed by the night.
Then, I turn back toward the camp. One more look. Just to see what Chalqo is really up to.