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Did I really just allow this to happen? Scolding myself internally, I hold my breath as the army of warriors clad in black and gold make their way through the now-empty aqueduct channel. I may have made a terrible miscalculation and allowed invaders into the palace. I can only mutter a prayer to the Eleven or whatever deity will take pity on me for being so foolish.
At the front is a sight more peculiar than anything told by a folklorist near a campfire. A young girl and two men, all wearing contrasting factional colors, walk ahead of the nearly hundred or so Qantua warriors. It’s as though they’re leading the army of another faction. This unexpected vanguard challenges every notion of warfare and allegiance I’ve ever been taught. And in their silent march, there’s an eerie resolve that chills my spine.
I push the dread to the back of my mind as I prepare for the possible consequences. The young girl and two men stop abruptly, a few paces away from me. They’re a motley mix, and seeing the colors they don, it appears a warrior from the Tuatiu jungles is joined by an Ulxa warrior, and a high-ranking officer of Tapeu, brandishing the orange and deep red.
I’m most intrigued by the young girl, who seems to garner the respect of the others around her—the Ulxa, and even the Tapeu official, stand a few paces behind and appear to await her orders. Her hair is jaggedly cut short and fairly unevenly, as thought done by herself with the dagger at her waist. Being around nobility for so long, I’ve forgotten what short hair looks like, only seeing long hair tied in elaborate knots, braids, and buns. There’s a power and command in her presence, as though she was forged from a life of battle, despite being so close to my age. I find myself drawn to her, compelled to understand the depth of her strength and the journey that has etched such authority into her youthful figure. There’s an untamed, raw energy about her, a contrast to the polished grandeur of court life to which I’ve grown accustomed.
“Are you the one responsible for cleaning the streets of Qapauma?” the Ulxa warrior asks in a jarringly stilted tongue. When I nod cautiously, he smirks. “I commend you—that was very well done.”
“The enemy still remains at our gates,” I note, looking toward the stone walls as though I could see through them to find them there. I find it difficult to collect my thoughts, being flummoxed by the presence of so many different factions from far away lands, here inside the palace, and attempting to defend it. Or so I hope.
“What is your role in the city’s defenses?” the Tuatiu warrior asks, more out of curiosity than accusation.
Still, I reflexively answer quickly and relatively defensively. “I’m not a warrior like you. I was trying to… help from above. Directing the Qente Waila, trying to save what’s left of the city.”
The three exchange confused glances. “Jade Hummingbird?” the Tapeu official questions. “That name sounds vaguely familiar. Are they–“
“Instrumental to the city’s defense?” I interrupt, not allowing him to draw any unhelpful conclusions. “Their knowledge of the tunnels beneath the city has been crucial in navigating the chaos. They fight for Qapauma, just as we all do now.”
He seems put off by my statement, but I pay him no mind. I refuse to allow the Qente Waila—who, at present, appear to be more effective in defending the city from the Eye in the Flame—to have their reputation besmirched. And judging by his reaction, I determine he must be a loyalist to the Arbiter. So I must tread carefully when speaking about certain matters when he is present.
“And a servant to the palace is given such freedom to divert the waters of the palace’s aqueducts?” the Tapeu official inquires. “Would the Arbiter allow such a thing to happen?”
“She just prevented catastrophe by giving the palace defenses more time to regroup,” the Tuatiu warrior asserts. “Perhaps you should be placing your judgement elsewhere.”
I subtly exhale to myself, relieved to hear someone defending my choice. I strive to cloak my trepidation through projected serene composure. I feel I’ve made questionable decisions as of late, so someone offering their support instills much-needed confidence.
“And yourselves?” I turn the inquisition to them. “What brings this conglomeration of factions to Qapauma, conveniently at the city’s time of need?”
“My companions and I have been tracking the Eye in the Flame since they attacked and nearly destroyed my home village, Iantana,” the young Tuatiu warrior declares. There’s a gruff, unpolished manner in how she speaks, perhaps due to a lifetime of being around warriors, a distinct Tuatiu way of life. “During my captivity within their compound, I discovered their leader’s plot to attack Qapauma. There’s more to it than this, but we have little time to discuss, as, you have pointed out, they attack your palace.”
I flinch at the words ‘your palace’, knowing full well how unwelcome my presence is here, my existence. Her words weren’t intended to harm, I understand, despite the biting note of her astute observation. So I allow it to roll off my back and refocus on the war waged outside the palace walls.
The Tuatiu warrior stands with such confidence that I can’t help but find myself also crossing my arms and looking about sternly. Yet it helps me concentrate on formulating a plan. “I’m thankful to have allies who find the Eye in the Flame to be a major threat to all of our people,” I say. “The palace guards’ lines appear to be scattered. The Qente Waila are filling the void that’s being left exposed. We’ll need to reinforce that section of the palace walls, where the enemy has been making inroads. This will hopefully allow enough time for Nuqas… erm, I mean the Queen Mother, to mobilize the forces needed to drive the cultists out.”
“The Queen Mother mobilizing forces?” the Tapeu official parrots the statement into an inquiry. “Shouldn’t the Arbiter be doing such a task?”
“I have not seen… the Arbiter,” I fight through calling Achutli by his undeserved title, speaking it as though it tastes vile upon my tongue, “since my arrival to the palace.”
Concerned looks are exchanged amongst nearly everyone present, as if questioning Achutli’s involvement in this assault. Particularly, the Ulxa warrior looks incredibly angered by the unknown location of the leader. All are troubled by the speculation except the Tapeu official, who looks more worried for Achutli. With suspicions raised, he attempts to quell the theorizing. “Certainly, he must be rallying troops at another contested location. He is a graduate of the Maqanuiache, after all. Top of his class. One of the great minds that crafted the defeat of the Timuaq in the battle of–“
“Yes, yes,” the Ulxa warrior interrupts. “You have an excellent ruler, just as the Ulxa have with Tlexnín.”
“I beg your pardon,” the Tapeu official says, visibly offended. “There is simply no comparison to–“
“Enough!” shouts the Tuatiu warrior, intervening before the squabble can escalate. “We need to hurry and fortify the palace walls, as this servant has informed us. Let us go, with haste. We’ll need to–”
“Over here!” a voice rings out above the cacophony of the nearby calamity. As the Tuatiu warrior commands her Qantua army, a palace guard points in my direction. Nuqasiq is ushered into the grounds by a deluge of guards at her flanks. If she’s as surprised as I was by the presence of these warriors who’ve arrived from all over Pachil, she hides it well.
“Queen Mother!” the Tapeu official remarks, cutting off the Tuatiu warrior and practically stumbling over himself to meet her as she approaches. He swiftly kneels, bowing deeply and casting his eyes down to her feet. Looking clearly annoyed, she waves her hand as if lifting up the air, signaling for him to rise. When he doesn’t, she coughs loudly, prompting him to stand at attention. This elicits an eye roll, from both her and myself.
“Who are these warriors who have entered our palace gates?” she demands, looking upon the new arrivals with suspicion.
“They helped drive back the Eye in the Flame, just outside the palace walls,” I reply. My reply catches the Tapeu official by surprise, perhaps not expecting me to respond to an esteemed noble with such assuredness and certainty. “According to the Tuatiu warrior, they’ve been tracking the cult since her homeland was attacked.”
“It’s true,” the Tapeu official interjects. “I was sent by the Arbiter to recruit warriors for an attack on the Ulxa–“
“Who are not responsible for the Eye in the Flame,” the Ulxa warrior now interrupts him.
The Tapeu officer is visibly irritated by this, but continues on. “We have learned much of this cult, how they have ties to, but are not directly affiliated with,” he says with exaggerated emphasis, looking at the Ulxa warrior as if to defend his remark, “the Ulxa. Perhaps there has been… some… misinformation imparted upon our great ruler.”
“We can discuss this at a later time,” Nuqasiq states. “There is too much talking when we need action. The palace, Qapauma, the Tapeu, and the Arbiter are relieved you all are here,” she announces to the Qantua warriors and the three supposed leaders.
She pauses, waiting for them to respond. It’s undetermined what she seeks, until the Tapeu official states, “I am Sianchu, The Shadow to the Arbiter, Queen Mother.” He seems somewhat upset that he must remind Nuqasiq of his name and title, yet she looks unconcerned with the possibility of having offended him.
“And… I am called… Mexqutli,” the Ulxa warrior says with uncertainty and hesitancy.
The Tuatiu warrior steps forward, announcing, “I am Inuxeq, sent by the Tuatiu leader, Haluiqa.” She offers a short bow of her head. “The men before me are Qantua warriors sent by Teqosa and the Qantua council to defend Qapauma and all of Pachil.” After this, she takes a few steps back to resume her position, standing stoically.
“Right,” Nuqasiq continues. “The main gates are under heavy attack. Assist the guards there, as I’m confident your expertise will be greatly needed.” She points in a direction behind her, toward the entrance to the palace grounds.
The Tuatiu and Ulxa warriors nod, turning to the Qantua army and gesturing to march in that direction. Meanwhile, the Tapeu official, Sianchu, appears stunned. “I beg your pardon, Queen Mother, but perhaps I am better served alongside you, for protection, than fighting at the wall. Or, perhaps, if I can be directed to the Arbiter, I can–“
“You groveling coward,” the Ulxa warrior called Mexqutli sneers. “Perhaps you can instead travel to the far reaches of the continent, away from the conflict, eh?”
The Tuatiu warrior, Inuxeq, scowls, speaking to the Tapeu man over her shoulder. “So be it. Fight alongside your Queen Mother. We have important matters to confront.”
She storms off toward the palace entrance. Mexqutli shakes his head and accompanies her, waving at the hundred or so Qantua warriors to follow. That leaves me with Nuqasiq, the Tapeu official, and a dozen or two of the palace guards. Overwhelming rumbles shake the foundations of the walls and nearby buildings, tremors likely caused by the chaos occurring just beyond the walls. This spurs us into action, as Sianchu turns to us.
“We should secure the throne room, ensuring the quraqas are well-protected and–“
“The throne room has been secured, Sianchu,” Nuqasiq interrupts. “There was an incident that took place there, but it has been resolved for now. We must think of an alternate plan.”
“Noted,” the Tapeu official stammers, caught off guard, then searches the sky for another plan of action. “Then, we should rally our remaining forces and join the Arbiter with a frontal assault! We should show our strength and resolve, as the Arbiter would expect. And you, girl,” he turns to me, “fetch us some water and supplies. We must be prepared for a long defense.”
There’s an awkward silence as I’m taken aback by the command. I want to protest, yet my mouth opens wordlessly. Nuqasiq, on the other hand, rebukes sharply. “Sianchu! You forget yourself. Haesan is not our servant. She is my granddaughter. Her insights have already saved lives today. Treat her with the respect she deserves.”
This Sianchu immediately looks embarrassed and apologetic, turning to me with a sheepish expression. “My apologies, Lady Haesan. I was unaware. The stress of battle has clouded my better judgement. Please forgive me.”
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I nod and shrug, understanding how he could have mistaken me. It’s unlikely many know of my existence at all, to be fair to him. Wanting to put this moment behind us both, I return the discussion to our plan. “If you’ll permit me to suggest, perhaps a direct fight isn’t our only option. The city’s alleys and rooftops could allow smaller groups to move unseen, striking swiftly where the enemy least expects. It’s where I had been able to coordinate with the fighters below. The disruption might buy us the time we need.”
Nuqasiq nods thoughtfully, then addresses Sianchu with a firm yet gentle correction. “Haesan is right. We will use our knowledge of Qapauma to our advantage. Sianchu, see to it that our best runners and archers are assembled. Haesan, you will guide them with your plan.”
“And what of yourself, Queen Mother?” Sianchu asks. “You should be protected from–“
“I will have these fine warriors to protect me,” she snaps, seemingly finished with having to interact with this Sianchu. “We will return to the secured throne room and guard the quraqas there. Now, go. Execute this plan without hesitation.”
Momentarily flummoxed, Sianchu bows, placing a fist over his heart. Nuqasiq glances at me, lips creased into a frown. “Be well, granddaughter. At the first sign of trouble, return to the throne room at once. That is a command.”
I nod in short bursts, acknowledging her outwardly, but knowing that, deep down, I will not rest until the enemy has been defeated. We part ways, with Sianchu eagerly awaiting my direction.
I point to the palace walls. “Let us move to the top and signal to the warriors below of our plan. We can coordinate efforts from there.”
With this, we hurry up the stone stairs and back to the top of the walls. The scene below is more grim than before. Buildings and homes have been entirely leveled, their scattered remnants are such that it’s difficult to ascertain if structures were ever constructed here. The floodwaters have begun to pool, forming small lakes at various points around the base of the wall. Still, the enemy is resourceful, crafting makeshift bridges to cross the temporary moat.
“We should set their bridges alight,” I declare. “Prevent them from accessing the palace.”
“A wise observation,” Sianchu says. It feels as if he’s attempting to reconcile for his earlier gaff, but I pay it no mind. I point to the cultists’ new constructions, and he commands the archers to loose fire arrows at the bridge. “And if you see any gray monstrosities,” he calls out, “loose fire arrows into them immediately. Fire appears to be their weakness. But they will need to be defeated promptly.”
I’m briefly disturbed by the almost nonchalance in which he speaks of the ‘gray monstrosities’, as though their existence is common knowledge. But there’s no time to think further into this, and I bring my attention back to the pressing matters at hand. The archers shout their acknowledgement in unison, then prepare their arrows by wrapping them in spare cloth and securing them with a tight knot. They rub the clothed tips with some type of resin, perhaps something flammable or something that can retain the flame for a longer period. With torches, they set the arrows aflame, then rain a barrage of fire down upon the attackers. It takes some time, but the bridges ultimately catch flame as fire flickers and licks the cultists attempting to cross.
More warriors in jade and magenta swoop in through the streets, slicing through scores of the red robed enemies. Yet, swooping in from all directions, more cultists in the dreaded ashen gray robes approach their location. The Qente Waila warriors become surrounded in an instant, their exit through the streets immediately blocked on all sides. The tops of the remaining homes appears open, a trail above the catastrophe on the streets below. Maybe this could be their means of fleeing the overwhelmingly threatening scene.
I’m about to call out to them, tell them to approach the rooftops for reprieve and a possible escape when I’m disrupted by a tremendous boom that resonates throughout the wall. It begins to shake violently, jostling everyone about as we struggle to maintain our balance.
“Lady Haesan!” Sianchu yells panicked. “We can’t stay here for much longer. The wall may collapse. To lower ground!”
While I must fight the urge to resist his command, wanting to stay here and help in any way that I can from this improved vantage point, I know he is, unfortunately, correct. Loose stones crackle as they collide with the remaining wall while tumbling to the ground. Shouts of alarm and warning ring out from the archers atop the wall. Large chunks of the wall begin crumbling all around us, the wreckage closing in on our location. We must hurry and get to safer ground.
A huge chunk of the palace wall starts to fall. Many in the Tapeu orange and red, as well as the servants in neutral-colored garments, flee toward the palace, toward perceived safety. As they run, balls of fire hurtle in a large arc, soaring in the sky until crashing down to the terrain. The sorcerers must be launching these over the walls!
I holler for everyone to take cover, hoping a sturdy structure of Tapeu engineering will be our refuge. Sianchu points to the numerous structures among the grounds, directing us to seek shelter there. However, most of the palatial buildings are elevated above the ground like small mountains, making them easy targets for the sorcerer’s balls of fire. Flaming orbs strike the towering structures unceasingly. I alert everyone to stay away from them until I can figure out a different, safer course of action.
I search for something else, something lower to the ground. My heart thunders in my ears as panic sets in, urgently seeking cover. Then, I finally find it: sloping downward into the side of a hill or mound, a path leads into the underground granary. These storage pits are purposely low to maintain cool temperatures, and out of the way so as to not be an eye sore to the ruler living in Qapauma. This should work sufficiently as a temporary solution.
I point to the storage pit, waving on the servants to seek protection there. Though most follow my instruction, there are a few who appear concerned and apprehensive. Do they fear being underground, potentially exposed to a structural collapse?
As I walk to the servants, Sianchu takes over in leading those to shelter. “Please, you must protect yourselves from this assault on the palace. Hurry!”
“We can’t,” one says. Her face is smudged with soot, blood, and ash. Tears well up in her dark brown eyes, unable to look at me directly. “Too many of our people have been trapped by the invaders. We were helping with the defense, gathering supplies and weapons for the palace guards, when the attack blindsided us. We attempted to evacuate, but some have been cornered by the sorcerers near the western garden. If we leave now without saving them, they’ll… they'll be slaughtered.”
The urgency in her voice hits me hard like a strike to the face. Her fear is palpable, and I understand that they can’t abandon their friends, their family. I, too, would be hard pressed to leave those I cared about behind.
I exchange a glance with Sianchu, who’s already nodding, understanding the importance of the situation as much as I do. “Lead us to them,” I command, more confidently than I feel. “We’ll do what we can.”
The servant hesitates for a moment, then nods, leading us towards the garden. As we move, I try to steel myself for what’s ahead. I know it’s likely a trap, that we’re walking into the very jaws of danger. Yet the thought of leaving anyone to a cruel fate at the hands of the Eye in the Flame gnaws at me, relentless and unforgiving.
We navigate through the chaos, dodging debris and leaping over smoldering rubble. The sounds of battle grow louder and more intense as we approach the location. Walls and statues, painted in vivid colors, lay wasted among the striking flowers and verdant bushes that were immaculately trimmed to form certain shapes and designs. It’s a surreal journey, witnessing the contrast between the beauty of the once-pristine palace grounds and the horror of the invasion.
As we arrive, the scene before us is as bad as I feared. A group of servants and palace guards are indeed trapped, as the cultists advancing on them. Ritualistic tumi knives, similar to the one I carry at the bottom of my satchel, are gripped tightly at the side of the zealots. To my shock and horror, their hands and weapons glow a sinister blue! Tremors shake the ground as if something is preparing to erupt from it. And there, among those cornered, is Yachaman, placing herself between the crazed lunatics and those from the palace, her eyes wide with fear, yet burning with defiance.
The shrill cries of the young guards who stand their ground pierce the air, spears trembling in their inexperienced hands. Their eyes dart around, panic setting in as the cultists advance with chilling coordination. One young guard, hardly older than a boy, fumbles with his weapon with violently shaking hands. He makes a desperate lunge forward, only to be swatted down like a fly. His spear clatters against the stone, skidding out of reach, as he collapses with a pained groan. Another guard, a girl with more determination than experience, steps forward bravely to shield the boy. However, their youthful bravado does little to stave off the inevitable, as the cultists press forward, unfazed.
As the cultists raise their glowing weapons, preparing to strike, the urgency of the situation crystallizes in my mind. My thoughts scramble for a solution. Then, the idea strikes me. It’s daring, almost reckless, but it is the only chance we have. I need a distraction, something bold and dramatic enough to disrupt the cultists’ murderous focus and give Yachaman and the others a fighting chance to escape.
Spotting a nearby stack of crates filled with dried fruits, a staple in the palace's storage for the long siege anticipated, I make my decision. “Sianchu, help me with this,” I call, darting towards the crates. Understanding my intent, he follows.
Together, we push the crates towards the edge of a small incline leading to where Yachaman and the others are cornered. With one strong shove, the crates topple over, the contents spilling out and rolling towards the cultists. The sudden barrage of tumbling fruit creates confusion among them, their sinister advance halted as they’re forced to dodge the unexpected obstacle before them.
Seizing the moment, I shout to Yachaman and the trapped servants, “Now! Run to the granary!” They don't hesitate, their survival instincts kicking in as they dash towards the promised safety of the underground storage, their path cleared by our makeshift diversion.
But the relief is short-lived. As they flee, a stray bolt of something I can only fathom being dark magic, arcs through the air with a malevolent hiss. It grazes Yachaman, striking her side. She stumbles, crying out and clutching a wound that’s quickly turning a dangerous shade of black. The edges of the injury fester with some kind of sinister blackness that seems to drink the light around it.
My heart plummets to my stomach. “Yachaman!” I scream, rushing to her side. I hoist Yachaman's arm over my shoulder, her weight supported by my determination more than my strength.
Sianchu covers us, swinging his blade at any robed silhouette as he wards off further attacks. He calls out a booming command, and summons more palace guards that rush into the scene. However, their arrival has drawn more cultists to our location, and soon, we’re swarmed by gray and red robed enemies.
“We need to get her to the healers,” I grit out, each step fueled by a mix of fear and adrenaline. My arms secure Yachaman, her body heavy against mine.
But the way to safety isn’t visible, shrouded by an overwhelming number of warriors, both friend and foe. We’re engulfed by the chaos of battle occurring on palace grounds. Combat crashes around us like waves. Swords clash and dark spells crack through the air, casting eerie shadows that dance wildly on the shattered walls.
Navigating the way to the granary is perilous, a gauntlet of fire and shadow. But Yachaman’s life depends on our speed and luck. Her faltering breaths against my neck causes me to fear the worst. The injury is unlike anything I’ve seen, and I silently plead with Iptanqa for her life.
Sianchu parries a blow from a cultist who lunges out of the swirling melee. His counterstrike is swift and deadly, and the cultist collapses with a choked gasp as we push forward. “Keep moving!” Sianchu shouts over the clangor.
The ground feels treacherous underfoot, slick with blood and strewn with debris. Clad in battered armor, a palace guard barrels past us in a rush to engage a group of gray-robed cultists. Their sinister chants slice through the clamor, raising the hairs on my neck. The warrior’s sword meets the cultists' obsidian blades in a shower of sparks, buying us precious moments to slip by.
Another explosion of dark magic erupts nearby, the force of it knocking a duo of palace guards off their feet and into the fray, nearly tripping us up. The ground shakes with the impact, filling the air with the acrid scent of scorched terrain. We dodge a falling banner, its once-vibrant colors now smoldering, and leap over a shattered stone columns.
“This way!” Sianchu yells, guiding us through a narrow gap between two fighting groups. His arm is outstretched to block debris that flies in hundreds of directions. More bolts sizzle menacingly close, whizzing overhead.
“Almost there!” I shout as we weave through the last stretch of battle. Yachaman’s body sags, her groans growing more faint the longer we take. I use my fear and panic to press on, determined to make it to safety.
Reaching the granary, we stumble through its archway, panting heavily as we inspect the scene. We’re met by wide-eyed servants, their faces etched with concern. “Healers!” I shout, the word desperately spoken echoes off the stone walls. “Quickly!”
Laying Yachaman down gently, I step back, watching as the healers rush over. Their hands move with practiced urgency, but their expressions are grim. I stand there, feeling helpless, my gaze locked on Yachaman’s pained face. The battle outside rages on, but in this moment, my world narrows to her life slipping through my fingers.
“Lady Haesan,” Sianchu whispers, barely audible over the din of earnest mutterings and prayers. “Let us leave the healers to their craft, and we can continue the fight to defend Qapauma. We’re more useful out there than in here.”
I nod, my face set in a reluctant, but determined grimace. Emerging from the dim confines of the granary, the world outside is chaos incarnate. The clamor of battle, the cries of the wounded, and the roar of fire consuming the palace. Through the smoke and the ember-filled sky, a sea of orange and red advances—Tapeu warriors. They retreat to the palace grounds with grim faces. The sight is one of somber defeat, with the warriors appearing as walking wounds. Their garments are singed and smeared with ash and the blood of their fallen comrades.
Among them, two figures stand out starkly: Achutli, leading with a warrior’s grace despite suffering the evident toll of the battle. He stands resplendent in a helmet and armor of bronze, embellished with red and yellow feathers, that covers his prominent orange and red tunic. The other is Anqatil, his advisor, whose gaze upon seeing me betrays a moment of disbelief, which is then quickly overtaken by a deep, simmering anger.
Their arrival is a signal, turning the palace grounds into a storm of activity as they prepare for a last stand. Nuqasiq steps forward from the shadows, her arrival cutting through the tension—or, perhaps, adding to it. Her stride is purposeful, and through an unreadable expression, her eyes locked on Achutli, searching for signs of wear or wound. Yet before words can bridge the distance between mother and son, a silence falls upon us all.
Amid this fraught reunion, words become superfluous. Filled with unspoken questions and accusations, Achutli’s eyes find mine, igniting a tempest within. Anqatil’s glare, so laden with contempt, is a sharpened blade that is aimed directly at me. But before any challenge can be voiced, Sianchu steps forward, saluting Achutli with a fist over his heart and bowing deeply, a gesture of unwavering loyalty in the face of turmoil. Standing regal and unyielding, Nuqasiq casts a protective glance my way, one filled with pride, concern, and an unmistakable undercurrent of disappointment—not in me, but in the scene before her, in the son she finds lacking.
And there we stand. No words are spoken, yet everything is said in the exchange of glares that pass between us. We are united only in our division, each of us pondering the cost of the paths we’ve chosen. In the distance, the battle rages on, a continuous reminder of the immediate threat at our door. Though here, in this moment, the personal conflicts seem just as perilous, just as capable of tearing everything apart.