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With a war cry that thunders across the battlefield, I drive my spear downward, cleaving through the armor of the enemy before me. Another invader collapses, his eyes widening in disbelief, mouth agape, as he grasps the finality of his defeat, as they always do. The copper scent of blood and the cries of the dying surrounds us. Some of my foes muster the strength to resist, their jaws clenched in futile defiance as they try to ward off the embrace of oblivion. Others plead, their voices cracking as they bargain for a few more desperate breaths. A few resign themselves to their fate, their expressions solemn as they prepare to meet Tlaloqa, the god who presides over the nine levels of the underworld. And there are those who curse me, spitting venomous words, praying their vengeful gods might smite me where I stand. Yet their efforts are in vain. They fall one by one, defeated by the hand of the one the Itztecatl chose to be leader of the Ulxa, ordained to restore her people to their rightful glory.

I seek out my next target, the next enemy that must meet the tip of my blade. These foul scum must be eradicated. There are shamans who remind me frequently of my mistake, a decision I have come to regret, though I will never confess this to anyone. I should have never allowed Xaqilpa and his kind to leave Ulxa. I should have never allowed them to live.

There is no use dwelling on this now. After battling the profound malady that once shackled me, I am reborn. My once-shallow breaths now roar with vigor. It is with this rekindled spirit that I must rise, casting down those who dare stand against the tide of my resolve.

In the distance, enemies in gray robes regroup at the edge of Analoixan. I call out to my warriors, “with me! More invaders by the entrance!” With a deafening yell, my warriors sprint full speed toward our foes, weapons held high and proudly in the air. We race through the devastated streets, a gut-wrenching sight that fuels my rage. This blight on our land must be vanquished.

The invaders are immediately overwhelmed by our ferocity. Those in gray robes put up little resistance to our attack, fleeing to save their miserable lives. My warriors in Ulxa black and red easily overpower them, viciously swinging their obsidian swords and quickly cutting down the remnants of the forces of our enemy.

The invaders are immediately overwhelmed by our ferocity. Those in gray robes put up little resistance to our attack, cowering and running away from us. My warriors in Ulxa black and red easily overpower them, viciously swinging their obsidian swords and quickly cutting down the remaining forces of our enemy.

As we advance, the clash of obsidian against bone resounds through the smoke-filled air. A few call out to Eztletiqa, seeking His mercy, but they will find no clemency here. Each swing of the macuahuitls is precise and lethal, leaving behind a trail of fallen foes whose lifeblood seeps into the sacred soil of Analoixan.

To my right, one warrior rapidly ducks under a swung club. Her counterstrike severs the tendons of the knees belonging to her assailant. He collapses with a yelp, and with movements as fluid as the great rivers that carve through our lands, she finishes him with a calm, practiced ease, slicing his throat with a swift swipe.

To my left, another warrior leaps high into the air. His macuahuitl crashes down onto the shield of an enemy with such force that it shatters upon impact. The cultist beneath cowers, offering up his arms in futile defense as my warrior delivers an unhesitating end.

My eyes sweep over the field, noting how the remnants of the enemy scatter like chaff before the wind. Our formations are unbreakable, our steps unhindered by fear. We move like an unstoppable flood over the land, washing away the filth that dared to encroach upon our home.

Amongst the chaos, I spot a young warrior, her face painted with the sacred symbols of war. She drives her spear through the heart of a cultist, marking her face with the vibrant red of victory. His gurgling cry is cut short, lost in the roar of our collective battle cries. Around her, our warriors raise their weapons in salute. A wild cheer erupts from their throats as they witness the fall of more enemies.

Yet as I turn to rally them to finish the last of the rabble, I notice from my periphery a group in red robes gathering. A low hum of chanting reaches my ears, escalating over the din of battle. I begin to fear the worst. This must be a last resort of the Eye in the Flame.

A tremendous pounding quakes the ground beneath our feet. From the fires of the burned down homes, a creature emerges, blotting out the failing light as the sun dips below the horizon.

“Xochitónal!” my warriors shout in panic. The creature of myth? No, that cannot be! Such a monster was spoken of generations upon generations ago, but it has not been seen since. Surely, they speak false.

Silhouetted against the flames, its ghastly form unfurls before our eyes: a colossal behemoth adorned with scales as dark and reflective as volcanic glass that shimmer with an ethereal, iridescent sheen against the darkening sky. Each movement sends shimmers of light beaming across its serpentine body. It towers over the ruins, releasing a slow, menacing hiss that reverberates through the hollowed streets as its body writhes along the rubble.

From its flanks, three grotesque heads rise, with malicious eyes like molten gold. Each head is crowned with a crest of jagged spikes, and its mouths are lined with rows of sharp obsidian teeth. From their jaws, the elements defy nature: one spews a gout of flame, scorching the already blackened ruins; another exhales a billowing cloud of choking smoke, obscuring the battlefield; the third emits a blast of scalding steam, singeing the air itself. Its spiked tail lashes out, demolishing what remains of the stone structures nearby.

My warriors falter back, some in horror, others in disbelief. The roar of the beast resonates in the marrow of my bones. Despite the dread that claws at my heart, I stand firm, gripping my spear tighter. Xochitónal is no longer a tale to frighten misbehaving children. Yet fear is a luxury I cannot afford—not when the lives of my people hang in the balance.

“Form ranks!” I command. “Shield bearers to the front! Archers, ready your arrows! We shall show the creature of our ancestor the mettle of the Ulxa!”

My warriors charge at the ancient beast, spears and swords held at the ready. Yet before we can reach the creature, it howls in a way that pierces my ears, though I hear no sound. Suddenly, large tendrils made from the surrounding dirt, as thick as tree trunks, emerge from the ground. They surge upwards, snatching the legs of the warriors. Screams from the men and women are abruptly snuffed as they are dragged into the ground and buried alive.

A blur of motion catches my eye. When I look, the outsiders accompanying the god and goddess burst onto the battlefield. Those in the garments of the Sanqo hack at the curling tendrils of dirt, bringing their weapons down with such ferocity. The blades slice through, causing the limb to crumble and disintegrate back into the ground, freeing the entangled victims.

But as soon as one tendril is defeated, two more sprout up from the ground, flailing wildly as they seek their next victim. The numbers of these limbs quickly overwhelms us, grasping scores of hapless warriors before we can get to the location of the beast. The situation looks grim, and we are left with too few options.

One of the Sanqo warriors shouts to me in the language I loathe to speak, this so-called ‘Merchant Tongue’. “The sorcerers! They’re empowering the monster! We must reach them, to stop them and weaken the beast!”

The disheveled one—in fact, all the Sanqo appear disheveled and undisciplined—wearing sea glass and garments in coral and green makes an astute observation. The sorcerers continue their chanting unimpeded, still gathered in the distance. We must put an end to them, to their chanting. Perhaps then we may have a chance.

I direct my warriors to carry out this plan. Without hesitation, they sprint toward the robed figures, not loosing any war cry so as to not alert the enemy to their approach. I watch attentively, waiting, hoping they are successful. The race to the sorcerers is seemingly at the pace of a sloth as I eagerly anticipate the results.

My hopes swiftly end. The warriors fall backward, shivering in pain as though struck by lightning. A near-invisible sphere around the sorcerers crackles and shimmers. My gaze meets that of the Sanqo warrior, and we exchange looks of bafflement and horror. What can be done now? How do we put an end to the dark magic of the sorcerers?

The three heads of Xochitónal unleash more terrible roars toward the heavens. With one mouth, it spits fire upon unsuspecting victims, scorching the ground around it into smoldering ash. Warriors hurl their spears at the beast, but it is unperturbed as their weapons deflect off the shimmering scales. As more warriors arrive to attack, another mouth of the creature looses a thick, grayish-green smoke that shrouds the area until nothing more can be seen. Cries of agony and terror are the sounds indicating that this battle is quickly getting away from us.

The black clouds return above, circling in the darkened sky. Droplets pelt my cheeks and arms, becoming more intense. Booming thunder resounds over the noises of battle as wisps of lighting rip through the air. The rain gradually collects in the air, swirling around faster and faster as the cyclone gathers more mass. Is this the work of the sorcerers, bringing more havoc to an already devastating scene?

The vortex rushes at Xochitónal with blinding speed. The barrage of water pounds the reaching tendrils, quickly severing almost simultaneously. When more begin to spring up, the whirling waters dispatch them abruptly, giving them no chance to harm more of the warriors on the battlefield.

I look to my right, watching the goddess, the one called Walumaq. Her eyes are closed as she waves her hands from side to side, seemingly controlling the swirling vapors and wind. It obediently moves at her direction, crashing through each tendril that emerges from the ground. Her chest glows with an intense green and light-swallowing black as she maneuvers the concentration of water. She then lifts her left hand. More water from the rain collects in a separate pool. They shift and contort into long, large walls that allow passage toward the beast.

This is our chance. I shout to my warriors, commanding them to charge. From the sky, bolts of lightning strike Xochitónal, horrible roars in frustration and fury erupt from its three heads. The shimmer in its scales slowly dims like a fire being extinguished. The god from Qiapu, the one called Paxilche, raises his arms to the heavens, delivering a cascade of lighting upon the monster once again. The beast is weakened, giving us a chance to attack. Hope had let me down before, but it should not disappoint me now.

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I lead my warriors through the barrier of water. The belly of Xochitónal is exposed as the creature falls to its side. I hoist my spear, Cēyōtl, the weapon blessed by the Tletlazotl, whose blade is forged from obsidian with subtle green flecks to indicate this is from our sacred quarries. A foul stench of rotting flesh and stagnant water hits my senses, but I clench my jaw and maintain the course of my pursuit.

I plunge my spear into Xochitónal, piercing the creature between its immense scales. With the broad, split blade curved to resemble the opened jaws of a jaguar, it bites into the flesh, sinking deeply until I reach the gold and copper bindings along the staff. My warriors join me, submerging their blades into the belly of the beast. Streams of deep crimson burst from Xochitónal, soaking the soil with its blood.

Furious, Xochitónal whips its massive tail, flinging it about erratically until it deals blows to the many warriors surrounding it. I duck to avoid being struck, although the men and women next to me are not so fortunate. They hurtle through the air, some landing onto the ground while others are skewered by jagged debris of wrecked wooden homes. When the tail swoops back, I am pounded hard, the breath knocked out of my chest as I soar, landing onto the ground that has been mercifully softened to mud by the rain.

Each muscle throbs with fierce resistance as I force myself to stand. Xochitónal, too, stands, enraged by the attacks made upon it. Lifting itself onto its hind legs, the creature slams its wide, meaty claws onto the ground, creating two expansive craters. Tremors quake the ground, knocking everyone off balance. More gnarled tendrils of dirt emerge, whipping around and striking down those who dared to cause it harm. My warriors are cut to shreds as they are severed by the savage soil.

Amidst all of this, amidst the devastation, the red-robed figures remain, their ritual undisturbed. It is then that the plan reemerges to the forefront of my mind.

“Goddess!” I call out urgently. “The sorcerers! They must be stopped, but there is a barrier, some ward crafted by their dark magic!”

The one called Walumaq nods in understanding, her eyes not showing any panic, but rather a calm comprehension of what is at stake. She tells something to the one called Paxilche, and the two of them hurry in the direction of the cultists. The other, the young Auilqa boy, and the turquoise-tailed ocelot run from one wounded warrior to another. He places a hand upon them, and emits a bright light, as if his hand contained the light of the sun. He must be a god, as well, for in that moment, the eyes of the warrior suddenly open! The warrior coughs profusely, gasping for air as though he had been submerged underwater for too long a period. He has been given new life! New life given to him by yet another god! It is this sight that informs me all I need to know, that the ritual and our prayers have been answered by Wiqamasqa! The Ulxa have the blessings of the gods! We will emerge from this battle victorious!

Xochitónal sees the one called Walumaq and charges toward her, all three mouths snapping and snarling as the beast picks up the pace. I fear for the goddess, wondering if she will be able to perform her miracle before the creature of ancient lore attacks her. The ground trembles with each stomp of the wide claws of the monster, moving faster than even a jaguar in pursuit of its prey. I must get my warriors to protect her, to help her ensure the Eye in the Flame will be stopped.

I do not have a chance to act. The powerful vortex collides with Xochitónal, knocking the beast far and onto its back. Once again, the tendrils cease, the dirt falling back to the ground. The one called Walumaq resumes her course toward the sorcerers. We must slay the ancient creature while the opportunity is presented to us!

I dash toward Xochitónal, spear raised and ready to strike. I glance over toward our gods, and once more, another miracle is performed. Though my warriors were incapable of penetrating the protective ward, the one called Walumaq walks through it, facing no resistance as the amulets that hang from her neck illuminate in an otherworldly glow! Sparks appear, like when metal strikes metal, and the one called Walumaq glows like a star in the night sky. The barrier begins to hiss as the flickering forcefield falters.

The one called Paxilche releases a flurry of lightning down upon the sorcerers, igniting them like making a fire. Their robes are set alight, and within a few heartbeats, the group of sorcerers are engulfed in flames. Their cries are not made from pain, but a sickening elation, as though this was always their desired means of death. They must believe this is the will of their god, the one whose meaning and purpose has become twisted and distorted by their misguided ideology. Though they are the enemy, I am disappointed to know that so many could be led astray, and I wish I could have done more to show them the light, to show them the correct path. But it is simply the fate they desired, nothing more.

The sound of a heavy impact shakes the ground beneath us. But it is not as I feared; no, instead it is Xochitónal, stumbling over onto its side. The ancient beast is pelted with an endless stream of water, relentlessly pounded and unable to stand.

“Ulxa!” I shout, raising Cēyōtl into the air. “Now is our chance! Yaotl techiuh!”

My valiant warriors rush toward Xochitónal, weapons held high and proud. We are ready to put an end to this demonic creature, this beast fought by our ancestors. Under my command, this generation of Ulxa will slay the monster once and for all, to be spoken about for as long as humans possess breath on Pachil.

A blur of warriors streak from the side of the battlefield and charges at Xochitónal. The flurry of fighters wear strips of cloth at their loins in brown and dark green, and their arms and torsos are smeared in green body paint—the colors of the Auilqa. They swoop in, calling out to one another and positioning themselves around the beast, hacking and slashing at its exposed body.

Where have they been? Until now, I have seen nothing but my warriors and those of the Sanqo and Qiapu. I am to assume they have battled the enemy elsewhere, but I have not seen them when dire times have arisen. But now that the number of foes has been depleted, the sorcerers pose no threat, and the dangerous beast no longer causes havoc, they appear?

I will not allow them to steal my kill, the kill for the people of Ulxa. I exert all the energy I have, sprinting toward the ancient monster. I let out a furious roar, then thrust Cēyōtl into the belly of the beast. I drive my spear deeper, deeper into the stomach, my hands covered in hot, viscous blood. I nearly enter the monster, forcing my weapon into its body further until the three heads of Xochitónal do nothing more than whimper. It tries to snap its jaws around the attacking warriors, but the effort is half-hearted. The tail thrashes about, but this time in futility, as the muscles loosen and relax, and it staggers and falls limp.

The creature looses a mournful groan into the air as it begins to crumble. Beneath it, the ground that once summoned the beast trembles. The scales of the monster lose their glow, dimming into dull tones that blend with the shattered stones and charred wood around us. The form of Xochitónal shudders, its life flickering like the last embers of a dying fire. With each labored breath it draws, the magic that birthed it dissipates, and its body slowly seeps back into the dirt from whence it came.

The silence that follows is the most unsettling sound of the entirety of the assault. All present exchange questioning glances, wondering if the battle has been won. Is this something that can be determined now? Does the enemy continue to lurk in the shadows, waiting for us to drop our defenses and strike once more?

No one celebrates. What is there to cheer? Analoixan has been destroyed. Many lives have been needlessly lost. We stand amidst desolation. For Analoixan to return to its former glory, the destruction will take ages to clear, as will the rebuilding of the city.

Yet I force myself not to despair. As the chosen ruler of the Ulxa, I cannot allow myself to fall to emotions of pity, of self-loathing, of sorrow, of uncontrolled rage. No, I must be calm like the morning sea. I must be strong like the obsidian that composes Cēyōtl. I must be unwavering like the trees that resist the thrashing of the storm.

The clouds begin to part, exposing the starry night sky. Iolatl hopes to impart peace upon those who have survived this terrible trial with the gentle breeze that hugs us in reconciliation. I can see the discouragement and troubled looks on the faces of my people. I cannot allow them to worry, to become hopeless. Not when we have secured our freedom once again.

“Wiqamasqa has chosen us to be victorious on this day, not the evil that tried to conquer us. Look upon these ruins, my brothers and sisters, and see not the end, but the beginning. For it is in our blood, in the very soil of Analoixan, to rise again, stronger and more united than ever. We, the children of the great Iolatl, have faced darkness before and yet here we stand, unbowed and unbroken.”

I start to pace, my eyes meeting that of every Ulxa warrior. “This is not the time for sorrow, nor for fear. It is the moment to harness our collective strength, to forge a future worthy of those who sacrificed their lives today. Let their memory guide us as we rebuild, for ourselves, and for generations of Ulxa yet to come.”

I look up at the heavens, basking in the sight, in the peace. “Let the stars tonight remind us that light will always follow darkness. Today, we have faced such darkness itself, and yet here we stand, not merely survivors, but as defenders of our sacred land.

“So rise, warriors of Ulxa! Lift your heads and ready your hands. The path ahead is long and fraught with challenges, yet it leads to a dawn only we can greet. For we are the Ulxa, and we do not yield to the night. Onward, for our city, for our people, for the legacy we are yet to create!”

A renewed fire lights in the eyes of my people. Murmurs of agreement swell into shouts of solidarity amidst the smoldering remnants of our home. Even among the ashes of devastation, hope rekindles.

As I conclude, I am quickly swarmed by two, maybe three, dozen Auilqa warriors. A tall, toned figure marches directly toward me, the vibrant beads of his many necklaces rattle and clatter with each brusque step. Framing his stern face is a headdress, adorned with an impressive array of condor feathers, and the feathers on his shoulders ripple with each deliberate movement. Standing a few paces from me, he glowers, his beady, black eyes never leaving mine.

“In the name of the Great Xolotzi, He Who Commands the Path of the Jaguar, Who Shrouds the Sun of His Enemies, Wielder of the Obsidian Flame, Tamer of the Might of the Monsoon, and Protector of the Verdant Expanse, we hereby reclaim the lands soiled by the Ulxa to return to rightful ownership of the Auilqa.”

Do my ears deceive me? Did I hear this person correctly? After all the fighting and sacrifices made, these Auilqa decide to make a move to annex my land while our people are ailing?

“What is the meaning of this?” I demand. “What makes you believe–“

Before I can finish my statement, I am shoved to the ground and apprehended. My hands are bound behind my back, and I am flanked by two Auilqa warriors, faces shrouded by a gruesome mask made from the bones of animals. Several Ulxa warriors resist, fighting the Auilqa captors. To my dismay, my warriors are quickly dispatched, put down by the savage Auilqa blades. The resistance is abruptly halted as soon as it began.

“As part of the agreement for assisting the outsiders in vanquishing the enemy, and for slaying the beast that threatened to destroy Ulxa and its people, the Auilqa have declared their dominion over this territory. This act restores what was taken from us, what the Ulxa have long denied,” the tall Auilqa warrior proclaims. “Under the Great Xolotzi, the land will rise stronger, unburdened by the corruption and lethargy that have marked your leadership.”

Around us, the ground still quivers from the chaos of battle, the soil damp with fresh blood. My gaze sweeps across the faces of my warriors, my people, who watch helplessly as they are apprehended by the scores of Auilqa warriors, some with eyes wide in shock, others lowering their heads in resignation. The towering Auilqa figure before me stands resolute, unaffected by the destruction and death as far as the eye can see.

“Betrayal!” I spit the word out like venom. “After we fought side by side against a common enemy, you turn on us like jackals at a carcass!”

The warriors tighten their grip on me. Unflinching, the leader steps closer, his shadow falling over me. “It is not betrayal when it is reclaiming what is rightfully ours. Under your leadership, you allowed such an enemy to emerge and thrive, to weaken the land. Now, we simply take what strength you have squandered.”

The goddess called Walumaq and the god called Paxilche voice their vehement disgust in the events taking place. Auilqa warriors threaten them with swords, pointing the tips of their blades at them. In my heart of hearts, I believe this was not something the gods present had foreseen. The entire moment is foul and reeks of treachery.

As they take me captive, my spirit does not cower; it seethes, plotting, waiting. The Auilqa may think they have won, but my resolve is not so easily broken. This is not the end, I vow silently.

The voice of the Auilqa leader drifts as I am dragged away. “In the light of dawn, the banners of Auilqa will fly over Analoixan. The blood spilled today sanctifies this transition. Resistance,” he pauses, his eyes narrowing to slits, “will only spill more.”