I awaken to my head throbbing as particles float and settle around me, the only minutely pleasing sight among this hollow, empty chamber. Dried, red scratches crisscross my legs and lower back—was I dragged here?
Looking around the confines of the space, I’m awarded little room to maneuver and stretch out, constricted in my movements. Surprisingly, my hands and feet are unbound, granting me full access to my untied limbs. I deduce they weren’t prepared for captives, which makes me wonder about the beheaded person I saw in the clearing. The walls are a dull adobe, nothing I’m familiar with in my native jungles, and sunlight is having difficulty finding any space to weave through, barely peaking beneath the heavy wooden door built into a thick wooden frame, as well as limited circulation that makes the air choking when breathed. That there’s a door at all alerts me to no longer being in friendly Tuatiu territory—every entryway in our village is open to assist with air flow. Feeling around, the hard floor is made of dry dirt that’s rough as I run my hands through it.
Muffled voices are involved in a heated discussion just outside this room, but it’s a language unfamiliar to me. I press my ear to the door to hopefully hear better, but all I can distinguish are words similar to those used by Mexqutli in that hissing and stilted manner of speaking. So these must be Ulxa. Perhaps Achutli is correct—and Sianchu is right to have followed the Arbiter’s orders—and the Ulxa are preparing an uprising? Those robes, and the frightening red cloth that obscured their faces, doesn’t give me the impression these are regular Ulxa citizens, though. Unless there has been a recent change in their culture, this group seems to be a fractious segment of the faction.
I can make out three distinct voices, each emphatically debating a point or opinion, but standing not too far away. I check the door to see, on the off chance, if it will open, but it’s shut solid, hardly budging—there must be a mechanism locking it in place.
Okay, new plan.
“Help!” I begin to shout, making my voice sound weak and weary. “I think there’s something wrong with my leg! Help!”
The muttering on the other side of the door stops for a moment, then the urgent dialogue resumes. A loud clunk, followed by the creaking door startles me alert. I stand, crouched low with my fists out and ready to strike. Three silhouettes in robes appear, backlit by the bright sunlight. The moment one of the shadowy figures comes into range, I strike, swinging a right hook to his head. I catch him by surprise, and he stumbles into one of the other men as my unrelenting flurry of attacks force them back out the doorway. I continue to punch wildly—right hook, left uppercut, right hook, left jab, left hook, left hook—trying to create an opening between the men large enough for me to slip through.
Two large arms clamp around my arms and chest, restricting my movement. Lowering my stance, I crouch and drive my hips back, pushing against my captor, and swing my left arm and elbow back, hoping to land a blow, something, anything. In reaction, the person also steps back and crouches low in defense, giving me just enough space to slip out of his grapple. With his focus still forward, I strike him in the temple, then sweep the legs out from under him, toppling him to the ground.
Another attempts to grab me, clutching my left arm, but I strike the heel of my palm up and toward what I believe to be his nose. He falls backward, but he pulls me down along with him. I fight to break free, twisting and contorting my limb to loosen his grip, but he is steadfast, now holding onto me with both hands. I lift up my left leg, then bring it down hard and quick onto his stomach, and he lets out a tiny whimper. His grip releases me just enough that I can escape, sunlight caressing my face.
I begin to run, checking my surroundings and spotting multiple adobe huts sprouting out of the dry, arid landscape. I don’t see any other figures in this camp, but it appears to have been constructed long ago, some of the exterior walls cracking and weathered. Are we still in Tuatiu? How far have I been taken?
Just as I contemplate this, a sharp, searing jolt of pain stabs through the recesses of my mind, and the world becomes black once again.
“You are a feisty one, are you not?”
As consciousness returns, grogginess slowly lifting, a soft yet intense voice emerges through the fog of confusion. Unlike before, I realize my hands are bound this time as I catch glimpses of my surroundings, trying to identify who is speaking to me and where I find myself. Inside the room is me and three other men, all of us compacted in tightly. The tiny room's walls bear the rugged texture of hastily molded mud mixed with coarse straw, their surfaces slightly uneven like the undulating terrain of the wild lands. A single, massive stone serves as the crude throne upon which one man, wearing a crimson robe, sits, its surface weathered and marked with faint symbols along the bottom. I don’t recognize any except one, causing my heart to sink: a flame encompassing a single eye.
“How quaint that you have dared to challenge the grasp of the Eye in the Flame.” His voice exudes a calm authority and a sense of unwavering conviction, a stark reminder of the hostile environment in which I've awoken. An imposing figure towers before me, even while sitting on his makeshift throne. He’s adorned in regal attire, the crimson robe I saw prior to my captivity, that shimmers like the embers of a fire despite the dim light. His dark gaze seems to hold the intensity of a sun's glare, and his features are etched with an aura of both divine reverence and chilling command. His long, obsidian hair cascades like a waterfall of shadows, framing his exposed face, unlike the red cloth covering that of the other two men.
“Fighting against the inevitable, like a moth drawn to flames yet foolishly believing it can resist their searing embrace. You truly believe your efforts can defy the might of the Sunfire?”
“Have you ever considered you're just another torch waiting to be blown out?” I ask, earning me a swift kick to my stomach. The breath has been knocked out of me, and I’m forced into a fit of coughing.
The man’s speech is a combination of lackadaisical and sinister, the slithery syllables sounding ominous. The two men with shrouded faces stand still as the mountains bordering Tuatiu territory, flanking this red robed man on either side. I'm left in a tense uncertainty, unable to discern if anyone is lurking or if there’s a possible escape route behind me.
I find it difficult to breathe, let alone speak, but I muster enough energy to ask, “What are you doing on Tuatiu ground?” It feels as if a bolder is crushing my torso, and I futilely grip my chest to relieve the pain. I can barely hold myself up off the ground, every muscle is the weight of a thousand stones. The red robed man snorts a chuckle, both hands resting on his thighs as he hunches over to speak down to me.
“We are far from Tuatiu, girl,” he says disdainfully, as if the words tasted bitter in his mouth. “Our presence is everywhere, and as does the sun after a long, harrowing night, the Eye in the Flame will reclaim what is rightfully ours in this world, breaking the spell of darkness that has plagued Pachil.”
“I expect you’re going to tell me what is rightfully yours,” I say, humoring myself so that I calm down enough to not haphazardly strike every red-faced fanatic.
“I would not expect a child such as yourself to understand our vast machinations, guided by Eztletiqa’s flame,” he says. “Only those deemed worthy of His blessing can see the one true path.”
“Try me.” I don’t particularly care to hear what evil this “Sunfire” and his minions care to unleash on Tuatiu and Pachil, having experienced first-hand what devastation they’ve unleashed through their gray beasts. However, I need to buy myself time to calculate an escape plan, if one can be crafted at all, given that I haven’t had many opportunities to inspect my surroundings.
After a scoff, this “Sunfire” stands from the stone seat and begins pacing, hands folded behind him. The room continues to move and spin as I lift myself up to a seated position, and I try my best to focus on his swirling movements.
“Your people are too primitive to grasp such high concepts,” he says in a snide hiss, “though at least you are not as unsophisticated as the heathenish Auilqa. So perhaps you may be capable of a rudimentary understanding.” He struts about the room, and I get the impression he’s enjoying listening to himself talk down to other factions. I roll my eyes cathartically instead of slicing open his throat.
“Look around you, child, and see the truth that has eluded the Tuatiu, for far too long. We, the Eye in the Flame, are the chosen ones, anointed by Eztletiqa. We stand at the precipice of a new era, where the failures of the past are ashes blown away by the winds of destiny. The Timuaq, those self-proclaimed rulers who held dominion over this land, fell to their own arrogance, their frail power shattered in the face of change. The factions that rose from their ashes—mere echoes of their former glory, clinging to scraps of authority—are no match for the inferno of our ambitions.
"Can you not see the brilliance of our design? Our creations, borne from the very essence of the might of Eztletiqa, are instruments of our will, harbingers of the reckoning we bring. Their rampage was but a taste, a prelude to the cataclysm that will reshape Pachil. We shall rise, sweep across this land, and reclaim Ulxa, our rightful homeland, then the world.”
His voice swells with each word, carrying the fervor of a madman convinced of his divine purpose. The ominous ambitions of this Eye in the Flame, followers devoted to such a sinister cause, must not be brought to fruition, that I can be absolutely certain.
“This Arbiter,” he says, spitting out the word as though it were something vile, “your Tuatiu, these factions—you are nothing more than the last embers of an age long past, perhaps rightfully diminished at the hands of the Timuaq. Your rulership, your way of life, it crumbles beneath the weight of your obsolescence.”
At the crescendo of his rant, a commotion stirs just beyond the room’s walls, catching the attention of everyone inside. Shouts, yelps, and groans, joined by the clattering of metal-on-metal, ring out into the otherwise still air. With the wave of a hand, one of the red-clothed minions darts out the door while the other minion and Sunfire visibly tense up. Is this an anticipated disruption to their plans?
While the men are distracted, I notice the cultist left the door ajar, refreshingly crisp air from outside spills into the room. Still woozy, I lift myself off the ground and stumble to the exit, forcing the door open and slipping out before I can be pulled back inside. Ignoring the hollers behind me, I trip my way around the compound, bouncing off one wall to another as I use the buildings to support myself. Though my vision is still blurred, silhouettes in red and white move about, gesturing and swinging limbs about as they assumably attack a single, fuzzy figure. I zigzag away from the ruckus taking place in the tiny space between buildings and search for a way off of these grounds.
On the ground is an orphaned dagger, its blade made of black obsidian, though the handle isn’t ornate as I’ve seen such an item appear before. I hurry to pick it up and work the blade back and forth behind me against my bindings. Hearing approaching footsteps, I slink into a nearby building and crouch low out of sight. As the men rush past me, I’m able to finally free my hands, much to the relief of my sore wrists. With no one in sight, I begin running toward the nearest clearing at the edge of this compound. A few more shouts call out, and while I’ve been mostly ignoring them, it’s the sound of my name that stops me in my tracks. These zealots didn’t know such information, did they? How else would they have–
My name is yelled again, and as I focus on the voice, it’s one I immediately recognize, thanks to the stilted manner of speaking.
“Mexqutli?” I call out, still unable to identify any recognizable faces. The voice yells for me to stay where I am, but two shadowy figures emerge from behind a building, stopping and looking around with their faces shrouded in red cloth. I turn around and run in the other direction, still wobbling to and fro from wall to wall and slamming my shoulders into the adobe structures. The pain is immense, each blow is like being ripped with jaguar’s claws, but I must avoid being apprehended by these cultists yet again.
My vision tunneled, I can now only see what’s in front of me, my face crashing into the red mud walls. Two sets of heavy footsteps approach from behind me, and I brace myself for being grabbed by the men, my shoulders curled forward as I use them to feel my way to freedom.
Instead, two gasps and shrieks overwhelm my ears, followed by a blade piercing through flesh and a visceral thud. A hand grabs my shoulder and I twist away, striking my assailant with a left hook, then force my dagger to my assailant’s throat. Blinded by rage, it’s only when he yelps in pain and calls my name multiple times that I realize I punched Mexqutli. I finally slow down enough to spot his red and black clothing and ornate obsidian dagger, and lower the one in my hand.
“By the stars!” he exclaims. “One would think I would remember how hard you punch before attempting to grab ahold of you.”
“Mexqutli!” I say in surprise. “What on Pachil are you doing here?”
He doesn’t have a moment to reply: Leaping out from behind the building, a cultist turns into the narrow pathway and cries out as he charges us. Mexqutli quickly turns around and barely deflects the incoming strike, shielding himself with his blade just in time as the attacker brings down his sword. With his free hand, Mexqutli punches the man in the stomach, causing a slight grunt as the enemy steps back and writhes in pain. Another left hook knocks the assailant into the wall, then Mexqutli stabs his foe and drives him backward, forcing the man to drop and release the blade from his abdomen.
“Sachia’s bow!” I cry out as the two of us stand alone, realizing my belongings are somewhere else on these grounds. Aside from being better equipped to take out these Eye in the Flame zealots, the painful thought of being without my cherished bow, my sole connection to Sachia, underscores that leaving behind my most revered possession is not an option.
With a sigh, Mexqutli nods in the affirmative, and waves for me to follow him. I struggle to keep my feet under me, and though I initially fight off his attempts to assist me, eventually I concede needing his help and allow Mexqutli to support me as we search the grounds.
“Do you recall where they imprisoned you?” he asks. Even without my fuzzy vision, details in my mind are muddled, and each building looks identical. I begin to feel hopeless in recovering the bow, but Mexqutli must notice my dejection and slouched posture, as he states a well-timed, “we will find your items, do not worry, Inuxeq,” which motivates me just enough to continue on.
More men emerge, shouting to one another that they’ve located us. A hushed chant is murmured among them, then suddenly our surroundings are illuminated in torchlight. It takes me a moment to realize it’s their swords that have become aflame, and I’m overcome with a sinking feeling. Mexqutli shouts something back in that language I don’t understand, and he charges at the group of men.
I panic for his safety, as he’s easily outnumbered, and scan the ground for anything that I could use to help him fight off these cultists. A glint catches my attention and, spotting a corpse lying on the ground, I see a sword beside the lifeless body. I tumble forward as I bend down to pick up the weapon, and after catching myself with my left hand, I pull myself up and swipe the blade toward the direction of the red-clothed minions.
My maneuvers successfully divert the attention of several assailants, as they are momentarily distracted by my evasive movements. With their focus on me, Mexqutli slashes one of the men, slicing his body with forceful downward strikes. He then turns slightly to face another zealot, swiftly stabbing him before the enemy has a chance to parry the blow.
I hack at the nearest foe to me, swinging the blade wildly left to right, right to left, left to right. With a whoop from deep within my soul, I release every measure of pent-up aggravation and emotion, every injustice I’ve witnessed over this last moon cycle, every wrong an innocent person has suffered at the hands of these maniacs, and unleash a flurry of strikes, driving him back until his spine meets Mexqutli’s blade. I wish his face wasn’t covered by the red cloth so that I can watch the look of surprise as he realizes he’s taken his last breath.
"You think you can challenge the will of the Flame?" The Sunfire's voice echoes defiantly, resonating off the walls of the nearby buildings.
Mexqutli responds with a smirk. "We are here to put out the flame, not challenge it."
“I said nearly the same quip to him earlier,” I say, partly offended at Mexqutli’s poaching of my clever retort, but also, admittedly, partly feeling a kinship.
With an otherworldly cry, we charge. Flaming swords meet our swords, each strike creating a stinging reverberation. The cultists are fast, and their blades, imbued with fire, carve hot arcs through the air. Though we parry countless incoming blows, these zealots are relentless. Every time we down one, another fills the void.
A close swipe grazes my arm, and I retaliate with a kick, sending my opponent reeling. But two more appear, gnashing their teeth and eager to take me down. Beside me, Mexqutli moves fluidly, his every motion deliberate and precise, sending enemies flying. Still, they come, appearing out from behind every building in an endless wave of attackers.
Out of the chaos, I spot the Sunfire. He stands a little apart, observing. Then, with a wicked grin, he cups his hands together, summoning a large ball of fire, its bright flash disorienting me.
“Look out!” Mexqutli yells. But it’s too late.
The Sunfire hurls the fireball straight at us. We barely manage to dive out of the way as it sails past, colliding with one of the adobe buildings. The impact is instantaneous, flames consuming the structure, illuminating the battleground. The heat is nearly unbearable. Mexqutli and I scramble to our feet, but in the midst of the sudden inferno and the distraction it causes, the Sunfire finds his chance.
“Do you believe this is over?" he shouts, conjuring another barrier of fire. The cultists pull back as the flames grow, effectively separating us from him.
As the intense wall of fire forces us to step back, I spot a way around the barrier, with the hope that we can still catch him and avoid the flames. I shout to Mexqutli, drawing his attention to the open space, and he nods once he notices it, as well. We dart around, narrowly avoiding pieces of the building that tumble and crash down around us. With one long leap, we lunge out of the way of the flaming embers to safety.
When we reach a clearing, Mexqutli and I scan the area for any other would-be attackers. The compound is still with an eerie calm as particles of dirt and dust slowly settle. I’ve lost track of where I am, each building resembling the others, and can only tell by the shadows cast from the unrelenting sun which direction I face. I survey the ground, seeking distinctive footprints, but the numerous tracks make it challenging to determine their owners.
Just then, more blurs draw my attention up, and on the other side of the complex, a crimson robe sweeps between buildings, with more of his minions escorting him.
“He’s getting away!” I point out to Mexqutli, who turns his attention to the departing Sunfire. He lets out a long, bellowed curse—considering how harsh the Ulxa language sounds, it was noticeably more fierce than usual—and starts after him, racing toward the ensemble of zealots. His sprint is disrupted when three more men spring out from the buildings, flaming swords in hand. Mexqutli lowers his shoulder and attempts to barrel over the gathered group of goons, and three of the four tumble together into a heap on the dirt.
He’s managed to disarm two of the men, their swords extinguishing on the ground, and I seize the opportunity that results from Mexqutli’s handiwork. With the cheap sword, I spear one of the fallen men through the chest, causing him to yelp before coughing up blood. Hearing the shuffled feet of the one man who remains standing, I kick out with my left leg while in a slight crouch, planting my foot into his stomach before he can bring down his flaming sword. As he staggers back, I coil my left leg and strike again, lunging myself toward him and stomping my foot down after delivering the blow. His arm wielding the weapon drops to his side, and while he’s defenseless, I narrowly catch his shoulder with one swing of the blade. I bring the sword around and slash diagonally to his other side, splitting his head open as blood sprays from the gash.
I turn around to see Mexqutli and the last remaining cultist tussling on the ground, slapping and hitting one another without doing much else other than knocking each others’ weapons away. I drift over, heavily breathing with each dragged step, and finish the man off with my sword brought down upon his skull.
“By the stars, Inuxeq,” Mexqutli says, his face drenched in the viscous, red liquid. He gets up and wipes his face with his forearm, smearing the blood in long streaks across his cheeks and onto his long-sleeved shirt. “You could have warned me. I believe I have some of his blood in my eyes, thank you.”
Panting, I disregard his words and cast my eyes about the compound, seeking any indication of the building that could contain my prized possessions. There are more glyphs and markings painted next to the doors, but none of the symbols make any sense to me. Startling me, Mexqutli points to a tiny shack and says, “that one.”
Sure enough, with a series of lines and shapes to the right of the door, a trove of items are stacked throughout the dimly lit room. Numerous swords, wooden shields, spears, robes, and torches are stored onto various shelves. As though a singular light is cast upon them, Sachia’s bow and quiver of arrows are haphazardly thrown on top of a pile, along with my satchel. I exhale in relief and retrieve my belongings, holding the bow and gazing upon its immaculate craftsmanship.
Standing outside the structure, Mexqutli and I relent how the men are long gone from here, looking off into the distance to where they ran. My focus and attention have slowly returned, yet I still support myself with the wall of the building, finally catching my breath.
“So is that the notorious Xaqilpa?” I inquire. Mexqutli appears downtrodden, however, and I’m curious as to why.
“It is not Xaqilpa,” he says disheartened, “Nor do I know who that man is. I did not get a good enough look at his face, but from what I saw, he does not bear the resemblance of the man I seek.”
“He knows magic,” I say, stunned as I gradually recall what I witnessed. Flaming swords. Horrific rituals. Shrouded faces. What does it all mean?
“It is worse than I feared,” he says, his voice a mixture of disbelief and despair. “When I embarked on my quest to track down Xaqilpa, I believed him to be the sole possessor of the sacred knowledge of our Tletlazotl. If this is a rogue guardian from the temple, the threat to Pachil is far greater than Tlexnín imagined.”
In the wake of this startling revelation, Mexqutli and I lock eyes and exchange somber glances.
“So,” I say, my voice faltering momentarily under the weight of the impending catastrophe, before summoning the courage to ask, “what do we do now?”
I awaken to my head throbbing as particles float and settle around me, the only minutely pleasing sight among this hollow, empty chamber. Dried, red scratches crisscross my legs and lower back—was I dragged here?
Looking around the confines of the space, I’m awarded little room to maneuver and stretch out, constricted in my movements. Surprisingly, my hands and feet are unbound, granting me full access to my untied limbs. I deduce they weren’t prepared for captives, which makes me wonder about the beheaded person I saw in the clearing. The walls are a dull adobe, nothing I’m familiar with in my native jungles, and sunlight is having difficulty finding any space to weave through, barely peaking beneath the heavy wooden door built into a thick wooden frame, as well as limited circulation that makes the air choking when breathed. That there’s a door at all alerts me to no longer being in friendly Tuatiu territory—every entryway in our village is open to assist with air flow. Feeling around, the hard floor is made of dry dirt that’s rough as I run my hands through it.
Muffled voices are involved in a heated discussion just outside this room, but it’s a language unfamiliar to me. I press my ear to the door to hopefully hear better, but all I can distinguish are words similar to those used by Mexqutli in that hissing and stilted manner of speaking. So these must be Ulxa. Perhaps Achutli is correct—and Sianchu is right to have followed the Arbiter’s orders—and the Ulxa are preparing an uprising? Those robes, and the frightening red cloth that obscured their faces, doesn’t give me the impression these are regular Ulxa citizens, though. Unless there has been a recent change in their culture, this group seems to be a fractious segment of the faction.
I can make out three distinct voices, each emphatically debating a point or opinion, but standing not too far away. I check the door to see, on the off chance, if it will open, but it’s shut solid, hardly budging—there must be a mechanism locking it in place.
Okay, new plan.
“Help!” I begin to shout, making my voice sound weak and weary. “I think there’s something wrong with my leg! Help!”
The muttering on the other side of the door stops for a moment, then the urgent dialogue resumes. A loud clunk, followed by the creaking door startles me alert. I stand, crouched low with my fists out and ready to strike. Three silhouettes in robes appear, backlit by the bright sunlight. The moment one of the shadowy figures comes into range, I strike, swinging a right hook to his head. I catch him by surprise, and he stumbles into one of the other men as my unrelenting flurry of attacks force them back out the doorway. I continue to punch wildly—right hook, left uppercut, right hook, left jab, left hook, left hook—trying to create an opening between the men large enough for me to slip through.
Two large arms clamp around my arms and chest, restricting my movement. Lowering my stance, I crouch and drive my hips back, pushing against my captor, and swing my left arm and elbow back, hoping to land a blow, something, anything. In reaction, the person also steps back and crouches low in defense, giving me just enough space to slip out of his grapple. With his focus still forward, I strike him in the temple, then sweep the legs out from under him, toppling him to the ground.
Another attempts to grab me, clutching my left arm, but I strike the heel of my palm up and toward what I believe to be his nose. He falls backward, but he pulls me down along with him. I fight to break free, twisting and contorting my limb to loosen his grip, but he is steadfast, now holding onto me with both hands. I lift up my left leg, then bring it down hard and quick onto his stomach, and he lets out a tiny whimper. His grip releases me just enough that I can escape, sunlight caressing my face.
I begin to run, checking my surroundings and spotting multiple adobe huts sprouting out of the dry, arid landscape. I don’t see any other figures in this camp, but it appears to have been constructed long ago, some of the exterior walls cracking and weathered. Are we still in Tuatiu? How far have I been taken?
Just as I contemplate this, a sharp, searing jolt of pain stabs through the recesses of my mind, and the world becomes black once again.
“You are a feisty one, are you not?”
As consciousness returns, grogginess slowly lifting, a soft yet intense voice emerges through the fog of confusion. Unlike before, I realize my hands are bound this time as I catch glimpses of my surroundings, trying to identify who is speaking to me and where I find myself. Inside the room is me and three other men, all of us compacted in tightly. The tiny room's walls bear the rugged texture of hastily molded mud mixed with coarse straw, their surfaces slightly uneven like the undulating terrain of the wild lands. A single, massive stone serves as the crude throne upon which one man, wearing a crimson robe, sits, its surface weathered and marked with faint symbols along the bottom. I don’t recognize any except one, causing my heart to sink: a flame encompassing a single eye.
“How quaint that you have dared to challenge the grasp of the Eye in the Flame.” His voice exudes a calm authority and a sense of unwavering conviction, a stark reminder of the hostile environment in which I've awoken. An imposing figure towers before me, even while sitting on his makeshift throne. He’s adorned in regal attire, the crimson robe I saw prior to my captivity, that shimmers like the embers of a fire despite the dim light. His dark gaze seems to hold the intensity of a sun's glare, and his features are etched with an aura of both divine reverence and chilling command. His long, obsidian hair cascades like a waterfall of shadows, framing his exposed face, unlike the red cloth covering that of the other two men.
“Fighting against the inevitable, like a moth drawn to flames yet foolishly believing it can resist their searing embrace. You truly believe your efforts can defy the might of the Sunfire?”
“Have you ever considered you're just another torch waiting to be blown out?” I ask, earning me a swift kick to my stomach. The breath has been knocked out of me, and I’m forced into a fit of coughing.
The man’s speech is a combination of lackadaisical and sinister, the slithery syllables sounding ominous. The two men with shrouded faces stand still as the mountains bordering Tuatiu territory, flanking this red robed man on either side. I'm left in a tense uncertainty, unable to discern if anyone is lurking or if there’s a possible escape route behind me.
I find it difficult to breathe, let alone speak, but I muster enough energy to ask, “What are you doing on Tuatiu ground?” It feels as if a bolder is crushing my torso, and I futilely grip my chest to relieve the pain. I can barely hold myself up off the ground, every muscle is the weight of a thousand stones. The red robed man snorts a chuckle, both hands resting on his thighs as he hunches over to speak down to me.
“We are far from Tuatiu, girl,” he says disdainfully, as if the words tasted bitter in his mouth. “Our presence is everywhere, and as does the sun after a long, harrowing night, the Eye in the Flame will reclaim what is rightfully ours in this world, breaking the spell of darkness that has plagued Pachil.”
“I expect you’re going to tell me what is rightfully yours,” I say, humoring myself so that I calm down enough to not haphazardly strike every red-faced fanatic.
“I would not expect a child such as yourself to understand our vast machinations, guided by Eztletiqa’s flame,” he says. “Only those deemed worthy of His blessing can see the one true path.”
“Try me.” I don’t particularly care to hear what evil this “Sunfire” and his minions care to unleash on Tuatiu and Pachil, having experienced first-hand what devastation they’ve unleashed through their gray beasts. However, I need to buy myself time to calculate an escape plan, if one can be crafted at all, given that I haven’t had many opportunities to inspect my surroundings.
After a scoff, this “Sunfire” stands from the stone seat and begins pacing, hands folded behind him. The room continues to move and spin as I lift myself up to a seated position, and I try my best to focus on his swirling movements.
“Your people are too primitive to grasp such high concepts,” he says in a snide hiss, “though at least you are not as unsophisticated as the heathenish Auilqa. So perhaps you may be capable of a rudimentary understanding.” He struts about the room, and I get the impression he’s enjoying listening to himself talk down to other factions. I roll my eyes cathartically instead of slicing open his throat.
“Look around you, child, and see the truth that has eluded the Tuatiu, for far too long. We, the Eye in the Flame, are the chosen ones, anointed by Eztletiqa. We stand at the precipice of a new era, where the failures of the past are ashes blown away by the winds of destiny. The Timuaq, those self-proclaimed rulers who held dominion over this land, fell to their own arrogance, their frail power shattered in the face of change. The factions that rose from their ashes—mere echoes of their former glory, clinging to scraps of authority—are no match for the inferno of our ambitions.
"Can you not see the brilliance of our design? Our creations, borne from the very essence of the might of Eztletiqa, are instruments of our will, harbingers of the reckoning we bring. Their rampage was but a taste, a prelude to the cataclysm that will reshape Pachil. We shall rise, sweep across this land, and reclaim Ulxa, our rightful homeland, then the world.”
His voice swells with each word, carrying the fervor of a madman convinced of his divine purpose. The ominous ambitions of this Eye in the Flame, followers devoted to such a sinister cause, must not be brought to fruition, that I can be absolutely certain.
“This Arbiter,” he says, spitting out the word as though it were something vile, “your Tuatiu, these factions—you are nothing more than the last embers of an age long past, perhaps rightfully diminished at the hands of the Timuaq. Your rulership, your way of life, it crumbles beneath the weight of your obsolescence.”
At the crescendo of his rant, a commotion stirs just beyond the room’s walls, catching the attention of everyone inside. Shouts, yelps, and groans, joined by the clattering of metal-on-metal, ring out into the otherwise still air. With the wave of a hand, one of the red-clothed minions darts out the door while the other minion and Sunfire visibly tense up. Is this an anticipated disruption to their plans?
While the men are distracted, I notice the cultist left the door ajar, refreshingly crisp air from outside spills into the room. Still woozy, I lift myself off the ground and stumble to the exit, forcing the door open and slipping out before I can be pulled back inside. Ignoring the hollers behind me, I trip my way around the compound, bouncing off one wall to another as I use the buildings to support myself. Though my vision is still blurred, silhouettes in red and white move about, gesturing and swinging limbs about as they assumably attack a single, fuzzy figure. I zigzag away from the ruckus taking place in the tiny space between buildings and search for a way off of these grounds.
On the ground is an orphaned dagger, its blade made of black obsidian, though the handle isn’t ornate as I’ve seen such an item appear before. I hurry to pick it up and work the blade back and forth behind me against my bindings. Hearing approaching footsteps, I slink into a nearby building and crouch low out of sight. As the men rush past me, I’m able to finally free my hands, much to the relief of my sore wrists. With no one in sight, I begin running toward the nearest clearing at the edge of this compound. A few more shouts call out, and while I’ve been mostly ignoring them, it’s the sound of my name that stops me in my tracks. These zealots didn’t know such information, did they? How else would they have–
My name is yelled again, and as I focus on the voice, it’s one I immediately recognize, thanks to the stilted manner of speaking.
“Mexqutli?” I call out, still unable to identify any recognizable faces. The voice yells for me to stay where I am, but two shadowy figures emerge from behind a building, stopping and looking around with their faces shrouded in red cloth. I turn around and run in the other direction, still wobbling to and fro from wall to wall and slamming my shoulders into the adobe structures. The pain is immense, each blow is like being ripped with jaguar’s claws, but I must avoid being apprehended by these cultists yet again.
My vision tunneled, I can now only see what’s in front of me, my face crashing into the red mud walls. Two sets of heavy footsteps approach from behind me, and I brace myself for being grabbed by the men, my shoulders curled forward as I use them to feel my way to freedom.
Instead, two gasps and shrieks overwhelm my ears, followed by a blade piercing through flesh and a visceral thud. A hand grabs my shoulder and I twist away, striking my assailant with a left hook, then force my dagger to my assailant’s throat. Blinded by rage, it’s only when he yelps in pain and calls my name multiple times that I realize I punched Mexqutli. I finally slow down enough to spot his red and black clothing and ornate obsidian dagger, and lower the one in my hand.
“By the stars!” he exclaims. “One would think I would remember how hard you punch before attempting to grab ahold of you.”
“Mexqutli!” I say in surprise. “What on Pachil are you doing here?”
He doesn’t have a moment to reply: Leaping out from behind the building, a cultist turns into the narrow pathway and cries out as he charges us. Mexqutli quickly turns around and barely deflects the incoming strike, shielding himself with his blade just in time as the attacker brings down his sword. With his free hand, Mexqutli punches the man in the stomach, causing a slight grunt as the enemy steps back and writhes in pain. Another left hook knocks the assailant into the wall, then Mexqutli stabs his foe and drives him backward, forcing the man to drop and release the blade from his abdomen.
“Sachia’s bow!” I cry out as the two of us stand alone, realizing my belongings are somewhere else on these grounds. Aside from being better equipped to take out these Eye in the Flame zealots, the painful thought of being without my cherished bow, my sole connection to Sachia, underscores that leaving behind my most revered possession is not an option.
With a sigh, Mexqutli nods in the affirmative, and waves for me to follow him. I struggle to keep my feet under me, and though I initially fight off his attempts to assist me, eventually I concede needing his help and allow Mexqutli to support me as we search the grounds.
“Do you recall where they imprisoned you?” he asks. Even without my fuzzy vision, details in my mind are muddled, and each building looks identical. I begin to feel hopeless in recovering the bow, but Mexqutli must notice my dejection and slouched posture, as he states a well-timed, “we will find your items, do not worry, Inuxeq,” which motivates me just enough to continue on.
More men emerge, shouting to one another that they’ve located us. A hushed chant is murmured among them, then suddenly our surroundings are illuminated in torchlight. It takes me a moment to realize it’s their swords that have become aflame, and I’m overcome with a sinking feeling. Mexqutli shouts something back in that language I don’t understand, and he charges at the group of men.
I panic for his safety, as he’s easily outnumbered, and scan the ground for anything that I could use to help him fight off these cultists. A glint catches my attention and, spotting a corpse lying on the ground, I see a sword beside the lifeless body. I tumble forward as I bend down to pick up the weapon, and after catching myself with my left hand, I pull myself up and swipe the blade toward the direction of the red-clothed minions.
My maneuvers successfully divert the attention of several assailants, as they are momentarily distracted by my evasive movements. With their focus on me, Mexqutli slashes one of the men, slicing his body with forceful downward strikes. He then turns slightly to face another zealot, swiftly stabbing him before the enemy has a chance to parry the blow.
I hack at the nearest foe to me, swinging the blade wildly left to right, right to left, left to right. With a whoop from deep within my soul, I release every measure of pent-up aggravation and emotion, every injustice I’ve witnessed over this last moon cycle, every wrong an innocent person has suffered at the hands of these maniacs, and unleash a flurry of strikes, driving him back until his spine meets Mexqutli’s blade. I wish his face wasn’t covered by the red cloth so that I can watch the look of surprise as he realizes he’s taken his last breath.
"You think you can challenge the will of the Flame?" The Sunfire's voice echoes defiantly, resonating off the walls of the nearby buildings.
Mexqutli responds with a smirk. "We are here to put out the flame, not challenge it."
“I said nearly the same quip to him earlier,” I say, partly offended at Mexqutli’s poaching of my clever retort, but also, admittedly, partly feeling a kinship.
With an otherworldly cry, we charge. Flaming swords meet our swords, each strike creating a stinging reverberation. The cultists are fast, and their blades, imbued with fire, carve hot arcs through the air. Though we parry countless incoming blows, these zealots are relentless. Every time we down one, another fills the void.
A close swipe grazes my arm, and I retaliate with a kick, sending my opponent reeling. But two more appear, gnashing their teeth and eager to take me down. Beside me, Mexqutli moves fluidly, his every motion deliberate and precise, sending enemies flying. Still, they come, appearing out from behind every building in an endless wave of attackers.
Out of the chaos, I spot the Sunfire. He stands a little apart, observing. Then, with a wicked grin, he cups his hands together, summoning a large ball of fire, its bright flash disorienting me.
“Look out!” Mexqutli yells. But it’s too late.
The Sunfire hurls the fireball straight at us. We barely manage to dive out of the way as it sails past, colliding with one of the adobe buildings. The impact is instantaneous, flames consuming the structure, illuminating the battleground. The heat is nearly unbearable. Mexqutli and I scramble to our feet, but in the midst of the sudden inferno and the distraction it causes, the Sunfire finds his chance.
“Do you believe this is over?" he shouts, conjuring another barrier of fire. The cultists pull back as the flames grow, effectively separating us from him.
As the intense wall of fire forces us to step back, I spot a way around the barrier, with the hope that we can still catch him and avoid the flames. I shout to Mexqutli, drawing his attention to the open space, and he nods once he notices it, as well. We dart around, narrowly avoiding pieces of the building that tumble and crash down around us. With one long leap, we lunge out of the way of the flaming embers to safety.
When we reach a clearing, Mexqutli and I scan the area for any other would-be attackers. The compound is still with an eerie calm as particles of dirt and dust slowly settle. I’ve lost track of where I am, each building resembling the others, and can only tell by the shadows cast from the unrelenting sun which direction I face. I survey the ground, seeking distinctive footprints, but the numerous tracks make it challenging to determine their owners.
Just then, more blurs draw my attention up, and on the other side of the complex, a crimson robe sweeps between buildings, with more of his minions escorting him.
“He’s getting away!” I point out to Mexqutli, who turns his attention to the departing Sunfire. He lets out a long, bellowed curse—considering how harsh the Ulxa language sounds, it was noticeably more fierce than usual—and starts after him, racing toward the ensemble of zealots. His sprint is disrupted when three more men spring out from the buildings, flaming swords in hand. Mexqutli lowers his shoulder and attempts to barrel over the gathered group of goons, and three of the four tumble together into a heap on the dirt.
He’s managed to disarm two of the men, their swords extinguishing on the ground, and I seize the opportunity that results from Mexqutli’s handiwork. With the cheap sword, I spear one of the fallen men through the chest, causing him to yelp before coughing up blood. Hearing the shuffled feet of the one man who remains standing, I kick out with my left leg while in a slight crouch, planting my foot into his stomach before he can bring down his flaming sword. As he staggers back, I coil my left leg and strike again, lunging myself toward him and stomping my foot down after delivering the blow. His arm wielding the weapon drops to his side, and while he’s defenseless, I narrowly catch his shoulder with one swing of the blade. I bring the sword around and slash diagonally to his other side, splitting his head open as blood sprays from the gash.
I turn around to see Mexqutli and the last remaining cultist tussling on the ground, slapping and hitting one another without doing much else other than knocking each others’ weapons away. I drift over, heavily breathing with each dragged step, and finish the man off with my sword brought down upon his skull.
“By the stars, Inuxeq,” Mexqutli says, his face drenched in the viscous, red liquid. He gets up and wipes his face with his forearm, smearing the blood in long streaks across his cheeks and onto his long-sleeved shirt. “You could have warned me. I believe I have some of his blood in my eyes, thank you.”
Panting, I disregard his words and cast my eyes about the compound, seeking any indication of the building that could contain my prized possessions. There are more glyphs and markings painted next to the doors, but none of the symbols make any sense to me. Startling me, Mexqutli points to a tiny shack and says, “that one.”
Sure enough, with a series of lines and shapes to the right of the door, a trove of items are stacked throughout the dimly lit room. Numerous swords, wooden shields, spears, robes, and torches are stored onto various shelves. As though a singular light is cast upon them, Sachia’s bow and quiver of arrows are haphazardly thrown on top of a pile, along with my satchel. I exhale in relief and retrieve my belongings, holding the bow and gazing upon its immaculate craftsmanship.
Standing outside the structure, Mexqutli and I relent how the men are long gone from here, looking off into the distance to where they ran. My focus and attention have slowly returned, yet I still support myself with the wall of the building, finally catching my breath.
“So is that the notorious Xaqilpa?” I inquire. Mexqutli appears downtrodden, however, and I’m curious as to why.
“It is not Xaqilpa,” he says disheartened, “Nor do I know who that man is. I did not get a good enough look at his face, but from what I saw, he does not bear the resemblance of the man I seek.”
“He knows magic,” I say, stunned as I gradually recall what I witnessed. Flaming swords. Horrific rituals. Shrouded faces. What does it all mean?
“It is worse than I feared,” he says, his voice a mixture of disbelief and despair. “When I embarked on my quest to track down Xaqilpa, I believed him to be the sole possessor of the sacred knowledge of our Tletlazotl. If this is a rogue guardian from the temple, the threat to Pachil is far greater than Tlexnín imagined.”
In the wake of this startling revelation, Mexqutli and I lock eyes and exchange somber glances.
“So,” I say, my voice faltering momentarily under the weight of the impending catastrophe, before summoning the courage to ask, “what do we do now?”
