My heart hammers against my chest, a rapid, unsteady rhythm that seems too loud in my ears. Chalqo’s mention of me ‘finding other offerings within the camp to be more enlightening’ is unsettling, as if he’s attempting to expose secrets I'm desperate to keep hidden. How do I answer him? I know I can’t hesitate for much longer, or else I will appear suspicious. Though my mouth is dry, words sticking in my throat as I scramble for a response, I must say something. But what?
Before I have a chance to reply, he says with a mischievous grin, “My dear ladies, have you been off courting suitors under the guise of moonlight? Qelantu Loh is abuzz with whispers of your enchanting escapades.”
I respond to his comment with nothing more than an embarrassed laugh, in the hopes of throwing him off our tracks from what actually transpired this evening. Yachaman joins me, playfully covering her mouth as she giggles while we exchange knowing glances. This appears to appease Chalqo well enough, as he nods and winks at us.
“I see,” Chalqo remarks with a chuckle of his own before stepping out into the night air. “Well, it should come as no surprise that the two most charming and evocative people present in Qelantu Loh would be very much sought after. Perhaps when young Qane is finished entertaining the seamstress’ daughter, we can have him posted outside the tent to ensure your protection from such prowling predators.”
“He’s still swooning over her?” I say exasperatedly along with the roll of my eyes.
“Oh, Lady Haesan,” Chalqo teases, “never underestimate the power of young love! Iuqamaq’s ways are both mysterious and wondrous.”
I find it intriguing that Chalqo of the Atima would invoke the name of a member from the Eleven, specifically one belonging to the now-extinct Mahuincha faction, whose existence was in the southern-most point on the continent—the exact opposite location of Atima territory. The person of whom he speaks was the one responsible for psychological warfare, manipulating the emotions of the Timuaq and causing internal power struggles. Her actions resulted in splitting the titans into multiple, rival groups, weakening their collective strength and creating a rift for the other members to exploit. Since her passing from the sacrifice, she has been revered as a goddess of love, hearth, and home by the devout followers of the Eleven, who honor them as deities. Perhaps I’m looking too much into his mention of a demigod, but it raises suspicions, to say the least.
“I would be speaking false if I said that tonight’s escapades didn’t bring me to the brink of exhaustion,” I say, hoping to cut this conversation short to avoid a slip of the tongue and revealing too much unwittingly. “I hope you will allow us to reside in your tent for a restful night’s sleep.”
“My tent is always available to you and Lady Yachaman,” he says, followed by a deep and flamboyant bow. “As long as we’re not entertaining any suitors inside of it, of course.”
With my own exaggerated expression of offense, I reply, “We would never cause such disrespect!” To this, Chalqo casts a suspicious glance our way, leaving me uncertain whether his skepticism is genuine or if he's merely continuing his playful charade.
“I must be on my way,” Chalqo says. “I was resting for a brief moment before finishing tonight’s performance with the grand finale. It’s a shame you’re too tired to witness it—it’s quite a spectacle!”
“We’re disappointed to miss it,” Yachaman says, and if I didn’t know better, I’d believe she was being sincere.
As we part ways with Chalqo and enter the darkened tent, we collectively exhale a sigh of relief. As my eyes gradually adapt to the dimness, the faint silhouette of Yachaman becomes discernible, moving ghostlike through the space. She eventually settles herself onto a bedroll positioned at the farthest end, away from the tent’s entrance.
“Do you think he suspects anything?” Yachaman asks.
“It’s difficult to say, but I believe he puts on the performative act to mask his insightfulness,” I answer. “He’s likely more perceptive than he lets on. We’ll need to be mindful of what we say and do when we’re in his presence, especially here in Qelantu Loh, where we can’t be certain who is and isn’t an ally of his.”
“A fair and astute observation,” Yachaman agrees. “He’s going to be made instantly aware if we leave Qelantu Loh. How are we to avoid his suspicions, which will only be raised more when he notices we’re not here?”
With a grimace, I say, “It seems inevitable that Chalqo is going to find out we’ve departed. It doesn’t please me to effectively betray someone Nuqasiq trusts wholeheartedly, and I feel as if I’m acting against her wishes. But this cause is too important for me to turn down. I’m not sure we can mitigate the damage to our relationship now, but it’ll be something to face if we return to this campsite.”
Through the darkness, Yachaman’s disappointment shines brightly, but this evolving situation with Chalqo and Qelantu Loh is something that I believe cannot be helped. While I’m grateful for his hospitality, the potential outcomes of aligning myself with the Qente Waila render the decision to join them not just appealing, but seemingly the only logical choice.
Not wanting to continue wrestling with the thoughts in my head, I encourage Yachaman to rest, aware that a lengthy and demanding day awaits us at dawn’s first light. This is easier said than done, of course, as I spend much of the night tossing and turning upon my bedroll.
It’s deeply disheartening to leave Chalqo without informing him of what’s transpired, yet I feel keeping him in the dark on this matter is for his own safety. It’s only from my interactions with Onixem, and witnessing the assault in the catacombs, that I bring myself to joining their cause, albeit reluctantly. Can I be certain that the ideals expressed by the woman at the meeting in the seamstress’ tent are genuine? It’s difficult for me to say. However, even if I’ve only received partial truths, they have the resources that could potentially stop the Arbiter’s plans, which, at the end of the day, is all that truly matters to me. If his plot to only benefit the wealthy few at the expense of everyone outside his circle can be exposed to the other factions of Pachil—their leaders may already be aware of what’s taking place within Qapauma anyway—justice for all people of the continent can truly be won.
But I would be remiss if I didn’t confess to the personal reasons for taking the risk of joining an organization like the Jade Hummingbird. While my intentions for all of the inhabitants of Pachil are pure, I would go to great lengths to seek revenge upon the man who is supposedly my father. To be cast out as an infant, then marked for death because of his belief in a vague prophecy? I’ve seen the indifference he expresses toward anyone he deems unworthy, concerned only with appearances instead of actual governance. I made an effort to reserve judgement of a man I hardly knew, yet he has shown me more about what he stands for than words could ever say.
I awaken to Yachaman poking my shoulder. As my eyes flutter open, her concerned appearance worries me greatly. My first thought is to search the tent for Chalqo’s presence, but he’s nowhere to be found. My foot aches, as it has on various occasions, and I look for the willow bark to chew on and ease the pain. This bodes poorly for the long trip ahead of us, but even worse is the missing owner of this tent.
“Where’s Chalqo?” I groggily ask Yachaman, who has begun gathering our belongings. Was I that sound asleep that I didn’t hear her moving about?
“He left a little while ago,” she says in a hushed voice. “Something about wanting to prepare a great feast for us this morning.”
“He knows how to unwittingly make one feel especially guilty, doesn’t he,” I remark with a hint of regret. I wince, both at the news and at the pain in my foot as I attempt to stand. I won’t be able to put much weight on it, which, from my experience, is not useful for partaking in a long trek. I say a silent prayer to the willow bark to work its magic as quickly as it can while I fervently chew.
We collect our items and slip away into the early morning’s dim light. As the sun barely begins to climb above the horizon, the tents throughout the camp appear as blue miniature mountains amidst the tall, blue trees. Both Yachaman and I have purposely worn the darkest garments we own—her in a deep green huipil and me in a long, light blue and white dress—to be as discreet as possible, though, at a time like this, I regret exchanging my dark purple outfits, left with only these bright articles of clothing.
Tiptoeing through the dirt paths leading to the outskirts of the site, we see the tall, dark-haired man, Texani, from yesterday’s encounter. Wearing a long tunic that falls past his knees, he stands with hands on his hips, looking off into the distance as he admires the landscape. He doesn’t embellish himself with any jewelry or accessories, nor does he carry any weapons—the more concerning part of the observation, considering our upcoming travels—and his outfit is tied at the waist with a simple, hemp rope.
As we approach Texani, his expression is focused and stoic, much like how it was during the meeting.
“Sumaq P’unchay,” he greets us with a raised hand, his voice low and controlled. Yachaman and I exchange a quick, relieved glance, appreciating his discretion at such an early part of the morning.
Yachaman tilts her head slightly, curious. “What was that greeting? It’s not familiar to me, and I’ve never before heard that language.”
“A traditional Atima salutation in our native language,” he explains, his voice barely above a whisper. “It means ‘beautiful day’.”
Looking around, I notice a cart nearby, hitched to a llama. “We’re traveling with that?” I ask, trying to mask my surprise.
Texani follows my gaze. “Yes, how else are we to transport our possessions? Pachaqwaq is reliable. Don’t let appearances deceive you.”
Yachaman chuckles softly. “Pachaqwaq? That's an unusual name.”
“That was my younger sister’s doing,” he reveals with a rare touch of warmth in his voice, and the hint of a smile plays at the edges of his mouth. “She always had a special bond with creatures, both great and small.”
This unexpected revelation draws a genuine smile from me. It’s a stark contrast to the guarded agent I’ve come to know. In this brief moment, Texani is no longer just the stoic sentinel; he’s a brother with fond memories, a human being with layers beyond his duty. Such a simple thing, yet it speaks greatly of the life he’s led outside the bounds of our current endeavor. With exchanged nods, we begin loading our belongings onto the cart, ready to embark on the next leg of our journey.
From off in the distance, footsteps approach, pounding the ground quickly and growing louder as they get close. I turn to see Qane, breathing heavily as he rushes toward us, panic fills his eyes.
“Lady… Haesan…” he pants. “What are you and Lady Yachaman doing? With him?” He points to a confused Texani, who doesn’t appear to feel threatened by the presence of the Tapeu palace guard. There’s a shade of disdain for the Atima man in Qane’s tone, and I’m curious if it’s influenced by his recent interactions with Tzalanqil, the seamstress’ daughter. What does he know of Texani’s activities around the campsite?
“There are important matters we must tend to that, frankly, do not concern you,” I respond.
“But the Queen Mother ordered me to protect you,” he exclaims, met with shushes by me and Yachaman.
“If you were remotely interested in being my guard,” I remark, “you would have done more to actually be present and protect me. Instead, you’ve been galavanting about the camp with your new love interest– no, let me finish. This new distraction has clearly kept you from fulfilling your duties as a guard. So, since you’d rather spend your attention on her instead of the task commanded of you, you’re no longer of use to me.”
Seeing Qane’s desire to object to my statement, I turn away from him and signal to Texani and Yachaman that I’m ready to depart this place. I have no time nor patience to listen to Qane’s excuses, and I’m certain that I’m afforded better protection by the diligence of Texani anyway, whose focus is strictly on the mission and nothing more.
“I have let you down, and I apologize,” the young Tapeu guard says, though I sense a slight insincerity in his voice.
I continue walking away, saying over my shoulder to him, “You don’t have to fear my mentioning of your failure to Nuqasiq. You’re released from your responsibilities to me. Now, leave us and return to,” I wave my hand disdainfully, “wherever you came from.”
From the corner of my eye, Texani charges over, but not before Qane is able to place a hand on my shoulder to get my attention. With a raised hand, I signal to Texani that I’m not being harmed, to let Qane be for now, then slowly turn to face the Tapeu boy.
“Lady Haesan,” he says, now looking only at his feet, “you are correct. I have failed in upholding my duties. I allowed myself to be distracted, and I see now that I am not fit to be your guard. I sincerely apologize, and I will be eternally grateful if word of my negligence did not reach the Queen Mother.”
Texani’s expression shifts, a flicker of irritation crossing his features in evident disapproval. He interjects with a tone of thinly veiled sarcasm, “'Queen Mother,' really? Such grand titles for those who sit idly in palaces while the land cries for justice.”
Sensing the growing tension, I step in before Qane can react, and I attempt to maintain a calm yet assertive demeanor. “We have different views on titles and power, but that’s not our focus now. We have a task ahead, and we need to stay united and focused.”
“Qane,” I say, looking at him directly, “if you want to return to my good graces, I will need you to remain here. Chalqo is unaware of my plans to leave Qelantu Loh for an unforeseen amount of time, though perhaps it’s likely he knows more than he lets on. I will need you to monitor him and ensure he is not going to foil my efforts.”
“And what efforts are those?” Qane asks, his mouth forming a scowl as he turns his gaze to Texani. “Particularly efforts involving him.” However, he and I both know I will refuse to give him specifics.
“It’s a matter that, if successful, will be for the benefit of the people of Pachil,” I say, not elaborating more than that, which frustrates Qane. “You’re going to have to trust me, and look after Chalqo to make sure he doesn’t do anything that could endanger his life, or those of the inhabitants of Qelantu Loh. Do you swear it?”
Reluctantly, Qane accepts this with a simple nod. “Just be cautious, Lady Haesan. Remember, not everyone out there has your best interests at heart.” I meet his eyes with a mixture of gratitude and determination, then return the nod as Texani, Yachaman, and I depart.
The travel to Qapauma is largely, and mercifully, uneventful, allowing me to sit with my thoughts about the challenges to come. The birds call to one another as they fly south to warmer climates, soaring high above the Tapeu plains. Looming off in the distance are the snowcapped mountains that separate Tapeu from the territories of Tuatiu and Achope, and the memories of the land I once called home weigh heavily on my heart. I glimpse down at my outfit, no longer displaying the dark purple and gold, and reflect. Though part of me longs for what once was, knowing that my life before was shrouded in lies and deceit makes the nostalgia wear off fairly quickly, and I become more motivated to discover who I truly am. Not tied down to this faction or that, but rather, finding where I truly belong.
Due to my injuries, I wasn’t able to appreciate the scenery before, concentrating my full attention on limping to the campsite, coincided with traveling alongside a very chatty Chalqo. My wounds, though still causing me some grief, are easier to manage this time around, though occasionally I sit on the cart to rest my sore foot, much to Pachaqwaq’s chagrin. There is so much beauty to this land—not just the Tapeu plains, but the jungles of Achope, and all those lands beyond—that I feel compelled to ensure it can be enjoyed by everyone, not just a select few. The people of Pachil have endured so much and deserve to prosper, with leadership that has their interests at heart, not just consolidating power to advance nefarious agendas. Though I may be unsure of the legitimacy and genuine interest taken by the Qente Waila, I hope that I have at least made a good decision in joining their fight against yet another oppressive ruler before the Arbiter can truly seize power for himself and devastate the lands for his own selfish needs.
It’s my curiosity in the Jade Hummingbird’s vision that makes me wonder about Onixem, my peer from the palace whose involvement in the group feels as though it’s brought her more harm than help. She’s a tough fighter in the physical sense, capable of dispatching attackers on her own. It’s the mental and emotional sense I question. Does she have the skills to navigate the challenges that involve tactical or strategic reasoning and understanding? She might adeptly dodge a thrown punch, but the real question is, how will she respond when chaos erupts and a calm, strategic mind is crucial to devise a plan and guarantee the mission’s success?
I seize the opportunity to approach Texani during one of the quieter moments, seeking to gain a deeper understanding of our traveling companion. His attention never wavers from searching the horizon for threats, even as I arrive to his side.
“So, what encouraged you to join the Qente Waila?” I ask directly. “How does an Atima refugee get involved with a rebellious organization like theirs?”
He snorts at the question, as though I’ve asked him why the sky is blue. “Do you really want to see the Arbiter remain in power?”
“Has he done so much treachery in less than a harvest’s time to warrant him being violently deposed?” I say, understanding I’m testing his resolve to see if this stoicism is an act or who he genuinely is.
Texani continues walking, but turns it head in disbelief. “Do you think the Jade Hummingbird wants violence?” he questions, though maintaining a neutral tone. After I shake my head, he continues, passion seeping into his words, “When the Atima refugees needed aid, where was the Arbiter? When the Atima needed the assistance in reclaiming our lands, where was the Arbiter? When the people of the land needed the resources to rebuild their homes, where was the Arbiter? In fact, the resources he’s supposedly distributing have gone to build palaces for people within his circle. He made the declaration of this policy many moon cycles ago.”
Was I not made aware of this policy while I was in the palace? Had I been that blind to such activity occurring, blissfully unaware to the suffering that was occurring just beyond the walls? I had prided myself on always being kind to the servants at the Chopaqte palace, but did the silver-haired man have a valid point regarding the gilded cage in which I’ve lived?
Texani continues, “It was while I was wandering the streets in Qapauma, without food or shelter, that I encountered the Jade Hummingbird. They were handing out food to the citizens, providing them with clothing, and tending to the ill and injured. They were doing more for those in need than the precious Arbiter. While he feasted in his palace, the Jade Hummingbird was in the streets, sharing what little they had with the people. The people of Pachil have heard this tale before, of the rulers seeking to only benefit themselves. The Qente Waila seek to stop him before he and his clan become yet another Timuaq. It’s a simple mission.”
I hadn’t noticed the lack of support for those in need during my time in Qapauma, but perhaps it speaks more to my privileged position in the palace than it does to wild, unsupported conspiracy theories. When challenged by the silver-haired man at the meeting, being called a well-fed and bored noble, I was only seeing the discussion from an idealistic perspective, one that soars above the problems that plague Pachil. I know there’s a separation of the haves and have-nots, the nobility and the commoners. Though I would never turn down the opportunity to help, I have yet to be of service to those who need assistance. I realize I have a lot to learn before I can serve those who are in need of service.
Returning to the conversation at hand, I ask Texani, “How did you end up on the streets of Qapauma?”
To this, his face grows solemn, and I fear I may touched upon a sore subject. Nevertheless, he replies, returning to a neutral tone, “It was just after the end of the war. We were refugees within Qapauma, seeking assistance. During the harsh winter, my sister fell ill. We sought help, but the Arbiter’s men turned us away, citing some command about managing resources, word handed to them by the Arbiter himself. She didn't survive the season.”
At a loss for words, I struggle to say, “I’m… so sorry for your loss.” So that’s why there was a somberness to his recounting of the llama’s name. How could I not have guessed? Am I so self-involved to notice? He remains silent for a few extra heartbeats, swallowing the lump in his throat, and only responding with a muted nod. I decide to leave Texani alone with his thoughts, not wanting to bother him further, and recognizing that I have a lot more searching within myself to do than I may have once perceived.
I had thought that the Qente Waila’s vision was starry-eyed, but perhaps the one with naïveté is me. Am I the person to execute this mission successfully? Are my goals and ideals in the right place, made from a place of sound mind and spirit? Am I doing this for the right reasons, for the betterment of the people of Pachil, and not just for seeking revenge for having my feelings wounded? Who do I want to be? Who am I?
“Are you nervous about returning to Qapauma?” Yachaman asks at some point during our journey, snapping me out of my self-reflection. The sun is well overhead at this point, and I’ve lost track of how much further we need to go before we reach Qapauma. I must have been asking myself questions for the better part of the morning, unaware how far we’ve ventured through the golden grasslands. I find myself alone with Yachaman a distance back behind the cart and Texani, who appears heavily focused on inspecting our surroundings for threats.
“It’s the last place I expected to be, especially so soon after escaping,” I answer honestly, and perhaps sounding more exasperated than I intended.
With trepidation, Yachaman says, simply, “Haesan.” As I turn towards her, it’s evident from her expression that something is weighing on her mind. “Back at the Qente Waila tent, you… said you endured… torture and betrayal. You don’t have to speak of it to me if you choose not to, but… when was this?”
She’s correct that I wouldn’t willingly choose to speak of what happened to me. Yet she’s become a genuine, caring friend, and I sense—I know—she only asks out of concern for my wellbeing. I may not reveal the specific details, especially the part involving my familial lineage with the Arbiter and Nuqasiq while Texani is close by, but after pledging such loyalty, it’s the very least I can offer her.
“I was… being held captive. Briefly. By Anqatil. At the discretion of the Arbiter.”
Aghast, she asks, “But why? What on Pachil could you have possibly done to be imprisoned?”
“I… may have heard some discussions that implicate the Arbiter and his involvement with the Eye in the Flame. I don’t think he’s directly involved with them, but he knows of them. More than he lets on. Members of his council appear to be members, however. Or something to that degree; I wasn’t able to investigate further, before…”
I leave the statement hanging in the air, but Yachaman understand immediately. “Is that why you were being tortured?” she asks, now placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Well, partly,” I reply. “The Arbiter… believes I’m going to depose him.”
“Wha… Why on… What makes him believe–“
“A prophecy declared it would happen,” I interject. “It foretold of his rise to power, and how he would lose the throne.”
“Of all people, it said you? Specifically?” Yachaman is in complete disbelief, which is understandable, as I am purposely leaving out key details. However, it’s for the best, and maybe there will be a time when I can confess everything in its entirety. For now, however, I determine it will have to do.
“Well, wouldn’t it be humorous if you did manage to usurp the throne through the Qente Waila,” she muses. To say the thought hadn’t crossed my mind would be a lie. While I harbor no illusions of being infallible or invincible merely because a prophecy foretells my achievement, I also cannot dismiss the notion that such predictions come with a guiding hand. It’s a curious balance, acknowledging the power of foretold events while maintaining faith in my own agency. Ultimately, I believe that while a prophecy might hint at a destined outcome, it’s the journey, shaped by my choices and actions, that truly defines its fulfillment.
Our arrival to Qapauma and the Gates of Ipa bring back the memories of my first encounter here, meeting the shrouded Chalqo and departing to safety. The gate is busy once again, with travelers and merchants hurriedly passing through the gates in an effort to race the setting sun to their desired destination. On occasion, the guards, who are otherwise uninterested in the activity taking place here, confront a merchant and their cart to inquire what they’re transporting. There doesn’t appear to be a formula as to who they select—whether one appears more suspicious than another. So passing through undetected appears to be a chance left up to fate and the gods, whomever one believes.
“Act naturally, and don’t raise any suspicions,” Texani says under his breath, remaining calm as we approach the numerous guards patrolling the area. “Don’t make any direct eye contact unless they question you, and tell them we’re here to sell our goods at the marketplace, if asked.”
“We… have goods?” I question, confused. This is information that would’ve been useful well before we arrived at the treacherous location. “How did we possess goods? What are we ‘selling’?”
“Clothing,” he says flatly.
“You mean to tell me–“
“Yes, your own clothes and those supplied by the seamstress are what’s for trade.”
“But, we have–“
“Items with the Jade Hummingbird on it. Yes, I know,” he says, annoyed with my earnest inquiry. “The guards are too unenthused to actually search a cart, especially with the day nearly over. They’ll want to go to their homes, so we’ll be unimpeded. A cursory glance at the sacks of clothes is likely all we’ll face, barring suspicions don’t get raised.”
“And if they do search us?” I ask, still not buying the plausibility of this so-called ‘plan’.
“Then, we run,” he says, simply.
“This is the most absurd–“
No sooner than we finish our discussion, two young guards, dressed in tunics colored in the Tapeu orange and red, spot us walking near them. We’ve nearly reached the gate and could get through in just a few dozen steps, but now, as if the words of Texani’s overly confident plan had tempted the gods, they’re walking over to us.
“Great,” I mutter, and Texani shushes me, telling me to focus my attention ahead, not on them.
The guards briskly move around us, shoving Yachaman into the side of the cart and out of their way. I’m about to confront them and say something about their rude behavior before Texani grabs my arm and silences me. Without breaking stride, the young men chase down another merchant pulling his own cart behind us.
“We told you, you’re no longer welcome in the capital,” they shout, pointing their swords at the person. I want so badly to glance behind me and see the events unfolding, but Texani brings my attention back to the present situation: getting through these gates unimpeded and into the city. We pick up our pace and, dodging a few carts and travelers here and there, finally pass the guards and make it into Qapauma.
The city is abuzz with activity, as people energetically move about the streets, holding an assortment of colorful ribbons and baskets of dyes. It appears decorations have begun for a celebration, and I recall my conversation with Chalqo about the Tapeu celestial festival. I hear the words ‘Chasqa Quimi’ spoken frequently, reminding me of the celebration’s name he so enthusiastically recounted. Long, colorful cloth is draped above the streets, and people begin preparing lanterns, made from animal bladders and hides stretched so thin, one can see the silhouette of the crafter’s hand through it. Those carrying the dyes arrive where artists are masterfully crafting immense, vibrant murals on the stone walls of the surrounding structures, bathing the city in a spectrum of colors as varied and lively as the plumage of a tropical bird. It reminds me of my first arrival to the shimmering city, with its stones glimmering in the sunlight as though it was all a precious gemstone. Contrasting it to my departure, my feelings upon seeing the spectacle are mixed, knowing these decorations are merely a mask over the dark, gruesome aspects of this city.
“Through the market,” Texani says unenthusiastically, jarring as it cuts through the energetic scene, “we’re to meet our contact for where we will stay the night.”
Yachaman and I nod, and Texani maneuvers the cart down the long, wide street, avoiding the multitude of pedestrians. The marketplace is bustling, busier than I remember when I was last here, as merchants shout at the passersby to complete one last sale before the end of their day. I respect their opportunistic ways, taking advantage of the busier-than-usual scene, and I can’t help but look longingly upon their wares. My senses are overwhelmed as I admire the extravagant garments, the smell of the roasting deer and capybaras, the vibrant display of fruits and vegetables, the aromatic herbs and spices. Although I steadfastly oppose many ideals upheld by this city’s nobility and the distastefulness they impose upon it, I cherish fleeting moments like these, relishing the rare glimpses of beauty they unexpectedly reveal.
It’s during my inspection of the marketplace stands and taking in the sights of the decorations when my eyes drift to a narrow alley, in which I recall having one of my first interactions with Onixem. As if the memory summoned her to this place, I question whether it’s a trick of the mind that I happened to see, hiding behind large sacks of grain, the tall, young woman peeking through them. As if a fish caught in the net, I’m pulled toward the alley, drawn to it as though my heart feels it must confirm that my acquaintance from the palace is not, in fact, present.
To my shock, she cowers lower, trying not to be seen, but as sure as rain, it’s her. Onixem appears disheveled and slightly injured, with signs of a recent scuffle—a torn sleeve, a minor cut on her cheek, and a look of distress. Has she been in yet another skirmish? Who was the fight with this time? She’s fought valiantly before with unmatched bravery, but now she’s hiding behind sacks of grain? I may not know her well, but I know her well enough to understand that something about this situation is different.
“Onixem!” I call out, which alerts Texani and Yachaman to my whereabouts, having drifted away from the cart. She shushes me from behind the sacks, warning me to keep away, but I persist. “What are you doing here? What are you hiding from?” I’m concerned, knowing a person such as her wouldn’t back away from a fight.
"Their numbers are... too overwhelming... How were they able to regroup so quickly?"
“Whose numbers?” I ask, but Onixem’s eyes nervously dart about the marketplace, looking for something or someone that’s caused her much fright.
“It’s happening,” she says. “It’s begun.”
“What’s happening?” I question, perplexed at her lack of elaboration. “What’s begun?”
“The Eye in the Flame,” she says. “Their plan has been set into motion.”
My heart hammers against my chest, a rapid, unsteady rhythm that seems too loud in my ears. Chalqo’s mention of me ‘finding other offerings within the camp to be more enlightening’ is unsettling, as if he’s attempting to expose secrets I'm desperate to keep hidden. How do I answer him? I know I can’t hesitate for much longer, or else I will appear suspicious. Though my mouth is dry, words sticking in my throat as I scramble for a response, I must say something. But what?
Before I have a chance to reply, he says with a mischievous grin, “My dear ladies, have you been off courting suitors under the guise of moonlight? Qelantu Loh is abuzz with whispers of your enchanting escapades.”
I respond to his comment with nothing more than an embarrassed laugh, in the hopes of throwing him off our tracks from what actually transpired this evening. Yachaman joins me, playfully covering her mouth as she giggles while we exchange knowing glances. This appears to appease Chalqo well enough, as he nods and winks at us.
“I see,” Chalqo remarks with a chuckle of his own before stepping out into the night air. “Well, it should come as no surprise that the two most charming and evocative people present in Qelantu Loh would be very much sought after. Perhaps when young Qane is finished entertaining the seamstress’ daughter, we can have him posted outside the tent to ensure your protection from such prowling predators.”
“He’s still swooning over her?” I say exasperatedly along with the roll of my eyes.
“Oh, Lady Haesan,” Chalqo teases, “never underestimate the power of young love! Iuqamaq’s ways are both mysterious and wondrous.”
I find it intriguing that Chalqo of the Atima would invoke the name of a member from the Eleven, specifically one belonging to the now-extinct Mahuincha faction, whose existence was in the southern-most point on the continent—the exact opposite location of Atima territory. The person of whom he speaks was the one responsible for psychological warfare, manipulating the emotions of the Timuaq and causing internal power struggles. Her actions resulted in splitting the titans into multiple, rival groups, weakening their collective strength and creating a rift for the other members to exploit. Since her passing from the sacrifice, she has been revered as a goddess of love, hearth, and home by the devout followers of the Eleven, who honor them as deities. Perhaps I’m looking too much into his mention of a demigod, but it raises suspicions, to say the least.
“I would be speaking false if I said that tonight’s escapades didn’t bring me to the brink of exhaustion,” I say, hoping to cut this conversation short to avoid a slip of the tongue and revealing too much unwittingly. “I hope you will allow us to reside in your tent for a restful night’s sleep.”
“My tent is always available to you and Lady Yachaman,” he says, followed by a deep and flamboyant bow. “As long as we’re not entertaining any suitors inside of it, of course.”
With my own exaggerated expression of offense, I reply, “We would never cause such disrespect!” To this, Chalqo casts a suspicious glance our way, leaving me uncertain whether his skepticism is genuine or if he's merely continuing his playful charade.
“I must be on my way,” Chalqo says. “I was resting for a brief moment before finishing tonight’s performance with the grand finale. It’s a shame you’re too tired to witness it—it’s quite a spectacle!”
“We’re disappointed to miss it,” Yachaman says, and if I didn’t know better, I’d believe she was being sincere.
As we part ways with Chalqo and enter the darkened tent, we collectively exhale a sigh of relief. As my eyes gradually adapt to the dimness, the faint silhouette of Yachaman becomes discernible, moving ghostlike through the space. She eventually settles herself onto a bedroll positioned at the farthest end, away from the tent’s entrance.
“Do you think he suspects anything?” Yachaman asks.
“It’s difficult to say, but I believe he puts on the performative act to mask his insightfulness,” I answer. “He’s likely more perceptive than he lets on. We’ll need to be mindful of what we say and do when we’re in his presence, especially here in Qelantu Loh, where we can’t be certain who is and isn’t an ally of his.”
“A fair and astute observation,” Yachaman agrees. “He’s going to be made instantly aware if we leave Qelantu Loh. How are we to avoid his suspicions, which will only be raised more when he notices we’re not here?”
With a grimace, I say, “It seems inevitable that Chalqo is going to find out we’ve departed. It doesn’t please me to effectively betray someone Nuqasiq trusts wholeheartedly, and I feel as if I’m acting against her wishes. But this cause is too important for me to turn down. I’m not sure we can mitigate the damage to our relationship now, but it’ll be something to face if we return to this campsite.”
Through the darkness, Yachaman’s disappointment shines brightly, but this evolving situation with Chalqo and Qelantu Loh is something that I believe cannot be helped. While I’m grateful for his hospitality, the potential outcomes of aligning myself with the Qente Waila render the decision to join them not just appealing, but seemingly the only logical choice.
Not wanting to continue wrestling with the thoughts in my head, I encourage Yachaman to rest, aware that a lengthy and demanding day awaits us at dawn’s first light. This is easier said than done, of course, as I spend much of the night tossing and turning upon my bedroll.
It’s deeply disheartening to leave Chalqo without informing him of what’s transpired, yet I feel keeping him in the dark on this matter is for his own safety. It’s only from my interactions with Onixem, and witnessing the assault in the catacombs, that I bring myself to joining their cause, albeit reluctantly. Can I be certain that the ideals expressed by the woman at the meeting in the seamstress’ tent are genuine? It’s difficult for me to say. However, even if I’ve only received partial truths, they have the resources that could potentially stop the Arbiter’s plans, which, at the end of the day, is all that truly matters to me. If his plot to only benefit the wealthy few at the expense of everyone outside his circle can be exposed to the other factions of Pachil—their leaders may already be aware of what’s taking place within Qapauma anyway—justice for all people of the continent can truly be won.
But I would be remiss if I didn’t confess to the personal reasons for taking the risk of joining an organization like the Jade Hummingbird. While my intentions for all of the inhabitants of Pachil are pure, I would go to great lengths to seek revenge upon the man who is supposedly my father. To be cast out as an infant, then marked for death because of his belief in a vague prophecy? I’ve seen the indifference he expresses toward anyone he deems unworthy, concerned only with appearances instead of actual governance. I made an effort to reserve judgement of a man I hardly knew, yet he has shown me more about what he stands for than words could ever say.
I awaken to Yachaman poking my shoulder. As my eyes flutter open, her concerned appearance worries me greatly. My first thought is to search the tent for Chalqo’s presence, but he’s nowhere to be found. My foot aches, as it has on various occasions, and I look for the willow bark to chew on and ease the pain. This bodes poorly for the long trip ahead of us, but even worse is the missing owner of this tent.
“Where’s Chalqo?” I groggily ask Yachaman, who has begun gathering our belongings. Was I that sound asleep that I didn’t hear her moving about?
“He left a little while ago,” she says in a hushed voice. “Something about wanting to prepare a great feast for us this morning.”
“He knows how to unwittingly make one feel especially guilty, doesn’t he,” I remark with a hint of regret. I wince, both at the news and at the pain in my foot as I attempt to stand. I won’t be able to put much weight on it, which, from my experience, is not useful for partaking in a long trek. I say a silent prayer to the willow bark to work its magic as quickly as it can while I fervently chew.
We collect our items and slip away into the early morning’s dim light. As the sun barely begins to climb above the horizon, the tents throughout the camp appear as blue miniature mountains amidst the tall, blue trees. Both Yachaman and I have purposely worn the darkest garments we own—her in a deep green huipil and me in a long, light blue and white dress—to be as discreet as possible, though, at a time like this, I regret exchanging my dark purple outfits, left with only these bright articles of clothing.
Tiptoeing through the dirt paths leading to the outskirts of the site, we see the tall, dark-haired man, Texani, from yesterday’s encounter. Wearing a long tunic that falls past his knees, he stands with hands on his hips, looking off into the distance as he admires the landscape. He doesn’t embellish himself with any jewelry or accessories, nor does he carry any weapons—the more concerning part of the observation, considering our upcoming travels—and his outfit is tied at the waist with a simple, hemp rope.
As we approach Texani, his expression is focused and stoic, much like how it was during the meeting.
“Sumaq P’unchay,” he greets us with a raised hand, his voice low and controlled. Yachaman and I exchange a quick, relieved glance, appreciating his discretion at such an early part of the morning.
Yachaman tilts her head slightly, curious. “What was that greeting? It’s not familiar to me, and I’ve never before heard that language.”
“A traditional Atima salutation in our native language,” he explains, his voice barely above a whisper. “It means ‘beautiful day’.”
Looking around, I notice a cart nearby, hitched to a llama. “We’re traveling with that?” I ask, trying to mask my surprise.
Texani follows my gaze. “Yes, how else are we to transport our possessions? Pachaqwaq is reliable. Don’t let appearances deceive you.”
Yachaman chuckles softly. “Pachaqwaq? That's an unusual name.”
“That was my younger sister’s doing,” he reveals with a rare touch of warmth in his voice, and the hint of a smile plays at the edges of his mouth. “She always had a special bond with creatures, both great and small.”
This unexpected revelation draws a genuine smile from me. It’s a stark contrast to the guarded agent I’ve come to know. In this brief moment, Texani is no longer just the stoic sentinel; he’s a brother with fond memories, a human being with layers beyond his duty. Such a simple thing, yet it speaks greatly of the life he’s led outside the bounds of our current endeavor. With exchanged nods, we begin loading our belongings onto the cart, ready to embark on the next leg of our journey.
From off in the distance, footsteps approach, pounding the ground quickly and growing louder as they get close. I turn to see Qane, breathing heavily as he rushes toward us, panic fills his eyes.
“Lady… Haesan…” he pants. “What are you and Lady Yachaman doing? With him?” He points to a confused Texani, who doesn’t appear to feel threatened by the presence of the Tapeu palace guard. There’s a shade of disdain for the Atima man in Qane’s tone, and I’m curious if it’s influenced by his recent interactions with Tzalanqil, the seamstress’ daughter. What does he know of Texani’s activities around the campsite?
“There are important matters we must tend to that, frankly, do not concern you,” I respond.
“But the Queen Mother ordered me to protect you,” he exclaims, met with shushes by me and Yachaman.
“If you were remotely interested in being my guard,” I remark, “you would have done more to actually be present and protect me. Instead, you’ve been galavanting about the camp with your new love interest– no, let me finish. This new distraction has clearly kept you from fulfilling your duties as a guard. So, since you’d rather spend your attention on her instead of the task commanded of you, you’re no longer of use to me.”
Seeing Qane’s desire to object to my statement, I turn away from him and signal to Texani and Yachaman that I’m ready to depart this place. I have no time nor patience to listen to Qane’s excuses, and I’m certain that I’m afforded better protection by the diligence of Texani anyway, whose focus is strictly on the mission and nothing more.
“I have let you down, and I apologize,” the young Tapeu guard says, though I sense a slight insincerity in his voice.
I continue walking away, saying over my shoulder to him, “You don’t have to fear my mentioning of your failure to Nuqasiq. You’re released from your responsibilities to me. Now, leave us and return to,” I wave my hand disdainfully, “wherever you came from.”
From the corner of my eye, Texani charges over, but not before Qane is able to place a hand on my shoulder to get my attention. With a raised hand, I signal to Texani that I’m not being harmed, to let Qane be for now, then slowly turn to face the Tapeu boy.
“Lady Haesan,” he says, now looking only at his feet, “you are correct. I have failed in upholding my duties. I allowed myself to be distracted, and I see now that I am not fit to be your guard. I sincerely apologize, and I will be eternally grateful if word of my negligence did not reach the Queen Mother.”
Texani’s expression shifts, a flicker of irritation crossing his features in evident disapproval. He interjects with a tone of thinly veiled sarcasm, “'Queen Mother,' really? Such grand titles for those who sit idly in palaces while the land cries for justice.”
Sensing the growing tension, I step in before Qane can react, and I attempt to maintain a calm yet assertive demeanor. “We have different views on titles and power, but that’s not our focus now. We have a task ahead, and we need to stay united and focused.”
“Qane,” I say, looking at him directly, “if you want to return to my good graces, I will need you to remain here. Chalqo is unaware of my plans to leave Qelantu Loh for an unforeseen amount of time, though perhaps it’s likely he knows more than he lets on. I will need you to monitor him and ensure he is not going to foil my efforts.”
“And what efforts are those?” Qane asks, his mouth forming a scowl as he turns his gaze to Texani. “Particularly efforts involving him.” However, he and I both know I will refuse to give him specifics.
“It’s a matter that, if successful, will be for the benefit of the people of Pachil,” I say, not elaborating more than that, which frustrates Qane. “You’re going to have to trust me, and look after Chalqo to make sure he doesn’t do anything that could endanger his life, or those of the inhabitants of Qelantu Loh. Do you swear it?”
Reluctantly, Qane accepts this with a simple nod. “Just be cautious, Lady Haesan. Remember, not everyone out there has your best interests at heart.” I meet his eyes with a mixture of gratitude and determination, then return the nod as Texani, Yachaman, and I depart.
The travel to Qapauma is largely, and mercifully, uneventful, allowing me to sit with my thoughts about the challenges to come. The birds call to one another as they fly south to warmer climates, soaring high above the Tapeu plains. Looming off in the distance are the snowcapped mountains that separate Tapeu from the territories of Tuatiu and Achope, and the memories of the land I once called home weigh heavily on my heart. I glimpse down at my outfit, no longer displaying the dark purple and gold, and reflect. Though part of me longs for what once was, knowing that my life before was shrouded in lies and deceit makes the nostalgia wear off fairly quickly, and I become more motivated to discover who I truly am. Not tied down to this faction or that, but rather, finding where I truly belong.
Due to my injuries, I wasn’t able to appreciate the scenery before, concentrating my full attention on limping to the campsite, coincided with traveling alongside a very chatty Chalqo. My wounds, though still causing me some grief, are easier to manage this time around, though occasionally I sit on the cart to rest my sore foot, much to Pachaqwaq’s chagrin. There is so much beauty to this land—not just the Tapeu plains, but the jungles of Achope, and all those lands beyond—that I feel compelled to ensure it can be enjoyed by everyone, not just a select few. The people of Pachil have endured so much and deserve to prosper, with leadership that has their interests at heart, not just consolidating power to advance nefarious agendas. Though I may be unsure of the legitimacy and genuine interest taken by the Qente Waila, I hope that I have at least made a good decision in joining their fight against yet another oppressive ruler before the Arbiter can truly seize power for himself and devastate the lands for his own selfish needs.
It’s my curiosity in the Jade Hummingbird’s vision that makes me wonder about Onixem, my peer from the palace whose involvement in the group feels as though it’s brought her more harm than help. She’s a tough fighter in the physical sense, capable of dispatching attackers on her own. It’s the mental and emotional sense I question. Does she have the skills to navigate the challenges that involve tactical or strategic reasoning and understanding? She might adeptly dodge a thrown punch, but the real question is, how will she respond when chaos erupts and a calm, strategic mind is crucial to devise a plan and guarantee the mission’s success?
I seize the opportunity to approach Texani during one of the quieter moments, seeking to gain a deeper understanding of our traveling companion. His attention never wavers from searching the horizon for threats, even as I arrive to his side.
“So, what encouraged you to join the Qente Waila?” I ask directly. “How does an Atima refugee get involved with a rebellious organization like theirs?”
He snorts at the question, as though I’ve asked him why the sky is blue. “Do you really want to see the Arbiter remain in power?”
“Has he done so much treachery in less than a harvest’s time to warrant him being violently deposed?” I say, understanding I’m testing his resolve to see if this stoicism is an act or who he genuinely is.
Texani continues walking, but turns it head in disbelief. “Do you think the Jade Hummingbird wants violence?” he questions, though maintaining a neutral tone. After I shake my head, he continues, passion seeping into his words, “When the Atima refugees needed aid, where was the Arbiter? When the Atima needed the assistance in reclaiming our lands, where was the Arbiter? When the people of the land needed the resources to rebuild their homes, where was the Arbiter? In fact, the resources he’s supposedly distributing have gone to build palaces for people within his circle. He made the declaration of this policy many moon cycles ago.”
Was I not made aware of this policy while I was in the palace? Had I been that blind to such activity occurring, blissfully unaware to the suffering that was occurring just beyond the walls? I had prided myself on always being kind to the servants at the Chopaqte palace, but did the silver-haired man have a valid point regarding the gilded cage in which I’ve lived?
Texani continues, “It was while I was wandering the streets in Qapauma, without food or shelter, that I encountered the Jade Hummingbird. They were handing out food to the citizens, providing them with clothing, and tending to the ill and injured. They were doing more for those in need than the precious Arbiter. While he feasted in his palace, the Jade Hummingbird was in the streets, sharing what little they had with the people. The people of Pachil have heard this tale before, of the rulers seeking to only benefit themselves. The Qente Waila seek to stop him before he and his clan become yet another Timuaq. It’s a simple mission.”
I hadn’t noticed the lack of support for those in need during my time in Qapauma, but perhaps it speaks more to my privileged position in the palace than it does to wild, unsupported conspiracy theories. When challenged by the silver-haired man at the meeting, being called a well-fed and bored noble, I was only seeing the discussion from an idealistic perspective, one that soars above the problems that plague Pachil. I know there’s a separation of the haves and have-nots, the nobility and the commoners. Though I would never turn down the opportunity to help, I have yet to be of service to those who need assistance. I realize I have a lot to learn before I can serve those who are in need of service.
Returning to the conversation at hand, I ask Texani, “How did you end up on the streets of Qapauma?”
To this, his face grows solemn, and I fear I may touched upon a sore subject. Nevertheless, he replies, returning to a neutral tone, “It was just after the end of the war. We were refugees within Qapauma, seeking assistance. During the harsh winter, my sister fell ill. We sought help, but the Arbiter’s men turned us away, citing some command about managing resources, word handed to them by the Arbiter himself. She didn't survive the season.”
At a loss for words, I struggle to say, “I’m… so sorry for your loss.” So that’s why there was a somberness to his recounting of the llama’s name. How could I not have guessed? Am I so self-involved to notice? He remains silent for a few extra heartbeats, swallowing the lump in his throat, and only responding with a muted nod. I decide to leave Texani alone with his thoughts, not wanting to bother him further, and recognizing that I have a lot more searching within myself to do than I may have once perceived.
I had thought that the Qente Waila’s vision was starry-eyed, but perhaps the one with naïveté is me. Am I the person to execute this mission successfully? Are my goals and ideals in the right place, made from a place of sound mind and spirit? Am I doing this for the right reasons, for the betterment of the people of Pachil, and not just for seeking revenge for having my feelings wounded? Who do I want to be? Who am I?
“Are you nervous about returning to Qapauma?” Yachaman asks at some point during our journey, snapping me out of my self-reflection. The sun is well overhead at this point, and I’ve lost track of how much further we need to go before we reach Qapauma. I must have been asking myself questions for the better part of the morning, unaware how far we’ve ventured through the golden grasslands. I find myself alone with Yachaman a distance back behind the cart and Texani, who appears heavily focused on inspecting our surroundings for threats.
“It’s the last place I expected to be, especially so soon after escaping,” I answer honestly, and perhaps sounding more exasperated than I intended.
With trepidation, Yachaman says, simply, “Haesan.” As I turn towards her, it’s evident from her expression that something is weighing on her mind. “Back at the Qente Waila tent, you… said you endured… torture and betrayal. You don’t have to speak of it to me if you choose not to, but… when was this?”
She’s correct that I wouldn’t willingly choose to speak of what happened to me. Yet she’s become a genuine, caring friend, and I sense—I know—she only asks out of concern for my wellbeing. I may not reveal the specific details, especially the part involving my familial lineage with the Arbiter and Nuqasiq while Texani is close by, but after pledging such loyalty, it’s the very least I can offer her.
“I was… being held captive. Briefly. By Anqatil. At the discretion of the Arbiter.”
Aghast, she asks, “But why? What on Pachil could you have possibly done to be imprisoned?”
“I… may have heard some discussions that implicate the Arbiter and his involvement with the Eye in the Flame. I don’t think he’s directly involved with them, but he knows of them. More than he lets on. Members of his council appear to be members, however. Or something to that degree; I wasn’t able to investigate further, before…”
I leave the statement hanging in the air, but Yachaman understand immediately. “Is that why you were being tortured?” she asks, now placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Well, partly,” I reply. “The Arbiter… believes I’m going to depose him.”
“Wha… Why on… What makes him believe–“
“A prophecy declared it would happen,” I interject. “It foretold of his rise to power, and how he would lose the throne.”
“Of all people, it said you? Specifically?” Yachaman is in complete disbelief, which is understandable, as I am purposely leaving out key details. However, it’s for the best, and maybe there will be a time when I can confess everything in its entirety. For now, however, I determine it will have to do.
“Well, wouldn’t it be humorous if you did manage to usurp the throne through the Qente Waila,” she muses. To say the thought hadn’t crossed my mind would be a lie. While I harbor no illusions of being infallible or invincible merely because a prophecy foretells my achievement, I also cannot dismiss the notion that such predictions come with a guiding hand. It’s a curious balance, acknowledging the power of foretold events while maintaining faith in my own agency. Ultimately, I believe that while a prophecy might hint at a destined outcome, it’s the journey, shaped by my choices and actions, that truly defines its fulfillment.
Our arrival to Qapauma and the Gates of Ipa bring back the memories of my first encounter here, meeting the shrouded Chalqo and departing to safety. The gate is busy once again, with travelers and merchants hurriedly passing through the gates in an effort to race the setting sun to their desired destination. On occasion, the guards, who are otherwise uninterested in the activity taking place here, confront a merchant and their cart to inquire what they’re transporting. There doesn’t appear to be a formula as to who they select—whether one appears more suspicious than another. So passing through undetected appears to be a chance left up to fate and the gods, whomever one believes.
“Act naturally, and don’t raise any suspicions,” Texani says under his breath, remaining calm as we approach the numerous guards patrolling the area. “Don’t make any direct eye contact unless they question you, and tell them we’re here to sell our goods at the marketplace, if asked.”
“We… have goods?” I question, confused. This is information that would’ve been useful well before we arrived at the treacherous location. “How did we possess goods? What are we ‘selling’?”
“Clothing,” he says flatly.
“You mean to tell me–“
“Yes, your own clothes and those supplied by the seamstress are what’s for trade.”
“But, we have–“
“Items with the Jade Hummingbird on it. Yes, I know,” he says, annoyed with my earnest inquiry. “The guards are too unenthused to actually search a cart, especially with the day nearly over. They’ll want to go to their homes, so we’ll be unimpeded. A cursory glance at the sacks of clothes is likely all we’ll face, barring suspicions don’t get raised.”
“And if they do search us?” I ask, still not buying the plausibility of this so-called ‘plan’.
“Then, we run,” he says, simply.
“This is the most absurd–“
No sooner than we finish our discussion, two young guards, dressed in tunics colored in the Tapeu orange and red, spot us walking near them. We’ve nearly reached the gate and could get through in just a few dozen steps, but now, as if the words of Texani’s overly confident plan had tempted the gods, they’re walking over to us.
“Great,” I mutter, and Texani shushes me, telling me to focus my attention ahead, not on them.
The guards briskly move around us, shoving Yachaman into the side of the cart and out of their way. I’m about to confront them and say something about their rude behavior before Texani grabs my arm and silences me. Without breaking stride, the young men chase down another merchant pulling his own cart behind us.
“We told you, you’re no longer welcome in the capital,” they shout, pointing their swords at the person. I want so badly to glance behind me and see the events unfolding, but Texani brings my attention back to the present situation: getting through these gates unimpeded and into the city. We pick up our pace and, dodging a few carts and travelers here and there, finally pass the guards and make it into Qapauma.
The city is abuzz with activity, as people energetically move about the streets, holding an assortment of colorful ribbons and baskets of dyes. It appears decorations have begun for a celebration, and I recall my conversation with Chalqo about the Tapeu celestial festival. I hear the words ‘Chasqa Quimi’ spoken frequently, reminding me of the celebration’s name he so enthusiastically recounted. Long, colorful cloth is draped above the streets, and people begin preparing lanterns, made from animal bladders and hides stretched so thin, one can see the silhouette of the crafter’s hand through it. Those carrying the dyes arrive where artists are masterfully crafting immense, vibrant murals on the stone walls of the surrounding structures, bathing the city in a spectrum of colors as varied and lively as the plumage of a tropical bird. It reminds me of my first arrival to the shimmering city, with its stones glimmering in the sunlight as though it was all a precious gemstone. Contrasting it to my departure, my feelings upon seeing the spectacle are mixed, knowing these decorations are merely a mask over the dark, gruesome aspects of this city.
“Through the market,” Texani says unenthusiastically, jarring as it cuts through the energetic scene, “we’re to meet our contact for where we will stay the night.”
Yachaman and I nod, and Texani maneuvers the cart down the long, wide street, avoiding the multitude of pedestrians. The marketplace is bustling, busier than I remember when I was last here, as merchants shout at the passersby to complete one last sale before the end of their day. I respect their opportunistic ways, taking advantage of the busier-than-usual scene, and I can’t help but look longingly upon their wares. My senses are overwhelmed as I admire the extravagant garments, the smell of the roasting deer and capybaras, the vibrant display of fruits and vegetables, the aromatic herbs and spices. Although I steadfastly oppose many ideals upheld by this city’s nobility and the distastefulness they impose upon it, I cherish fleeting moments like these, relishing the rare glimpses of beauty they unexpectedly reveal.
It’s during my inspection of the marketplace stands and taking in the sights of the decorations when my eyes drift to a narrow alley, in which I recall having one of my first interactions with Onixem. As if the memory summoned her to this place, I question whether it’s a trick of the mind that I happened to see, hiding behind large sacks of grain, the tall, young woman peeking through them. As if a fish caught in the net, I’m pulled toward the alley, drawn to it as though my heart feels it must confirm that my acquaintance from the palace is not, in fact, present.
To my shock, she cowers lower, trying not to be seen, but as sure as rain, it’s her. Onixem appears disheveled and slightly injured, with signs of a recent scuffle—a torn sleeve, a minor cut on her cheek, and a look of distress. Has she been in yet another skirmish? Who was the fight with this time? She’s fought valiantly before with unmatched bravery, but now she’s hiding behind sacks of grain? I may not know her well, but I know her well enough to understand that something about this situation is different.
“Onixem!” I call out, which alerts Texani and Yachaman to my whereabouts, having drifted away from the cart. She shushes me from behind the sacks, warning me to keep away, but I persist. “What are you doing here? What are you hiding from?” I’m concerned, knowing a person such as her wouldn’t back away from a fight.
"Their numbers are... too overwhelming... How were they able to regroup so quickly?"
“Whose numbers?” I ask, but Onixem’s eyes nervously dart about the marketplace, looking for something or someone that’s caused her much fright.
“It’s happening,” she says. “It’s begun.”
“What’s happening?” I question, perplexed at her lack of elaboration. “What’s begun?”
“The Eye in the Flame,” she says. “Their plan has been set into motion.”
