As the fighting around us intensifies, Teqotlo, Aluxeqwel, and Onixem glare at one another in silence. Questions flood my mind as I feebly attempt to grasp what Onixem just said. Those are her parents? Are they part of the Eye in the Flame? But Onixem is a member of the Qente Waila… right?
“Daughter,” the woman, Aluxeqwel, says with a hiss. “So nice of you to join us.”
Onixem slowly unsheathes a dagger from the harness at her hip. “The moment I discovered the Eye in the Flame were near, I knew you two would come out of the dregs to join your band of lunatics here in Qapauma.”
“Ah, yes, as you play at Rebels with your imaginative friends,” Aluxeqwel mocks. “How quaint.” At this, Onixem snarls, which only amuses Aluxeqwel further. Onixem’s mother lets out a theatrical sigh, glancing solemnly at the ritual dagger in her hand before continuing, “I really had hoped you would come to your senses when you were finished challenging our authority. You’ve gone long enough masquerading as some freedom fighter, but it’s time you stopped fooling around and return to your family.”
“I have no family so long as you continue to support those cultists,” Onixem growls.
“This is the rare moment where I wished you were more like your brother,” Teqotlo says. “He’s completely useless, but at least he knows when to get out of the way.”
“Where is Tonatli?” Onixem demands, searching the chamber. Her eyes shift between the two in crimson robes, who remain unresponsive and unemotional. This irks Onixem, causing her to become more assertive, punctuating each word. “Where. Is. Tonatli.”
Before they can respond, two palace guards disengage, slipping away from their clashes with militants loyal to the Eye in the Flame. They charge at Onixem’s parents, coiling back with their bronze swords. Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel step back in a slight crouch, their hands gradually coming aflame, with fire creeping up their wrists. As the guards are about to swing, the pair thrust their arms at their approaching targets, the tip of the dagger pointing at their foe, releasing a burst of fire from their hands. The blast sends the two young men flying backward, their leather armor catching fire as if it were mere tinder. They writhe in pain on the ground, rolling about as they desperately try to put out the flames, but the fire refuses to be extinguished.
Onixem glares, overcome with fury. She starts to charge at her parents, but their eyes glow a terrifying red. “You don’t want to do that, my child,” Aluxeqwel states. The fire that swirls about her hands grows larger. Onixem reluctantly heeds the warnings, sliding to a halt and firmly gripping her dagger until her knuckles turn white.
“Now, where were we?” the female cultist rhetorically asks. In a flash, she and Teqotlo dart over to another set of nobles. They shout something inaudibly again—is it Ulxa?—before slitting their victims’ throats, as they had done before. They gasp and gurgle before dropping to their knees, a stream of scarlet spurts from their necks.
Enraged and no longer able to restrain herself, Onixem storms over to her parents, who bend over to pool the victims’ blood into their hands. Lowering her shoulder, she rams her mother, knocking her to the ground. As she turns to her father, however, her face is met with the butt of his dagger. It crashes into her forehead, and blood streams down her nose and cheek. She staggers backward, shaking her head to rid herself of the dizziness. With unsteady steps, she makes another attempt at colliding with her father, but he steps aside and easily dodges her efforts. She’s tossed into the wall, slamming into it with a mighty thump.
“We warned you not to do that,” he halfheartedly scolds.
Helping Aluxeqwel up, the two resume their ritual. They collect their victims’ blood, then make a few hand gestures in the air. A bright, ethereal, orange glow radiates from their silhouettes, and they begin illuminating the chamber like living torches. They appear like someone experiencing the warmth of the sun after a long, harsh winter; they grunt and groan, rolling their heads back as though enjoying a surge of power and energy that flows through them.
The nobles stand about, shrieking and yelling, but doing nothing to overwhelm the two cultists. A few have run to the chamber entrances, pulling and tugging at the heavy wooden doors. Stubbornly, they don’t budge, no matter how much force the nobles use. Around each wooden beam, an ominous orange glow radiates from it, as though it’s been supernaturally secured in place. Some have taken to clawing at the walls, digging their nails into the stone until their fingers begin to bleed. All this effort, yet doing nothing to challenge nor confront Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel.
Who will stop this madness? What can I do? I feel helpless, watching this horrific sight, but unable to apprehend or accost them to put an end to this. Desperation grips me like a noose tightening around my heart as I witness the unfolding chaos. Frozen by the horror of inaction, I’m tormented by the thought that perhaps we are all too ensnared in our own terror to rise against the evil that has breached the palace.
Draped in their crimson garments, Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo move among the nobility with a predatory grace that chills my blood. Each step they take, each life they extinguish, fuels the ritual as their powers grow visibly with every drop of blood spilled.
As the violence unfolds before me, a desperate plea forms in my mind. I find myself instinctively drawing upon the ancient rites I’ve only heard about in hushed tones, the ones that speak to the earth, the sky, and the spirits that dwell within them. Hear the whispers of the ancestors, I find myself thinking as an invocation that taps into the unseen forces binding all of Pachil together.
I just wish they would stop, I think as my mind implores the universe to hear me. See the folly in their ways, see the insanity of this bloodshed. It’s a whisper in my thoughts, a hope more than an expectation. What power do I have against such darkness?
But then, something shifts. It’s almost imperceptible at first, but there’s a tentativeness in Aluxeqwel’s movements, and a flicker of doubt in Teqotlo’s eyes. With their hands stilling mid-air, the deadly ritual is momentarily interrupted. It’s as if my wish has spoken doubts into their ears. The nobles’ whimpering quiets as they, too, sense the change. I dare to breathe, to hope that maybe, just maybe, my silent prayer has made a difference.
“Why?” the two mutter to one another. The question seems to hang in the air, unspoken yet heavy with meaning. Why continue this path of destruction? Why sacrifice so much for power? The doubts grow, amplified by the fears and uncertainties that always linger in the shadows of one’s mind.
I continue to internalize my desire for them to cease their evil ways, to reconsider what they’re doing and spare us. My heart throbs with an urgency, a silent scream into the void, begging for an end to the madness. Stop this now. Let compassion find its way back into your hearts. The thoughts swirl within me like a desperate incantation seeking to break through the darkness.
In the depths of my being, a warmth spreads like an ember of hope ignited by the fervor of my silent entreaties. It’s as if the very essence of Pachil, the spirit of the land itself, stirs in response to my wordless plea. Could it be that the fabric of the world is listening?
Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo glance at each other, fraught with confusion. For a moment, they seem to reconsider, and their resolve starts to waver from the abundance of introspective questions.
The couple’s indecision is as clear as day, and I can’t help but smirk, albeit nervously. Their sudden hesitation is a peculiar pause, seemingly out of place, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder: did my silent pleas somehow reach them? No, it’s a ludicrous thought, one that teases me with the possibility of an unseen influence. It’s too coincidental, too timely.
And yet, I’ve witnessed their abilities, seen what they’re capable of. This is a world where the Eleven, living myths with incomprehensible powers that saved Pachil, have walked among us. Have I stumbled upon something more? The idea is both absurd and, in some inexplicable way, feasible.
For now, though, I focus on the immediate danger that still looms large over us. Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo may have momentarily ceased, but the danger is far from over. With a hesitant curiosity, I dare to test the waters once more. Part of me craves confirmation, another part fears it.
Enough, I mutter under my breath, my thoughts reaching out like fragile tendrils into the turmoil, aiming at the very heart of the conflict. Turn back from this path. The words feel more like a chant, echoing in the recesses of my mind and resonating with an energy I didn’t know I could harness. It’s as if the Eleven themselves lend weight to my words, carrying them to Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel, urging them to halt and reconsider the bloodshed they’re perpetuating.
And then, to my astonishment, there’s a flicker of hesitation in their actions, a momentary lapse that seems too apt to be mere coincidence. The guards, too, appear distracted. My heart skips a beat, disbelief and awe mingling. “Did I... cause that?” I question silently as my gaze darts around, half-expecting an answer from the air itself.
With a mental shake, I refocus. Whether by my silent urging or not, we’ve been granted a reprieve, however brief. And that’s all that matters. For now, I’ll leave the questions, the possibilities, for another time when the stakes aren’t life and death.
Onixem gets up groggily, holding her head and moaning. She starts to come to, slowly registering what’s happening around her. But before she can stand up, her legs give out from beneath her. She droops, falling into the wall to support herself, then slides down, back to the floor.
I don’t let it distract me, concentrating my full attention on her family—I can’t believe these two demons are her family! The pair exchange nods, then reach inside their crimson garments. When their hands reappear, they seemingly have something pinched between their fingers. What are they up to?
In the blink of an eye, they bring their fingers to their mouth and blow, releasing a dense black cloud of smoke. The chamber is engulfed entirely, rendering all visibility nonexistent.
Sounds of the nobles’ shrieks and shouts intermingle with the clattering of weapons and grunts of battle. I reach my arms out, both for protection and to let my hands search for someplace safe. I grow concerned when I can’t see my hands, fearing I may get attacked in this darkness.
Nuqasiq’s voice calls out into the void. A knot forms in my stomach. What if the cultists seize the opportunity and try to kidnap her? I crouch down low, feeling my way toward her along the cold, stone ground, and shout to her to do the same. Occasionally, my hand finds the sticky residue of spilled blood, and I try my best to maneuver around the shallow scarlet pools. I carry on like this until I touch the soft cloth of a tunic or dress. I pull myself closer, calling out to Nuqasiq. But she still hollers at me from another part of the room. Whose garment have I grabbed?
A sharp pain glances my cheek. When I touch it and inspect my hand, I can barely see the blood staining my fingers through the thick smoke. Was I struck? I scurry away, crawling low on the ground to avoid any more errant attacks. The black cloud slowly starts to lift, allowing me to see sandals and boots shifting about. Bright purple cloth spills onto the floor, and I recognize the color immediately from earlier in the evening: Nuqasiq’s dress!
I drag myself along the ground, hurrying over to her. Although the smoke is still pretty thick, I can see her confused expression as her head swivels about, searching for something. She startles when I touch her hand, but sighs in relief upon quickly recognizing me.
“Sun and sky!” she exclaims. “What just happened?”
“We need to check on Onixem—she took a hard blow to the head,” I inform her. “And then, we’ll need to ask her what is going on with her parents.”
The grim aftermath of the events reveals itself as the dark cloud clears. Twisted bodies lay lifeless on the floor. Nobles, finding their loved ones, weep over the slain bodies of those sacrificed by Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel amidst the spilled blood. The guards who remain secure the area, restraining the surviving cult loyalists while inspecting the dead.
While taking in the gruesome scene, I notice two peculiar items of note: There is no sign of Aluxeqwel nor Teqotlo anywhere, and the doors to all entrances of the throne room remain secured. There is no way to go in or out of this chamber, with everyone forced to stay within. So where did those two go? How could they possibly disappear, vanishing into the smoke?
As if hearing my internal questions, Nuqasiq responds after releasing a drawn out sigh. “The throne,” she says simply, shaking her head in disgust. Then, she clarifies, “They must have known of the Arbiter’s hidden passageway. Those two clearly slipped away after causing the distraction.”
“A hidden passageway?” I parrot. “How is such a thing possible?”
“Quauhtema,” she responds. She waves, motioning for me to join her, and we make our way toward one of the entrances. She stands before a doe-eyed guard, who starts to caution her about leaving. “It’s apparent we’re no safer in here than we are out there,” she states. “Allow us to leave so that we may be more useful to the assault on our home city.”
A confused and terrified look remains on the young man’s face. After a long stare down, he eventually concedes. He cowers as he opens the door, as if expecting to be struck for doing so. It’s a strange reaction, but I place it in the back of my mind, for now, and we rush into the hall.
“Shouldn’t we chase after them, down the secret passage?” I ask. But then I realize the folly of my question just as Nuqasiq answers it.
“They may likely be armed and defend themselves,” she says. “Barring any torchlight we could find, they could attack us in the dark. And I don’t see you nor me brandishing any weapons.”
“The guards,” I start, but she interjects again.
“They must tend to the quraqas,” she states. “It will be okay, Haesan. We’ll find them. The passages don’t go far.”
As we make our way hastily down the hallway, Nuqasiq explains. “Quauhtema was the last overseer of all the factions of Pachil. When the Timuaq appeared, he attempted to interact with them peacefully. He capitulated, regularly giving into their demands by conceding land and allowing certain factions to be indentured servants to the titans… he bent over backwards to appease them. It was never enough.”
We dodge oncoming guards sprinting to various areas of the palace grounds where a battle is raging. We’re moving so quickly that I lose my bearings, wondering where we’re heading. All around us, the sounds of walls crumbling, weapons colliding, and people dying resonate throughout the building. We can’t escape the noise, and I begin to believe it will carry over into my dreams, should I live to have another night’s sleep.
Not missing a step—both literally and figuratively—Nuqasiq continues as we rush outside, speeding toward a watchtower. “It became blatantly apparent that the Timuaq would never be appeased. Thus, in case the time came, Quauhtema created a secret passage by the throne. Should trouble arrive at the palace’s gates, he would be able to slip away, undetected. Somehow, those two zealots learned of the hidden hallway and utilized it for themselves. How they came to finding the secret lever is…”
Her voice trails off as we find ourselves at the precipice of the palace grounds, where a ghastly tableau unfolds before our eyes. Chaos and carnage make up the landscape of the once-pristine courtyards of the palace. Men and women lie scattered like fallen leaves, bearing the grotesque signatures of combat—flesh charred and blackened, wounds gaping open in silent screams. The stench of burned flesh penetrates the senses, and the iron tang of blood clings to the back of the throat, suffocating and inescapable.
Among the fallen, the survivors move like specters, dragging their broken bodies across the ground as they leave behind trails of blood and viscera. Their cries of agony and defiance pierce the tumult, reaching out to any who would listen and offer them aid.
The battlefield is alive with the clash of weaponry, resonating with the sounds of Tapeu warriors locked in a desperate struggle against the onslaught. They move with a grim determination, carving arcs with their bronze blades against their foes. But the cultists, shrouded in ashen gray and blood-red robes, are relentless. They wield their dark magic with a chilling precision, conjuring orbs of fire that hurtle through the air like malevolent stars, crashing into the ranks of defenders with devastating destruction.
The ground itself is scorched and scarred, while buildings that once stood as proud symbols of Tapeu heritage now burn. The grounds are noticeably vulnerable, as zealots pour in through the large, gaping hole piercing through the stone wall that once protected this palace. The structures collapse under the weight of a never-ending assault, sending plumes of smoke and ash skyward.
“This way,” Nuqasiq instructs, and we sprint toward a small, fortified building adjacent to the walls. Commanders bark orders, stirring warriors into action. We move swiftly past the commotion and dart up a series of long stairs. Reaching the top, Nuqasiq pulls me in one direction, sending me along the edge of the barrier. Looking down, a swarm of bodies shift and squirm about, like watching snakes in a pit. There’s no order to the calamity below; just repeating the image of warriors hacking at one another over and over again. The Tapeu warriors are pressed with their backs against the walls as the Eye in the Flame try to force their way through.
We descend another set of stone stairs, leading us to an isolated section of the palace grounds with a small, narrow door that exits onto the Qapauma streets. The battle fiercely wages on behind us as we reach the entryway. “If we slip through here,” Nuqasiq says, “we can avoid being where the enemy is attempting to enter.”
“But what about the people?” I ask, stunned. “The servants? The other warriors? The nobles?”
“They will need to fend for themselves,” she says coldly. “We mustn’t risk our necks—we can accomplish more if we’re alive than if we’re dead.”
“Well, of course, that’s obviously true,” I say, confounded. “However, abandoning those who look to us for guidance and protection contradicts the very essence of leadership. I believe that true strength is measured by how we extend our hands to those in need, even when the shadows loom large. If we forsake them now, we forsake the heart of what it means to stand together as a people. And if we lose that, what are we really fighting to save?”
She looks upon me with disappointment. “You have much to learn, Haesan.” She may believe this, but to me, it is she who appears to have much to learn. Is she that jaded by life as a noble and being Queen Mother to the land’s ruler that she spurns her obligation to aid our people?
A swath of color catches my attention. Filling the streets, dozens of men and women in jade green tunics beneath matted down leather armor rush into battle. They seemingly emerge out of nowhere, until I see the mouth of a dark tunnel beneath the streets; more catacombs that they’ve navigated. Though their faces are shrouded by magenta cloth to conceal their individual identities, I know right away who’s coming to the palace’s aid.
“The Qente Waila,” I breathlessly mutter to myself.
They fight valiantly, storming into the conflict with vigor as they strike anything in a red or gray robe. Their bronze swords are shorter with a curved blade, requiring them to get up to their enemy’s face and slash with it like a scythe. The directness of this combat throws the Eye in the Flame loyalists off guard, unprepared for any counterattacks when their efforts miss their target. Scores of cultists are felled, unable to match the tenacity of the Jade Hummingbird.
An explosion sends people and debris soaring high into the air. Nervous, I panically search for the source the noise. From far off toward the edge of the city, towers and towers of fire thunderously erupt, sending black smoke billowing up toward the heavens. I narrow my eyes, eagerly seeking for an answer as to what’s happening. But Nuqasiq provides the answer once again.
“More have breached the gates,” she says emotionlessly. “This assault of theirs on the palace only involved the numbers already within Qapauma at its start. It appears their reinforcements have arrived.”
Though I can’t see well enough to definitively confirm this, a large surge of specks flood into the streets. They charge toward us, toward the palace, taking out anything in their path. Houses crumble into clouds of dust and piles of rubble. How can they do this to homes constructed of stone? More specks helplessly scatter out of the way, only to get decimated by whatever is coming through the outer walls. Heading directly toward the only warriors putting up any formidable fight: the Qente Waila.
Clad in rich green, the warriors mob the enemy in gray robes. For a moment, they’re able to drive back the Eye in the Flame cultists, hacking and slashing their way toward progress. The efforts of those in ashen gray are futile, as the Jade Hummingbird cut through their ranks with ease. The two combatants feel mismatched, as the more-skilled Qente Waila appears to make quick work of those seeking to penetrate the palace walls.
However, a horrific sight eventually catches up to the palace defenders. A mass of gray, dead bodies rushes the palace walls. They appear to be human, yet their skin sags off their bones and blackened, rotting muscles like wet garments drying on a clothesline. Although the combatants of the Jade Hummingbird fight valiantly, the gray beasts tear through scores of their numbers like cleaving through jungle vines.
The sheer volume of these terrifying monstrosities overwhelms the Qente Waila. Now they are the ones being driven back, and at this rate, their backs will soon be pressed against the palace walls and pinned by these gray beasts. Fire rains down upon them, loosed by the sorcerers in red standing untouched behind the swell of these creatures. Will the Jade Hummingbird be able to withstand this rush of enemies? How can they fight back? With such a tremendous force, what can turn the tide of this battle?
It’s then that a thought occurs to me. To my right is a series of towering stone structures weaving about the city streets and into the palace. These are Qapauma’s aqueducts, the clever Tapeu mechanisms providing fresh water from the springs of the nearby mountains. Perhaps I can extinguish the flames and flush out these invaders. I just need a way to divert the flow, maybe block it at some point in the channel.
“To the rooftops!” I shout, hoping someone hears me. If they can get above the incoming forces, they won’t get swept away by the floodwaters. Maybe they can even use the height to their advantage. Or, at the very least, they’ll avoid becoming alpaca for the slaughter.
As Nuqasiq calls after me, I race down the wall and climb up the stone structure, speeding down the channel. I start to slip, but mercifully catch myself before tumbling over the ledge and splattering onto the streets below. Eventually, I arrive at a series of wooden mechanisms and levers, and before me stands a colossal stone wheel that’s embedded with intricately carved channels resembling the aqueduct’s paths. I take a brief moment to marvel at the thoughtful design, which allows for the redirection of water—a critical asset in times of fire, or in this case, a siege.
I place my hands on the wheel’s rough, weathered surface, likely unturned for generations. With my breath held tight, I strain every muscle in my body to push against the stubborn mechanism. The wheel resists, but my desperation is far greater than its refusal to budge. With a determined heave, the wheel begrudgingly begins to move.
The ancient mechanisms hidden within the aqueduct’s bowels awaken. Stone grinds against stone, and the network of channels and gates, dormant for so long, responds. The water first hesitates, then diverts toward its newfound purpose.
Below, the redirected water surges into the city streets, sweeping through the avenues. The fires that ravaged the battleground sputter and die under the onslaught of water. Caught in the unexpected flood, the creatures find their advance halted as they’re thrown into disarray. Most of the Jade Hummingbird warriors had heeded my calls and anticipated the change, finding refuge on steps, rooftops, and ledges, evading the rush of water. However, a few unfortunate warriors are caught off guard by the sudden deluge, and get swept away by the indiscriminate fury of the flood.
From atop the walls, I witness the waters reclaim Qapauma’s embattled streets. With the task complete, I sigh in relief. With the invaders momentarily diverted, it gives our defenders a chance to regroup. They’re quickly able to seize the advantage, rallying against their disoriented foes.
My heart suddenly sinks as I see figures of another approaching army from the north, their silhouettes ominous and foreboding against the reddening evening sky. I strain my eyes, trying to discern any identifying banners or armor that might reveal their allegiance. But distance and the failing light cloak their identities in mystery. My imagination conjures up the worst scenarios—reinforcements for the Eye in the Flame, perhaps, or another faction seizing the opportunity to claim the city in its weakened state.
As the first lines come into clearer view, the dread tightens its grip around my heart. Who are they? Friends or foes? The uncertainty is maddening. I must warn the others, prepare for the worst. But even as I think to turn and race back to the palace, to rally our forces for another potential battle, a part of me clings to a fragile hope. Could they possibly be allies, arriving at our darkest hour? Or have I merely delayed our impending doom?
As the fighting around us intensifies, Teqotlo, Aluxeqwel, and Onixem glare at one another in silence. Questions flood my mind as I feebly attempt to grasp what Onixem just said. Those are her parents? Are they part of the Eye in the Flame? But Onixem is a member of the Qente Waila… right?
“Daughter,” the woman, Aluxeqwel, says with a hiss. “So nice of you to join us.”
Onixem slowly unsheathes a dagger from the harness at her hip. “The moment I discovered the Eye in the Flame were near, I knew you two would come out of the dregs to join your band of lunatics here in Qapauma.”
“Ah, yes, as you play at Rebels with your imaginative friends,” Aluxeqwel mocks. “How quaint.” At this, Onixem snarls, which only amuses Aluxeqwel further. Onixem’s mother lets out a theatrical sigh, glancing solemnly at the ritual dagger in her hand before continuing, “I really had hoped you would come to your senses when you were finished challenging our authority. You’ve gone long enough masquerading as some freedom fighter, but it’s time you stopped fooling around and return to your family.”
“I have no family so long as you continue to support those cultists,” Onixem growls.
“This is the rare moment where I wished you were more like your brother,” Teqotlo says. “He’s completely useless, but at least he knows when to get out of the way.”
“Where is Tonatli?” Onixem demands, searching the chamber. Her eyes shift between the two in crimson robes, who remain unresponsive and unemotional. This irks Onixem, causing her to become more assertive, punctuating each word. “Where. Is. Tonatli.”
Before they can respond, two palace guards disengage, slipping away from their clashes with militants loyal to the Eye in the Flame. They charge at Onixem’s parents, coiling back with their bronze swords. Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel step back in a slight crouch, their hands gradually coming aflame, with fire creeping up their wrists. As the guards are about to swing, the pair thrust their arms at their approaching targets, the tip of the dagger pointing at their foe, releasing a burst of fire from their hands. The blast sends the two young men flying backward, their leather armor catching fire as if it were mere tinder. They writhe in pain on the ground, rolling about as they desperately try to put out the flames, but the fire refuses to be extinguished.
Onixem glares, overcome with fury. She starts to charge at her parents, but their eyes glow a terrifying red. “You don’t want to do that, my child,” Aluxeqwel states. The fire that swirls about her hands grows larger. Onixem reluctantly heeds the warnings, sliding to a halt and firmly gripping her dagger until her knuckles turn white.
“Now, where were we?” the female cultist rhetorically asks. In a flash, she and Teqotlo dart over to another set of nobles. They shout something inaudibly again—is it Ulxa?—before slitting their victims’ throats, as they had done before. They gasp and gurgle before dropping to their knees, a stream of scarlet spurts from their necks.
Enraged and no longer able to restrain herself, Onixem storms over to her parents, who bend over to pool the victims’ blood into their hands. Lowering her shoulder, she rams her mother, knocking her to the ground. As she turns to her father, however, her face is met with the butt of his dagger. It crashes into her forehead, and blood streams down her nose and cheek. She staggers backward, shaking her head to rid herself of the dizziness. With unsteady steps, she makes another attempt at colliding with her father, but he steps aside and easily dodges her efforts. She’s tossed into the wall, slamming into it with a mighty thump.
“We warned you not to do that,” he halfheartedly scolds.
Helping Aluxeqwel up, the two resume their ritual. They collect their victims’ blood, then make a few hand gestures in the air. A bright, ethereal, orange glow radiates from their silhouettes, and they begin illuminating the chamber like living torches. They appear like someone experiencing the warmth of the sun after a long, harsh winter; they grunt and groan, rolling their heads back as though enjoying a surge of power and energy that flows through them.
The nobles stand about, shrieking and yelling, but doing nothing to overwhelm the two cultists. A few have run to the chamber entrances, pulling and tugging at the heavy wooden doors. Stubbornly, they don’t budge, no matter how much force the nobles use. Around each wooden beam, an ominous orange glow radiates from it, as though it’s been supernaturally secured in place. Some have taken to clawing at the walls, digging their nails into the stone until their fingers begin to bleed. All this effort, yet doing nothing to challenge nor confront Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel.
Who will stop this madness? What can I do? I feel helpless, watching this horrific sight, but unable to apprehend or accost them to put an end to this. Desperation grips me like a noose tightening around my heart as I witness the unfolding chaos. Frozen by the horror of inaction, I’m tormented by the thought that perhaps we are all too ensnared in our own terror to rise against the evil that has breached the palace.
Draped in their crimson garments, Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo move among the nobility with a predatory grace that chills my blood. Each step they take, each life they extinguish, fuels the ritual as their powers grow visibly with every drop of blood spilled.
As the violence unfolds before me, a desperate plea forms in my mind. I find myself instinctively drawing upon the ancient rites I’ve only heard about in hushed tones, the ones that speak to the earth, the sky, and the spirits that dwell within them. Hear the whispers of the ancestors, I find myself thinking as an invocation that taps into the unseen forces binding all of Pachil together.
I just wish they would stop, I think as my mind implores the universe to hear me. See the folly in their ways, see the insanity of this bloodshed. It’s a whisper in my thoughts, a hope more than an expectation. What power do I have against such darkness?
But then, something shifts. It’s almost imperceptible at first, but there’s a tentativeness in Aluxeqwel’s movements, and a flicker of doubt in Teqotlo’s eyes. With their hands stilling mid-air, the deadly ritual is momentarily interrupted. It’s as if my wish has spoken doubts into their ears. The nobles’ whimpering quiets as they, too, sense the change. I dare to breathe, to hope that maybe, just maybe, my silent prayer has made a difference.
“Why?” the two mutter to one another. The question seems to hang in the air, unspoken yet heavy with meaning. Why continue this path of destruction? Why sacrifice so much for power? The doubts grow, amplified by the fears and uncertainties that always linger in the shadows of one’s mind.
I continue to internalize my desire for them to cease their evil ways, to reconsider what they’re doing and spare us. My heart throbs with an urgency, a silent scream into the void, begging for an end to the madness. Stop this now. Let compassion find its way back into your hearts. The thoughts swirl within me like a desperate incantation seeking to break through the darkness.
In the depths of my being, a warmth spreads like an ember of hope ignited by the fervor of my silent entreaties. It’s as if the very essence of Pachil, the spirit of the land itself, stirs in response to my wordless plea. Could it be that the fabric of the world is listening?
Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo glance at each other, fraught with confusion. For a moment, they seem to reconsider, and their resolve starts to waver from the abundance of introspective questions.
The couple’s indecision is as clear as day, and I can’t help but smirk, albeit nervously. Their sudden hesitation is a peculiar pause, seemingly out of place, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder: did my silent pleas somehow reach them? No, it’s a ludicrous thought, one that teases me with the possibility of an unseen influence. It’s too coincidental, too timely.
And yet, I’ve witnessed their abilities, seen what they’re capable of. This is a world where the Eleven, living myths with incomprehensible powers that saved Pachil, have walked among us. Have I stumbled upon something more? The idea is both absurd and, in some inexplicable way, feasible.
For now, though, I focus on the immediate danger that still looms large over us. Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo may have momentarily ceased, but the danger is far from over. With a hesitant curiosity, I dare to test the waters once more. Part of me craves confirmation, another part fears it.
Enough, I mutter under my breath, my thoughts reaching out like fragile tendrils into the turmoil, aiming at the very heart of the conflict. Turn back from this path. The words feel more like a chant, echoing in the recesses of my mind and resonating with an energy I didn’t know I could harness. It’s as if the Eleven themselves lend weight to my words, carrying them to Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel, urging them to halt and reconsider the bloodshed they’re perpetuating.
And then, to my astonishment, there’s a flicker of hesitation in their actions, a momentary lapse that seems too apt to be mere coincidence. The guards, too, appear distracted. My heart skips a beat, disbelief and awe mingling. “Did I... cause that?” I question silently as my gaze darts around, half-expecting an answer from the air itself.
With a mental shake, I refocus. Whether by my silent urging or not, we’ve been granted a reprieve, however brief. And that’s all that matters. For now, I’ll leave the questions, the possibilities, for another time when the stakes aren’t life and death.
Onixem gets up groggily, holding her head and moaning. She starts to come to, slowly registering what’s happening around her. But before she can stand up, her legs give out from beneath her. She droops, falling into the wall to support herself, then slides down, back to the floor.
I don’t let it distract me, concentrating my full attention on her family—I can’t believe these two demons are her family! The pair exchange nods, then reach inside their crimson garments. When their hands reappear, they seemingly have something pinched between their fingers. What are they up to?
In the blink of an eye, they bring their fingers to their mouth and blow, releasing a dense black cloud of smoke. The chamber is engulfed entirely, rendering all visibility nonexistent.
Sounds of the nobles’ shrieks and shouts intermingle with the clattering of weapons and grunts of battle. I reach my arms out, both for protection and to let my hands search for someplace safe. I grow concerned when I can’t see my hands, fearing I may get attacked in this darkness.
Nuqasiq’s voice calls out into the void. A knot forms in my stomach. What if the cultists seize the opportunity and try to kidnap her? I crouch down low, feeling my way toward her along the cold, stone ground, and shout to her to do the same. Occasionally, my hand finds the sticky residue of spilled blood, and I try my best to maneuver around the shallow scarlet pools. I carry on like this until I touch the soft cloth of a tunic or dress. I pull myself closer, calling out to Nuqasiq. But she still hollers at me from another part of the room. Whose garment have I grabbed?
A sharp pain glances my cheek. When I touch it and inspect my hand, I can barely see the blood staining my fingers through the thick smoke. Was I struck? I scurry away, crawling low on the ground to avoid any more errant attacks. The black cloud slowly starts to lift, allowing me to see sandals and boots shifting about. Bright purple cloth spills onto the floor, and I recognize the color immediately from earlier in the evening: Nuqasiq’s dress!
I drag myself along the ground, hurrying over to her. Although the smoke is still pretty thick, I can see her confused expression as her head swivels about, searching for something. She startles when I touch her hand, but sighs in relief upon quickly recognizing me.
“Sun and sky!” she exclaims. “What just happened?”
“We need to check on Onixem—she took a hard blow to the head,” I inform her. “And then, we’ll need to ask her what is going on with her parents.”
The grim aftermath of the events reveals itself as the dark cloud clears. Twisted bodies lay lifeless on the floor. Nobles, finding their loved ones, weep over the slain bodies of those sacrificed by Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel amidst the spilled blood. The guards who remain secure the area, restraining the surviving cult loyalists while inspecting the dead.
While taking in the gruesome scene, I notice two peculiar items of note: There is no sign of Aluxeqwel nor Teqotlo anywhere, and the doors to all entrances of the throne room remain secured. There is no way to go in or out of this chamber, with everyone forced to stay within. So where did those two go? How could they possibly disappear, vanishing into the smoke?
As if hearing my internal questions, Nuqasiq responds after releasing a drawn out sigh. “The throne,” she says simply, shaking her head in disgust. Then, she clarifies, “They must have known of the Arbiter’s hidden passageway. Those two clearly slipped away after causing the distraction.”
“A hidden passageway?” I parrot. “How is such a thing possible?”
“Quauhtema,” she responds. She waves, motioning for me to join her, and we make our way toward one of the entrances. She stands before a doe-eyed guard, who starts to caution her about leaving. “It’s apparent we’re no safer in here than we are out there,” she states. “Allow us to leave so that we may be more useful to the assault on our home city.”
A confused and terrified look remains on the young man’s face. After a long stare down, he eventually concedes. He cowers as he opens the door, as if expecting to be struck for doing so. It’s a strange reaction, but I place it in the back of my mind, for now, and we rush into the hall.
“Shouldn’t we chase after them, down the secret passage?” I ask. But then I realize the folly of my question just as Nuqasiq answers it.
“They may likely be armed and defend themselves,” she says. “Barring any torchlight we could find, they could attack us in the dark. And I don’t see you nor me brandishing any weapons.”
“The guards,” I start, but she interjects again.
“They must tend to the quraqas,” she states. “It will be okay, Haesan. We’ll find them. The passages don’t go far.”
As we make our way hastily down the hallway, Nuqasiq explains. “Quauhtema was the last overseer of all the factions of Pachil. When the Timuaq appeared, he attempted to interact with them peacefully. He capitulated, regularly giving into their demands by conceding land and allowing certain factions to be indentured servants to the titans… he bent over backwards to appease them. It was never enough.”
We dodge oncoming guards sprinting to various areas of the palace grounds where a battle is raging. We’re moving so quickly that I lose my bearings, wondering where we’re heading. All around us, the sounds of walls crumbling, weapons colliding, and people dying resonate throughout the building. We can’t escape the noise, and I begin to believe it will carry over into my dreams, should I live to have another night’s sleep.
Not missing a step—both literally and figuratively—Nuqasiq continues as we rush outside, speeding toward a watchtower. “It became blatantly apparent that the Timuaq would never be appeased. Thus, in case the time came, Quauhtema created a secret passage by the throne. Should trouble arrive at the palace’s gates, he would be able to slip away, undetected. Somehow, those two zealots learned of the hidden hallway and utilized it for themselves. How they came to finding the secret lever is…”
Her voice trails off as we find ourselves at the precipice of the palace grounds, where a ghastly tableau unfolds before our eyes. Chaos and carnage make up the landscape of the once-pristine courtyards of the palace. Men and women lie scattered like fallen leaves, bearing the grotesque signatures of combat—flesh charred and blackened, wounds gaping open in silent screams. The stench of burned flesh penetrates the senses, and the iron tang of blood clings to the back of the throat, suffocating and inescapable.
Among the fallen, the survivors move like specters, dragging their broken bodies across the ground as they leave behind trails of blood and viscera. Their cries of agony and defiance pierce the tumult, reaching out to any who would listen and offer them aid.
The battlefield is alive with the clash of weaponry, resonating with the sounds of Tapeu warriors locked in a desperate struggle against the onslaught. They move with a grim determination, carving arcs with their bronze blades against their foes. But the cultists, shrouded in ashen gray and blood-red robes, are relentless. They wield their dark magic with a chilling precision, conjuring orbs of fire that hurtle through the air like malevolent stars, crashing into the ranks of defenders with devastating destruction.
The ground itself is scorched and scarred, while buildings that once stood as proud symbols of Tapeu heritage now burn. The grounds are noticeably vulnerable, as zealots pour in through the large, gaping hole piercing through the stone wall that once protected this palace. The structures collapse under the weight of a never-ending assault, sending plumes of smoke and ash skyward.
“This way,” Nuqasiq instructs, and we sprint toward a small, fortified building adjacent to the walls. Commanders bark orders, stirring warriors into action. We move swiftly past the commotion and dart up a series of long stairs. Reaching the top, Nuqasiq pulls me in one direction, sending me along the edge of the barrier. Looking down, a swarm of bodies shift and squirm about, like watching snakes in a pit. There’s no order to the calamity below; just repeating the image of warriors hacking at one another over and over again. The Tapeu warriors are pressed with their backs against the walls as the Eye in the Flame try to force their way through.
We descend another set of stone stairs, leading us to an isolated section of the palace grounds with a small, narrow door that exits onto the Qapauma streets. The battle fiercely wages on behind us as we reach the entryway. “If we slip through here,” Nuqasiq says, “we can avoid being where the enemy is attempting to enter.”
“But what about the people?” I ask, stunned. “The servants? The other warriors? The nobles?”
“They will need to fend for themselves,” she says coldly. “We mustn’t risk our necks—we can accomplish more if we’re alive than if we’re dead.”
“Well, of course, that’s obviously true,” I say, confounded. “However, abandoning those who look to us for guidance and protection contradicts the very essence of leadership. I believe that true strength is measured by how we extend our hands to those in need, even when the shadows loom large. If we forsake them now, we forsake the heart of what it means to stand together as a people. And if we lose that, what are we really fighting to save?”
She looks upon me with disappointment. “You have much to learn, Haesan.” She may believe this, but to me, it is she who appears to have much to learn. Is she that jaded by life as a noble and being Queen Mother to the land’s ruler that she spurns her obligation to aid our people?
A swath of color catches my attention. Filling the streets, dozens of men and women in jade green tunics beneath matted down leather armor rush into battle. They seemingly emerge out of nowhere, until I see the mouth of a dark tunnel beneath the streets; more catacombs that they’ve navigated. Though their faces are shrouded by magenta cloth to conceal their individual identities, I know right away who’s coming to the palace’s aid.
“The Qente Waila,” I breathlessly mutter to myself.
They fight valiantly, storming into the conflict with vigor as they strike anything in a red or gray robe. Their bronze swords are shorter with a curved blade, requiring them to get up to their enemy’s face and slash with it like a scythe. The directness of this combat throws the Eye in the Flame loyalists off guard, unprepared for any counterattacks when their efforts miss their target. Scores of cultists are felled, unable to match the tenacity of the Jade Hummingbird.
An explosion sends people and debris soaring high into the air. Nervous, I panically search for the source the noise. From far off toward the edge of the city, towers and towers of fire thunderously erupt, sending black smoke billowing up toward the heavens. I narrow my eyes, eagerly seeking for an answer as to what’s happening. But Nuqasiq provides the answer once again.
“More have breached the gates,” she says emotionlessly. “This assault of theirs on the palace only involved the numbers already within Qapauma at its start. It appears their reinforcements have arrived.”
Though I can’t see well enough to definitively confirm this, a large surge of specks flood into the streets. They charge toward us, toward the palace, taking out anything in their path. Houses crumble into clouds of dust and piles of rubble. How can they do this to homes constructed of stone? More specks helplessly scatter out of the way, only to get decimated by whatever is coming through the outer walls. Heading directly toward the only warriors putting up any formidable fight: the Qente Waila.
Clad in rich green, the warriors mob the enemy in gray robes. For a moment, they’re able to drive back the Eye in the Flame cultists, hacking and slashing their way toward progress. The efforts of those in ashen gray are futile, as the Jade Hummingbird cut through their ranks with ease. The two combatants feel mismatched, as the more-skilled Qente Waila appears to make quick work of those seeking to penetrate the palace walls.
However, a horrific sight eventually catches up to the palace defenders. A mass of gray, dead bodies rushes the palace walls. They appear to be human, yet their skin sags off their bones and blackened, rotting muscles like wet garments drying on a clothesline. Although the combatants of the Jade Hummingbird fight valiantly, the gray beasts tear through scores of their numbers like cleaving through jungle vines.
The sheer volume of these terrifying monstrosities overwhelms the Qente Waila. Now they are the ones being driven back, and at this rate, their backs will soon be pressed against the palace walls and pinned by these gray beasts. Fire rains down upon them, loosed by the sorcerers in red standing untouched behind the swell of these creatures. Will the Jade Hummingbird be able to withstand this rush of enemies? How can they fight back? With such a tremendous force, what can turn the tide of this battle?
It’s then that a thought occurs to me. To my right is a series of towering stone structures weaving about the city streets and into the palace. These are Qapauma’s aqueducts, the clever Tapeu mechanisms providing fresh water from the springs of the nearby mountains. Perhaps I can extinguish the flames and flush out these invaders. I just need a way to divert the flow, maybe block it at some point in the channel.
“To the rooftops!” I shout, hoping someone hears me. If they can get above the incoming forces, they won’t get swept away by the floodwaters. Maybe they can even use the height to their advantage. Or, at the very least, they’ll avoid becoming alpaca for the slaughter.
As Nuqasiq calls after me, I race down the wall and climb up the stone structure, speeding down the channel. I start to slip, but mercifully catch myself before tumbling over the ledge and splattering onto the streets below. Eventually, I arrive at a series of wooden mechanisms and levers, and before me stands a colossal stone wheel that’s embedded with intricately carved channels resembling the aqueduct’s paths. I take a brief moment to marvel at the thoughtful design, which allows for the redirection of water—a critical asset in times of fire, or in this case, a siege.
I place my hands on the wheel’s rough, weathered surface, likely unturned for generations. With my breath held tight, I strain every muscle in my body to push against the stubborn mechanism. The wheel resists, but my desperation is far greater than its refusal to budge. With a determined heave, the wheel begrudgingly begins to move.
The ancient mechanisms hidden within the aqueduct’s bowels awaken. Stone grinds against stone, and the network of channels and gates, dormant for so long, responds. The water first hesitates, then diverts toward its newfound purpose.
Below, the redirected water surges into the city streets, sweeping through the avenues. The fires that ravaged the battleground sputter and die under the onslaught of water. Caught in the unexpected flood, the creatures find their advance halted as they’re thrown into disarray. Most of the Jade Hummingbird warriors had heeded my calls and anticipated the change, finding refuge on steps, rooftops, and ledges, evading the rush of water. However, a few unfortunate warriors are caught off guard by the sudden deluge, and get swept away by the indiscriminate fury of the flood.
From atop the walls, I witness the waters reclaim Qapauma’s embattled streets. With the task complete, I sigh in relief. With the invaders momentarily diverted, it gives our defenders a chance to regroup. They’re quickly able to seize the advantage, rallying against their disoriented foes.
My heart suddenly sinks as I see figures of another approaching army from the north, their silhouettes ominous and foreboding against the reddening evening sky. I strain my eyes, trying to discern any identifying banners or armor that might reveal their allegiance. But distance and the failing light cloak their identities in mystery. My imagination conjures up the worst scenarios—reinforcements for the Eye in the Flame, perhaps, or another faction seizing the opportunity to claim the city in its weakened state.
As the first lines come into clearer view, the dread tightens its grip around my heart. Who are they? Friends or foes? The uncertainty is maddening. I must warn the others, prepare for the worst. But even as I think to turn and race back to the palace, to rally our forces for another potential battle, a part of me clings to a fragile hope. Could they possibly be allies, arriving at our darkest hour? Or have I merely delayed our impending doom?
