Revolutions

126 - Inuxeq

My extended stay in the lands north of Tapeu has done nothing to endear them to me—in fact, I may despise them even more now. The dull, lackluster beige that surrounds us has seemed to drain all the life and vigor out of me. I want nothing more to do with these lands, yet my journey continues to keep me here, a prisoner to fate.

This all better be worth it.

The Qantua warriors, too, have become restless. Their mission—to rescue Qapauma from falling to ruin at the hands of the Eye in the Flame—has been achieved. Many now question why they still march, why we continue on to Aimue. There are days when I wonder this myself. But as long as the maniacal cult remains, our duty to restore and maintain peace on Pachil will never be fulfilled.

This doesn't make the breakdown of morale lessen, however. It required a lot of effort to bring the Qantua around to the cause, and it requires even more to maintain it. Grumblings have sprung up around camp, and they've only grown louder and more persistent the further we march. Without the likes of Haesan, or even Sianchu, I fear I may not have the means to rally the continued support necessary to see this mission through.

What was it Teqosa told me, way back in Hilaqta? I ask myself, trying to find some motivation, some inspiration. 'Be genuine, be direct, and be honest.' That was his advice. I should be able to do that... right?

We decide to cross the Maiu Antumalal before setting up camp, to get the most laborious part of the journey out of the way. To our good fortune, the makeshift vessels we used to cross this river previously remain mostly in tact and in fair condition. Like before, it takes us a good portion of the day to traverse, yet it's far from challenging—just what we all need after such a long and arduous journey.

As we press on through the Aimue plains, I find my gaze drifting upwards more often than I'd like to admit. The night sky filled with a scattering of stars holds a singular focus for me—the waning moon. It hangs there, taunting me, its light diminishing with each passing night. Every evening, when the darkness settles over us, I search the heavens, measuring the sliver of light that remains.

The crescent is thinning, retreating into shadow. And with it, my unease grows. The new moon is no longer a distant threat. It's drawing closer, pulling us inexorably toward the impending storm. There's a weight in my chest every time I see that moon, a tightening grip that reminds me of what's at risk, of the lives hanging in the balance. Each glance at the sky feels like a nudge—a push to move faster, to reach Aimue and rally the strength we'll need before the darkness takes over completely.

With the crumbling ruins of Taqeipacha fading into the distance, we finally reach the opposite shore. We are about to break camp when one of the warriors notices a disturbing sight. "Take a look at this," he urgently says to me. He emphatically points to a tangle of torn fabric caught on the jagged remnants of a shattered raft, its deep crimson threads trailing in the surf.

My stomach tightens. The fabric is unmistakable—an Eye in the Flame robe, shredded and frayed, but the sinister shade of blood red used to dye the fibers is unmistakable. It's fresh, too, barely weathered by the elements. The cult has been here, and not long ago.

A ripple of unease spreads through the group as more warriors gather to inspect the threads. The whispers start immediately, carried by the wind like a growing storm. Some talk of turning back, others of abandoning the mission altogether. Fear tightens its grip on the camp.

"Does it ever end?" one warrior mutters, his voice filled with solemn resignation. "We fought them all over Pachil, and now, here they're again. What hope do we have if they're everywhere?"

Another warrior's face contorts into a scowl. "We've been chasing shadows for moons, losing brothers and sisters at every turn. And for what? To walk right into their traps again?"