Revolutions

130 - Walumaq

A flash of lightning splits the sky, revealing the dreadful sight of crimson and gray robes before our eyes. The presence of the figures is unmistakable, the persistent evil that seeks to consume all of Pachil into their darkness. Thunder rumbles a foreboding growl in the distance, and even in the black of night, the smoke visibly rises toward the heavens. The scene is grim, and only likely to get worse.

"They're a never-ending blight on these cursed lands," Paxilche grumbles. "What is it going to take to eradicate these maniacs for good?"

"Evil doesn't die," Atoyaqtli responds, staring intently at the withering city before us. "It adapts, seeping into the cracks we leave behind. We can strike it down, scatter it to the winds, but to eradicate it completely? That's a dream we tell ourselves to keep going."

I watch as the wind lashes against the dilapidated walls, swirling dust and debris around under the glow of the sliver of moon. The cold truth in Atoyaqtli's words come from bitter experience. But even as the darkness of his words settles around me, I can't allow myself to be consumed by it.

It adapts, yes. But so do we.

The cracks may be places where darkness can seep in, but they're also places where hope can take root. If evil is persistent, so, too, must we be. That's the truth I hold onto, the one that keeps me standing tall in the face of everything we've endured.

"The truth is," I say, "we must be ever vigilant, knowing that no matter how many battles we win, the struggle never truly ends. But so long as I breathe, that's the battle I'll fight again and again."

The moon hangs low, a thin crescent that barely illuminates the ruins of Qasiunqa. The city once stood as a testament to Auilqa strength, but now, it's a shadow of its former self. The scent of decay is ever present, a mixture of burned wood and the staleness of blood, carried on the cold breeze that snakes through the broken streets. Once vibrant and alive, the jungle seems to shrink away from the city, as if repelled by the darkness that now consumes it.

We approach the city's outskirts with silent and measured movements. The walls of battered, crumbling buildings are marred by the crude symbols of the cult, that grotesque eye consumed by a singular flame. Memories of Chalaqta flash in my mind, seeing the same twisted marks defiling once-proud stones. My pulse quickens at the sight, the blood surging through my veins like a drumbeat.

Paxilche stands a few paces ahead, closing his eyes in concentration. With a low murmur, he raises his hands to the sky, and the air around us begins to shift. A thick, rolling fog creeps in, slithering between the trees and weathered structures. It swallows the city's edges in a blanket of gray. I can barely see a few paces in front of me, but that's the point. The zealots won't see us coming until it's too late. Paxilche opens his eyes, and they glint with the satisfaction of his work.

"Stay close," I whisper, my voice barely audible above the soft rustling of the wind. "We move as one, strike fast and hard. No mercy."

Atoyaqtli nods, his grip tightening around the hilt of his obsidian sword. Chiqama is by his side, his twin daggers gleaming in the dim light, while Pomaqli and Pomacha flank the rear. Ever the silent predator, Saqatli is already shifting, his body rippling as he takes the form of a jaguar, muscles coiled with the anticipation of the hunt.

We slip into the city like shadows, the fog masking our approach. The streets are eerily silent, yet I can sense them—the Eye in the Flame—lurking in every corner. This place has become their twisted domain, but tonight, we're going to turn it back on them. Tonight, we reclaim this city.

As we weave through the narrow, crumbling streets, I extend my senses, feeling for any source of water in this desolate place. The ground is parched, and the distant rivers of the jungle have long since been diverted or drained. My heart sinks at the barrenness, but I know there's always water—somewhere. I just have to dig deeper. Much deeper.