Revolutions

141 - Legido

Something about the city feels wrong the moment you step foot in it.

It's not the towering walls or the endless staircases that stretch toward the heavens. It's the silence, pressing against your skull like a slow-building headache you can't shake. It worms its way under your skin, curling around your ribs, and settles there, heavy and unwelcome. There's something wrong here, something festering beneath the surface, like an infected wound hidden under clean bandages. You can't see it, but you can feel it, the way you feel a splinter buried deep enough to be invisible, but sharp enough to remind you it's there with every breath.

The stone beneath your boots isn't just cold—it's the kind of cold that creeps upward, like it's testing how much of you it can claim. The walls aren't right, either. Too smooth, too deliberate. But then you spot it: cracks running through the stone like thin and jagged veins. Here and there, blackened scars appear scorched deep into the surface.

You catch the faint scent of smoke, clinging to the city's bones. Ahead of you, the streets wind like a maze, every turn revealing walls blackened by fire, homes torn apart and patched together with whatever these people could salvage. The wounds are still fresh. This place is alive, but barely—struggling to hold onto whatever it was before.

The people here watch you. Always watching, though never for too long. They keep their heads down, their gazes flitting toward you like moths to a flame, only to retreat before they get too close. You've never seen anyone like them—shorter, dark-skinned, their faces lined with years of hard work and harder living. They wear simple white tunics, deep red sashes tied around their waists, and most are adorned with modest jewelry—bone, hammered metal, nothing extravagant. They walk quickly, with purpose, but with cautious steps.

A woman's hand snaps around her boy's wrist, yanking him to her side like you're not just dangerous, but contagious. Her fingers dig into his arm, hard enough to make the skin there bloom red. The boy doesn't flinch. He just stares, big eyes locked on you, unblinking, as if you're not real. His gaze clings to you, searching your face like he's hoping to find some proof you're human after all.

The Great Xiatli walks just ahead, detached from the rest of the Legido. The glowing gold of His aura blurs against the dying light. You study Him closer—the dark waves of His hair, the deep tone of His skin—and realize, with a small jolt, how closely He resembles the others. Too closely. It's unsettling, like a reflection that's just slightly off.

But He's meant to be more, you remind yourself. Something beyond what these people could ever be. A being who knows the ground beneath His feet as intimately as the stars above His head. But what if He's not what they say He is? What if He's something else entirely?

Settlers push and shove to get a better view of the scene. You shrug most of them off, fighting to position yourself to best take in the developments. Iker manages close behind, determined this time to not lose track of you. Seeing and feeling his presence amidst the occasional glances over your shoulder is greatly comforting, like there's a warmth that surrounds you with each sight of him.

You shift your gaze to the settlers and soldiers around you. Your people seem to have no fear here. Or at least, you try to convince yourself of that. They walk tall, towering over the people like gods with their armor and weapons gleaming. You have to confess, there's a quiet arrogance in the way they move—this unshakable certainty that nothing and no one here could ever stand against them. Criato wears it like a second skin, his hand resting lazily on his sword, and a smug smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. Ulloa, meanwhile, sneers at the people around him, his lip curled in contempt.

A flash of white catches your eye. You look closer and see them—a group of people moving through the streets, dressed in white and deep red. The streets part before them as though even the walls themselves know to stay out of their way. Priests, maybe. Or something more. Whoever they are, they're different. They don't bow. They don't run. They don't hide.