Revolutions

143 - Walumaq

The moment we crest the ridge, the world rips open.

Xutuina looms before us, a monstrous maw of black rock and sulfurous heat. It exhales clouds of steam that rise like the last breaths of a dying beast. The ground beneath my feet trembles with a low, rumbling pulse, as if it's beating from the heart of the land itself. The air is thick and scorching, like we're already standing at the edge of some infernal abyss. I've never felt anything like it. The crisp, cool mists of Sanqo are a distant memory now, replaced by this sweltering nightmare.

As I step forward, the path widens into a vast basin, cradling the dormant volcano in its stone arms amidst the haze. Jagged boulders litter the ground, their surfaces scarred and blackened. Thin stone walkways stretch out like skeletal fingers, leading to platforms that rest uneasily over the sea of black lava rock. Here and there, cracks in the stone split open to reveal a dull, glowing redness—the volcanic blood of this place, simmering just beneath the surface.

Paxilche comes to a halt beside me, his eyes fixed on the volcanic basin below. He's quiet for a moment, just staring at the stone walkways and charred effigies scattered across the sacred ground. I watch as something shifts in his expression—a twisted mix of reverence and betrayal.

He glances over at me, and when he speaks, his voice is laced with a bitterness that cuts through the oppressive air. "The last time I was here, it was for the trial to determine the Tempered after..." He struggles to finish the thought, about his brother's murder. His lips quiver as his eyes stay focused on the landscape before us. "This place... it used to mean something to my people."

He pauses, swallowing hard, as if the words themselves are too heavy to get out. "If we allow the Eye in the Flame to defile this place..." He shakes his head, the corners of his mouth curling in disgust. "We cannot allow those maniacs to ruin this sacred place."

His voice cracks like a dried leaf beneath a boot. I know this isn't just about the fire priest or the battle that awaits. It's about what's been stolen from him—his brother, his people's trust in the sacred, the very ground he's standing on.

Steam hisses up from fumaroles that dot the terrain. The vapor twists in jagged spirals that seem to claw at the sky. There's no wind here, no movement other than the angry boil of heat and smoke from the terrain itself.

I feel the sweat bead at my brow and run down my cheek in hot rivulets. The others are silent, their faces set in grim focus as they take in the sight of this ruined sanctum. For many, including myself, it's the first time we've stepped foot in such a place, and are overwhelmed by the raw and rugged landscape. Saqatli's jaw is clenched so tight I half expect it to shatter; Upachu's eyes nervously dart across the scene; Teqosa and Síqalat clutch their weapons tightly as they expectantly prepare for any and all threats.

Far off on the other side, the crimson-robed figure stands at the lip of the volcano. He's framed by the glow of molten rock and smoke that twists like serpents around him. From this distance, he seems almost serene, an unsettling calm draped over a sea of chaos. His back is to us, but there's no doubt he knows we're here. He's waiting for us, or perhaps he's just unconcerned with our presence—a disturbing thought.

This priest of fire lifts his hands, and I see them shimmer—not with sweat, but with power, the kind that bends fire to its will. His low and rhythmic chant begins in a language I can't place, though it vibrates in my skull. It's sharp and grating, like metal grinding against stone. As his hands raise higher, the air around him shifts. Fiery illusions flicker into life, dancing in the haze.

The air catches fire before I even hear the first shout. One moment, we're climbing the ashen path, searching the smoking horizon for the priest. The next, it feels like the world is set ablaze, like the mountain itself is trying to shake us off its back.