Revolutions

145 - Teqosa

Victory never feels like it should.

It's like chewing on metal—sharp, bitter, leaving a trace of something unresolved. Even when you survive, part of you stays behind in the fight, like an unhealed wound that aches at the mere memory of each blow.

And the truth is, nothing we build really holds. We rally, we rise, and for a while, we think we've won—only for the ground to shift again, eroding the work like rain on clay. The Timuaq were struck down, but we were left in their shadow, clutching fragments of what we thought was progress. It's as if every struggle is a step forward and two steps back, as though the land itself resists, grinding us down into ruin.

And yet we're here, standing in the wake of another fight, the ash still warm, the pain still raw. We beat the fire priest this time, but the question lingers: what comes next?

I sit on the cooling stone, my fingers brushing the haft of my glaive. Around me, the mountain settles with uneasy groans, as if the ground itself resents what we've done.

The others are scattered across the slope, catching their breath or nursing wounds. Or, more solemnly, mourning the dead. Walumaq stands a few paces away, her turquoise amulet still glowing faintly, like the last ember in a dying fire. Water pools at her feet, evaporating in the strenuous heat. Her hands tremble from the effort it took to wield it. She doesn't say anything—doesn't need to.

Saqatli's ocelot, Nochtl, slinks through the mist, its golden eyes gleaming. It pads toward its companion, who stands exhausted and bruised, brushing ash from his arms. The strange mix of admiration and discomfort on his face tells me he's still processing the animal form he took—something that surprised even him. The ocelot rubs against his leg, but he's too distracted to notice.

And then there's Paxilche.

He's pacing like a caged animal, the storm inside him refusing to die down. I can feel the tension in his steps, the way his fists clench and unclench, lightning dancing along his fingertips. His anger hangs in the air, sharp and unpredictable. He glances at me—once, twice—but neither of us says a word.

This silence won't last, I can assure him.

For now, however, I shift my gaze to the cart, where the llama stands. It chews lazily on a patch of singed grass as if it hadn't just witnessed the near end of the world. Nearby, Upachu mutters to himself. I can't tell if he's praying to the gods or just trying to make sense of everything that's happened.

It's strange, the way battles linger. Even after the dust settles, the scars remain. You revisit every decision, every mistake, over and over until the lines between past and present blur. I should've been faster, should've anticipated the priest's retreat. I try not to allow Paxilche's protests persist, yet they remain, unwelcome. Maybe if I'd driven my glaive into his heart, instead of carving a path through the molten specters, things would've ended differently.

But battles aren't made of "maybes." They're made of what happens, and what you live with afterward.

The obsidian amulet presses into my skin, settling in the narrow space between armor and flesh. It's as if it's found its rightful place there, nestled just above my heart. I glance at Walumaq again, noticing the turquoise stone hanging from her neck, the way it pulses quietly in rhythm with her breath. Though I've known her for only a short while, already I can see that she's changed—more in control, more dangerous.

I close my eyes, feeling a thousand questions swirling inside my mind. Every step we've taken, every fight we've survived—it's leading us somewhere. To Pichaqta. To the fire priest. To something worse waiting in the shadows.

Sualset. The Eleven. The Eye in the Flame.

We're all tangled in the same web, but I can't see the whole design yet. Just fragments—pieces of a shattered clay pot scattered across the battlefield. And the amulets... they're part of it, somehow. Walumaq's, mine. How many more are out there, waiting for someone to claim them? And what happens when they do?