Revolutions

146 - Haesan

There's a stillness that comes before every storm, the kind that makes the tiny hairs on your skin stand on end before the first gust of wind stirs the air. The world might lull you into believing that nothing terrible could happen. But you feel it before you ever see it. The way the sky suddenly darkens just a little too quickly. Or how the birds fall silent, vanishing from sight as if they know better than to stick around.

I know that kind of stillness too well. It's the stillness in a noble's court before someone's life is quietly ruined by a careless rumor. It's the stillness in a merchant's house before debts are called and fortunes crumble. And it's the stillness I feel now, watching two bands of warriors prepare to tear each other apart.

The breeze is light, carrying ash and dust from the city's ruins. It's difficult to define the figures in the dimming light among the devastation. The two armies circle each other like serpents coiled in the sun, waiting for the right moment to strike. I've watched Achope merchants scramble to prepare their water vessels as the winds shifted too suddenly, watched their faces pale when they realized it was too late to leave port. But even then, they knew what was coming—what to expect.

The first strike comes almost without warning. Taqsame moves first. His obsidian sword flashes in the dying light as he charges straight for Achutli, who stands waiting like a man in no hurry. I can't tell if it's arrogance or certainty in his magic, but he doesn't move until the last possible moment. He meets Taqsame's strike with a practiced block. Shadowed tendrils curl around his rival's blade like some kind of living smoke.

Suddenly, more of Achutli's shadows lash out, snaking through the battlefield. They pull men into their depths as easily as a fisherman's net. Taqsame's warriors charge like jaguars starved for days. Blades sing through the air, but those loyal to Achutli won't yield. They press forward like a river of loose stone, meeting every strike with one of their own.

The Qantua warriors by my side stand rigid. I can almost hear the silent conversation passing between them. It's in the way their gazes linger on Taqsame's advancing warriors, in the way their bodies tense with hesitation. Taqsame is their blood. Their comrades fight for him now, for his ambition, his claim to something greater. And the Qantua, above all else, follow strength. They've been assigned by the Queen Mother to protect me, yes, but it's evident they'll leave me the moment it becomes clear which side has the upper hand.

I can only watch as Taqsame and Achutli rip into each other with all the force of a hurricane. It's raw, violent, and I realize with a sinking feeling that there's no stopping this storm. I want to turn away, to unsee the raw, unchecked rage twisting their faces, but I can't.

This is a fight that goes beyond blood or pride. It's as if everything they've lost, everything they've endured, has been funneled into this violent, unyielding clash. They've come too far, believe they've sacrificed too much for any of this to end peacefully. There's no pulling them back from this edge. All I can do is brace myself for the inevitable carnage.

Xelhua grips my arm, pulling me back from the edge of the battle. "Stay close," he mutters, his eyes darting between the combatants, as if he can sense something worse coming. "We've got to avoid getting thrown into the middle of this duel."

I barely register his words. My gaze is fixed on the center of the fight. Sparks fly as the two men snarl and spit venomous words at each other. There's a sudden, unstoppable surge of bodies colliding, fists swinging, blades cutting through the air. The Qantua fight like they've already claimed victory, each swing of their jagged clubs and slashing swords brings them one step closer to conquering this city that refuses to give in.

The sound of obsidian on metal rings out like a thousand drums, and my ears are flooded with the sickening crunch of shattered shields and broken bones. A Tapeu archer, with a face pale beneath a layer of ash and grime, looses an arrow. The arrow arcs through the air before it finds its mark—buried deep in the throat of a Qantua warrior. He stumbles forward, choking on blood. His hands grasp at the shaft as if he can pull death free from his body.