Revolutions

149 - Haesan

The world tilts beneath me. I feel the ground drop out from under my feet, as if I've stepped off the edge of a cliff. Achutli—the man I've hated, the man I've feared—is gone.

And it shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't feel like this—this knot in my chest, this awful, gaping thing that steals the air from my lungs. But it does. It claws its way through me, leaving nothing but raw, jagged edges in its wake.

I steal a glance toward Taqsame, who remains rooted where he stands, still stunned from Achutli's death, the death of his foe. His sword arm droops, his expression is a mixture of rage and disbelief.

Xelhua's hand clamps down on my shoulder, steadying me. His grip is firm, grounding. But it can't stop the ache.

I try to take in the scene, force it to make sense, but nothing aligns. Achutli, the tyrant, the shadow that loomed over everything I knew, now lies crumpled on the stone like a discarded doll. All his power, his ambition, his dark magic—everything he did to seize this land—extinguished in an instant.

I told myself that I would feel nothing if he died. That if it ever happened, I'd shrug it off like a dull wind passing through an open window. No grief. No regret. And yet, the weight in my chest settles heavier than I imagined. Not sadness exactly—more like the numbness that follows after a venomous sting, when you realize too late how far the poison has spread.

This moment was supposed to change everything. The world should feel lighter. The sky clearer. But it doesn't. The war rages on, the enemy stands tall, and all the hatred I carried for Achutli now has nowhere to go.

Maybe it's not even hate anymore. Maybe it's loss.

He's gone, and I'm still here. What do I do with that?

The wind shifts, dragging the acrid scent of ash and scorched terrain through the ruined city. Bodies litter the streets in grotesque contortions, armor shattered, arrows buried deep in flesh. Somewhere beyond the smoke and blood, I hear the scrape of obsidian on stone, the whimper of a wounded warrior calling for help that will never come. This city has known nothing but death for far too long.

There is no relief. Only emptiness.

The gods have a cruel sense of humor. The moment you think one nightmare is over, another steps in to take its place.

Xelhua's hand remains on my shoulder, but I shrug it off. My legs feel brittle, like they'll shatter beneath me if I try to move. Not now, I tell myself. You cannot fall apart now. I clutch the hilt of Inuxeq's dagger—not much against sorcery, but it's all I have.

Taqsame shakes himself free from his shock with a snarl. He raises his sword high, as if he can cleave the very sky apart. "For Qantua!" he cries, his voice echoing off the stone ruins. He rushes toward the sorcerer, his black-and-gold armor glinting in the dim light, like a comet barreling straight at the heart of the enemy.

The sorcerer doesn't flinch.

There's no movement. No chant. Just a flick of his wrist. Then, suddenly, the air around Taqsame ripples with unbearable heat. A circle of flames erupts from the ground as numerous deep chasms open up around the palace, encasing him in a spiral of fire. The world bursts into orange and red, as if the very sky has ignited.

For a heartbeat, Taqsame disappears inside the blaze.

I notice I've stopped breathing.

But then Taqsame stumbles out of the flames. His armor is charred, his skin is blistered and raw. He drops to one knee, gasping for air. His sword falls from his limp hand and clatters uselessly onto the ground.