Revolutions

151 - Haesan

The silence is heavier than the battle was.

I stand among the ruins of Qapauma, the amulet cold and inert in my hand. Its weight is a strange anchor in the surreal calm. Around me, scattered fires crackle in dying embers, casting faint shadows across the shattered stones and fallen bodies. The gray creatures erupted into plumes of ash upon the defeat of the sorcerer, their sapphire eyes floating into the air like embers from a fire before abruptly extinguishing. This city—this jewel of the Tapeu—has been hollowed out, its people left to wander through the ruins, searching for some semblance of order or hope.

The people of Qapauma are emerging from the wreckage—nobles, merchants, servants, warriors—each bearing their own share of cuts, burns, and bruises. Some walk as if in a trance, their faces blank and eyes unseeing. Others clutch at each other, weeping or simply staring into the distance, dazed. A young woman with a gash across her forehead holds the hand of a child, leading him carefully through the rubble, eyes looking over the ruins with a wary kind of acceptance. Even the Qantua warriors look haunted, their expressions dim as their eyes look upon what's left of the once-mighty capital.

I see a young boy standing alone, clutching a half-burned bundle of cloth to his chest. His tanned face is smudged with soot and dried tears, shoulders slumped and black hair matted with dirt and blood. He stares at me with wide eyes, and I realize he's looking at the amulet hanging from my neck. He's not the only one. Others glance my way, some with the faintest glimmer of hope, others with wary confusion, as if they're waiting for me to explain what's happened or to tell them what comes next.

I had nearly forgotten the silver and amethyst amulet, resting neatly against my chest over my plain cloak. It glows faintly, pulsing along with my heart. The tattered chain is knotted awkwardly—an improvised and clumsy fix—but it holds, for now.

Inuxeq moves quietly beside me, her gaze sweeping the surroundings. Her face is streaked with ash and sweat, and her dark tan leather armor is scarred from the battle. We stand shoulder to shoulder, watching as the palace guards and Qantua warriors round up the surviving cultists and unceremoniously execute them without any hesitation. But there is no real victory here—only the hollow echoes of what's been lost.

The palace towers—or what remains of them—loom like broken teeth above the city, casting long, disturbing shadows over the courtyard. The once-grand structure is gutted, its walls scorched and pitted The intricate tapestries and golden relics that once adorned its halls have been reduced to charred scraps. For a place so revered, so filled with symbols of power, it feels almost pitiful now, abandoned and empty.

A strange void twists in my chest, a hollow ache that feels both old and new. Achutli—my father, the Arbiter—is gone. Yet his presence lingers, like a breath on the back of my neck. He died here, in these same broken walls, and it still feels unreal. I can't shake the image of him crumpling to the ground, struck down before I even had a chance to understand the depth of what I felt—grief, anger, confusion, all churning into something bitter and raw. I'd spent so much time dreaming of his downfall, imagining what it would feel like to finally be free of him. And now, all I feel is the weight of it settling over me.

A murmur rises among the people, a ripple of movement as they shift their gaze toward me. There's something in their eyes—a glimmer of hope, or maybe just a desperate need to believe that someone, anyone, has answers. I want to turn away, to hide from that look, but I know I can't. I place the amulet so it more visibly dangles around my neck.

"Achutli's daughter..." I hear someone murmur, the words drifting to me on the wind.

I stiffen, the ache in my chest sharpening. They know who I am. But... how? How has word spread? Was it the Qente Waila? Someone from the palace?