Revolutions

155 - Haesan

The murmurs roll through the Qantua like a quake starting deep beneath the surface. It's subtle at first, then rumbles into something that cracks even the air. Warriors who moments ago stood stoic now break into clusters, their heads bowed together, their hands gripping weapons tightly.

Inuxeq takes a step forward, her bow lowered but her hand resting near her blade. Her gaze flicks to the approaching figure, every muscle in her body coiled as if preparing for an ambush. "This... this can't be possible," she mutters to herself.

Taqsame stumbles forward, supported by two warriors who practically carry him by the arms. His legs drag against the dirt, his steps uneven and trembling, but there's a fire in his eyes that doesn't dim. His chest rises and falls in shallow, labored breaths, his battered armor a patchwork of blackened leather and scorched metal. Blood crusts along his jawline and streaks down his arms, seeping into the torn fabric of his tunic.

"By the stars," Xelhua says under his breath, the word more an exhalation than a prayer. His face hardens, his brow furrowed with suspicion, but he doesn't move.

I watch as Taqsame's head tilts slightly upward, looking over the crowd. He's barely standing, held together by will alone, and yet there's something undeniable in the way the warriors look at him—like he's already won a battle that no one else could.

The whispers swell again, louder now, and words begin to take shape within the hum: The gods saved him. He is chosen.

I glance at Inuxeq. Her nostrils flare as her sharp eyes cut through the crowd. She wants to say something to the warriors, I can tell, wants to silence their unabashed reverence for this foul person. But their gazes remain fixed on Taqsame, as though he's the answer to something none of them knew they were asking.

He raises a hand—not grandly, but shakily, as if it costs him everything to do so. "Hae—" His voice is barely audible. He coughs, a horrible sound that rakes through his body, forcing one of the warriors to tighten their grip to keep him upright.

Inuxeq stiffens, her expression unreadable as she steps between the young Qantua general and me. "Taqsame." She speaks his name like she's testing the word, trying to decide if it's worthy of her breath.

"Still..." His voice rasps, and he looks up at her to meet her gaze. "Still here."

Her face is stone, her eyes sharp as obsidian. "You shouldn't be."

A faint, bitter smile touches his lips. "The gods... disagree."

His words settle over the crowd, and for a moment, even Inuxeq seems unsure how to respond. Behind her, the murmurs begin again, spreading like wildfire.

"He is chosen. He is protected. He will rise again."

Now Xelhua steps forward, gripping the hilt of his sword. "Faith is a dangerous thing," he speaks aloud, as if to no one in particular and everyone, all at once, "especially when it's misplaced."

The nearest warriors bristle, their shoulders stiffening as their hands drift closer to their weapons. Are they truly ready for a confrontation? Ready to defend this hero they now worship?

Taqsame coughs again, a wet, rattling sound, but his gaze doesn't waver. "You see it, don't you?" His voice cracks, but the words are clear, directed at Inuxeq. "This isn't the end."

Her hand hovers so close to her blade that I think she might draw it. But then she exhales sharply and takes a step back. "You're still breathing," she says, her tone flat, almost dismissive. "But that doesn't make you a savior."

Yet the murmurs don't die. If anything, they grow louder, more fervent. The Qantua warriors exchange glances, and it's all I need to see to know the implications Taqsame's resurrection has on the fate of Pachil. The shift, the way the warriors look at him now. He's not just as a leader, but a symbol, a spark of something greater.