Revolutions

156 - The Heart of Haqiliqa

Hello there, dear reader!

As the solstice draws near and the fires of the year fade to embers, I'll be taking a brief journey of my own—to reconnect with family and celebrate the season. During this time, I'll step away from publishing for a short while.

But fear not! On 31 December—New Year's Eve, of all days— I'll return to Pachil to continue our journey together, resuming the regular release schedule. Until then, may your days be filled with warmth, joy, and stories that inspire.

Thank you for your continued support, and I look forward to returning to Pachil with you soon!

- P

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Captain Lema watches Pahua pace furiously between the gathered Sanqo nobles, his bronze cape dragging through the mud. The young ruler's arms flail as he gestures toward Lema and Gartzen, and his voice rises and falls in heated bursts of his native tongue. Lema doesn't need to understand the words to know what's being said—the pointed fingers and tense postures are enough. The boy-king is losing his grip, and everyone knows it.

The nobles stand rigid, scowling, unamused by this spectacle. One, an older man with vast crevasses creasing his aged face and draped in bronze chains that catch the fading light, steps forward, shouting something sharp and accusatory. He spits his words at the boy, his hand slicing through the air in Pahua's direction before pointing squarely at Lema and Gartzen.

Gartzen grunts, crossing his arms as he leans casually against a tree. "Well, that's not a friendly tone, I'd reckon."

Lema exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. The young king's desperation oozes from every erratic movement, every misplaced shout. It's not just that the nobles don't respect him—it's that they see an opening. Weakness is an invitation in their world. But in which world would it not be?

"They're not wrong to be angry," Lema mutters. He feels he and Gartzen are almost lost in the tension crackling between the two factions. "He's floundering, and the worst part is that he's dragged us into his ordeal."

"So what's the plan, Captain?" Gartzen asks dryly, his eyes never leaving the gathering. "Because if Pahoowa's got one, I'd love to hear it. Or, you know, understand it."

Pahua spins toward them suddenly, his eyes wild. He jabs a finger at the two Legido, then hollers something that makes one of the nobles gasp. The older man steps forward again, angrily shouting and gesturing wildly toward the jungle. The exchange grows louder, more heated, until Pahua slams his hand against his chest and yells over them all. His voice noticeably cracks, the rawness of it cutting through the din like the first crack on a frozen lake.

Captain Lema straightens, and instinctively brushes his hand over the hilt of his sword. He doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, but the shift in his posture draws Pahua's attention. The young ruler taps his chest again, then the ground, then sweeps his arm toward the nobles, who regard him with confusion and more stern looks. His meaning is clear, even if his words are not: these men are a threat, and he doesn't know how to deal with them.

"He wants us to clean up his mess," Gartzen grumbles.

Captain Lema's mind races, trying to piece together their next move. This isn't just about keeping the nobles in line—it's about survival. He realizes Pahoowa doesn't have the political clout to control them, and if they turn on him, it bodes terribly for his crew and the prospects of getting out of this stinking place. But stepping in now, taking sides in a conflict he barely understands with a boy who is struggling to hold his own, feels like an even greater risk.

"Damn it," Lema mutters under his breath. He steps forward, his boots sinking into the mud as he closes the distance between them. Pahua watches him carefully, tense in his expectant posture. Lema finally meets his gaze, then gestures to the jungle, mimicking the young ruler's earlier motion. "What's out there?" he asks, knowing full well there will be no answer.