Revolutions

158 - Walumaq

It refuses to stop. As we sit inside the prison chamber, bound by chains, the horrific scene replays over and over in my head.

The thunderous sound—the kind of noise that splits the world in two—still echoes in my ears. Not the deep rumble of a storm, nor the crash of waves against a jagged shore, but something harsher, more alien. A crack of fire and iron.

Teqosa's body jerking backward, the bright red blooming like a cruel flower against his tunic, the force of it knocking him to the ground as though Pachil itself had reached up to claim him. The look on his face—not pain, not fear, but something worse. A hollow shock, the realization that his body had betrayed him, that even his strength could not stop what had happened.

I didn't even see the warrior who did it. A flash of motion in the chaos, a strange weapon pointed, then... the sound. And then Teqosa was falling.

I close my eyes, but the image doesn't leave me. It never does. Every time I blink, it's there again, as vivid and raw as if it's happening all over again.

Around me, the prison chamber is oppressively still. The only sounds are the faint clinking of chains as my companions shift uncomfortably, the distant drip of water, and the occasional echo of footsteps far above. The air is stale, carrying the faint scent of ash and something metallic, like rust.

Paxilche lies crumpled against the far wall, still unconscious. His breaths are shallow, his face pale, his normally restless energy snuffed out. For once, he's silent, and the absence of his voice feels almost as unnerving as the silence itself.

Síqalat quietly sits cross-legged near the door. She hasn't spoken since we were thrown in here, hasn't even looked at me. Her stoic silence feels like a judgment, though I can't tell if it's aimed at me, at herself, or at the situation we've found ourselves in.

Saqatli paces near the corner, his amber eyes flaring like trapped fire. His movements are restless, his hands clenching and unclenching as though he's holding an invisible weapon. He looks like a caged animal, his frustration and fear barely contained. Every so often, he glances at the door, his gaze sharp and questioning, as though trying to calculate the odds of escape.

I wonder if he's thinking the same thing I am: that we're not getting out of here. That this is it. The end of the journey. The end of us.

I shift slightly, and the chains around my wrists clink softly. My arms ache, my shoulders stiff from being bound for so long. The metal is cold against my skin, biting into my wrists with every movement, a constant reminder of how powerless we are.

Reflexively, I glance at the others again. My gaze lingers on Teqosa. He's still, too still, his chest barely rising and falling. The makeshift bandage I'd pressed against his wound is already soaked through, the blood seeping through the fabric and pooling on the stone beneath him. The sight of it makes my stomach twist.

This wasn't supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. We were supposed to be the ones who brought hope, who made things better. Instead, we're here, broken and chained, waiting for whatever comes next. At the hands of... him.

I think of the amulets—the symbols of our mission, of our connection to the Eleven, and to Pachil. The ones we thought would guide us, protect us. Foolishly, naïvely, I thought they meant we were chosen, that we had a purpose. But now, as I sit here in the darkness, I can't help but wonder if they were a curse instead of a blessing.

The crone's prophecy rings in my mind, cutting through the fog of despair. Unite them, or destroy them. The words that once felt like a guiding star now feel like a noose tightening around my neck.

The silence stretches on, broken only by Saqatli's pacing and the faint, labored breaths of Paxilche. I close my eyes again, trying to will the memories away, trying to ignore the questions clawing at the edges of my mind. But they won't go. They never do.