Revolutions

160 - Legido

You feel it in the air, the way their eyes cling to you like smoke, filling your lungs until it hurts to breathe.

You sit rigid on the cold, uneven ground, your back pressed against a jagged stone that jabs uncomfortably through your coat. It's the only thing that keeps you anchored as the three figures before you size you up with expressions that betray nothing. The one in the deep blue tunic, taller than the others, holds a blade so black it seems to drink the light. It's not steel, that much you're certain, but it gleams like it could shear through bone just the same.

Beside him stands a brute with shoulders as broad as a ship's mast. His weapon is massive, an axe with a polished stone head bound to the haft with intricate bindings. His eyes dart to you every so often, his lip curling in disdain. You don't need to understand his language to know he wouldn't hesitate to strike if given the slightest excuse.

And then there's the elder. His white robes are stark against the dim light, and his features are etched with the lines of a hundred battles or a hundred years. Maybe both. He leans on a staff that looks like it could snap under his weight, though he doesn't seem to need it. His gaze is the sharpest, cutting through the silence like the ringing of a distant bell.

Around you, the alien sounds of this strange land press in: the soft snorting of the beast they brought with them—a creature unlike anything you've ever seen, its neck absurdly long, its fur coarse. Its eyes regard you with almost human curiosity, as if it's trying to figure out what your motives are.

And then there's the feline. At first, you thought it was some kind of overgrown house cat. But now, with its sleek muscles rippling under its spotted coat as it prowls around the edges of the group, you know better. There's nothing domestic about it. It's a predator with a turquoise-tipped tail, and the way it watches you attentively alarms you.

"Iker," Landera hisses beside you, her tone sharp enough to draw blood. "Would you sit still? You're making them nervous."

He stops fidgeting, though his hands still twitch against the dirt. "They're already nervous," he mutters, just loud enough for you to catch. "Look at the way they keep shifting their weapons. We should run the first chance we get."

"And go where?" she snaps. "Straight into the arid mountains where we'll be hunted down within moments? They'd have our heads on spikes by sunset."

You glance at your captors again, and sure enough, the one in blue—the warrior with the obsidian blade—takes a step forward, tightening his grip on the hilt.

"Stop, you two," you scold, turning to Landera and Iker. "Just stop. You're going to get us all killed."

The elder murmurs something in his language—soft, measured, and entirely incomprehensible to you. Though he appears to speak calmly, the warrior stiffens visibly at his words. The brute with the axe widens his stance like he's preparing for something, perhaps a fight.

Your chest tightens. Whatever the elder said, it wasn't good.

To her credit, Landera catches the shift in mood and falls silent, though her hand lingers near the hilt of the dagger at her belt. Oblivious as ever, Iker glances at you with a look that says, Well, do something.

You wish you knew what to do.

The elder calmly gestures toward the distance. The warriors' gazes follow the motion, looking on with uncertainty. You follow their line of sight, but see only shadows stretching into the thickening gloom. Whatever they're looking at, whatever they think is out there, it's hidden from you.

Unbidden, your mind drifts to the chest you left behind in the palace. The scrolls. The amulet that it once contained. You try to focus on the here and now, but the memory claws at the edges of your thoughts. The way Xiatli had taken the amulet and slipped it around His neck, like it was His birthright. The way He had changed after.