Revolutions

166 - Paxilche

The ache in my skull pulses in time with the distant echoes of shouting. My vision swims, the torchlight smearing the edges of the room into strange, shifting shapes. I blink hard, willing myself to focus, to push through the fog that clouds my mind.

The faint scrape of boots against stone pulls my attention to the far side of the chamber. The invader's military leader, the invader who reeks of arrogance and cowardice in equal measure, is on his knees. His bloodied face glistens in the dim torchlight of this chamber. He babbles in his grating foreign tongue, and I wish so badly to understand what he's rambling on about.

It's when a cold pressure settles over the room that everything abruptly and unsettlingly changes. The invaders' voices falter, and their movements appear to be stilled as though they've been caught in an unseen grip. When I look toward the chamber's entrance, I realize why. I can't see him at first, but I feel him—that oppressive presence that turns my blood to ice.

When Xiatli steps into view, the torches fade as if simply being in this chamber commands the light to bow. His gaze sweeps the room, taking in the chaos, the broken chains, the shattered weapons. When he eventually speaks, his voice is soft, almost gentle. Disturbingly so. "What a mess you've made of my plans."

I'm still disturbed by this one's ability to speak the language of our land. How does he know it? Has he learned it this quickly, or is he of Pachil? Something in his appearance makes me think the latter, but I can't be sure.

The invader's warrior leader scrambles forward on his knees. The words leaving his bleeding lips sounds desperate, almost pleading. The foreign words tumble out of him in a rapid stream, and though I can't understand them, the meaning is clear: excuses, apologies, pathetic attempts to shift blame. Xiatli doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. Simply staring at the babbling fool causes the invader general's voice to falter, and his pleas trail off into a whimper.

The chains bite into my wrists, and every time I move, their jagged edges scrape against my skin. I grit my teeth and pull, straining against the rusted links. Every muscle in my body screams for release, for the chance to fight back, to strike at the monster standing so smugly in the center of this nightmare.

I glance to the side, and that's when I see it—a stranger. Pale-skinned, soft-looking, their eyes wide with fear as they fumble with the chains. They're touching my chains. For a heartbeat, I think they're one of Xiatli's, here to secure my bindings. Through my clenched teeth, I snarl, "Do your worst, you pathetic child!"

But then their eyes meet mine. Their raw, unguarded terror stills my seething anger. It's as though they realize they've stumbled into a fight they're hopelessly unprepared for. They're no warrior. Just a desperate, young fool. And for some reason, they're trying to help me.

What are they doing? The thought rises unbidden, tangled with suspicion. Nearby, I see Upachu bent over Saqatli's bindings. Others are here. We could be rescued. Strangely, I begin feel... hope. As though this entire situation will finally turn around.

That hope quickly fades as I catch a figure out of the corner of my eye—Teqosa's body sprawled on the cold stone floor, motionless. His arms lie limp at his sides, his face pale, and his chest unnervingly still. My stomach twists. Teqosa was the one who always seemed indestructible, and now, he's been reduced to this. What happened to cause him to be in this state?

Mid-thought, my lungs seize as I follow the stranger's gaze upward to the towering figure of Xiatli. His hand curls into a claw, and suddenly, the stranger's throat collapses. It's as though invisible fingers have wrapped around it, squeezing the life out of them. They drop their hands, clawing at their neck, their face contorted in panic as they choke, nothing but gargled sounds escaping their trembling lips.