Revolutions

170 - Haesan

The crumbled remains of what was once a window frames a fractured view of the chaos below. I watch the courtyard as though staring hard enough might force it into order. Once a monument to Tapeu elegance, the palace grounds now feel like the skeletal remains of a dream. Workers move in uneven rhythms, lifting beams, and hammering stone into what can only be described as temporary repairs. Dust hangs in the air like a curtain no wind is strong enough to pull aside. Much work has been done, yet, sadly, so much more work remains.

Somewhere behind me, a clay plate sits untouched. Its contents cool under the dim morning light of the room. The rich aroma of atole and roasted maize lingers in the air, mingling with the fainter scent of fresh tamales wrapped in steaming banana leaves. A piece of golden fruit that's ripened to perfection has been sliced neatly beside a bowl of thick cacao, and its surface is still dusted with the ghost of foam that has long since dissipated. It should be comforting. It should be familiar. But the food may as well be stone for all the attention I can give it.

The quipu rests heavily at my side. The fibers feel rough against my palm as I run my fingers over the knots. I don't know why I keep touching it—it won't give up its meaning any more than the embers can be asked to explain their smoke. I keep hearing her words. I come not to celebrate. I come because the embers still smolder.

It's maddening. What fire, grandmother? What flames do you see that I don't? I grip the deteriorated edges of the windowsill under my fingers. My thoughts are running wild, and there's no space to outrun them. The courtyard doesn't help. Everything there speaks of ruin. The scattered debris, the workers' faces creased with exhaustion, the ache of what this place once was.

When I was a child, I used to run barefoot through the shaded courtyards of my family's estate in Chopaqte. The scent of crushed hibiscus was thick in the air, and my nursemaid's voice was always calling after me to slow down. The fountains there were alive with green and gold light, their water so clear I could see the carved stone fish resting at the bottom.

Qapauma's fountains are silent now. Their basins are cracked, and their once-proud sculptures—those that survived the slew of assaults on the capital city—have been swallowed by vines. The gardens that once framed the palace in color have turned brittle and gray, and the air is filled with the scent of dust and old stone.

Everything is a ruin now, I think. Not just the palace. Not just Qapauma. Everything. And it all feels like its capability for renewal sits squarely on my shoulders.

I glance back at the quipu, as though the knots might suddenly untangle into something useful. They don't. Instead, Nuqasiq's warning rings in my mind again.

I pull the quipu tighter into my grasp, hating how much her words have unsettled me. Is it a warning? A threat? A promise? Her timing, her cryptic phrases... what can they mean? Should I be worried?

The door creaks behind me. A servant enters, his footsteps careful as though afraid to disturb my thoughts. He bows slightly, his head low. "Quya," he says softly, cautiously. "The council is gathering."

"Thank you," I reply. He doesn't linger, doesn't wait for me to add anything more, retreating just as quietly as he came.

I turn back to the courtyard one last time. With their slow and uncoordinated movements, the workers below are struggling with a shattered beam. Each strain of muscle, each groan of effort, feels like a reflection of my own state. They're trying to rebuild something they don't believe in, I realize. And I'm asking them to do it anyway.

The thought weighs heavier than the quipu. I tuck it into my sash, as its fibers press into my side like a brand. There's no time to linger, no time to let this spiral of doubt swallow me whole. The meeting with Maqochi and the Qantua leaders looms ahead, and if I don't have answers for them, they'll find their own—answers I won't like.