Revolutions

171 - Haesan

I barely slept.

I thought I would find some peace in the quiet of my chambers, that the impact of the quipu message would lessen with time. Instead, it sits on my table as though an unspoken accusation has been woven into its knotted fibers. I come not to celebrate. I come because the embers still smolder. The words have gnawed at me through the night. Their meaning has been elusive and suffocating all the same.

Nuqasiq has arrived. And with her, a storm I may not be strong enough to withstand.

I inhale deeply, steadying myself as I step onto the stone terrace overlooking the city. The view does nothing to soothe me. Qapauma still bears the scars of war—charred rooftops, collapsed walls, streets littered with the debris of what once was. The rebuilding has begun, but it is slow and uncertain. The people go about their tasks with cautious movements, their eyes wary, waiting for the next disaster to strike.

They look to me to prevent that disaster.

My hands tighten against the balcony's edge. You never wanted this, Haesan. But here you are.

"Up early, child."

The voice slithers into my ear, smooth, deliberate. I stiffen before I even turn, already knowing who stands behind me.

Nuqasiq moves like she's always belonged here, stepping onto the terrace with measured ease. Draped in indigo and embroidered silks, she looks every bit the royal figure my father once was—composed, commanding, effortlessly in control. She meets my gaze with eyes that are too knowing, the kind that see past words and into the marrow of things.

"I couldn't sleep," I admit, though it's an unnecessary confession. Of course she knows. Nuqasiq always knows. And I'm sure I look worse for wear.

She hums in response, stepping to my side and resting her hands lightly on the balcony's edge. Her nails are clean, trimmed, uncalloused—hands that have held power, not weapons. "A restless night, then. That is good. A ruler should not sleep too easily."

The way she says it unsettles me—like it's a lesson, like I'm meant to absorb this as truth.

"This city, this throne... it is not kind to those who hesitate." Her fingers tap idly against the stone. "Even if it has seen better days."

Her nose scrunches up as though she's smelled something repulsive as she looks upon the remains of Qapauma in the morning light. "I suppose it's in better condition than I expected, but..." She doesn't finish her thought, much to my relief.

"Besides," she carries on, "Taqsame is watching. Waiting. And you?" She tilts her head slightly, studying me. "What are you waiting for, child?"

I bristle, squaring my shoulders. "I'm not waiting for anything. I'm preparing."

"Are you?" she muses, smiling wryly. "It does not seem so. I've been updated on what's occurred in my absence. You hold court, but do you rule? You call councils, but do you command?" She exhales, something like pity laced in the breath. "You remind me of Achutli when he was young. He, too, thought he had time. That the future would wait for him to decide its course."

My fingers curl into fists at my sides. Through my teeth, I forcefully declare, "I am not my father."

Nuqasiq's gaze lingers on me, though her expression betrays nothing. If I may be honest, her silence is worse than any reprimand.

I exhale sharply, trying to steady myself, but my hands remain clenched at my sides. She doesn't understand. She thinks being his daughter means knowing him. But I never did. Not beyond the stories, the resentment that clung to his name like rot on old wood. I grew up hearing of him in bitter whispers, in the warnings of mothers clutching their children closer, in the fearful murmurs of merchants of Achope. Only now do I realize it's because they knew. They must've known. Why else was I treated the way I was? Regardless, his rule was something to be endured, not followed. And by the time I finally stood before him, it was already too late to be anything but a stranger in his eyes.