Revolutions

176 - Legido

The three of you crawl into the cliffs like wounded animals. Your breath is still ragged from the run, your legs aching from the climb. The air is thin up here, the rocks sharp beneath your palms as you scramble over them, pushing deeper into the mountainside. Behind you, the ruined and abandoned mining outpost is swallowed in shadow, its broken walls glowing faintly in the moonlight.

Landera hasn't spoken since you fled. She moves mechanically, her body still operating on pure instinct. But her mind is clearly elsewhere. You see it in her eyes when she turns to search the valley below, that hollow stare of someone looking for something that isn't there anymore.

"Here," Iker mutters, bringing your attention back to the present. He ducks under a rocky overhang, where the stone juts out just enough to form a natural alcove. "It's not much, but it'll keep us out of sight." After inspecting the location, you nod in approval. You drop onto the dirt, pressing your back against the stone, as your heartbeat still hammers against your ribs.

For a long moment, none of you speak. The wind howls through the canyon below, carrying the distant sounds of execution. Gunfire. Screams, cut short.

The last remnants of the resistance are being hunted down. Or maybe not the last—just the ones who weren't fast enough to run like you did.

Landera exhales sharply. She buries her face in her hands, fingers pressing against her temples as if trying to keep something from breaking loose.

"I... I really thought we were fighting for something." Her voice is hoarse, almost lost to the wind. "Turns out they just wanted a bigger share of the spoils."

Iker exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. "Yeah. That's usually how it goes."

You glance down toward the valley below. You didn't climb that high, you think, but even from here, you can see a hint of Criato's forces moving in the distance.

Torchlight bleeds through the ruins, flickering against the jagged remains of the mining outpost. Men sift through the wreckage, some stripping bodies of weapons, others checking for survivors. Not to save them, of course, but to make sure they're dead.

The wind slips its fingers through the rocks above, colder now. You press your palm to the warm curve of stone beside you, trying to steady the spiraling. One of Criato's men had said something earlier—Check the ridge. Make sure the fire caught. Was it just a phrase? Or did they light something? Signal something?

Then the horn again. This time, there's no answering call.

"You think it's Criato?" Iker asks. "Calling in more men?"

"No," Landera says quietly. "That horn was too far away. That came from the sea."

You all look up. Not toward the coast—you can't see it from here—but to the mouth of the canyon, as if sound could leave footprints. The horn was deep, too slow to be alarm, too solemn to be celebration.

You wait until the last of Criato's men disappear from view, vanishing like termites into the canyon's edge, kicking through ash and bodies. Their laughter fades, muffled by distance, but not the sound of armor clanking and boots scraping against stone.

Landera kneels beside the ledge, arms resting on her knees, chin dipped low. Her face is a jagged mosaic of grime and sweat, all while trying to mask her grief. "They're heading for Xiatlazán," she mutters.

"So, what do we do now?" Iker asks. He's still catching his breath, but his shoulders slump from the realization that you're all helpless. That, perhaps, this was all for nothing.

You glance down the path where the resistance once stood—if you can call them that. Where the bodies lie still. Most of them didn't even fight. Some didn't even run.