The first thing you notice is the loud pounding in your chest, like a war drum, thum, thum, thum, driving you forward. The sound behind you—those relentless footsteps, that guttural murmur—matches the rhythm. You don’t risk looking back. Looking back means slowing down, and slowing down means…
Don’t finish the thought. Instead, keep running.
Landera moves ahead, weaving through the treacherous terrain with the ease of something born to it. Iker lags behind, pale and panting as his muttered curses are barely audible over the rush of blood in your ears.
“Faster!” Landera calls, her voice sharp and urgent, cracking like a whip against the night. Her silhouette is barely visible in the faint starlight, a flicker of motion in the blackened wilderness.
Your foot catches on a jagged rock, and you stumble, clutching the scroll tighter to your chest as you lurch forward. The coarse parchment digs into your ribs, and you panic, hoping you didn’t destroy the scroll in your clumsiness.
“This is madness,” Iker gasps from somewhere behind you. “We don’t even know who—what—is chasing us!”
You know he’s right, but that doesn’t seem to matter right now. Not when the threat—whatever it is—is breathing down your neck. Not when every instinct screams at you to move, to keep moving, to run until your legs give out.
The ground shifts beneath your feet, loose stones tumbling away with every hurried step. The narrow path winds unpredictably, forcing you to navigate by instinct more than sight. The air is thin, each breath grating against your throat. Nevertheless, you push on.
Ahead, Landera pauses just long enough to glance back at you. Her eyes glint with a mixture of frustration and something sharper. Fear, maybe. She’s about to say something, but then the noise behind you swells. It’s closer now. They’re gaining on you. You can almost feel their presence bearing down upon you.
“Move!” she shouts desperately.
You surge forward, ignoring the burning in your legs. The path narrows again. The natural walls of the gorge close in like the jaws of some great beast. The shadows seem alive, shifting with each step. For a moment, you swear you see movement ahead—something tall, dark, and impossibly fast.
The thought barely registers before Landera skids to a halt. Her hand shoots up in a silent command to stop. You slam into her back, nearly losing your grip on the scroll.
“What now?” you think you whisper, except maybe your voice carries further and louder than you realize, what with your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
She doesn’t answer immediately. Her head tilts slightly, as her eyes scan the darkness ahead. Iker finally catches up, as his breaths come in ragged gasps. “Why are we stopping?” he dares to question.
Without look at him, Landera says, simply, “Listen.”
You strain your ears, trying to make sense of the sounds around you. The footsteps behind you have grown fainter, but they haven’t stopped. And ahead…
There’s something else. A faint rustle, like fabric brushing against stone. The soft crunch of gravel underfoot.
Someone—or something—is out there.
Landera’s hand moves to the knife at her belt. “Stay close,” she murmurs, her tone leaving no room for argument. She takes a cautious step forward, her movements as silent as the shadows themselves.
You follow, your grip on the scroll tightening until your knuckles ache. Iker mutters something under his breath—another complaint, another curse—but he falls in line behind you.
Your mind races, replaying the recent events, trying to piece together who could be out there. The restless natives? Xiatli’s zealots? Or something worse?
Your foot slips on a loose stone, and the sound echoes louder than it should. Landera freezes, her head snapping toward you with a glare that could cut through iron.
“Sorry,” you mouth with a wince, knowing she is already not your biggest supporter as of late. She doesn’t respond, just turns back toward the path ahead. The rustling sound grows louder, more deliberate, and your heart sinks as a dark figure steps into view.
He stands like a figure carved from the land itself—tall and almost daunting, his lean, muscled frame barely contained by his black tunic with yellow or gold threads. His dark hair is pulled back from his face and falls like the shadows of leaves swaying in a forest breeze. It frames a stoic expression, and his jaw is set while he gazes at you without any emotion. There’s a gravity to the way he moves, as though he’s never known uncertainty in his steps.
In his hands rests a weapon unlike any you’ve seen—a long staff-like pole with a blade affixed to its end. The shaft is etched with intricate symbols that pulse faintly with an otherworldly blue hue, as if the markings themselves are alive with energy. A crescent blade of obsidian shimmers unnaturally, reflecting a spectrum of colors like oil on water. It hums faintly in the still air with a presence all of its own.
Is this a god? Someone of Xiatli’s ilk? You don’t know who he is, but you don’t need to. Everything about him—the way he moves, the way he stands—tells you exactly what you’re dealing with.
A warrior.
Landera steps in front of you with her dagger held low but at the ready. “Stay behind me,” she whispers.
Iker doesn’t move. His eyes are wide, his hands trembling slightly as he stares at the figure. “Who… who is that?” he sputters out his whispered question.
The scroll now feels hot in your hand. The dry and cold mountain air bites at your skin, but your palm sweats against the rough parchment. Your grip tightens reflexively, as though you fear it might slip away if you don’t hold on hard enough. The warrior doesn’t move, his broad frame silhouetted against the faint glow of the moonlight. There’s something almost reverent in his expression, like he’s seeing something he thought had been lost forever.
“Maybe…” Landera wonders aloud, “he wants something. Maybe you should give him the scroll. We can run while he looks at it and is distracted.”
“I’m not giving it to him,” you whisper, though the words come out weak and unconvincing. They’re not even for her, really. They’re for you, a last-ditch effort to anchor yourself against the tide of doubt swelling in your chest.
The warrior still doesn’t speak, nor reacts to the exchange you’re having. His stillness is maddening, the kind of quiet that leaves too much room for your imagination to fill in the gaps. You can feel Landera stiffen beside you, every muscle in her lean frame coiled tight. Behind you, Iker fidgets, the faint rustle of his satchel grating against your nerves. You can hear his ragged and shallow breathing, like he’s trying not to panic, but failing miserably.
“Landera, what do we do?” he whispers with a trembling voice.
“Just stay quiet,” she snaps, her words clipped, and her eyes never leaving the warrior.
You glance back at Iker. His hands now clutch the strap of his satchel so tightly his knuckles have gone white. He’s half-hidden behind you, like he thinks you’ll shield him if things go south. The fear in his eyes is a mirror of your own, and for a moment, you hate him for it. You’re all scared, but somehow, seeing it on his face makes yours feel worse.
The warrior shifts. It’s subtle—just a tilt of his head, a small fraction—but it feels monumental in the oppressive silence. His gaze flickers briefly to you, then back to the scroll, like he’s measuring the distance between himself and it, calculating something you can’t quite follow. He raises a hand, and you immediately flinch, fearing and expecting the worst. Except his gesture is not done as a threat, but in question. His palm opens and his fingers are relaxed. The motion is slow, deliberate, almost gentle.
There’s something in the way he moves—or rather, doesn’t move—that gives you pause. He doesn’t have the stance of someone about to strike. His grip on that strange weapon is loose and easy, like he’s ready to respond, but not eager to. His eyes keep glancing back to the scroll, and there’s something in them… not anger, not even threat, but something quieter. Curiosity, maybe. Or recognition.
“Yeah, he definitely wants the scroll,” Landera says, now a bit flatly. “That’s all he’s after.”
“And I’m not giving it to him,” you say again, this time with more force, like repeating it will make it true.
The warrior takes a small step forward. It’s not aggressive, not even fast, but your body reacts anyway. Your legs stiffen, your heart pounds against your ribs, and you can feel the blood rushing in your ears. He calmly points at the scroll now with a steady hand.
Then, he speaks. The words are a low, deep murmur that rolls like distant thunder. You don’t understand them, not a single syllable, but there’s a musicality to the language, to what he’s telling you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d believe the words to be almost… kind.
“What’s he saying?” Iker asks. “Do you understand him? What is he saying?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Landera snaps, her patience fraying. “Does it seem like I understand him?”
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You don’t know what to do. Every instinct screams at you to run, but your legs won’t move. Your fingers clutch the scroll tighter—it’s all you can think to do. The warrior’s gaze shifts again, meeting yours directly now. There’s no malice there, only a question, and it makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t understand.
Then, his eyes widen slightly, his expression shifting into something closer to wonder. His hand lowers slowly, and he murmurs another string of words you can’t understand. But once again, his tone is soft. He points again, not at you this time, but at the scroll.
“What do we do?” Iker whispers again. “What does he want? Is he going to kill us?”
“Look at him,” Landera states. “He’s not attacking. He’s waiting. He doesn’t want to fight us.”
“And how would you know that?” The words tumble out of you before you can stop them, before you realize how defensive you sound. “For all we know, he’s just waiting for the perfect moment to—”
“Think,” Landera cuts in. “If he wanted the scroll badly enough to kill us for it, he would’ve already done it. He’s not a fool. He’s… negotiating.”
“Negotiating?!” Iker’s voice is a strangled whisper. “You call this negotiating?”
“Iker, shut up,” Landera barks. “This isn’t a fight we win. I mean, look at him! So, unless you’ve got a better idea…”
Her unfinished words hang, daring you to find a counterargument. But you or Iker can’t. Not because you don’t have one, but because the warrior’s gaze is back on you. You can feel it pulling the air from your lungs.
Your hand trembles as you hold the scroll a fraction closer to your chest. “What if it’s a trick?”
“Then it’s a risk we have to take,” Landera says, her voice suddenly calm now. “If you’re wrong, we die. If I’m wrong…” She doesn’t finish the sentence.
You exhale shakily, hearing the crinkle as your grip loosens just enough to feel the parchment shift in your hands. The edges are frayed, the fibers worn soft from years of handling. You’d risked everything for it—nearly lost everything for it. And now you’re about to give it up.
You hesitate for a heartbeat, then, reluctantly, extend the scroll toward the warrior. Steadily and calmly, he reaches for it, treating the object like it’s something sacred—something fragile that he’s been searching for a very long time. When his hands close around the parchment, you notice the faint tremor in his fingers, though his expression remains calm. Contemplative. He glances at you briefly, then back at the scroll, unrolling it with great care.
Having braced for a confrontation, Landera now exhales quietly beside you. Though her hand remains loosely at her side, brushing the hilt of her knife, the tension in her posture eases just a fraction. Her eyes dart between the warrior and the scroll, then to you, her brows knitting together in something closer to uncertainty.
The warrior’s gaze fixes on the parchment, his brow furrowing as his finger traces the symbols etched into its surface. He mutters something low and rhythmic, like he’s speaking more to himself than to any of you. There’s something about the way he examines the scroll, like it’s both familiar and strange, that sends a ripple of unease through you.
“What’s he doing?” Landera asks to nobody in particular, just questioning aloud.
“I don’t know,” you murmur back, your curiosity piqued. “Maybe he… recognizes it?”
Landera’s gaze lingers on him for a moment longer, then shifts to Iker, who’s been more quiet than usual. He’s standing a few steps behind you, his eyes fixed on the scroll. His lips are slightly parted, as though he’s caught on something. You see his brow furrow, his mouth working silently, and then he takes a hesitant step forward.
“Wait,” Iker says wondrously. “I’ve… I’ve seen that before.”
Both you and Landera turn to him in unison. “What are you talking about?” Landera asks, more out of curiosity than being dismissive.
Iker doesn’t answer immediately. He’s too engaged with deciphering what’s on the parchment. He moves closer, his attention locked on the scroll. “That symbol,” he says, pointing to one of the markings near the top. You worry that his reaction will startle the warrior into attacking, but the stranger only watches with subtle interest. “I’ve seen it before. Back in Rexurdir. On the old buildings. It was carved into the stone above the main hall—right in the center, above the arch.”
Landera blinks, her mouth opening slightly in surprise. “What? Are you sure?”
Iker nods, and you can see and feel his confidence swelling. “It was always there, weathered and half-hidden by the ivy, but I remember it. I used to pass by it every day on my way to the library.”
The warrior’s gaze snaps to Iker. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies your friend. Not with hostility, but with a sharp, assessing curiosity. He shifts the scroll slightly, turning it to reveal more of the symbols, and then glances at Iker again, as though inviting him to continue.
“I think…” Iker starts, pausing as he studies the scroll more carefully. He takes another step closer, gesturing toward the parchment. “I think it’s part of a name. Or maybe a title. There were other symbols like it on the wooden columns and beams inside the hall, but I never knew what they meant. Nobody ever explained them. They were just… there.”
“Relics?” Landera questions, mystified. She glances at the warrior, then back at Iker. “Were they placed in some position of prominence, like near a council chamber or something?”
“I don’t know,” Iker admits, shaking his head, now sounding extremely disappointed that he has no answer, no clear memory of the symbols’ locations and significance. “But they were old. Older than the Founding, older than anything else in Rexurdir. Like they didn’t belong there. Like they were… transported there, from another time or place.”
The warrior’s lips move again, forming words you don’t understand, like he’s attempting to sound out the words or find meaning in the symbols. He points to another symbol, this one near the bottom of the scroll, and looks at Iker expectantly.
“I…” Iker falters, his brow creasing as he stares at the marking. “I don’t know that one.” Iker is just about to give up, when he notices something. “But… wait.” He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing in thought. “It’s similar to one of the symbols on the columns. Almost the same, but not quite. The ones on the columns were… bigger. More elaborate.”
He looks up at the warrior, his expression equal parts confusion and determination. “Does that mean something to you? Is this… is this connected to your people? Or to this land?”
The warrior doesn’t respond verbally, clearly unable to determine what Iker is saying to him. But there’s something in his eyes that might be recognition—or confirmation. He points again, this time to the entire scroll, then gestures outward with a sweeping motion, as though encompassing the mountains, the land, everything around you.
“I think it’s part of a name,” Iker suggests. “There were these inscriptions at the hall—just fragments—but I think they kept referring to something, or someone. A title, maybe. Or a place.”
The warrior’s hand shifts slightly, his finger tracing one of the symbols with intentional care. He speaks again, his tone rising and falling like the ebb of a tide. It’s almost hypnotic, the way the sounds flow, and for a moment, you wonder if the symbols are tied to his language.
“What are you saying?” Iker whispers, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. He steps back, his eyes darting between the scroll and the warrior as his shoulders sag from disappointment. “I don’t… I can’t make sense of this.”
Landera stops pacing abruptly—was she always doing that during this moment? Her head snaps toward the ridge line as if she can feel them coming. The threat, whatever it is. Her knife is already in her hand, gripped tightly as her muscles tense. Iker freezes, his wide eyes darting toward the path behind you, clutching the scroll.
You glance at the warrior, and he’s already standing at attention. His mysterious weapon is held poised and ready. The eerie blue glow of the etched symbols on the shaft seems to pulse faintly, almost like it’s alive, matching one’s heartbeat. He hasn’t spoken a word, but it’s clear that he’s prepared to fight, as he has been trained to do, even if the rest of you aren’t.
And then you hear it again—the crunch of gravel, the scrape of boots against stone. This time, the sound is unmistakable. They’re close. Too close.
“They’re here,” Landera whispers harshly, almost panicked. Contradicting her tone, however, it’s evident that she’s about to dive headfirst into a losing fight.
“We need to move. Now.”
The group doesn’t wait for a plan. There isn’t time. The moment bursts into chaos as you scatter, each of you moving in a different direction. You want to shout to Landera, to stay close, but you don’t want to give away your position, so you resist. But there’s a pang of regret as you watch her disappear into the shadows. You grab Iker’s arm and drag him with you, his feet stumbling as he struggles to keep up.
The harsh syllables of the voices grow louder. You can’t understand the words, so you start to think that maybe these are more of the warrior’s companions. But you know, deep down, you just can’t take that chance. They’re closing in, and you feel as though they’re herding you like prey toward some unseen trap. Your stomach twists at the thought, but there’s no time to dwell on it.
“This way!” you whisper at Iker, yanking him toward a narrow gap between two jagged boulders. The passage is barely wide enough to squeeze through, and the rough stone scrapes against your arms and legs as you force your way forward. Iker lets out a grunt of pain as he catches his elbow on a sharp edge, but he doesn’t stop moving.
A sudden clatter of rocks behind you sends a jolt of panic through your chest. You glance back just in time to see a shadowy figure silhouetted against the moonlit ridge. Your heart lurches as the figure raises something—a weapon, maybe—and you duck instinctively as a sharp crack echoes through the canyon. A burst of stone explodes near your head, showering you with dust and shards.
“They’re shooting at us!” Iker cries, his voice cracking with fear.
“No kidding!” you snap, pulling him forward with renewed urgency. Your foot catches on a raised root from a nearby gnarled tree, and you begin to tumble. Iker lets out a small yelp as he haplessly reaches for you. Fortunately, you barely manage to catch yourself before you fall.
Ahead of you, the gap opens into a narrow ledge overlooking a steep drop. The wind howls through the canyon as you gradually make your way along the precarious path. Iker clings to the wall with sharp, panicked gasps. Behind you, the voices grow louder, accompanied by the clatter of weapons and the steady drumbeat of boots on the ground.
“We’re not going to make it,” Iker remarks.
“Keep moving,” you command, refusing to let the fear take hold. “We don’t have a choice. We must keep going.”
The ledge narrows further. You’re forced to press your back against the cold rock as you edge your way forward. Telling yourself to not look down does you no good, and you look down anyway. You can’t resist. The drop below is dizzying. The jagged rocks wait like teeth to catch anyone who has the misfortune of falling. You immediately regret looking down.
A sudden shout from above draws your attention, and you glance up to see another figure silhouetted against the ridge line. They’re moving fast, too fast, and you realize with a sinking feeling that they’re trying to cut you off. You don’t have time to think—only to act.
“Jump!” you yell, grabbing Iker and shoving him toward the edge.
“What?!” he shrieks, his eyes wide with terror.
“Just do it!” you shout, not giving him a chance to argue. You leap first. The wind tears at your clothes as you sail through the air. The ground rushes up to meet you, and you land hard. The impact jars every bone in your body, almost loosening them from their joints. Pain shoots through your legs, but you force yourself to roll and keep moving.
To your pleasant surprise, Iker lands beside you, though it’s with a graceless thud. He lets out a pained yelp as he sprawls onto the rocky ground. You grab him by the arm and haul him to his feet, ignoring his protests and complaints as you push forward.
The terrain levels out slightly, giving you a brief reprieve from the treacherous climb. But the voices are still there, closer than ever. You know you’re running out of time. Your legs burn with exhaustion, your lungs feel like they’re about to collapse. But you can’t stop. You can’t stop.
Ahead of you, the warrior appears again, though his figure is barely visible in the dim moonlight. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t wait for you to catch up. Instead, he raises his weapon. But rather than swing it at an incoming foe, he points it toward a narrow crevice in the rocks.
You don’t question him. “This way,” you state to Iker. You shove him toward the crevice. The walls close in around you as you delve deeper into the shadows. But even here, you can’t escape the sound of pursuit. The distorted and disorienting voices echo through the canyon. You grit your teeth and push forward, your mind racing with half-formed plans and futile prayers, out of habit. Who are you even praying to? Xiatli? No, you don’t want Him to find you. Not here, not now.
And then, just as the path begins to widen, you hear it—the unmistakable sound of rocks shifting, the sharp crack of stone giving way.
You don’t have time to react. The ground beneath your feet collapses, and the world tilts violently as you fall into the darkness below.