Are you there? Are you listening?
I can never tell if you’re there, or if I’m only speaking into the darkness of this prison.
It’s funny, in a way. I used to talk to the dark when I was a boy, whispering into the deep caves outside of Pichaqta. I’d eagerly wait for my voice to come back to me. I liked the way my own words sounded when they returned—distorted, stretched, like they belonged to someone else. I thought if I spoke long enough, the echoes might become another person entirely, someone wiser, someone who could tell me the things I needed to know.
I thought I heard the dark here answer back. Maybe I’m mistaken.
The silence presses down like a hand over my mouth. I’ve tried measuring time by the torches outside my door, by the distant murmurs of my captors. But the light never moves anymore. The voices never change.
Either I’ve lost track of the days, or there are no more days left to lose.
<hr>
The last time I saw the sun, it was bleeding.
Sinking behind the jagged cliffs of Pichaqta, it bled in great strokes of dark orange and crimson, swallowing the sky in its ruin. My lip had already been split open from the backhand of the one they call Qliato. I could taste the raw copper of my own blood as I watched the sunset from the palace steps while I was being dragged away.
I had thought, then, that this was temporary. A setback.
I suppose I was wrong.
<hr>
I became The Tempered because I was the only one who knew what Qiapu trullyneeded to prosper. I was the only one who saw what was coming.
I was the only one who understood that power is a wheel, and if you don’t break it, you get crushed beneath it.
The fool that he was, Limaqumtlia thought himself immovable. He thought the old ways would hold. That our people would stand behind him, no matter what. He thought being just was enough.
It wasn’t.
Achutli knew it. The Eye in the Flame knew it. I knew it.
They came to me with their offer, and I said yes before they had even finished speaking.
A new era. My era.
<hr>
The first chasqui arrived in the dead of night. A shadow moving swift-footed through the mountain pass. His arrival was signaled by nothing but the quiet shift of wind against the palace banners.
I remember the way he knelt, barely out of breath, holding out the bundle of knotted cords—Achutli’s words twisted into fiber. The message itself was brief.
The Tempered will fall.
The sun will rise anew.
Stand ready.
And I understood.
Limaqumtlia’s reign was already over. He just didn’t know it yet.
<hr>
It was not the first chasqui, nor the last.
Achutli’s voice wove through the mountains on the backs of men who ran with the wind. His instructions were always careful, precise.
Hold your ground. Watch for signs. Stand ready.
I was not his first choice. I knew that.
In his mind, the Qiapu were a stubborn, divided people, too tangled in tradition to serve his grand vision.
It’s why, I’m sure he believed, we became enslaved to the Timuaq in the first place.
But he needed a hand to steady them, a voice to speak where his could not reach.
He needed someone hungry enough to listen.
And I listened.
<hr>
Limaqumtlia was no tyrant.
That was his failing.
I still remember the way he spoke of Qiapu, the way he talked about our people as though we were the strongest faction of Pachil. As though we had been his since the beginning, and it was only a matter of time until we ascended.
He believed in the people. In their loyalty. In their love for him.
But love does not keep power.
Love does not hold a throne.
Power holds a throne.
And I had power.
<hr>
The Eye in the Flame came after.
They did not send messengers, no chasqui. They did not whisper words on woven cords.
They sent their sorcerers, their veiled figures, men whose mouths barely moved when they spoke.
They made promises, and I listened.
We will make you strong.
We will protect your rule.
We will burn those who stand in your way.
It was me they wanted, not Limaqumtlia.
And why wouldn’t they?
Limaqumtlia was a man of stone—fixed, unyielding, refusing to see the shape of things to come.
But I?
I was water. I was fire. I was whatever the gods needed me to be.
And I believed—not in them, no, but in myself.
The Eye in the Flame thought I would be theirs.
But I knew better.
I would take what they offered, sure. But I would use them as they thought they were using me.
I would rule, and when I no longer needed them, I would cast them aside.
I knew I could control them.
I knew I could outlast them.
I knew—
<hr>
Are you listening?
Are you there?
<hr>
It was not supposed to happen like that, you know.
The boy was too eager.
He believed in the cause too much, I would argue.
I watched from the crowd, heart steady, breath measured. The procession moved through the streets. Limaqumtlia waved to the crowd, though his gaze was distant, serene. He had always been that way—believing his rule was divinely woven, that Qiapu’s loyalty was unshakable.
He never saw the knife coming.
But I did.
The assassin was young—too young—but his conviction burned brighter than his sense. He had carved the symbol of Eztletiqa into his own chest in jagged, uneven lines. It was a crude mimicry of the sigils the Eye in the Flame used, but he had done it himself—because he wanted it to mean something.
Because he wanted to prove that Eztletiqa had already claimed him.
He had been among the palace guards for weeks. Watching. Waiting. A spirit in the periphery, unnoticed by those who thought they knew their own.
That was the brilliance of it.
He was one of them.
And when the moment came, he moved without hesitation. I will acknowledge his bravery in that sense.
<hr>
The knife was too eager, just like the boy.
It sank in deep, just below Limaqumtlia’s ribs, where the bone wouldn’t catch it. A perfect stroke. Clean, practiced.
But too soon.
It was meant to be later. Closer to the palace, away from so many eyes.
Instead, it was here, in the open, in the streets.
I remember the sound Limaqumtlia made—a sharp inhale, not a cry, not a scream. A sudden absence of breath. The shock of what occurred. The quiet acceptance of what’s to come.
Then, the chaos.
Screams.
Cries for help.
The boy held his blade high, as though expecting Eztletiqa to reach down and anoint him in the moment.
Instead, Qumuna reached him first.
The general tore him from the body, trying to wrench the blade free. He tried to interrogate the boy, but the assassin’s blade ended up in his own belly, stabbed during the efforts to capture the assailant.
Not a death of honor.
Just a death.
And then Paxilche was there, too, pushing past the calamity, dropping to his knees beside his brother. I could see the blood on his hands from where I stood, the way he cradled Limaqumtlia like he could force him back to life through sheer refusal.
For a moment—just a moment—I felt the stirrings of regret.
Not because I wished it undone.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
But because this was not how it was supposed to happen.
Because I had not wanted Paxilche to be there.
<hr>
There was no heir.
That was the truth of it.
Paxilche refused. He turned his back on it, just as he had turned his back on his family when he went to war. He did not want the burden, the weight of the throne pressing down on his shoulders.
The people whispered of their loss. A ruler gone. A future uncertain.
But I knew.
I had always known.
The people suffered from uncertainty. Yet they did not need a period for mourning.
They needed an immediate answer.
And I would be that answer.
<hr>
The ceremony in Xutuina was from an old tradition, generations past.
It was meant to be sacred.
It was meant to test strength, wisdom, resilience.
It was meant to let the gods choose the next Tempered.
But I did not leave it to the gods.
The trials were rigged before the first fight was underway. The shamans whispered their blessings before the challenges had begun.
They would not let a true contender rise.
I was supposed to win.
And then… Qumuna. Curse him!
Qumuna, who had led the armies of Qiapu, who had stood by Limaqumtlia’s side for decades.
Qumuna, who should have just bowed his head and stepped aside. But instead, he allowed himself to be swayed, to be nominated.
He nearly ruined everything.
And the worst part was—I respected him.
I did not want to fight him.
He was an elder, a warrior, a leader.
But I would not let him stop me.
And so, I did what I had to do.
I beat him.
I beat him until he could not stand, until his vision swam, until the strength in his legs failed him. I was ready to leave him suspended over the cliff’s edge.
And when I stood above him, victorious, I did not reach out a hand to help him up.
Because I knew—he would not have taken it.
Because he knew—he was now beneath me.
I was The Tempered.
And I had won, by whatever means necessary.
<hr>
The damp stench of the cell has long since settled into my skin. I press my palms against the cold stone, tracing the rough grooves and imperfections in the rock. If I push hard enough, I can almost convince myself that I still exist.
The sound of dripping water echoes in the distance.
I listen, counting the beats between each drop.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
I close my eyes and wait for the dark to speak.
But the dark never speaks back. Why won’t you speak back to me?
<hr>
There’s a moment between pain and recognition where you understand exactly what’s happening to you.
It’s when the knife first touches the skin, and you’re still na?ve enough to believe they’re only trying to scare you. When the brand hovers just above your flesh, and you convince yourself that they won’t press down, that they won’t claim you, ruin you.
It’s when you hear your name spoken in a language that isn’t your own, muttered in that sharp, foreign tongue.
Saxina.
It’s not a question. Not even a command. Just a simple confirmation of what they already know.
Saxina.
The way Qliato says it, it isn’t a name.
<hr>
The cell is cold.
I have counted the cracks in the stone so many times that I’ve given them names. There’s a long, jagged one just above my head that reminds me of the canyon that runs through the hills outside Qiapu. The one below my feet curves like the path leading up to the the great cairn, Intitapayuq Illa.
I think if I push hard enough, I can fit my fingers into the grooves. Maybe if I keep pressing, the walls will remember me, will pull me into them so that I can disappear.
But I don’t disappear. I remain.
Like the bloodstains on the floor.
Like the echoes of the screams before me.
Like the breath in my lungs that won’t stop, no matter how much I want it to.
The Eye in the Flame promised me everything. They promised me the throne, the power to do what others had only dreamed. I saw it, too—the future they painted. The Qiapu were mine to rule, no longer shackled by outdated traditions. No longer held back by fools like Limaqumtlia, who would rather die defending the past than embrace what was coming.
And for a while, I thought I had won.
I sat in the great hall of Pichaqta, beneath banners that bore my sigil. I stood above my people, above their people, and I made the rules.
But power is a wheel.
And if you don’t break it, you get crushed beneath it.
<hr>
I hear them coming before I see them.
Boots on stone. The scrape of metal against leather. A whispered conversation in… what do they call themselves, their language? Lehito? It doesn’t matter. The words are too fast, too clipped for me to understand.
I wonder if Qliato is with them, if he’s the one leading them here. I wonder if he will speak my name again.
Saxina.
I must repeat my name, lest I forget it.
The iron door groans open. Light from the corridor slashes through the darkness of my cell. Long accustomed to the void, my eyes recoil. I turn my head, squinting against the sudden glare. But I do not cower. I will not cower.
The footsteps stop just beyond the threshold. Then, a tall and angular shadow steps forward, blocking out the light. I recognize his shape before my vision fully clears—the stiff posture, the smug tilt of his head.
Qliato, he is always smiling, always sneering, always carrying himself as if he owns everything he sees. His boots click against the cold stone as he moves closer. He stops just short of my reach, as if I could do anything, bound as I am, my arms twisted behind me, the chains cutting into my shoulders.
I try to shift, but the metal digs into my raw skin. A reminder. A leash.
Qliato crouches, leveling his gaze with mine. His eyes assess me, amused. He says something in Lehito, the syllables rolling off his tongue like a joke at my expense. The guards behind him chuckle.
He clicks his tongue, as if disappointed in me. Then his hand moves, fast and sudden, slapping me across the face. The smack of his open palm hitting the meat of my unshaven cheek rings through the chamber. Pain blossoms, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Another blow, this time with the back of his hand, knuckles scraping across my cheekbone. I taste blood. I smile.
His sneer deepens. His fingers dig into my chin, jerking my head up, forcing me to meet his gaze. He mutters something, his breath hot and stinking of whatever foul drink these invaders indulge in.
“Do you think I fear you?” I rasp, my throat raw from days without water. Not that I would trust anything they handed me anyway.
His grip tightens. My jaw aches.
He speaks again, slower this time, dragging out the syllables, as if that will make me comprehend his wretched tongue.
I don’t need to know his words. I know what he is saying. I know that expression—the condescension, the revulsion, the self-satisfaction.
I have seen it before.
When the Qiapu murmured about my betrayal.
When Qumuna stared at me as he knelt in the dust of Xutuina, defeated but unbowed.
I know exactly what Qliato is thinking.
You are nothing.
You lost.
And that is why I smile.
Because he is wrong.
Because I am the one who paved the way for what comes next. Because I will be the one to watch them burn.
The Sunfire is coming. The Eye in the Flame will rise again.
And when they do, Qliato will kneel before me.
And then—only then—I will give him my answer.
His grip loosens just slightly, and I spit blood onto his pristine boots.
The laughter dies in his throat.
His eyes darken. His lip curls. And then, pain.
The first punch sends my head snapping back against the stone.
The second leaves me gasping, ribs caving inward.
The third makes everything white-hot, pulsing, distant.
The fourth causes the world to blur at the edges, go dark.
I hear his words, the snarled syllables. I do not care.
I laugh, even as blood spills from my lips.
And that is when he stops.
Because he sees it.
Because they always see it, in the end.
The fire in my eyes.
The certainty.
The promise.
He mutters something, spitting on the ground beside me, before standing and stepping back.
The guards hesitate, waiting. He waves a hand, dismissive, and they follow him out.
The iron door slams shut.
Darkness returns.
I lean my head back against the wall, breathing through the pain, through the taste of blood and sweat.
And I wait.
<hr>
I should have been ready.
I should have seen it coming.
I knew what they were, what they worshipped, what they would do if things didn’t go their way.
I saw it in their eyes when they spoke of sacrifice, of power beyond reckoning.
I should have known.
But I didn’t.
I believed them when they said I was meant to rule. That I would rise above the rest.
But power is a wheel.
And if you don’t break it, you get crushed beneath it.
<hr>
Are you listening?
Are you there?
Are you there?
The dark stretches. Deeper than it was before. It is not a room. Not a place. It is something else. Something vast. Something endless.
I reach for it.
I think I reach for it.
But there is no hand, no skin, no sensation of movement.
Just emptiness.
Just thought.
Just memory.
<hr>
I have lived this moment before.
The day I took control of the Qiapu, the sky was clear.
No omens. No storms. No blood-red sun sinking into the horizon.
Just blue. Endless blue.
The kind of sky people pray under.
The kind of sky people feel hope under.
I stood before my people, and I spoke the words I had practiced a hundred times before. Loyalty. Stability. A future greater than the past.
My voice did not waver. My hands did not shake. I told them the old ways were chains. That we would be free. That I would lead us into something better.
They did not cheer.
They did not cry out in defiance.
They only watched.
Like the mountains that stand sentinel as they surround Pichaqta.
Like they were only tolerating me.
Or, worse—indifferent.
<hr>
I had made my choice long before then.
Before Achutli’s emissary arrived in the dead of night, cloaked in secrecy, speaking in quiet tones of revolution, of restoration, of a world where the Qiapu did not answer to a council, but to a king.
Before I watched the assassin do his worst to Limaqumtlia as easily as one culls a lamb.
Before I took his seat soon after.
Before the people knelt before me, calling me Tempered, as though I had earned the right.
As though I had not taken it with bloody hands.
<hr>
Paxilche was the last to turn away.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t spit or curse my name like the others did.
He just looked at me.
And it was worse.
It was worse than anything they could have done.
Because in his eyes, I saw it—
The moment I became nothing.
<hr>
But what did he know of ambition?
What did he know of what it meant to crawl up from nothing?
He was born into his place. And yet he still spurned it. That jaded fool. I had to carve mine from stone.
If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else.
If it hadn’t been me—
<hr>
Qliato.
Butchering my name in his tongue. It feels deliberate.
I am nothing to him.
Less than nothing.
He speaks about me like I’m not there. Like I am a relic. A thing to be dealt with.
A trade.
A sacrifice.
A gift for their god.
That’s how I understand it to be.
I laughed.
I don’t know if it was out loud.
I don’t know if it was in my head.
But it boomed through the chamber.
Me? A sacrifice?
The Eye in the Flame will reclaim what’s been stolen.
The Sunfire will burn them to ash.
<hr>
It happens quickly.
Hands on my arms.
Hands on my throat.
Thrust to the ground.
Pinned to the ground.
My head pulled up, back.
The world tilting. The stone beneath me vanishing.
And then—
Nothing.
<hr>
I open my eyes.
No.
I think I open my eyes.
But the dark does not change.
The walls are gone.
The floor is gone.
I reach out.
But I have no hands.
I speak.
But I have no voice.
I am thought.
I am memory.
I am—
<hr>
Are you listening?
Are you there?
No.
Not anymore, I fear.
<hr>
I used to think the dead were carried on the wind. That the breath of the gods scooped them up, lifted them toward the stars, let them scatter across the sky.
Now, I know better.
Now, I know the dead do not rise.
They sink.
I don’t know how long I’ve been falling.
Or if I’ve been falling at all.
I’ve been inside this darkness for too long to know what is what.
Maybe this is still the chamber.
Maybe the stone is still beneath me, the chains still around my wrists. Maybe the knife never cut.
Maybe I am still alive.
Maybe—
<hr>
No.
That’s not true.
I know it’s not true.
Because I can see now.
<hr>
Not the walls.
Not the cell.
Not the world I built and bartered for.
I see them.
The ones before me.
<hr>
I had always imagined the nine hells as a thing separate from the world. A place you go. A destination.
But now I understand.
They were always here.
Layered. Woven into the land.
Buried beneath our feet, just beneath the surface.
And now, I am beneath the surface too.
<hr>
They watch me.
The ones before me.
Eyes like empty and endless pits.
They are drowning in this darkness.
Something I cannot name.
I wonder if they were once like me.
I wonder if they thought they could cheat the fall.
I wonder if they still believe they can climb back.
<hr>
I hear them.
Not words.
Not speech.
But want.
The yearning.
It moves through them like wind through reeds.
A soundless howl, a plea without a tongue.
I do not answer.
I do not move.
Because I know—
The moment I reach back, the moment I acknowledge them—
I will never stop falling.
<hr>
I do not belong here.
I do not belong here.
I do not belong here.
I do not belong here.
I do not belong here.
<hr>
But then I see him.
Paxilche.
Not here.
Not one of them.
But standing above the pit, looking down.
His eyes like they were that day.
The moment I became everything and nothing.
<hr>
I reach out to his figure.
”You can’t blame me for doing what I must to survive,” I tell him.
“You can’t blame me for doing what needed to be done for the Qiapu to prosper,” I tell him.
”You would have done the same,” I tell him.
He does not answer.
Much like you.
He only stares.
And I know—
This is not Paxilche.
This is me.
The me I left behind.
The me who thought he could take everything and not lose a thing.
The me who thought he could be the Tempered and still have honor.
The me who was wrong.
<hr>
The last thing I saw was the knife.
The jagged edges.
The strange way it caught the light of the torches.
The way it moved, like an eagle descending upon prey.
And then—
Pain?
No.
Not pain.
Something else.
Something deeper.
Something final.
And then—
Nothing.
How long have I been here?
A day?
A harvest?
An eternity?
Does time move when you are not?
I wait.
I listen.
The dark shifts.
I know what it is now.
It is not a place.
It is a door.
And I am caught in the threshold.
Neither in.
Neither out.
Neither alive.
Neither dead.
<hr>
The dead do not rule.
The dead do not outlast anything.
The dead do not control their legacy.
I know that now.
<hr>
I had never believed in the nine hells.
Not truly.
They were stories. Warnings. Myths meant to keep fools in line.
I had never believed in them.
Until I could see how it awaits my arrival.
Until now.
<hr>
Are you listening?
Are you there?
Are you listening?
Are you there?
<hr>
The cell fades.
The body fades.
The world fades.
I am alone.
I am nothing.