The Betrayal in the Temple
Blood stained the sacred stone, congealing in the grooves of the jaguar mosaic etched into the temple's floor. Elian looked down at his hands, trembling fists stained with crimson not his own.
A day earlier, the chants of priests had filled this chamber, prayers to Huitzilopochtli weaving between pillars carved with the visages of gods. And then, the fall came—the betrayal. The Emperor's decree branded Elian a heretic—not because he had failed in faith, but because he refused to sacrifice a child to ensure rains for the harvest. He'd dared to question the priests publicly. From that moment, he became a hunted man.
The blade of his jaguar obsidian dagger had pierced his captain's throat in the chaos before escape. It wasn’t just betrayal by the priests or the Emperor that sat like lead on his chest. It was the betrayal of his friend—Anaca, who had stood beside him for years, who had whispered poison to the guards of Elian's dissent and sealed his fate.
The Desert Ahead
Now, Elian moved through the jungle toward the edge of his known world, the dry, open desert awaiting him with punishing cruelty. The air thinned as he approached the lands no Aztec dared settle. Elian’s footprints turned from mud to sand as he navigated scorching dunes. The caws of crows followed him, circling hungrily overhead.
His crimson tunic no longer shielded him—its sweat-soaked weight dragged him down, and the jaguar obsidian dagger at his hip felt heavier with each mile. In moments of exhaustion, images flashed unbidden across his mind: Anaca smiling warmly at a festival feast; the same smiling man slipping a blade into his back without a moment’s hesitation. And then, the vision of his wife—soft-spoken Xochitl—her tortillas warm in his hand on cold mornings, her laughter Icarian as it filled their modest dwelling. The memory of her death, fever-stricken and frail, merged with the whispers of the gods foretelling his impending doom.
But Elian wasn't one to give in to whispers. The gods of May and the sun itself could conspire; for him, survival was struggle, not surrender.
The Encounter at the Storm
The desert wasn’t entirely lifeless, though its inhabitants were as parched for blood as they were water. At dusk, the storm arrived—not from above but within. A lone figure emerged from the haze: an old man, cloaked in what seemed to be a cape fashioned from obsidian feathers, his staff glowing faintly with runes before each grounding step.
“Elian of no temple,” the man began, his voice rasping as though carried by the wind itself. “Do you come to die here, or do you seek to live beyond the boundaries of thrones and false gods?”
Elian’s grip on the jaguar dagger tightened. The stranger’s cloak rippled despite the still air. “I need no riddles from a wanderer,” Elian spat.
“It is no riddle,” the old man hissed with amusement. “It is the simplest of truths. Where you go, the Emperor’s curse will follow, Elian. They will hunt you whether you wish to fight or fall. What you seek cannot be earned by mere survival—it requires a choice.”
The wind howled, and Elian couldn’t be sure if the storm he saw in the horizon was real or born of the old man’s words. But then, the stranger raised his staff high, and suddenly the horizon itself cracked open. Beyond stood a throne of solid light with an obsidian crown resting untouched.
The Choice
“Abandon who you were,” the old man instructed. “Take the crown, shatter the lies of thrones, and become fire itself. But it will twist what remains of your soul.”
Elian looked down at the jaguar dagger. What did the gods owe him? What did faith owe? With the laughter of Xochitl lingering in his mind, he stepped forward.
Somewhere, in the desert etched with lightning, a light blazed, and Elian ceased to belong to the world of men.
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Not All Women Will Treat You Right: A Cautionary Insight
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