Blood baked into the sands of Xochtli for only moments before its meaning dissolved into the vast desert. It was a warrior's death, if there could be pride in dying that way. Tecpatl, the obsidian blade, glistened in the harsh sunlight as the woman wiped it clean with a practiced efficiency. Her eyes reflected neither triumph nor remorse—merely the weight of necessity. The wind tugged at her tunic—a striking crimson, tightly belted with cords of woven golden fiber—while the jaguar pelt slung over her right shoulder whispered of her station. Her garments, both practical and ceremonial, marked her as a Mixpantli: both warrior and envoy, one who spoke with gods as easily as men.
Quilaztli stepped over the body, her sandaled feet leaving barely a trace behind in the desert grit. She was tall and almost angular, her shoulders defined by years of wielding weapons, though her face retained a stark beauty. Her raven-black hair was tied back to keep her vision unobscured, but her bangs framed eyes like chips of obsidian, sharp and penetrating. Around her neck hung a string of Mayan jade beads, a rare ornament that told of separations between bone-deep heritage and recent alliances with the southerners. She adjusted her jade-encrusted greaves absentmindedly as she gazed into the horizon.
It was there, beneath the constellations they called the Serpent's Spine, that the ancient city of Itzlak moaned under siege. She was late.
The Mission Given in Blood
The memory forced itself to the forefront like a spear breach through armor. Her jaguar mentor, Tlatecuhtli, at the ceremonial pit, his dark-brown skin gleaming with sweat and aromatic oils. Her crimson tunic was still fresh in its weave then, not darkened by the sands or her life's choices. "There will come a day," he said, his voice steady through ceremonial chants rising around them, "when the gods will close their ears to us, and the rivers of the underworld will dry. That day is not today." He leaned close enough for her to glimpse the gold fillings of his teeth. "Go to Itzlak. They prepare to summon the Codex of Xolotl—blind fools—and will undo Time itself with their hands unwashed of deceit. Silence them."
The Codex, the codex, the Codex… She understood the implications yet not fully the horror. A pretext of loyalty kept him from confiding, and trust at least in the divine order kept her from asking.
Now, as the ochre haze of Itzlak's temple spires bled into existence above the dunes, she wondered what exactly she'd been sent to save—or destroy—to maintain cosmic harmony.
The Siege of Itzlak
Entering the city was less miraculous than tragic. The smell of ash and rotting thatch overwhelmed the refinement of cedar incense bleeding from the battered temples ahead. Peasants rushed dragging reed mats and clay idols, frightened by thunderous collapses outside and cries that belonged to no mortal throat. She could see how the walls above the eastern gate, a monumental construction meant as much to glorify gods as guard against foes, had crumbled under the weight of something far too alien to be an enemy battering ram.
It wasn't war, Quilaztli thought. It was prelude.
She passed a weeping mother clutching a child. The babe was too still, its arm limp like a stalk of corn, likely lifeless for hours while the mother whispered useless words of protection. Quilaztli paused only long enough to touch the mother’s cheek. "Bury your dead, sister," she said softly, before continuing toward the inner sanctum. There was no stopping to save those already lost on this path.
The Codex's Unholy Revelation
The chamber where the elders buoyed their collective madness invoked vertigo at first glance. Runes carved in spirals adorned the great obsidian floor, each line a jagged declaration of purpose that seared itself into her peripheral vision if she stared too long. At the altar in the center, a figure cloaked in ceremonial white chanted guttural words in Nahuatl, holding aloft what Quilaztli recognized as the Codex of Xolotl. The book was not a book in any simple sense; its clay-like cover writhed as though breathing, pulsing with the lifeblood of unnatural design.
"You betray us all, Yazatl," she spoke, her voice a command that echoed through generations of fearsome lineage. The elder priest turned, his face pale even under his painted mask. "You cannot stop this, Quilaztli. The Codex speaks beyond your ears or mine. It speaks beyond gods."
"The Codex speaks madness." She advanced, drawing Tecpatl. Its edge kissed light with razor whispers as she approached. "And you are its herald."
Her Choice to Burn the Heaven Thread
Battle wasn't unexpected; the Codex could defend itself in ways even the strongest warriors could not predict. Her feet danced a threadbare line, spinning as chitinous shadows crept from the edges of the walls. Distantly, she charged against forms living somewhere between spirit and monstrosity. Yazatl's final scream was cut short when Tecpatl plunged through his throat, silencing the Codex's immediate conduit.
The Codex hit the floor with a dull thud, seemingly inert. Yet she knew, even she knew, it deceived.
A New Sun
Quilaztli, emerging from the shuddering caves below Itzlak’s ruins, clutched between her shoulders parchment-yet now-render cosmic branched seals, not written word on surface-like Axis seeds. the rest unlike reboot dawn humanity-level-altered
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