Amara knelt beside the shallow stream, her hands cupped low to collect the cool water. Her crimson cloak, stitched with golden-thread patterns of climbing sunflowers, was splayed out behind her. The cloak belied her status—warrior and priestess of the Tiahliant people, a tribe nestled deep in the forests of ancient Mesoamerica. Her black hair, braided in intricate patterns, shimmered under the amber sunlight filtering through the dense canopy above. In her hazel eyes was a glimmer of both wisdom and an unrelenting restlessness, a contradiction few ever truly understood.
Her armor, lightweight but unyielding, was a testimony to the Tiahliant craftspeople’s artistry. Plates of shimmering obsidian were secured over layers of jaguar fur, and carved ivory adornments glinted at her shoulders. The leather sandals she wore bore straps interlaced with turquoise beads, each one a memory of a past battle won. As she gazed into the water, her reflection rippled, distorted and fragmented—but it wasn’t her reflection that unsettled her. It was the shadow behind her own, a flicker that didn’t belong to the surrounding trees.
“You’ve been following me,” Amara said without turning around, her voice firm but measured.
From the bushes behind her emerged a tall figure clad in blackened copper armor, engraved in the style of a far-off neighboring tribe. The man’s face, though covered by an obsidian mask depicting a snarling coyote, was unmistakable. Amara clenched her jaw. Of all people, it was Tenoch, the exile. Once her closest friend, perhaps something more in another life, before betrayal twisted the connection between them.
“You’ve grown sharp,” Tenoch replied, his voice muffled under the mask but carrying a tone of bitter amusement. He stepped forward, his boots making no sound on the soft forest floor. “But I suppose you’ve always been difficult to catch, even when you weren’t looking.”
The Mission of the Tiahliant
Amara stood, her movement fluid and deliberate, as if coils of energy lay beneath every step. She did not reach for the flint blade at her hip—yet. Still, her presence was one of calm authority. “What do you want, Tenoch? I’ve no patience for games.”
Tenoch removed his mask, revealing a face lined with years of survival rather than comfort. His strong jaw and piercing black eyes burned with purpose. Around his neck hung a pendant, a carved effigy of the Feathered Serpent, glowing faintly green—a relic stolen during his flight years ago. The memories it carried made Amara’s insides churn. She swallowed the tide of emotion threatening to rise.
“The Sunstone,” he said simply. “It’s a myth, isn’t it?”
Amara tilted her head. “And if it weren’t? What value would it have for an outsider?”
Tenoch laughed—a brief, sardonic bark of sound. “We both know I’m no outsider. Don’t feign ignorance; you know why I need it.” He gestured to the clasp of her cloak. “You wear the sigils of a priestess atop your warrior’s garb. That alone should tell me the Sunstone is real. You wouldn’t walk this forest otherwise.”
“The Sunstone is not a weapon for you to wield,” she countered. Her voice lowered into a growl. “If you’re here for power, you’ll leave empty-handed.”
Beneath the Canopy
Tenoch’s hand moved quickly to the hilt of his ceremonial blade, but Amara moved faster. In a single, fluid motion, she pulled her flint dagger free and leveled it at his chest. They stood like that, locked, the air between them heavier than the humid forest heat. The call of a distant macaw echoed faintly, like an omen.
“This decay will consume everything, Amara!” Tenoch finally spat. His voice cracked with the desperation of a man cornered—not by an adversary but by time itself. “The crops fail, the rivers grow sick. Insects that once feared the sun now cloud it like smoke! And here you are, guarding salvation like it belongs to you alone.”
Amara’s grip tightened on her dagger. She hated how some part of her wanted to believe him—wanted to hope the old Tenoch, the dreamer, the revolutionary, still existed beneath the mask of failure and exile. “The gods demand balance,” she said. “It isn’t ours to take.”
“Balance?” Tenoch countered. “What balance do you see in the suffering of our people? In the rot of once-beautiful lands? Don’t be a zealot. The Sunstone is nothing but stored energy of the gods—energy waiting for someone bold enough to channel it.”
The Clash and the Light
The forest floor blurred into motion. Tenoch lunged forward, blade drawn wide. Amara spun, her crimson cloak billowing like fire as her dagger caught his blade mid-swipe. Sparks flew as obsidian met flint. The ferocity in their strikes spoke not just of battle but of years of unspoken words—betrayals tucked away in clenched fists.
The fight was quick and brutal. Tenoch gained the upper hand first, leveraging his size and brute force. He managed to pin Amara against a jagged tree trunk, the edge of his blade grazing her throat. “Stand down!” he barked. “You can’t fight what’s already begun!”
But Amara refused to surrender. She kicked upwards, striking his knee, and used the momentary distraction to twist free. In a final, desperate motion, she grabbed the pendant from his neck, tearing the string. The sudden absence of its power caused Tenoch to stumble.
The glow of the pendant pulsed warmly in her palm. And then—silence. The only sound was the rustling of leaves, as though the forest itself held its breath for her next move.
“This ends now,” Amara said. She turned and threw the pendant into the stream. The water seemed to hiss, as though it had swallowed fire itself, before returning to stillness. Tenoch’s face fell, slack-jawed in disbelief.
The Epilogue of Shadows
Amara picked up her cloak, wiping the blood from the corner of her lip. She turned to Tenoch, but his gaze was distant—broken. With no relic, no power, his argument had thinned to nothing but guilt and defeat.
“Go,” she said, sheathing her dagger. “The gods may forgive you. I won’t.”
She began walking toward the shadows of the trees, the figure of a warrior outlined in the amber glow, alone but resolute. Behind her, Tenoch remained frozen, a man finally untethered from ambition but chained by regret.
The forest swallowed her, leaving only the faint echoes of leather sandals against the underbrush and the faint promise that some betrayals could never be undone.
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Why Is It so Hard to Swat a Fly Successfully?
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