Three Days Before
The fires had smoldered low that night in the artisans’ quarter, but Hana was wide awake. She crouched in the moonlight spilling across the stone terraces, sketching an elaborate glyph on papyrus. Between quick gestures with her quill, she adjusted the brazier beside her — a makeshift kiln she often used to shape obsidian into intricate tools or jewelry for trade. Her designs were always bold and delicate, a reflection of her own quiet intensity.
A voice interrupted her thoughts. “Still drawing dreams when the world unfurls nightmares?” a familiar baritone teased. Turning, she found Nahual standing above her, a satchel slung over one shoulder, the faint chirr of cicadas surrounding him.
“Nahual,” she replied, a corner of her mouth lifting. “You shouldn’t wander so late. Not after—” She didn’t finish. The word ‘uprising’ hung unspoken between them. For weeks, murmurs had twisted through the streets — of farmers resentful of escalating tributes, merchants wary of stricter trade decrees, of whispers of rebellion trailing the Counselor’s iron-fingered taxations.
“Are you afraid for me, Hana?” He crouched beside her, his tone softening. “Half the city leans toward chaos, but your fingers remain steady. Is that not faith, or is it pure defiance?”
She laughed, a sound short and dry. “Neither. Obedience dulls quickly if it starves the belly.” Setting down her quill, she glanced toward him. “Do you believe the gods are watching all this?”
Nahual tilted his head toward the star-flecked sky. “They’re watching,” he replied with a sharp grin. “I just hope for their sake, they’ve planned an escape.”
Present
Inside the Great Pyramid, Hana stood at the center of the grand hall. Torches reflected off the polished surfaces of obsidian pillars, casting distorted shadows across the mosaic-tiled floor. Before her, the High Priest, clad in ceremonial garb of gold and turquoise, stood with his arms outstretched, an elaborate staff dwarfed only by the force of his booming voice.
“Hana of Tula,” he began, his words echoing more for grandeur than necessity. “You are summoned not as stone-worker, nor artisan, but as mediator of the divine.”
“Mediator?” she repeated, though she kept her voice neutral. Yet her thoughts churned. Not once had she imagined her skills bringing her before the gods in this manner. What had she done to invite such a title?
Suddenly, the High Priest stepped aside, and Hana saw them — two figures kneeling on the floor. Both bound, both masked with plain cotton slashed only by their visible terror. The High Priest’s resonant tone hardened. “The past week has brought unrest across the citadel. Betrayal grows like ivy in the cracks of tradition. These two are architects of treason. You,” he pointed directly at Hana, “must preside over their fate.”
Hana’s breath caught. “Why me?” she asked, immediately regretting how the question lingered as defiance.
The High Priest’s smile bore no warmth. “Because you build for permanence, for life — not destruction. The gods have spoken through the auguries. They chose you for justice.”
Hana hesitated. Her hands flexed unconsciously at her sides as her mind raced. She thought of Nahual’s words mere days ago, of defiance boiling quietly in the fractured streets of the citadel. The kneeling figures didn’t meet her eyes, though she swore the air quavered with their unseen pleas.
Could lives be measured like the weight of a stone? If she chose to save them, did she condemn herself? Did she condemn her city?
“You hesitate,” the High Priest observed with a needle-sharp edge. “Perhaps you misunderstand: This is no choice. It’s judgment.”
A Song Begins
For the first time, Hana met the High Priest’s gaze. And then, the noise in her mind ceased. She thought of the dozens of mornings passing Nahual in the corridors — his humor hiding the cautious, questioning spirit beneath. She thought of the faces of those who walked the markets — those who labored so their children could study by moonrise, over dusty scrolls they could barely afford.
Her lips parted, and she sang.
It was the melody in her dreams — unruly yet purposeful — one she crafted during quieter nights, inspired by eagle cries and rushing rivers winding under Tula’s cliffs. It rang against the Pyramid’s stone walls, and the High Priest’s staff faltered mid-air as the spiral of her song rose higher. To her surprise, others beyond the chamber began to gather and hum the melody as it echoed outward.
Hana locked eyes with one of the bound figures. And though fear remained, she saw something bloom there — hope.
Genre: Historical Fiction
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Pakistan: Pashtun Children Fight for Their Education Rights
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