A Wicked Pursuit
The harrowing chase had started at dawn, just as the obsidian sun breached the horizon. The era was one of tumult and warring Tulum factions, set deep within the heart of the Mayan civilization, an epoch of flourishing culture paired with ominous omens. Amara, a priestess-turned-renegade with defiant emerald eyes and braids woven with bright feathers of sacred quetzals, had crossed the line from reverent scholar to hunted pariah the moment she betrayed the High Council.
She was tall and wiry, her physique molded through years of temple rituals and forbidden explorations in the jungle’s uncharted depths. Beneath her colorful ceremonial robe, still bearing the sapphire hue signifying a priestess of Itzamna, was a leather harness arrayed with tools—ancient and modern alike. A hollowed bone flute hung beside sleek iron daggers, a testament to her dual loyalty: one foot in the past and one in the future. The robe’s stark blue clashed against the scorched gold of her undertunic, remnants of her now-vilified status.
Amara slid down the side of a crumbled ziggurat, her sandals catching on jagged stones. Behind her, the High Council’s shadow-clad enforcers—masked warriors known as the Night Fang—descended with eerie grace. Their obsidian blades caught the grim orange glow of the ash-covered horizon, their guttural war cries cutting through the silence.
Fragments of Truth
The artifact had whispered its secrets to her the night before, during the final eclipse. Amara remembered the sensation—glyphs on the sphere glowing faintly as she traced them with trembling fingers in the High Temple’s hidden chamber. Visions of a world far from her own had flooded her mind. A place of tall towers that reached beyond the clouds, flying machines that roared like jaguars, and glowing pathways carved into the night sky. The glyphs told of cycles—great turns of time where civilizations rose and fell, leaving behind faint echoes of warnings to those that dared listen.
This was Itzamna’s greatest lie, the truth Amara had to share: they were not the first rise of humanity, nor would they be the last. But her heresy was treason. The elders demanded silence. The artifact demanded escape.
So she fled. No one had ever escaped the Tulum citadel alive. Until now.
A Broken Ally
Amara reached the canopy’s edge, the verdant jungle stretching out like a patchwork of emerald and shadows beneath her. She paused, gripping the artifact tighter as a blur in the undergrowth caught her eye. Emerging from the dense foliage was Nalek, her estranged ally turned reluctant accomplice—his golden jaguar pelt marked with fresh blood, his expression torn between guilt and determination. Nalek was broad and muscular, his arms adorned with scars and obsidian ornaments. Once a fierce temple guard, he had betrayed his oath for reasons she still didn’t fully trust.
“You run like a cornered wildcat,” he muttered, his deep voice strained by exertion. His jaguar headdress sat at an odd angle, giving him a disheveled air, but his sharp gaze revealed no hesitation. “Did you retrieve it?”
Amara held up the sphere. “It’s more than I thought,” she said, her voice tinged with awe. “This could alter everything—our future, our past—”
Nalek grimaced. “Then we’d better survive long enough to deliver it.”
The Cost of the Truth
No sooner had he spoken than the jungle erupted with motion. The Night Fang warriors emerged from the shadows, their ornate masks twisted into animalistic snarls. Amara and Nalek fought side by side, their movements fluid, instinctual. Her dagger met obsidian blades with a metallic clash, sparks flying. Nalek’s raw strength tore through the assailants, though the wounds on his torso bled more freely with each swing of his club.
But it wasn’t enough. The warriors were too many.
Driven to a jagged cliff’s precipice, Amara glanced down. Below her, the jungle churned, vines and mist weaving an unwelcoming tapestry. She looked at Nalek. “The artifact must survive. Even if we don’t.”
He scoffed, blood streaking his jaw. “We always did have different ideas about sacrifices.”
Gripping the sphere, Amara inhaled deeply and leapt off the cliff. The wind howled around her, and for a moment, the world felt weightless.
But the artifact pulsed once more, and the air thickened. Her descent slowed unnaturally, the sphere releasing a faint hum as bright glyphs erupted across its surface. When she hit the jungle floor, it was with a soft thud rather than bone-shattering impact. Above, the Night Fang hesitated, their fear of the unknown momentarily overriding their bloodlust.
The End and the Beginning
Nalek, battered but alive, followed moments later. His eyes widened in surprise as he processed what had just happened. “What sorcery is this?” he breathed.
Amara held the sphere aloft. It was glowing like a second sun now, its heat casting strange shadows on their faces. “Not sorcery,” she said, her voice somewhere between reverence and dread. “Knowledge.”
The jungle began to vibrate as a low rumble filled the air. The artifact’s energy was awakening something deep within the earth—something buried long before the rise of her people. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps it was salvation.
“We need to keep moving,” Amara said, determination replacing her fear. “This doesn’t end here.”
As they vanished into the jungle’s depths, the obsidian sun above seemed to pale, its dominance over the sky momentarily dimmed by the golden glow of the sphere. The cycle was turning once more.
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: How to Stop Worrying About Your Social Media Posts | Mel Robbins
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