A sharp pain coiled in Anaqui’s stomach as she wrestled with the impossible question: Would the Prince of Mesozaca abandon everything to run away with her?
She sat cross-legged on the cool grass of the palace’s inner garden, clutching her knees as if she might collapse without the anchor of her own body. Before her, Prince Itzel slept, his face cast in sharp lines by the moonlight that filtered through the restless leaves. His chest rose and fell with the unhurried rhythm of someone untouched by the weight of his lineage, his empire, his choices.
You sleep so peacefully, my prince, she thought, her gaze lingering on him. And yet, I am drowning. Her hand hovered near his, drawn by the pull of something she dared not name. Close enough to feel his warmth but stopping short—always short. Even this moment, this stolen fragment of stillness, felt forbidden.
The garden held a dark beauty that pressed against the senses, overwhelming and unyielding. The sweet scent of yollotlflowers lingered heavily, as if the air itself bore secrets too dangerous to name. Beneath the Ceibashi tree, the ground was damp and cold, its roots tangled and thick, carving through the earth like hidden veins.
The branches above clawed toward the moonlight, their black lines fractured and raw, spilling pale light that caught on the trembling leaves. The sound of their shifting broke the stillness, soft and uneven, like words left unfinished.
A zolin bird’s cry echoed once, sharp and clear, before vanishing into the night’s weight. The garden seemed both alive and unyielding, its beauty as consuming as the love Anaqui carried for the prince—something precious but born of ruin. Her secret lived here, in the heavy perfume, the restless branches, and the silence that grew too deep. This place knew what she would never say aloud: that her love and her secrets came from the same root.
If only I could tell you what I’ve seen, her thoughts sinned.
Itzel stirred, his breath hitching softly before one eye opened. A lazy smile curled his lips as he caught her watching. “You’re doing it again, Xochi,” he murmured, his voice thick with dreams.
Anaqui flinched as if struck, her face flushing hot. “I wasn’t.”
He chuckled, propping himself on one elbow, his dark hair falling messily across his brow. “Don’t lie. I can hear your thoughts, remember?”
Her breath hitched. “You were listening?”
“Only a little.” He smirked, brushing his hair from his eyes. “Hearing them is easy. Understanding them? That’s the real trick.”
Her brow furrowed. “Since when can you read thoughts?”
“Since always.” He yawned, his voice light. “Though I can’t control it. Comes and goes, like rain.” He paused, his teasing giving way to something quieter, something sharper. “But you think so loudly when you’re afraid. Tell me—what is it?”
She turned her face away, drawing her knees tighter to her chest. “I have secrets, prince. Perhaps I’ll share them… next time.”
His smile faltered as he sat up fully, his tone growing firm. “Why not now?”
Her fingers brushed against her cheek, a futile attempt to banish the tears forming there. “Some truths must wait. Even for the son of gods.”
His expression hardened, his jaw tightening. “I am no god, Anaqui. You, of all people, should know that.”
Her eyes met his then, full of something heavy and unspoken. “No, you are not a god. But you are blessed with something I will never have. And I… I am cursed by the blood that flows in me. Servitude is my punishment. There is no escape.”
“Nonsense.” His voice softened, but his defiance sharpened. “You can escape anything. If you choose to tell me another time, I will wait. But hear this—I will never see you as cursed.”
Her lips trembled as if to reply, but silence won. Above them, the Ceibashi groaned under the weight of the wind, its branches whispering conspiracies to the stars. Somewhere beyond its reach, the cry of a Balam echoed—low, guttural, and haunting. Anaqui shivered, holding herself tighter. You don’t understand, my prince. But one day you will. And that day will ruin us both.
A metallic chime shattered the stillness. The bells of the Quimaru, sharp and precise, sliced through the night.
Itzel tensed, his gaze snapping to the shadows beyond the tree. “The Quimaru bells,” he murmured, his voice taut. “They’re coming this way.”
Anaqui froze, her breath shallow, her hand gripping the edge of her skirt. “Then I can’t stay,” she whispered, urgency spilling into her words. “If they find me here…”
Her voice faltered. He reached for her, his fingers brushing her wrist, but she pulled away. “No.”
“You don’t understand,” she said, sharper now. “Not even the Yacami can defy the Empress.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with a kiss—brief, desperate, a plea and a farewell.
“Next time,” she whispered, her voice steady now, though her eyes burned. “I’ll tell you everything.”
And before he could stop her, she vanished into the shadows, the silver curve of her shoulder catching the moonlight one last time before the night swallowed her whole.
Itzel remained still, his hand outstretched toward the emptiness she’d left behind. The garden felt colder now, the air biting against his skin. Somewhere, the bells tolled again, louder, followed by the rhythm of armored footsteps.
A voice interrupted the void. “Yacami, the Empress awaits.”
Nexal stood at the garden’s edge, his obsidian armor gleaming under the moonlight. A bizarre sigil of the one eyed winged monkey god named Mictelotl was forged into Nexal’s dark purple chest plate caught the faint glow of moonlight, its lines gleaming with an unsettling, spectral radiance. It was more than a symbol—it was a command, a reminder of the divine authority wielded by the Empress, the unyielding weight of her will pressing down on the empire and all who served it.
“She awaits, my prince,” Nexal said, his voice low but unyielding. The words carried the weight of inevitability, as if they were not his own, but spoken through him by the gods themselves.
Itzel did not respond. His gaze lingered on the Ceibashi tree, its great boughs trembling as the wind grew restless. The leaves, once serene, now hissed like conspirators. Somewhere deep in its ancient roots, he thought he could feel the pulse of the garden—a warning, or a plea.
“Tell her I will join her shortly,” Itzel said, his tone clipped, deliberately casual.
Nexal’s eyes did not waver, though the tension between them thickened, the air heavy enough to crush the fragile peace of the moment. “She demands your presence now,” Nexal replied evenly, his words precise, each syllable measured like the stroke of a blade.
Itzel turned at last, his movements slow, deliberate, as though trying to summon authority from the very act of standing tall. His voice turned cold, biting. “Then tell her I am busy.”
“That is not what she ordered,” Nexal said, his tone unchanged, though his words struck like iron on stone.
Itzel stepped closer, his boots crunching softly on the crushed grass. He tilted his head back to meet Nexal’s gaze, the captain towering over him in full armor, a shadow carved into flesh and steel. Itzel’s lips curled into a brittle smile, sharp and hollow. “I forgot how loyal a pet my mother keeps,” he said, his words laced with venom.
Nexal’s expression didn’t falter, but his voice gained a faint edge, a tension strung tightly beneath his measured tone. “The Empress is the voice of Mictelotl, my prince. We are all her pets—even the Yacami.”
Itzel’s brittle smile hardened into something darker. He stepped closer, his face mere inches from Nexal’s, daring the captain’s composure to crack. “Do you wish to strike me, Nexal?” His words came softly, like poison dripped into the stillness. “Admit it—you don’t respect me.”
“That is untrue,” Nexal said. His voice remained steady, but his hands curled briefly into fists, a flicker of tension that did not go unnoticed.
Itzel’s smile widened, cold as the moonlight glinting off the captain’s armor. “Is it? Then prove it.” His tone sharpened. “Hit me.”
Nexal hesitated, his eyes narrowing, the faintest flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.
“I will not,” Nexal said, the words calm but weighted, like a stone dropped into deep water.
“As your Yacami, I order you,” Itzel said, his voice rising. The crack in his composure was small but undeniable, anger sharpening the edges of his words.
Nexal sighed—a sound almost too human, weary and faintly pitying. “As you wish, my prince.”
The blow came without warning, swift and unrelenting. Nexal’s fist slammed into Itzel’s jaw, the impact resounding like thunder in the quiet garden. For an instant, the world tilted, and Itzel’s knees buckled as pain shot through him. His spirit seemed to jolt free of his body, the stars overhead blurring into streaks of cold light.
He hit the ground hard, the taste of blood filling his mouth. His hands scrabbled at the grass, trying to find purchase, the world spinning as Nexal crouched beside him.
The captain’s voice was low, almost a whisper, and colder than the night air. “I can hear thoughts too, my prince. Do not follow that girl. She will lead you to your death.”
Itzel spat blood into the dirt, his breath ragged as he glared up at Nexal, defiance burning in his eyes. “Fuck you,” he hissed, his fingers clawing uselessly at the ground.
Nexal’s expression didn’t shift. Slowly, he rose to his feet and extended a hand. Itzel ignored it, struggling upright on his own. His legs wobbled, but his pride held him steady enough to walk.
Together, they moved toward the palace. The bells of the Quimaru tolled again, each chime cutting through the night like a blade.
As they passed the Ceibashi tree, Itzel glanced back one last time. Its great branches swayed as though restless, its shadow vast and impenetrable. The faint scent of crushed yollotl flowers clung to the air, a fragile memory of her presence already fading.
Next time, he thought bitterly, his mind still reaching for the silhouette that had disappeared into the shadows.
If there is a next time.
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