Garin's eyes fluttered open, greeted by a dull ache radiating from his skull through the rest of his body. His vision swam, blurred at the edges, and his balance wavered as if the ground itself swayed beneath him. Yet, he lay still on his back, the cold, prickly grass pressing into his skin.
Strangely, a quiet ease settled over him—as if he could finally exhale a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. But the relief never came.
Was it the smoke?
The thought surfaced as a foul stench invaded his senses—something acrid and unnatural, worse than the reek of a skunk. His nose wrinkled in disgust.
"Don't try to move."
A woman's voice, calm and measured, cut through the haze. He could discern that much, though his vision refused to sharpen, leaving her face a mystery behind the soothing tone.
"Wh—where am I?" His own voice sounded foreign, raspy.
"Somewhere safe."
Then the smoke coiled around his senses again, and darkness swallowed him whole.
—
When he awoke next, the dizziness had faded, and the air was clear—no trace of the choking stench. He found himself sprawled on the grass beneath a simple hut, its roof woven from wood and straw. Only one full wall stood, lined with an array of tools. To his sides, burlap sacks bulged with grain and corn.
"Oh, you're awake."
The woman stood a few paces away, a wicker basket laden with vegetables resting against her hip. She had been heading toward a larger hut in the distance but paused at the sound of his stirring.
Garin's hand instinctively went to his side—where his armor should have been. Gone.
"I need to get back to my men. Where am I?"
"Above the escarpment."
A deeper voice answered from behind. Garin twisted his neck, wincing at the protest in his muscles, and saw a man clad only in a vibrant skirt and sandals. His long hair framed a face darkened by the sun, his expression sharp as the blade he dragged along a piece of wood.
The man's tone carried a quiet threat, a silent warning. Trust was earned, not given. Garin understood that well enough. But a more pressing question gnawed at him: Why had they brought him here?
He tried to push himself up, but a jolt of pain forced him back down.
"Woah—easy. You're still banged up." The woman rushed to his side, steadying him.
Garin's fingers brushed against bandages wrapped tightly around his head.
"You're lucky," the man muttered, rising from his seat. "If not for my sister, I'd have left you to rot with the others." Without another word, he stalked off toward the shed.
"Ignore him," the woman said with a soft laugh. "Mornings make him grumpy."
"Morning? How long was I out?"
"A couple of days." Her smile was warm, almost reassuring. "But you've healed well. The worst of it was inside your head."
Garin lowered his hand, studying her properly this time. She wasbeautiful—sun-kissed skin, eyes like dark honey—and for a moment, his thoughts drifted.
Then a guttural growl shattered the silence.
"Oh." Atzi's lips curled into a knowing smile. "It seems your belly has awoken as well. Food is ready—here, let me help you up. I'll take you to our home."
Garin hesitated, then relented. His armor and sword would have to wait. In his state, he stood no chance in a fight, and healing required more than just rest. It required strength. And strength required food.
As they approached the adobe cabin, its straw roof casting a patchwork of shadows, two boys burst from the doorway. The elder, no more than ten, darted ahead while the younger one—barely more than a toddler—stumbled after him, both stealing wide-eyed glances at the fair-skinned stranger.
A woman stood framed in the doorway, hands on her hips. "Watch your steps!" she scolded before her gaze landed on Garin. "Ah. The silver man. You've healed well—no thanks to your caretaker." Her teasing glance referencing Atzi.
"How's the pot?" Atzi asked, her cheeks flushing.
"Just about finished."
The interior was warm, fragrant with spices and smoke. A low wooden table dominated the space, where Tizoc already sat, arms crossed, his knife resting conspicuously in front of him.
"Namictli," Zeltzin chided gently, "no weapons on the table."
Tizoc exhaled through his nose but sheathed the blade, his eyes shutting in silent resignation.
Atzi guided Garin to a seat, her touch firm yet careful.
"A pleasure to meet you," Zeltzin said, stirring the pot before ladling steaming red soup into earthenware bowls. "I am Zeltzin. This brooding one—" she gestured to Tizoc, "—is my Namictli (husband). Our boys, Tlaloc and Xolotl, you've already met."
"And I'm Atzi," the younger woman added, pulling her chair closer.
The soup was a vibrant crimson, studded with greens and golden corn on the cob. The aroma alone made Garin's mouth water. He devoured it faster than dignity allowed, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
"My humblest thanks," he said, bowing his head slightly. "This is the finest meal I've ever tasted."
Zeltzin chuckled. "Those words will earn you seconds, but save your praise for the chef. Atzi made it."
Garin turned to her. "Atzi… thank you. It was magnificent."
Her spoon froze midway to her lips. A faint pink bloomed across her cheeks before she ducked her head, focusing intently on her bowl.
Garin dipped his head slightly. "I must apologize - I don't think I'll be able to pronounce your names properly."
Tizoc's hand tightened around his knife. "Stop bowing like a servant. And don't bother learning our names. You haven't even told us yours, yet you're eating our food." His voice was sharp. "Soon as you can walk, you're gone. Back down the escarpment."
Atzi rolled her eyes. "Ignore Grumpy over here. You were practically licking the bowl - guess you were hungry, huh?"
Garin blinked, then gave a small smile. "Ah, yes. My apologies. I am Garin Juggesright."
Zeltzin chuckled. "Garin, huh? Never heard that one before. Don't worry about our names - they probably sound strange to you."
As the others kept chatting, Tizoc stayed silent, his dark eyes tracking Garin's every move.
Garin had known other races existed, but these people were nothing like the fair-skinned, blond or brown haired folk back home. Their rich brown skin, straight black hair, and warm eyes were completely foreign to him.
After breakfast, Tizoc grabbed Garin's arm none-too-gently and marched him outside.
"Listen up," he said, giving Garin a shove toward the outside. "I don't need another useless mouth to feed. But my sister insists, so you stay - but I must warn you that does not mean you won't pull your own weight."
"Tizoc, be nice!" Atzi called after them, though she was grinning.
Garin swallowed hard. Even though he was taller, Tizoc scared him. The man wasn't just strong - he was built like a hunting cat, all lean muscle and quick movements. While most warriors Garin knew were burly and thick, Tizoc looked like he could run for days without tiring. His eight-pack abs didn't help Garin feel any better.
The forest swallowed them quickly. Tizoc moved like he was born in these woods, his sandals barely making noise as he practically flew over roots and rocks. Meanwhile, Garin stumbled along behind, sweating buckets.
Bow on his back, purple knife at his hip, Tizoc didn't even seem to notice Garin struggling to keep up. After what felt like hours, Garin collapsed against a tree, gasping for air.
Garin wiped his forehead. Back home, he could command a hundred men in battle. But here? Here he was just some clumsy outsider trying not to faceplant in the dirt.
"What's the matter?" Tizoc's voice dripped with mocking amusement as he peered down from the tree branch, his silhouette cutting sharp against the dappled sunlight. "I told you you'd pull your own weight, didn't I? Heh. Whatever you catch, Atzi will cook. What you don't catch?" He leaned forward, the branch creaking under his weight. "Well, that's the deal she agreed to. So if you want to eat, you'll have to move faster than that."
Garin wiped the sweat from his brow, his breath still ragged. Tizoc dropped to the ground with effortless grace, landing in a crouch before straightening. "Get those bandages off. I found our prey." His eyes gleamed—not with malice, but something colder: expectation.
Back at the hut, the women worked in practiced harmony. Atzi's knife flashed as she diced vibrant peppers, their sharp scent mingling with the earthy aroma of boiling roots. Zeltzin stirred the pot, her movements rhythmic, her gaze occasionally flicking toward the forest's edge.
In this culture, roles were clear but respected. The men hunted every other day, their bodies pushed to limits between expeditions—crafting tools, honing weapons, training until their muscles screamed. The women tended the home, the children, the rhythms of daily survival. Yet there was no resentment, only the quiet understanding that each role was a thread in the same unbreakable cord.
"I hope he doesn't push Garin too hard," Atzi murmured, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. "He only just woke."
Zeltzin chuckled, tossing a peeled tuber into the pot. "Any man worth his salt should keep up. Besides—" She shot Atzi a sidelong glance. "If he can't handle a hunt, how's he supposed to provide for you one day?"
Atzi's knife slipped, nicking the cutting board. "What? No—that's not—!" Her cheeks flushed as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "He needed help. That's all."
"Then why were you at the escarpment?" Zeltzin's tone softened, but her curiosity was sharp. "It's not exactly a stroll away."
Atzi's hands stilled. "I was gathering herbs. The kind that only grows near the edge." Her voice dropped. "And… it was impossible to miss the chaos below. Father always warned us about the dangers past the escarpment. But I never imagined…" She exhaled. "Thousands of men. Armor like Garin's. Horses charging. He led them—until he fell. When the fighting ended, the survivors left. The dead didn't."
Zeltzin's stirring slowed. "And that's when Tizoc found you?"
"Yes. He demanded to know why I was there. I didn't explain—just said someone needed help." Atzi frowned. "I don't know why Garin stood out to me. But he did."
An hour later, Garin staggered after Tizoc as they both carried the deer, his tunic soaked through, his lips salty with sweat. Every muscle burned, yet beneath the exhaustion, something hummed—aliveness.
Then: footsteps.
A rustle. A snapped twig.
Garin's spine straightened as seven figures emerged from the foliage, their strides purposeful.
"Don't move," Tizoc hissed, his hand drifting toward his club.
The lead man—broad-shouldered, his face painted with ochre—eyed the deer slung over Tizoc's shoulders. "Tizoc. Didn't expect to find a deer this deep in the jungle. Or company." His gaze slid to Garin, lingering on his foreign features. "You know the quota."
Tizoc's jaw tightened. "Tlacaelel. You're early."
The air thickened. Somewhere, a bird shrieked—a warning, or an omen.
Tlacaelel's lips twisted into a mocking grin. "Yeah well, I figured I'd come to you this time. Last time I approached your village for your sister, you nearly took my head off." He tilted his chin up, revealing an angry red scar that ran from his jaw to his collarbone - still pink with new healing. "This scar reminds me daily of your... hospitality."
Tizoc's grip tightened on his club, his knuckles bleaching white. "My family has never missed a quota, not in my father's time nor his father's before him. My loyalty shouldn't require blood oaths." His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "That scar proves nothing except that I protect my family"
A tense silence stretched between them, broken only by the creak of leather and the rustle of leaves underfoot as the six warriors slowly encircled them. Tlacaelel finally clicked his tongue in disgust. "Very well. We'll help skin the hide. You can keep your choice cuts."
As Tizoc relaxed his stance and motioned for Garin to lower the deer, Garin's soldier instincts screamed warning. Every muscle in his body tensed, waiting for the inevitable betrayal. The moment the deer carcass thudded to the ground, Tlacaelel's men lunged.
Chaos erupted.
Garin, weaponless, became a whirlwind of motion. He rolled left as a warrior's blade whistled through the space his head had occupied moments before. Coming up in a crouch, he swept another attacker's legs out from under him. Before the man could hit the ground, Garin was already moving - fingers finding the hilt of a purple blade sheathed at a stunned warrior's side. With practiced efficiency, he hamstrung one attacker before pivoting to drive the blade between the ribs of the man he'd swept.
Nearby, Tizoc fought like a force of nature. His heavy club shattered kneecaps with sickening cracks. When two warriors charged simultaneously, he hurled the club into one's face while drawing his own purple knife to open the other's throat in a single, fluid motion. Blood arced through the air as Tizoc closed the distance to Tlacaelel with terrifying speed.
Rather than engage directly, Tizoc suddenly threw his blade. The purple knife found its mark, burying itself deep in Tlacaelel's thigh. The would-be chieftain collapsed with a scream, his life flashing before his eyes as Tizoc loomed over him, death in his eyes...
Later, by the creek...
The gentle babble of water over stones soothed the aftermath of violence. Garin knelt by the bank, scrubbing blood from his arms, the cool water washing away both grime and tension. Nearby, Tizoc methodically cleaned his weapons, the purple blades gleaming ominously in the dappled sunlight.
"You fight well," Tizoc admitted grudgingly, "for a man who hides behind metal skin."
Garin smirked, wringing water from his hair. "Armor gives a soldier more chances to see home again." He splashed his face, letting the breeze dry his skin as it rustled through the canopy above.
Their bloody work done, the deer now lay in carefully butchered portions. Two baskets held the prime cuts - haunches and tenderloins wrapped in broad leaves. A third contained the tougher meats and offal, the price of their violent triumph. The forest around them had returned to its peaceful rhythms, as if the life-and-death struggle had been nothing more than a pausing shadow.
"Grab that basket and follow me," Tizoc commanded, hefting one of the woven containers onto his shoulder without waiting for a response.
The journey was grueling—the basket of venison weighed heavily on Garin's already exhausted muscles, the straps biting into his flesh with every step. Yet as they crested the final hill, his fatigue vanished, replaced by awe.
Spread before them, cradled by the jungle, stood a city beyond anything Garin had imagined.
The outskirts buzzed with activity—farmers tending to floating gardens that shimmered atop vast, man-made lakes. But beyond them, rising like a vision from some forgotten myth, stood structures that defied reason: towering pyramids clad in gleaming white stone, their stepped sides climbing toward the heavens; sprawling complexes of painted adobe and carved wood that put Tizoc's humble hut to shame. The air hummed with distant drums and the murmur of countless voices.
"Wait here."
Tizoc took Garin's basket and disappeared into the throng.
Garin watched as his companion was swallowed by the crowd—past merchants hawking spices, past warriors clad in jaguar pelts, past priests whose elaborate headdresses swayed like living things. The half-hour stretched endlessly, every strange scent and sound a reminder of how far he was from home.
When Tizoc finally returned, his hands were empty, his expression unreadable.
"Let's go."
No explanation. No words at all as they retraced their steps, the weight of the unspoken heavier than any basket.
Night had fallen by the time they returned.
The women's displeasure was palpable—Zeltzin's crossed arms, Atzi's pointed silence—but Tizoc merely laughed, ruffling his sons' hair as he strode inside. He washed the remaining meat with practiced hands, the water running pink between his fingers, then joined his family by the fire as if this were any other evening.
Garin watched, transfixed, as the man who had fought like a demon hours ago now teased his children, his laughter deep and unburdened. No nightmares, Garin realized with a pang. No thousand-yard stare. Just a man who walked through violence and came home whole.
His gaze found Atzi's across the firelight. Her smile warmed him more than the flames.
—
Time passed like river currents—swift, inevitable.
Months after Commander Garin's disappearance, his army—fueled by grief and vengeance—swept through the Hoover Kingdom like a wildfire. Within a year, even mighty Salaman fell beneath their blades.
And as Garin's legend grew in his absence, so too did the cracks in the empire he'd served. The Holy King was overthrown by his own brother; treaties forced an uneasy peace upon lands still weeping from conquest. The machine of empire ground on, but slower now, its gears gummed with reluctant mercy.
—
Dawn painted the jungle in gold and emerald when the baby's cry shattered the morning calm.
"Shhh, little warrior," Garin murmured, his battle-scarred hands awkwardly cradling the infant. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the child's round cheeks as it wailed louder.
Atzi's laughter rang out from the hut's doorway, soon joined by Zeltzin's muffled giggles. Even Tizoc paused, shoulders shaking with silent mirth.
"Oh no!" Tizoc laughed, "you hold a baby like it's a poisoned dagger." He mimed a fumbling motion. "All elbows and terror."
Atzi swept forward, her sunrise-lit braids swinging. She rescued the infant with one hand while the other cupped Garin's stubbled jaw—and kissed him soundly.