The first strike shattered stone. Dust and shards of ancient brick exploded outward as her blade carved through the monstrous figure before her. Breathing heavily, Xochitl held her ground atop the crumbling ziggurat, her obsidian sword glinting in the blood-red light of the setting sun. Below her, the jungle canopy stretched endlessly, a sea of jade punctuated by the cries of birds fleeing the chaos.
Her form was striking, as radiant as the gods she had once prayed to. Xochitl’s face was fierce and beautiful, with a prominent straight nose, full lips parted in breathless concentration, and eyes the color of a summer storm—an intense blue that no one in her city had ever seen before. Her dark hair, braided intricately with crimson threads, cascaded down her back like a warrior’s banner. She wore a traditional huipil dyed in vibrant pink, its patterns of golden jaguar spots and delicate lace embroidery swirling across the fabric like fire. The garment hung loosely over her statuesque figure yet allowed freedom of movement, and a golden sash bound it tightly at her waist. As combat demanded, her legs were clad in form-fitting cotton armor, stained with dirt and blood yet still vibrant with hints of its original pink hue. Tiny obsidian shards glittered from decorative bands tied around her limbs, marking her as a chosen defender of her people.
But chosen by whom? Xochitl’s thoughts flickered to the priest who had sent her on this perilous mission—a mission to retrieve the sacred blade of Quetzalcoatl from the very belly of Tezcatlipoca’s domain. She began to doubt his intentions.
A guttural roar brought her back to the present. The demon-like creature rose again, pulling its fragmented body together with sickening cracks. Its form was a grotesque amalgamation of jaguar and serpent, its molten gold eyes glowing with vengeful determination. Xochitl’s knuckles whitened as she adjusted her grip on the sword. The blade, like her attire, was utterly unique: a long shard of polished obsidian set into a wooden hilt, its edges unnaturally sharp. A soft hum resonated from the weapon whenever she struck, as if it drank power from each blow.
The creature lunged, and time seemed to slow. The sweat on Xochitl’s brow turned cold as she sidestepped just in time, her huipil swirling like a pink flame. The obsidian blade cut cleanly through the beast’s tail, and with a deafening hiss, it toppled once more. Before it could regenerate, Xochitl planted a sandal against its writhing torso and plunged the blade deep into its chest.
“May your soul serve the gods for eternity,” she muttered, twisting the sword for good measure. A dark mist leaked from the wound, dissipating into the humid air as the creature let out one final howl.
It had been midday in Tenochtitlan when the message arrived. Xochitl stood amidst a crowd in the bustling plaza, her pink huipil standing out like a rose among thorns. She didn’t consider herself vain, but she knew exactly how to carry herself when entering the heart of the empire. Heads turned, warriors stepped aside, and even the merchants whispered her name—“the Jaguar’s Fang.”
Her mood soured when she saw the emissary approaching. The priest’s apprentice wore black robes streaked with red dye, an ominous combination. His face betrayed nothing as he handed her a painted codex wrapped in bark cloth. “Your presence is demanded in the pyramid of the Sun, defender. The gods have chosen you.”
Xochitl had laughed bitterly at first. As if the gods ever “chose” without an ulterior motive. But when she unfurled the codex and looked upon the image—a jaguar-headed serpent guarding a black blade beneath a serpent mound—she knew she couldn’t refuse. The weapon depicted wasn’t just legendary; it was sacred, said to be the key to both salvation and destruction. Only a fool, or a traitor, would let Tezcatlipoca’s creatures keep such a relic.
So she accepted. Her reasons, she told herself, were rooted in duty. But deep down, she had ambitions of her own—the restless desire to leave her mark on the history of her people.
The ground beneath her buckled as the demon’s corpse dissolved into ash, its magic bound forever into the obsidian blade. Xochitl staggered, the hilt of the weapon still warm in her grip. She could hear drums in the distance, muffled but insistent, signaling renewed danger—or triumph. She couldn’t tell which yet.
As she descended the ziggurat, the sun sank further into the jungle, painting the world in shades of pink and gold that matched her huipil. The blade at her side pulsed faintly, almost as if it had a heartbeat of its own. She didn’t trust it, but she would wield it. She might’ve been “chosen,” but she would decide what destiny lay in store for her people.
Tonight, Tenochtitlan would hear of her victory. And soon enough, it would learn what she truly intended to do with the power now resting in her hands.
Genre: Historical Fantasy
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Pink Lace Bikini with Rhinestones and Halter Top: Steal This Chic Sunset Rooftop Style
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