The Coral-Magenta Strands of Fate
The sun burned low in the sky, painting the golden sands of the Incan Empire’s coastal cliffs with streaks of copper and peach. Smoke curled in ghostly spirals from the torches that lined the plaza below the great temple, their flickering flames battling the cool breeze drifting in from the ocean. Araceli stood at the summit of the Temple of Inti, the rising sun god, her silhouette etched against the fiery sky. Her coral and magenta huipil—woven from the finest vicuña fibers—shimmered in the dying light, its geometric designs catching the shades of the sunset. The fitted bodice hugged her slender form, adorned with intricate gold-thread embroidery that celebrated her lineage as the daughter of an esteemed high priest.
Araceli’s headdress was a crown of macaw feathers, vibrant magenta and coral plumes arcing upward like flames. Gold cuffs adorned her wrists, their polished surfaces reflecting the light of both fire and sun. Her hair was woven into a cascading braid that tumbled down her back, tied with magenta ribbon interspersed with tiny gold beads. To the untrained eye, she exuded the majesty of a queen, but her clenched fists betrayed the storm brewing beneath her composure.
Behind her, the thrum of drums echoed through the valleys—a martial cadence that stirred both awe and dread. Her people believed these drums summoned the gods, but today, they heralded something far darker. Far below, warriors clad in crimson tunics and jaguar-pelt capes lined the edges of the square, eyes fixed on the horizon. Among them was Tupanqui, Araceli’s closest childhood friend, now a loyal warrior of the kingdom. His gaze lifted briefly to the temple’s summit as if searching for her, and her heart twisted. He didn’t know her secret.
As the trumpets blared, signaling the arrival of the envoy, Araceli turned her gaze westward—to the glimmering ships anchored just off the coast. Wide-eyed Spaniards stepped into small wooden boats, guided by forces of wind and tide toward the shore. Their armor gleamed unnaturally bright, polished steel that caught the final rays of sunlight like a thousand miniature suns. Their leader—a man adorned in strange garb, his cloak a gaudy display of Canary yellow—descended from his perch with the air of a conqueror. Behind him came soldiers, swords drawn, muskets at the ready. They did not come to trade. They came to consume.
Threads of Betrayal
Araceli descended the temple steps slowly, the obsidian soles of her sandals clicking against the stone. Her magenta and coral garments whispered around her as though the mountain winds stirred through them. Her clangorous thoughts matched the rhythm of her steps. Days earlier, she had been chosen to be the Sun’s Voice in this sacred meeting—a holy emissary meant to negotiate peace. But peace was a word that burned like dry ash in her mouth, for she had learned something others did not yet know.
The evening before, she had overheard whispers in the temple corridors. A select council, her father among them, had already planned treachery. They had seeded warriors among the high priests who would ambush the Spaniards during the ritual exchange of gifts. It would begin at sunset when the sun god’s favor was strongest. What her father and the others did not know, however, was that these invaders hid weapons that breathed fire and thunder—a power no blade or spear could match.
As Araceli’s sandaled feet struck the base of the steps, the warm smell of burning incense reached her nostrils. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and forced a regal expression onto her face. Tupanqui waited at the plaza’s entrance, his wide shoulders taut with tension. When she reached him at last, he leaned in close. “Their blood is not fit to stain this land,” he growled lowly.
She met his gaze, her voice soft but unyielding. “Tupanqui, this path will bring ruin.”
Confusion clouded his expression. “You would risk angering the gods by staying your hand? Without action, they will strip us of our gold—of our honor!”
She did not respond; she couldn’t. She only walked past him, her coral and magenta gown trailing behind her like molten sunrise.
The Dance of Dusk
The negotiations began with the customary exchange of gifts. Araceli bore a chest of radiant gold ingots to the Spaniards while their leader presented her with a jeweled brooch and traded pleasantries in a tongue she could imperfectly understand. She forced a serene smile and accepted it. Her people watched, whispering beneath their breaths, expecting her to summon strength from the sun to smite the invaders. They didn’t understand that violence had no place here. The strength she would summon would demand sacrifice—not of blood, but of identity.
When the priest signaled for her to return, she hesitated. The air was thick with tension, her people eager to begin the battle they thought would secure their dominion. At that moment, she saw the Spaniards grip their muskets, recognizing the unease that rippled through the gathering. The trap was set, but so was the countertrap.
In a voice that carried both reverence and defiance, Araceli turned to the Spaniard leader, then to her people. “The sun god sees into all hearts,” she began, the gold band of her headdress catching the torchlight. “He demands we give him not war, but truth.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd, and her father’s steady glare bored into her back. But she continued. She revealed all: the council’s plan to strike the invaders, the fire and thunder that awaited in retaliation, the slaughter that would consume their people should this path continue.
The Spaniards’ captain, caught off guard, hesitated. Perhaps he saw in her the wisdom of mercy. Perhaps it was diplomacy. Either way, he lowered his hand, signaling his men to relax their weapons. Her people stood paralyzed, the sunset casting orange shadows over a sacred trust that had been broken—but not eradicate.
She returned to the temple that night, her coral-magenta garments spattered with tears and ash, her sacrifice unspoken. Her people would call her a traitor for years to come, weaving bitter stories of how she “bowed” to invaders. And yet, deep inside, Araceli believed the gods—unknowable and eternal—had understood. In that quiet moment under the southern constellations, she lifted her face and whispered a prayer for the next dawn.
Genre
Historical Fiction
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Modern Coral, Magenta, and Canary Yellow Swimwear with Minimalist Style
Disclaimer: This article may contain affiliate links. If you click on these links and make a purchase, we may receive a commission at no additional cost to you. Our recommendations and reviews are always independent and objective, aiming to provide you with the best information and resources.
Get Exclusive Stories, Photos, Art & Offers - Subscribe Today!
3 comments