The Queen of Shadows

The arrow zipped past her ear, embedding itself in the mud just inches from where she’d been standing a heartbeat ago. She didn’t flinch. Instead, her honey-blonde hair gleamed as she twisted her head sharply, eyes scanning the forest. The dense jungle was alive with the sounds of insects, birds, and the damp fog of tension hanging in the humid air, but what stood out now was the silence of the hunter. He was out there—the assassin who’d been stalking her for days—but she knew the chase had just entered its final phase.

Xochitl adjusted the jaguar-hide pauldron on her shoulder, her fingers brushing against the cool obsidian dagger tucked into her belt. Her outfit was as much a symbol of her defiance as it was a tool of survival. The woven black fabric wrapped tightly around her chest resembled ancient Mayan textiles but shimmered faintly with the pitch-dark elegance of modern lace. Her skirt, shorter than the full ceremonial garb of her civilization, was made of sleek black feathers, mimicking the sacred quetzal bird. Together, the outfit matched the essence of her ancestors while reflecting the deadly modernity of a warrior on the run. Intricate neck beads of onyx and jade added a layer of regal defiance, while her sand-smeared skin glistened faintly under the heavy canopy. She was a figure born of legend—both predator and prey.

She crouched silently by a massive kapok tree, its roots spilling across the jungle floor like the fingers of ancient gods. Her breathing was steady, her senses sharp. She had learned long ago how to tune her body to the rhythm of the wild. No sudden movements. No wasted energy. The hunter’s trick was patience, and Xochitl had mastered that game long before she’d learned how to kill.

See also Echoes in the Velvet Hour

“The Queen demands it,” the priest had said, his mask of jade and bone impassive under the moonlight. Xochitl stood before him, her hands bound but her spirit unbroken. Behind him, the Great Ziggurat of Ixcanul rose into the sky, its fiery torches casting long shadows that danced along the stepped walls. Hundreds chanted below in unison, their voices reverberating through the jungle. The Queen of Shadows—cropped red hair streaked with gold paint—sat at the summit, her face obscured but her command absolute.

“I have betrayed no one,” Xochitl spat, her voice as sharp as her eyes. “The stars hold my loyalty, not her throne.”

The priest didn’t look at her; instead, he tightened her restraints. “Then you will run. If her hunters find you before the sun sets on the third day, your heart will beat its last for the gods. If you escape…” he paused as if the possibility was too absurd to finish.

The Queen’s decree was law. Xochitl had no choice.

The faint snap of a twig brought her back to the moment. Xochitl smelled the faint tang of blood before she saw him—a hulking figure smeared in charcoal paint to blend into the shadows of the jungle. His weapon, a curved obsidian blade, shimmered in the dappled light filtering through the canopy. He was close now, too close for her to flee.

Xochitl’s lips curled into a faint smile. She didn’t run. Instead, she stepped from behind the tree, her bare feet crunching on the soft underbrush. Her black feathered skirt swayed slightly as the hunter turned, startled by her sudden boldness.

See also The Sands of Eternity

“I’m tired of running,” she said simply, drawing her own blade. The weapon, ancient yet pristine, sang as it sliced through the air. The moment felt suspended, the jungle holding its breath.

The battle that followed was a blur of sweat, blood, and desperation. Xochitl’s reflexes—honed by years of surviving the jungle and her enemies—kept her one step ahead. Sparks flew as the obsidian blades collided, sharp enough to cut bone but surprisingly brittle when clashed. It wasn’t strength that decided the fight, but her agility and speed. In one final movement, Xochitl caught his wrist, twisted, and sent him sprawling to the ground. Time stopped as she stood over him, her chest rising and falling from exertion, her blade poised.

She didn’t deliver the killing blow. “Tell the Queen,” she said, her voice like gravel, “that this jungle belongs to no one. Not her. Not me. If she wants my heart, she’ll have to take it herself.”

The hunter fled, limping back toward the city and its false safety. Xochitl watched until his figure disappeared into the green. Then, she turned and melted deeper into the jungle. The trees accepted her as one of their own, cloaking her in the eternal shadow of their protection.

The Queen of Shadows would hear her challenge. Of that, Xochitl was certain. Wars had been started for less. Yet as she continued her trek through the wild, she felt neither fear nor regret. The jungle was vast, timeless, and unforgiving. To one like her, it was home.