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The jungle was different now. Etalcaxi moved through the darkness, and he was a different man as well. The heavy, leaden steps of a doomed sacrifice were gone, replaced by the efficient movements of a predator stalking its prey. His face, illuminated in shifting patches of stark moonlight, was a mask of grim focus. Every sense was on high alert. He was listening for the tell-tale signs of an ambush.

No more tricks, he thought, his hand tight on the familiar, solid shaft of his spear. No more illusions. I will face the monster on its own terms. A spear against... whatever she is. His mind shied away from giving her a name, from the intimacy of it. She was the monster now, the adversary. A warrior's death is better than a coward's end in a cooking pot.

The path he took, a weaving trail through the thickest parts of the undergrowth, brought him once again to a ridge overlooking the Nictex campsite. He paused in the deep shadows of a gnarled cypress, his breathing slow and controlled. His initial, hot-blooded plan had been to march directly to the cenote and confront her, to force a final battle. But his training, discipline drilled into him by men like Commander Yotolin, overrode his urgency. A warrior does not strike blind. A warrior gathers intelligence. A warrior understands the battlefield.

Certainty, his mind whispered, the voice of his training cold and clear. Before the final blow, a warrior needs certainty. One last look. One last search for a weakness. For the truth of what happened here. For a mistake.

With renewed, cold purpose, he slipped down the side of the ridge, his movements as silent as a hunting cat. He moved back into the devastated Nictex camp, returning to the scene.

The camp was even more chilling in the stark, unforgiving light of the moon. The shredded tents looked like the pale remains of great beasts. The scattered, untouched goods glittered in the moonlight. Etalcaxi's training took over completely. He forced himself to ignore the obvious, large-scale signs of destruction. He ignored the dread that threatened to rise up from his stomach. His focus was on the details, on the small, overlooked things, on a mistake the attacker might have made.

He moved to the first of the shredded tents. He knelt, sifting the damp earth through his fingers, searching for a lost arrowhead, a broken knife point, a single, stray sandal—any sign of a human attacker. There was nothing. He moved to the torn flap of the tent. The rips in the fabric were long and strange, frayed at the edges. Not the clean slice of an obsidian blade. He had seen what a jaguar's claws could do to a man's flesh; this was not that either.

His gaze fell upon the strange, deep gouges in the earth, now starkly defined by the moonlight. He knelt beside one, his expression hardening. He traced its edge with his finger. The earth was compressed, scarred. He tried to imagine the weapon that could make such a mark, a weapon that could tear through the ground itself. He pictured a great, hooked club, a cruel maize growing implement turned to war. But no. The patterns were too... They looked, he thought with a fresh wave of nausea, like the earth had been clawed from beneath.

Her magic, he thought, his jaw tightening. The signs are everywhere. The earth itself is her weapon. Her 'family' with its deep roots. He stood and continued his meticulous search, moving with a grim patience. But even a god makes mistakes. Even a monster can be careless.

He examined the central campfire. The logs were half-burnt, covered in a fine, gray ash that had not been disturbed by wind or animal. He poked at the ashes with the butt of his spear. Nothing. He scanned the perimeter of the camp, his eyes missing nothing. The scattered jade beads. The copper bells that lay silent on the ground. The snapped shaft of Lord Cozoc's ceremonial spear. A dozen men, armed and wary, gone without a trace.

His eyes caught a faint patch of color near the ashes of the cold fire, a spot of blue half-buried in the dark, disturbed earth. It was something small, something that did not belong. He knelt, his heart beginning to pound a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. With the very tip of his obsidian spear, he carefully, delicately, unearthed the object.

It was a single, intricately braided strand of dark, lustrous hair. And woven into the braid, like a tiny, captured star, was a small blue flower. It was the exact same kind of magical, otherworldly flower she wore in her hair, the same kind he had watched wilt and die in her hand when her mood had turned dark and jealous. This one was slightly crushed, its soft, internal light very faint, a ghostly pulse of blue in the moonlight, but it was undeniably hers.

He picked up the braided strand. It felt cool and silky against his calloused skin. He held it in the palm of his hand. The tiny flower cast a very faint blue light on his skin.

To Etalcaxi, this was the final, irrefutable piece of the puzzle. He held in his hand a terrifying confirmation of the power he was up against.

Proof, his mind whispered. The monster was here. She stood in this very spot. This is her work. This is her power. A dozen warriors... armed and wary... gone. Just... gone.

He stared at the flower, at the single, elegant strand of hair. The last shred of doubt, the last hope that he had been wrong, vanished.

The Nictexs were a rival caravan, his thoughts came. An obstacle. I named them as such. And she... she removed them. Easily. Bloodlessly. He looked around at the silent, watching trees, at the dark, hungry jungle. What happens when my own caravan becomes an obstacle? When Tlico complains one too many times? When Citli's youthful honor becomes an annoyance? When she decides she does not want to share her new prize with anyone?

The realization settled in his gut like a stone. His people were not just trapped in this jungle with a monster. They were trapped here because of him. Their only real danger was their association with him.

He carefully, reverently, tucked the braided strand of hair into the small leather pouch on his leafy loincloth. It was a reminder of his own foolishness. His face was the grim, fatalistic mask of a soldier choosing his own battlefield in a war that was already lost, a final gambit to save his comrades.

My people are trapped here because of me, he thought, the truth a sharp pain. My presence is the bindings on this cage. There is only one way to give them a chance.

He rose to his full height, his movements no longer hesitant. He was filled with a solitary purpose. He held his spear, its razor-sharp obsidian tip seeming to drink the moonlight, to gather the darkness into its point. He was going to create a diversion. He was a willing sacrifice, drawing the predator away from the herd.

His voice was a low, guttural whisper, a vow spoken to the night, to the silent, watching trees, to the god of warriors that he hoped was still listening.

"Let the monster focus on the warrior who invited it into the camp," he breathed. "Let the hunter come for the true prey."

He turned and began his march, away from the camp, his every step now filled with a grim purpose. He was walking toward the cenote, toward her lair, toward his end.