To Save My Empire, I Must Surrender to My Forbidden Warrior

The sun beat down on the stones of the Coricancha, the great Temple of the Sun, making the gold-plated walls blaze with a light so fierce it hurt the eyes. A hush had fallen over the thousands gathered in the grand plaza, a silence of reverence and fear. At the center of it all, atop the highest platform before the golden altar, stood Elvina.

As High Priestess of Inti, she was the god’s voice on earth, a vessel for his will. Her ceremonial robes of the purest white alpaca wool were stark against her sun-browned skin. Bracelets of hammered gold encircled her arms, and a diadem bearing the sun’s effigy rested on her brow, its polished surface throwing blinding rays back at the sky. She projected an image of perfect serenity, her posture erect, her expression a mask of divine composure.

Inside, her stomach was a tight knot of dread.

Before her, on a small stone pedestal, sat a shallow golden bowl filled with coca leaves. They were not the vibrant, healthy green leaves of a proper offering. These were mottled with brown decay, their edges curled and brittle. A sickness had crept into the sacred plantations, a creeping blight that defied all prayers and offerings. It was a creeping rot at the very heart of the empire, for the coca leaf was the bridge between the mortal world and the divine.

Elvina raised her hands, the gold on her arms flashing. The crowd collectively held its breath. Her movements were deliberate, honed by years of ritual, each gesture a prayer in itself. She selected three of the blighted leaves, her fingertips recoiling almost imperceptibly from their dry, diseased texture. This was the third divination in as many weeks, each more desperate than the last. The Sapa Inca himself watched from his shaded throne, his face an unreadable sculpture of imperial authority. He demanded an answer from the gods, and it was her duty to provide one.

She brought the leaves to her lips. The usual ritualistic preparation, the slow, meditative chewing that opened the mind to the whispers of Inti, felt different today. A foul, bitter taste coated her tongue, the taste of dust and decay, not the familiar earthy tang of the sacred plant. She closed her eyes, forcing her mind past the revulsion, seeking the connection to her god.

There was no clear vision, no divine voice. Instead, a feeling washed over her—a cold, cloying dread that had nothing to do with her own anxiety. It was a presence, a shadow falling over the sun, a deep and ancient wrongness that coiled in the foundations of the world. It felt like a promise of famine, of discord, of blood soaking the fertile earth. The silence from her god was more terrifying than any wrathful prophecy. It was an absence, a turning away.

Elvina opened her eyes. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of ceremony. She had to translate this formless terror into words the emperor could understand, a prophecy the people could accept. She swallowed, the bitter residue of the leaves scratching her throat, and turned her gaze to the Sapa Inca. Her voice, when she spoke, was as clear and unyielding as polished stone, a perfect imitation of the authority she no longer felt.

"O Divine Son of the Sun," she began, her voice ringing across the silent plaza. "Inti is displeased. A shadow lengthens, and the sacred leaves wither from its touch. The great cycle is threatened. The heavens demand a restoration, lest the shadow consume the light."

From his position at the base of the grand platform, Asad watched the High Priestess and felt nothing but cold, hard discipline holding his contempt in check. He was Captain of the Jaguar Guard, the elite corps drawn from the fiercest warriors of the conquered tribes—a gilded chain for men like him. His duty was to protect this temple, this priestess, this god. His duty was to stand guard over the grave of his own people.

The jaguar pelt draped over his shoulders was heavy in the heat, a symbol of his station and a bitter reminder of the wild gods his ancestors had worshipped before the Sun God’s armies had marched through their valleys. His hand rested on the hilt of his macana, its obsidian blades sharp enough to split a man’s skull. The urge to use it was a low, constant hum beneath his skin.

He watched Elvina perform her charade. He saw not a divine vessel, but a woman coddled in gold and piety, her hands soft, her life untouched by the true hardship of the empire she served. Her pronouncements were a performance, her serene face a carefully constructed lie. He had seen fear before, real fear, in the eyes of warriors facing death. What she displayed was the theatrical concern of someone whose power depended on manufactured crises.

A grim satisfaction curled in his gut as he looked at the blighted coca leaves. To him, it wasn’t an omen. It was rot. Simple, earthly rot. A weakness in the empire’s most sacred resource, and the panic it inspired in these sun-worshippers was telling. Their power was built on a single plant, their connection to their god dependent on a leaf that could wither and die just like anything else. It exposed the fragility of the faith that had crushed his own.

The crowd murmured in awe and terror at her words. A shadow lengthens. Asad’s jaw tightened. He knew about shadows. His people had been living in one for two generations, ever since the Inca had “assimilated” them, burning their histories and replacing their gods with Inti. He was the embodiment of that shadow, a warrior of a dead people, forced to wear the symbols of his conquerors and protect their holiest rites.

His gaze fixed on Elvina as she addressed the Sapa Inca. The sun caught the gold of her diadem, making it impossible to look at her directly, a fitting metaphor for the faith she represented: blinding, absolute, and demanding you avert your eyes. He saw the elegant line of her throat, the smooth brown skin of her shoulders, and felt a surge of resentment so pure it was almost a physical force. She was the beautiful, pristine face of the brutal machine that had taken everything from him. Her voice, so clear and commanding, grated on him. It was the voice of certainty, of power that had never been truly challenged. He hoped the blight would spread. He hoped it would choke every last coca plant in the empire, just to see the look on her face when she realized her god had truly abandoned her.

The Sapa Inca, Huáscar Cápac, moved. He rose from his throne not with the creaking effort of an aging man, but with the fluid, undeniable gravity of a celestial body shifting its course. The murmuring of the crowd died instantly, replaced by a profound silence that seemed to pull the very air from the plaza. His golden litter-bearers stood like statues as he descended the few steps to the main platform, his sandals of fine vicuña wool making no sound on the hot stone.

He was not a large man, yet his presence filled the vast space. His face, framed by the royal mascapaicha fringe that hung from his golden headdress, was lined with the cares of an empire, but his eyes were sharp and missed nothing. He walked directly to the small altar, his gaze sweeping over the diseased leaves in the golden bowl before settling on Elvina.

She met his look without flinching, though the blood pounded in her ears. He was the Son of the Sun, but he was also a shrewd ruler who had weathered rebellions and political intrigue. He could have dismissed her prophecy as hysteria, a priestess’s overreaction to a simple crop failure. The fate of her reputation, and perhaps the stability of the entire priesthood, rested on his next words.

The Sapa Inca reached out a hand, his fingers hovering over the blighted leaves without touching them. He did not need to. The evidence of decay was plain. He drew his hand back and turned to face the thousands of waiting subjects. His voice, when he spoke, was not loud, but it carried an inherent power that reached every corner of the plaza, a voice accustomed to absolute obedience.

"The High Priestess speaks the truth of the gods," he declared. The words were a stone dropped into a still pond, the ripples of shock and validation spreading through the crowd. Elvina felt a wave of relief so intense it almost buckled her knees, but it was immediately followed by a cold spike of apprehension. He had confirmed her words, but in doing so, he had taken ownership of the crisis, shaping it to his own ends.

"This is no simple blight," the Sapa Inca continued, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces, his expression grim. "This is a sign. Inti, our father, the giver of light and life, turns his face from us. The sacred coca, the conduit for our prayers, rots from a spiritual poison. This sickness in our leaves is a reflection of a sickness in our devotion. The balance is broken."

From his post below, Asad listened, his lip curling in a silent sneer. Brilliant. The emperor was a master politician. He had taken a priestess’s vague fear and forged it into a weapon of statecraft. It was no longer a problem of agriculture; it was a spiritual failing of the entire empire, a crisis only he, as the divine link to the gods, could solve. It was a call for unity, for renewed faith, and for absolute loyalty to the throne. The people would not question a blight they could not understand, but they would tremble before the displeasure of a god.

The crowd began to stir, their hushed awe curdling into genuine fear. The Sapa Inca let their anxiety build for a calculated moment before raising a hand for silence.

"The shadow Elvina speaks of threatens the foundations of this empire," he said, his voice lowering to a more somber, resonant tone. "It threatens our harvest, our prosperity, our connection to the divine. If the gods are displeased, the kingdom cannot stand. We are being tested."

He paused, letting the weight of his pronouncement settle over the plaza. The sun beat down, but a chill had descended upon the people. They looked to their emperor, their faces filled with a desperate, pleading hope. They had been given a divine crisis, and now they awaited a divine solution. Elvina watched him, her own heart heavy. She had delivered the message, but he had defined the war. And she had a sinking feeling she was about to be placed on its front lines.

The Sapa Inca turned, his golden ear spools glinting as he surveyed his court. "But the gods do not demand only our fear. They demand action. They demand a sacrifice not of blood, but of will. A pilgrimage to prove our devotion is still worthy of their favor."

He looked directly at Elvina. "The heart of our empire is faith. It is the spirit that binds us to the sun. That spirit must be our envoy." He beckoned her forward with a single, deliberate gesture. "High Priestess Elvina, you will carry our penance."

Elvina stepped forward, her heart a cold stone in her chest. She knelt, bowing her head, the heavy gold of her ceremonial collar pressing against her skin. It was as she feared. The burden of this restoration would fall to her. She would have to find a way to soothe a silent god, armed with nothing but rituals that had already failed.

"But faith alone cannot carve a path through the wilderness or stand against the beasts and shadows that linger in forgotten places," the Sapa Inca’s voice boomed, cutting through Elvina’s thoughts. His gaze shifted, sweeping past the nobles and priests, past his own royal guard, and landing with unerring precision on the warrior standing at the foot of the platform.

"For this, we need strength. The unyielding, untamed power that guards the empire’s heart." His voice dropped, taking on a hard, dangerous edge. "We need the Jaguar."

A collective intake of breath swept through the plaza. The emperor was not referring to the animal, but to the man who wore its pelt. To the captain of the conquered tribes.

"Asad of the Jaguar Guard. Step forward."

The command was like a physical blow. For a fraction of a second, Asad remained motionless, the discipline of a lifetime warring with a violent, instinctual refusal. Every muscle in his body screamed to turn, to walk away, to leave this city and its sun-worshipping fanatics to their rot. But the eyes of the entire court were on him. More importantly, the eyes of his own men were on him. To disobey was death, not just for him, but for the precarious peace that held his people in subjugation.

With a rigid control that cost him everything, he moved. He walked up the steps of the platform, the soft soles of his sandals making no sound. The heavy macana at his hip felt like a lead weight, a useless tool of war in this theater of faith. He stopped a respectful distance from the emperor but did not kneel. It was a small, defiant act of pride no one but he and the emperor would understand. He stood before the Sapa Inca, his face a mask of stone, and met the man’s gaze.

The emperor looked from the priestess kneeling in her golden finery to the warrior standing in his savage regalia. "Spirit and strength," he declared, his voice ringing with finality. "Piety and power. You will journey together."

A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd. A priestess and a barbarian? Sent on a sacred mission? It was unheard of.

"Far to the east, nestled in the highest peaks of the Anti Suyu, lies a place forgotten by our age but not by the gods," the Sapa Inca announced, ignoring the unrest. "The Moon Temple. A place of balance, where the powers of the night once met the powers of the day. Ancient texts speak of a rite of restoration that can only be performed there, a ritual to cleanse the spiritual blight from our lands."

He looked between them, his eyes sharp, pinning them in place. "You, Elvina, will be the voice of our plea. You, Asad, will be the blade that clears her path. You will travel to the Moon Temple and perform this forgotten rite. You will restore the balance. You will not fail."

It was not a request. It was a decree, absolute and unbreakable. Asad’s gaze flickered to Elvina. He saw the shock on her face, the apprehension in her dark eyes as she looked at him. He felt her recoil, even from across the platform. The feeling was mutual. He was being shackled to the embodiment of everything he hated, forced to protect her on a fool's errand to appease a god he did not believe in. His duty was no longer a gilded chain. It was now a leash, and the High Priestess held the end of it.