Chapter 14: The Pull
1082 Words
Sofia crouched low, the orchard behind her fading into ash and distance. Ahead, the world burned.
The battlefield stretched wide under a blood-streaked sky, firelight flickering over earth soaked in shadow and blood. Wolves clashed at the border like thunder, bodies slamming in mid-shift—half-flesh, half-fur, all fury. Gunfire cracked through the night, sharp as bone breaking. Claws raked. Teeth tore.
And yet—it wasn’t the chaos that held her still.
It was what moved between it.
At first, she thought her eyes were lying.
Not ghosts—warriors. But moving like no warriors she’d ever seen.
Shapes that blurred through flame and smoke—low to the ground, silent and sure. A jaguar leapt from the treeline, struck a warrior mid-charge, then vanished into feathers midair—an eagle now, soaring over the fight before diving again. Another shape—an ocelot—twisted beneath a wolf’s blade, shifted mid-roll into a man, caught a falling obsidian dagger from the air, and buried it in the wolf’s ribs without hesitation.
Weapons passed hand to hand as fluidly as breath. One Ixchele flung a curved blade into the waiting hand of a warrior mid-shift; the receiver struck once, twice, then hurled the weapon to another before vanishing into the body of a coyote. It was a dance—precise, rehearsed, deadly. Every step mattered. Every pass seamless.
There were no wasted movements.
No wasted kills.
Sofia’s breath caught as a flash of iridescence shoot through the smoke—a hummingbird, no bigger than her palm, darting like lightning between two wolves. One of them dropped with a gasp, eyes wide, throat torn.
The bird shifted midair, and a woman landed on her feet, already reaching for a blade tossed from another shape behind her.
Sofia had never seen anything like it.
She’d trained with the best. Had been forged in discipline, honed by tradition, sharpened by war stories whispered through her bloodline.
But this was something else. No one trained her for this. No one could. The Ixchele weren’t supposed to exist like this anymore—not in numbers, not with this kind of force.
This was myth brought to life.
The Ixchele didn’t just fight—they became the fight. Moved like water, struck like breath being stolen. Their forms flowed into one another—bird to beast to human—never lingering, never caught. The earth seemed to recognize them. The air bent around them.
And they were winning.
Sofia’s pulse thundered in her ears.
She couldn’t tell who was still standing. Couldn’t tell how far the line had fallen. All she knew was the scent she was tracking still tugged at her—thin, but present. Joaquin.
Somewhere beyond the fire and blood and feathers.
Her fingers dug into the desert sand before she shifted her stance.
And stepped forward—into the war.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t slow.
She flowed through the night air—low, quiet, precise.
Her eyes scanned, her breath stayed even. Every footfall landed with intent. The ground gave her no resistance. The air parted around her shoulders.
A massive wolf lunged from the left—teeth bared, blood matting his fur.
She ducked beneath the strike, never breaking pace.
Another warrior, mid-shift, spun toward her with a blade raised—she twisted sideways, his arm slicing only air. His snarl turned into a gasp as someone else tackled him from behind.
A flash of obsidian came at her ribs.
She bent backward—just enough. Felt the blade kiss the air where her stomach had been. Slipped out before the next strike came.
She was untouchable.
Not because she was lucky.
Because something inside her had gone silent. Still.
Every noise—every scream, every clash, every ragged breath—fell away. All that remained was instinct.
She didn’t block. She didn’t hit. She moved.
The way her uncle taught her.
The way the Ixchele did.
Between bodies. Beneath danger. With the wind at her back and the blood of warriors in her bones. Her feet moved on instinct—but her mind, somewhere beneath the roar, still whispered one name: Joaquin.
She leapt over a fallen body. Slid beneath a flame-lit blade. She slipped between two wolves mid-clash, heart steady, breath sharp—
—and then the world fractured.
Like a collision. Like hunger. Like the wind suddenly shifted, dragging her whole body with it.
A scent.
Not blood.
Not smoke.
Something else.
Sharp. Strange. Impossible.
It curled in her gut, igniting her senses, a crackling spark that ripped through her focus.
Her body stopped before her mind could catch up.
She gasped—just once. A breath that caught, then burned.
The scent wasn’t close.
But it was here.
In the middle of this chaos. In the heart of the war.
Her Mate.
And it tore something wide open inside her.
It struck like a verdict.
Immediate.
Total.
Like being yanked through centuries.
Like firelight and blood rites, galaxies pressed to skin.
The scent was thick with smoke—but not ash.
Copal.
Marigold.
Earth after rain.
A bloom of something sacred and endless.
Ancient. Wild.
Like stars collapsing. Like teeth kissing throat.
Her knees nearly buckled under the weight of it.
This… this was what her mother had tried to explain but could never contain in words.
Why her voice always softened when she spoke of Dakota. Why her eyes always went quiet, wistful, when no one was watching. Because nothing about this was logical.
It wasn’t earned. It wasn’t built.
It simply was.
And Sofia—
Strong, stubborn, grounded Sofia—
Suddenly wanted to wrap herself in the scent and never leave it.
She clenched her fists to stop herself from following it blindly.
But it pulled.
Goddess, it pulled.
Not with a whisper.
With a command.
And for one heartbeat—just one—Sofia forgot about the child.
Forgot the war.
Forgot everything.
Then she blinked, sharp and furious, dragging herself back into the moment like waking from a dream that didn’t want to let go.
Not yet. Not now.
But her pulse was no longer her own.
And she knew—with a bone-deep certainty that made her shake—
That he was out there.
Somewhere in the chaos. Somewhere in the dark. And he was calling her without a word.
She turned toward the scent.
Not just toward her Mate.
Toward the fate she’d never asked for—but couldn’t escape.
And ran.
- Writer
