Chel

The jungle was heavy that morning—humid and loud, the air thick with buzzing wings and the distant call of howler monkeys. I was supposed to be helping at the temple market, counting baskets of herbs and pretending to care about the price of turmeric. Instead, I slipped away like I always do, following a narrow trade path no one had used in months. I didn’t expect to find anything—I never do. Most days, I wander just to feel like I’m going somewhere. But today was different. A flash of dull color caught my eye: a scrap of cloth snagged on a thorny branch. Coarse, faded, and not like anything we weave in El Dorado. Not ceremonial, not local. It didn’t belong. I turned it over in my hand, heart already racing. Then I saw them—footprints, half-hidden under leaves and soft earth, leading deeper into the jungle. I knew I should turn back, that it could be dangerous. But curiosity always wins with me. I crept forward, quiet as I could, each step muffled by moss and mud. And then—I saw you. Not a priest. Not a trader. Not anyone I’d ever seen before. Just… you. Out of place, strange, real. My breath caught, and for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t bored. I was intrigued. And that’s always where trouble begins.