Mort moved through the forest, guided by the whispers of his god. He walked where the moon’s glow did not reach, the woods deathly silent in his presence.

  The few Tliltic he had sent ahead had encountered an obstacle. Given its close proximity to the village of Tepe, Mort found no issue traveling with Renata to see what the problem was.

  Their steps made no sound as their bodies drifted just above the ground. The darkness wrapped around them like a warm blanket, something the mad chosen reveled in. It was an almost endless source of strength, as long as he used it for minor things—like gliding.

  Mort found it thrilling to use this power to dance between the massive trees, delighting in the boundless freedom he now possessed.

  Whenever something overwhelmed his heart with joy, he sang and danced. The night was no longer a source of fear for the corrupted chosen. It had become a symbol of power and safety.

  As a child, he had been enthralled by the quick, erratic dances of festivals—yet he had been weak, afraid of everything. Lame. Useless in the presence of others.

  The thunder of drums. The chaotic rhythm. The passionate beat of hearts and red-hot bodies. His eyes shrank to pinpricks at the thought. Oh, how he had longed for it. His thirst for such simple pleasure had been immeasurable.

  He twirled and tossed the small Renata, lingering in the twilight. They practiced old and new movements, growing ever more complex—enough that even the usually cold, detached Renata seemed to delight in them. Their motions were precise, swift, and flowing. The small girl closed her eyes, surrendering herself to his instruction.

  In these moments, Mort felt true emotion. He felt his soul cry and wail beneath a new kind of pain. It was different now, he reassured himself—he could remain whole while allowing the swing to take him.

  Mesmerized by their bond, they arrived.

  The sight surprised him: a golden sea cloaked a wide expanse of forest. The fire did not consume the plants it touched, yet it continued to spread—embers seeding new flames, a strange divinity cycling with the life around it.

  A minor inconvenience to the corrupted chosen.

  With his god’s guidance, Mort could see the weakness in the growing wall of flame. Though exploitable, it would require more power than it was worth. So he merely observed, watching as one Tliltic overcame its fear and stepped into the fire.

  Several more of his god’s warriors hesitated at the edge, cowed by the intense golden light. Only the first advanced.

  Pride swelled in Mort as the warrior faced the chosen with more than equal strength. His smile widened as it pushed the chosen back, the corners of his lips stretching toward his ears. Perfectly sharp teeth gleamed—so white they were the only visible feature of the corrupted chosen’s face.

  Beside him, crimson eyes regarded everything with disinterest. The small girl found nothing worthy of her attention, following Mort silently like a shadow.

  Mort slipped between dark corners, watching the battle with growing amusement. When the second Tliltic finally overcame its fear and joined the fight, the chosen was startled and forced back further—to Mort’s increasing delight.

  An impulse surged within him to join the fray and finish what his warriors had begun.

  But his god stopped him.

  “Chosen should never be underestimated. Their gods are no fools. Watch. Learn the power others hold.”

  The voice in his mind squirmed and writhed, reminding Mort of the collar he worshiped. His thoughts were churned and twisted, his skull squeezed mercilessly—

  And yet, the torment was pleasurable.

  Renata bit into his palm as his eyes drifted, snapping him back to focus as the whispers returned the moment his god withdrew.

  The little girl looked angry—a rare expression on her round face. Her cheeks puffed as she exhaled a bloody mist directly onto him. Color returned to Mort’s skin, vigor surging back through his body.

  He shook himself loose of the stupor and watched as the fire-chosen dodged the two Tliltic, weaving around them with increasing agility. He frowned, noticing how the fighter seemed to guide his opponents, as if trying to exhaust or outlast the warriors.

  A crazed smile then spread across his face as a third Tliltic overcame its fear, dashing toward the now-blurred image of the chosen—who, during Mort’s moment of delirium, had adapted to the two Tliltic attacking him.

  His god had been right to warn him.

  He would wait.

  But the blood of this chosen would be tasted.

  -

  Sol hacked at the creatures’ incredibly hard shells, flashing between them as they tried—and failed—to corner him.

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  For a time, everything went well. He felt like he could win again. Each strike landed with greater force than the last as he learned their movements, finding weak points in the armor. The tempo was his.

  Then the third hideous beast stepped into his domain of flame.

  Panic crept in. Cold sweat soaked through his rough-spun clothes. The three monsters pursued him with inexhaustible energy, mandibles snapping shut again and again, nearly catching him with their sudden, unpredictable movements. Their inhuman coordination caught Sol off guard more than once.

  Their razor-edged sickle arms rang against his iron machete—each clash sending sparks flying. The weapons matched each other too well. A contest of pure force would leave him open, even for a heartbeat.

  He was burning through divinity at an alarming rate, yet more continued to pour in through the tender gem in his chest, which steadily hardened with every pulse. He could feel the spirit within entering its first stage of awakening. All it gave him, however, were incoherent words—echoes that stunned him as they rattled through his mind.

  He wanted to unleash fire.

  The golden flames cloaking the forest were clearly weakening the creatures’ corruption—but every attempt sent agony lancing through his chest. His transformation had not settled. His body refused to obey.

  So he fought with muscle alone.

  Sol shouted at the monsters, trying to drown out his fear with sound. His machete rang again and again against their sickles, his arms trembling from the impact. He adjusted, swung wider, harder—desperate.

  Searching.

  Then—purchase.

  The iron blade slid into a joint near what passed for a wrist, where the armor thinned to allow the sickle’s dexterous movement. His machete cut through it cleanly.

  The creature’s right sickle went limp.

  For the first time, it screamed.

  The shriek was filled with rage and pain, and it hurled itself forward with terrifying force. Its leap startled Sol. The other two monsters split apart, dashing wide on clawed feet, tearing furrows through the ground as they closed in.

  Sol didn’t hesitate.

  He fled, weaving between trees, keeping all three in front of him at all times. They were too deadly to lose track of—even for a moment.

  Then the sense of crisis deepened.

  A fourth creature stepped into his golden domain.

  Sol wanted to run. He wanted to leave this place and hide somewhere safe.

  He could feel a malicious gaze lurking within the miasma-filled forest. The noxious haze had settled just beyond his flames, waiting like a living thing for the vanguard to clear its path forward.

  What had he gotten himself into?

  He laughed loudly, nerves fraying under the pressure. Then he flashed forward, slashing with every last ounce of strength he had.

  The creature met him with equal force.

  Its sickled limb—an extension of its body—moved with far greater precision than his machete. Sol felt the way the monster distributed the impact, redirecting it flawlessly. The exchange was decided in an instant.

  He shouted at it, his words growing more venomous as dread swelled in his chest.

  A horrible realization struck him—the very reason he had avoided full-force clashes—

  Too late.

  Vitriol spilled from his mouth as a sickle arm cut into his own, grazing flesh through a moment of carelessness. Jimena’s magenta plate flared to life once more, saving his arm from being severed.

  The nausea hit him immediately.

  It kept him from flashing away.

  It sealed his fate.

  A third sickle glinted in the golden firelight—then a fourth, a fifth. He could already predict the final pair plunging into him.

  He cried. He wailed. He howled at his death.

  But it didn’t come.

  A thin shell of turquoise armor flowed over his body in an instant. It cracked beneath the force of three full sets of sickles—but it held.

  Sol felt as if icy water had been poured over him from head to toe. Even on the brink of death, his mind sharpened—cool, clear, and deliberate.

  The world absorbed his light and responded, glowing in brilliant hues.

  His machete became an extension of himself.

  Like wind, it moved—winding, caressing the monsters’ bodies. Gentle in motion, lethal in intent. His blade drank in his light, slicing and piercing without resistance. Weak points flared into clarity through the translucent turquoise visor, his eyes burning brightly behind it.

  Bodies fell.

  They twitched as corrupted blood festered and bubbled from wounds so fine they were almost invisible.

  Then Sol collapsed.

  The last thing he saw was a pair of bored, crimson, gem-like eyes watching him fall.