Mort drew close to the fallen chosen, taking a drop of blood from one of the sickles that had managed to injure him. He wanted to taste it.

  The impulse was crushed instantly.

  The whispers wailed in his head, repeating over and over that the blood of a chosen was poisonous to the corrupt. The warning escalated into agony, his brain screaming until he dropped the sickle to the ground.

  Mort frowned, but continued to examine the fallen chosen. The armor that had formed before his collapse appeared to have protected him well—only minor injuries marred his body. Mort wondered how such armor could be acquired. How it could be replicated.

  The closer he stepped, the louder the wretched noise became, until the whispers shrieked outright, demanding caution. They rang incessantly in his mind, preventing him from understanding anything about the chosen beyond vague impressions.

  Why would his god deny him such easy prey?

  The thought alone sent searing heat down his spine, like thunder cracking through his skull. Blasphemy would not be tolerated. The whispers shifted, mocking him now, their voices thin and teasing.

  It seemed anything related to the chosen was forbidden to Mort.

  Renata, however, was not bound by the same constraint.

  She poked at the chosen’s body with idle curiosity, each sharp prod making him twitch faintly. Mort watched, fascinated.

  He could speak to Renata through the bond they shared—a blood core blessed by their god—though the whispers in his head had always prevented any true communication besides vague impressions, which were usually incoherent.

  Like a second heart, it beat steadily within him, a sanctuary she could retreat into if she wished.

  It filled Mort with warmth to know his heart could be her home.

  She had refused it, choosing instead to walk beside him always.

  The sweetness of the thought made Mort squirm.

  Renata seemed to sense the shift in him and returned from her own inspection of the chosen. She stood before him, expressionless as ever, crimson eyes fixed on his face like a doll’s.

  Mort squealed and hugged her tightly, joy spilling from him unchecked. How wonderful this bond was.

  His thoughts spun, and his body followed. Mort and Renata twirled together, retreating as miasma crept over the fire-chosen’s body.

  The golden cloak had long since extinguished, granting the last surviving Tliltic a chance to act. Mort decided it would serve as an experiment.

  Would the god of this chosen intervene?

  Or would the Tliltic take his head?

  Mort smiled.

  Either outcome pleased him.

  He only needed to observe. To learn, as his god instructed.

  The conquest had only just begun.

  -

  Sol’s memories were a jumbled, distorted mess. Trauma bled into happiness, the two tangled together until they were indistinguishable. Joy twisted into sick amusement, acts done to helpless creatures replaying without context. His body was mangled and broken. His eyes—grey, lifeless.

  Curses filled the void.

  A little boy suddenly appeared, tearing through reality itself. He fought against the thick tar that dragged at his limbs, struggling to move.

  His body glowed with resplendent gold, each motion carving through the swamp. The void wailed like a wounded animal and began to twist, forming a spiral that quickly healed the damage he inflicted. It pulled everything toward its center, trying to swallow his being whole.

  The boy cursed at the void, swimming with everything he had against the current.

  He could feel the abyss draining him of power, sense its hunger as it reached for his mind while he was at his weakest.

  Sol refused.

  He would not lose himself.

  He was the hope of his village. He would prove he could carry this burden. He would make his parents proud.

  “Mama! Papa! Tu Solito vive por ti!” he shouted into the void.

  The words struck something deep—wounds long buried finally split open, and sunlight poured into the mire of his soul.

  A childish voice called out as the void crumbled into fetid water. The darkness thinned, then cleared, as a sun rose high above. Its brilliant rays burned away thoughts and emotions that were never truly his.

  A beach emerged, warm and bright, as the boy walked forward, following the voice.

  Impatience began to stir—

  Then a shadow slammed into him, hurling him into crystal-clear water that shimmered with memories.

  He was submerged in the warmth of his mother’s embrace, the sweetness of it filling him before he sank deeper. Forgotten moments drifted past—his first steps, his first lost tooth, his favorite color.

  Turquoise.

  The same as the gem in his chest. The same as the flowing flames that cloaked the baby jaguar swimming beside him through the ocean of thought.

  Blues and greens dazzled in the clear water, dreamlike and serene. Sol hugged the small, fluffy flame jaguar, letting its warmth anchor him as they drifted together.

  The depths reminded him of a self long forgotten.

  Of the child.

  Of the man.

  Of who he truly was.

  -

  Mort watched as his brave little Tliltic readied its sickle. It took its time, aiming for the perfect kill. Miasma had already spread farther across the fallen chosen’s body as Mort’s god fed the creature its power, allowing this runt of the litter to enjoy the honor its brothers had fought and died for. With the aid of corruption—meant to weaken both mind and body—this cowardly Tliltic would prove whether it deserved to continue existing.

  Something squirmed in Mort’s mind as his god looked through his eyes.

  They had planned to wash over the land like a torrential wave. Yet the nearest village stood behind obstacles not so easily crushed—a frustrating truth, one they wished could be solved with power alone. Power, after all, was something corruption never lacked.

  This experiment would prove whether that belief held true.

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  The order was finally given.

  The Tliltic moved like an arrow loosed from a corrupt god’s bow, dropping its sickle toward the chosen’s exposed neck. Driven by fear of death and the compulsion of its god, it drew in the corruption hanging in the air. Miasma condensed, cursing the blade as a deathly aura erupted outward. The ground cracked beneath its claws.

  It would prove itself to its master.

  Or so those were its final thoughts.

  The sickle touched the chosen’s neck and drew blood—then lingered for several long seconds before disintegrating.

  From the floating ash of the Tliltic, a spectral jaguar emerged. Cloaked in majestic flames, it sparkled and illuminated the night, a fearsome beast whose fire spread to everything it touched. Then, in a blinding flash of light, it vanished.

  What remained was a kneeling, barely recovered chosen, standing in a sea of blue-green fire. The flames crept over his body and, within minutes, condensed into thin turquoise armor.

  Mort, watching from afar, adjusted his plans. The Tliltic sent to other regions were better used gathering materials. Recalling them only to throw their lives away would serve no purpose.

  Still, his body quivered with the urge to fight—to taste the chosen’s blood. Mort did not understand why, but anxiety coiled in his chest, a need to clash with this chosen, to grind against a worthy opponent in mortal combat.

  His right eye drifted aside, looking away from where the chosen stood.

  Had his god lost interest?

  As the armored chosen finally struggled to his feet, body trembling, Renata floated over and blew a crimson mist across Mort’s face.

  Her cheeks were scrunched tight, eyes glaring at Mort’s unsightly state. With the guidance of Itzcamazotz, the little girl had learned to express her first true emotion—displeasure.

  Far away, within his lair, Itzcamazotz smiled.

  The little girl amused him just as much as she angered him.

  -

  Sol felt the world shift beneath him, his legs quaking under the strain of his own weight. He felt impossibly weak, his grip lacking any force to speak of—though it hardly mattered when he had no idea where his machete lay.

  A spirit spoke to him within his mind, but Sol could barely understand its words. Still, the intelligent presence found ways to push meaning through the slight disconnect between their souls. He only wished it had something more useful to say than telling him to rest.

  “Heal… long… time… rest…”

  Its childish voice rang through his mind with skull-rattling volume, making them both wince as Sol finally managed to stand.

  The effort it took just to hold himself upright was immense. Any lapse in focus sent his thoughts spinning, threatening to topple his body along with them.

  That was when something crashed into him with bone-crunching force.

  His body bounced and rolled before coming to a halt. Blood spilled from his mouth as the armor around him shattered, starting from the crater torn into his chest.

  Bones crunched as they tried to mend themselves—but the process was agonizingly slow. Time Sol did not have as the beast of a man closed in.

  The massive fist that had struck him burned with fire, yet the man seemed not to notice. Pitch-black eyes stared from beneath long, flowing hair. His pale skin looked unnatural—almost ethereal in the glow of Sol’s flames against the night.

  A minuscule girl followed close behind, tiny compared to the man’s size. She looked like one of the dolls children played with, except her face held no joy. Bare feet stepped lightly across the ground, her flowing red dress hovering just above it as if held aloft by unseen hands.

  “What do you want!” Sol shouted, the curse ripped from him more to steady his nerves than as a challenge.

  He tried to stand again. His legs refused to move even an inch.

  Tears burned at the corners of his eyes—but fury surged forward and swallowed them whole. A spark ignited within him, feeding him power that felt almost limitless.

  Flames surged.

  Armor formed instantly, condensing from the fire that cloaked everything around them. It caught the giant’s fist head-on as Sol flashed forward—striking, smashing, kicking, burning.

  The world slowed.

  For a moment, it bent to his will, letting him punish the brute freely—until reality snapped back. His power lagged behind his shattered body, and he was sent flying.

  Everything else—his injuries, his failing body—would have to wait. First, he would beat the bastard standing in front of him.

  He could already see the damage his new flames had done. The man’s shriveled right hand was proof Sol could still win.

  Sol flashed again—

  —and slammed into a wall.

  The man had predicted the attack.

  The realization sent a chill through Sol’s spine just before a left fist smashed into his face.

  His mind shut down for a heartbeat. Then came the sensation of flying—and the brutal impact as he hit the ground.

  His jaw was dislocated. Teeth loosened—maybe shattered. He couldn’t feel his face anymore. He lay there as the duo approached once more.

  A crushing force clamped down on his skull. For a horrifying instant, it felt like the man meant to tear his head clean off. Sol silently thanked whatever strength still lingered in his neck as he glared up with one watery eye.

  His body erupted in glittering turquoise fire, consuming the corruption in the man’s body with breathtaking speed.

  Yet the man seemed to enjoy the flames more than he suffered them.

  He leaned close, licking a drop of blood from Sol’s cheek before whispering,

  “Get stronger. Show me more. Light my path, little firefly.”

  Sol squeezed his eyes shut.

  The helplessness he had felt all those years ago pierced his soul like hot iron.

  He wanted to cry out—but his broken body and crushing failure allowed only silence. Turquoise flames flickered weakly around him, his spirit clinging close as they shared in his disgrace.