Jimena rode on Kauyumari alongside her father for several days, visiting the many desert tribes and cities of the people known as the Chichimeca. It was a name tied to their lineage—and the reason Jimena had been placed in the position she now occupied.

  Her form resembled that of their ancestors, seen as the sign they had long prayed for. Kauyumari spoke of this with sadness, though the giant deer never voiced the pain he carried. Instead, he guided her patiently, teaching her about the peoples who inhabited the deserts and mountains of the region.

  He had become a dear companion to Jimena and Xolo. At times, Xolo would emerge to play with the giant deer, growing to an equally massive size. Still, his form remained ethereal—almost an illusion.

  It fascinated Jimena that the dog could interact with the world at all, even partially, using divinity as fuel. That was why she rode Kauyumari instead of her beloved Xolo. Even with her incredible growth in power, riding Xolo would drain her completely after only a short run.

  After each meeting with the elders, they lingered to meet the people of the various tribes. Jimena showed them her form—to give hope, and to practice controlling her growing strength. It was one of the reasons her power continued to increase.

  The faith of children was pure and vivid, brimming with imagination and emotion. Jimena felt her core swell with it, new yarn-life sprouting within her gem like weeds after nourishing rain. She watched Xolo gain mass, though it was made only of yarn and quickly turned to ash after swimming through his spectral body. He was left with smoke and embers, struggling to shape himself into something more solid.

  She laughed as an ominous cloud of smoke with glowing red eyes tried desperately to act cute.

  She also delighted in the children’s awed expressions whenever she transformed into what she called Blazing Night Armor, fusing her soul with Xolo. At first, the name made them laugh—holding their bellies after its awkward translation into their language. But once they saw how fast and powerful she became, their opinion quickly changed.

  Jimena enjoyed feeling like a child again—especially with her father there to witness it all. Having the usually busy and perpetually grouchy man all to herself felt like a dream come true.

  Once he adjusted to the constant travel atop Kauyumari and moved past the awkwardness of not fully understanding the tribes they visited, her father began to truly enjoy himself. He laughed at their shared jokes, opened up to the people, and joined in moments of joy when Jimena demonstrated her abilities.

  It felt like an epic journey.

  The looming war did not make her cower. The flame in her heart yearned for it, eager to overcome some unseen barrier. Jimena felt it rage within her, its fire making her world tremble.

  She smiled and shouted into the starry sky, joining the howling coyotes in the cold desert night. Soon, they would arrive at their final stop for the day and rest.

  Their destination was a city of the Caxcanes tribe, according to Kauyumari. Unlike the many priests she had met—most of them elders far older than herself—this tribe possessed a powerful chosen. Many of the priests she had encountered were weak, their faith eroded by their gods’ inability to ease their people’s suffering.

  New gods that rose with promises had also fallen to the mighty Light Empire, worsening matters after consuming countless offerings. Kauyumari remained the only deity strong enough to defend himself, yet as a minor land god of guidance, he lacked true divine might. Any direct confrontation was risky for the blue deer.

  Jimena gazed absently at the moonlit horizon, thinking of the war.

  She yawned, exhausted by the long days and endless responsibilities, mentally reviewing the tribes she still needed to visit.

  Five tribes continued to resist the invaders.

  The Zacatecos—long-haired expert archers—covered themselves in divine tattoos. Blessed ink formed pictograms across their skin, fighting countless afflictions and empowering their warriors. Jimena had been inspired by their markings and accepted the offer to a tattoo, but her body rejected it, burning away anything that tried to stain her.

  Perhaps stronger ink would work, she thought sleepily.

  The Tepecanos—similar to the Wixárika—used peyote to commune with the land’s gods. They were master crafters of blessed instruments and yarn shields, woven with divine faces.

  She leaned back enough to glimpse her father stretching comfortably behind her, then refocused her thoughts.

  The Caxcanes—exceptional builders and smiths—provided weapons and fortifications for the more nomadic tribes. They were vital contributors to the resistance, and her next destination.

  Then the Tecuexes—a strategic people fond of pulque—guarded the front lines alongside the Guachichiles. With nowhere to hide once discovered, they endured sieges head-on. They possessed the strongest chosen and unwavering faith, their temples serving as sanctuaries for traders and refugees alike.

  From what Jimena had seen, things were not going well.

  Many tribes had lost countless lives. In some, there were almost no elders or young men left. Women and children were forced to fend for themselves with little food—especially after losing their idols. Minor gods who once provided rain, guidance, and shelter were gone, leaving the desert much more merciless.

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  The land itself claimed nearly as many lives as the invading army. Three tribes that once supplied vast food reserves had fallen—one defecting to the enemy, leading to the destruction of the second and the submission of the third.

  Jimena frowned as Kauyumari suddenly stopped, pulling her from her thoughts.

  “We’re here, young—”

  She abruptly hugged the deer. “Thank you, Kauyumari. I’ll see you in the morning. Hopefully they aren’t mean to my dad.”

  She jumped down as her father dismounted beside her.

  Ahead, tall stone walls rose against the night sky. Figures were already approaching to greet them as her father unstrapped the large pack of food and supplies—gifts gathered throughout their long journey.

  The elders and the chosen greeted Jimena with deep bows. The warriors accompanying them did otherwise—kneeling, or placing cupped palms to their mouths after carefully setting their weapons aside.

  Every warrior was armed, either with a bow or a machete sheathed at the waist. Those at the rear carried shields painted with divine faces, power leaking from their left hands, while heavy iron-tipped spears—bronze-decorated and etched with sacred engravings—rested in their right. Divine energy pulsed faintly along the long shafts.

  This was the largest gathering to greet her so far.

  Many bore tattoos of blessings or were covered in layers of colored clay. Their tan skin and tall frames were only lightly clothed, wrapped in thin fabrics or animal hides.

  “We greet you, Chosen of Fire,” said a man draped in long garments adorned with rain clouds and flowing rivers. “My name is Atloc, Chosen of Tlāloc. It is an honor to meet you, Ichpōchtli Tletl Nantli.”

  He bowed deeply.

  Jimena tried her hardest to appear dignified—but a yawn slipped free. It came out embarrassingly lush and feminine, ending in a small squeak as she stretched by habit.

  She was utterly exhausted after days atop Kauyumari. Her muscles ached from constant travel, parts of her skin chafed raw beneath her clothing.

  Atloc’s lips twitched at the breach of decorum, but he let it pass when he noticed her glowing red eyes—and her father behind her, struggling under the weight of their supplies and grunting with every step.

  Jimena had offered to help him. He had refused, stubborn as ever.

  Remembering how he once mentioned wanting to feel useful again, she let him struggle—though the sight made her wince.

  The warriors, however, showed no respect for his pride.

  They relieved him of the pack without ceremony, nearly lifting the man off the ground as they carried both supplies—and almost her father himself—into the city once he began to lag.

  Jimena laughed, awkwardly loud.

  Several elders glanced her way. A few warriors exchanged looks. Even Atloc appeared to be fighting a reaction, the corners of his mouth and eye twitching as if he were holding something back.

  -

  After a brief discussion outside what would serve as Jimena’s and her father’s home for the next few days, Atloc departed with the elders. His pace was a touch hurried as their voices carried openly—chattering about her behavior without much concern for subtlety.

  They entered the cool stone house, too tired to admire the impressive construction that her brother Jaime would have loved to dissect piece by piece. From what little she could see by torchlight, the city reminded her faintly of Mictlan. She had even glimpsed a river cutting through its heart as they arrived.

  Her father sighed deeply and retreated into one of the rooms, wishing her goodnight. She wanted nothing more than to do the same, but instead chose to meditate.

  Her bond with the cuauhxicalli had strengthened enough that she could now reach outward—just enough to confirm her village remained safe. The steady flow of faith pouring from Bahia Oscura told her more than words ever could. Things were not merely fine; they were thriving.

  The knowledge settled her nerves.

  It had become her anchor during these past days of relentless travel. Knowing her home, her friends, and her family were safe allowed her shoulders to finally relax.

  She quieted her thoughts, letting her mind recover from the dull, pulsing migraine that had followed her for days. Her body could endure far more than this—far more than it already had—but her psyche lagged behind. Constant worry and ceaseless responsibility had frayed her edges. These small moments of reassurance were what kept her whole.

  Sleep crept in even as she practiced.

  She lay atop a stone platform layered with fabrics dyed in rich, vibrant hues. A soft smile touched her lips as her consciousness drifted inward, sinking gently into her gem. Through one of Xolo’s eyes, she observed her inner world.

  On the left burned a magenta moon—her bond to Mictecacihuatl. Death’s aura was thick there, ever-present, woven seamlessly into the flame.

  On the right rose a golden sun.

  It represented something new.

  Its fire burned with life, yet carried a deep resentment beneath its warmth. Faith flowed through it, calling to Chantico. An odd and mysterious flame, shaped by many fragments, becoming something greater through their union. Divinity radiated from it without pause, fueling the cycles that sustained the world below—its nurturing light both warming and judging all it touched.