Atloc rubbed his forehead as reports of bad news continued to arrive. The messengers had traveled without rest, pushing themselves to the brink of death. Thanks to their sacrifice, there was still hope for the city of Tlālātēnco, the next target of the enemy’s march.

  The wretched betrayers had rallied even more support after the fall of the Guamares. That city had fallen only six months ago, and yet the invaders had already pushed this deep into their territory. Atloc felt as though his back was pressed firmly against a wall. Even with the many tribes standing behind them, he could see the end approaching. Within a decade, the war would be lost.

  Their gods were too weak.

  Their weapons too few.

  The enemy’s blessings too numerous to count.

  The arrival of the young Mother of Fire had come just in time.

  Shame stirred in his chest at the thought of relying on a girl so young, but the power he had felt radiating from her had been undeniable. If it was real—and he believed it was—then she alone could mean the survival of Tlālātēnco in the coming siege.

  Decision made, Atloc gestured sharply to a nearby warrior, ordering preparations to begin at once. Another city could not be allowed to fall.

  As he turned away, his god whispered into his mind. The message was fractured, difficult to fully grasp, but its meaning was clear enough.

  The gods of light—and the deceiving tribe—would reach Tlālātēnco by midday.

  They would have to depart at first light if they hoped to reinforce the city in time.

  Atloc rose from his stone chair and walked deeper into the temple. Prayer would be needed for what was to come. His blessed relics were heavy with his god’s divinity, yet even with them he feared the battle ahead would be perilous.

  He had heard the stories.

  Cannons.

  Muskets.

  Fierce transformations granted by foreign gods.

  No matter how often he told himself otherwise, the relics and blessings of his people would not be enough.

  The Mother of Fire was their final hope—perhaps their only hope—to push the invaders back. The gods had whispered of a new era dawning upon the world.

  Atloc could only pray they would live to see it.

  He knelt before the massive statue of his god. His cuauhxicalli stood at its base, its blue flame burning steadily—quiet, unwavering, and resolute.

  -

  Jimena wasn’t sure what was worse—being woken just after finally falling asleep, or being asked to take part in a war.

  She wasn’t afraid. But the look her father gave her when she told him changed her mind about how serious this truly was. The argument hadn’t lasted long; Jimena made sure he understood the weight of her responsibility.

  She knew this wasn’t a game. And yet, the wicked smile that threatened to surface whenever she imagined what she would do to her enem—

  No.

  Jimena took a deep breath, forcing the thought away. She knew how she felt, and taking joy in the suffering she might inflict was not something she wanted to become comfortable with.

  She wanted to help. She would help.

  The worried face of Atloc, combined with what she had seen in the desert, left her with no real choice. She wanted to protect these people—no, she had to. The divinity inside her offered no other path. It pressed against her inner world, threatening to consume her in wrath. It had grown twice its size the moment she heard of the coming war, writhing restlessly, yearning for release.

  As Atloc continued explaining the situation, Jimena could feel his divinity bristling around him, much like the fire inside her own chest. If the chosen of such a powerful people was this worried, then things were dire.

  She breathed again, trying to calm the rising emotions—this time with little success. Like a pan left over an open flame, no matter how she tried to cool it, the heat only grew.

  Her sleepiness vanished as fragments of conversation passed around her. Whether they didn’t realize she could understand them, or trusted her enough not to care, she began piecing together the scope of what lay ahead.

  After a final goodbye and quiet reassurance to her father, Jimena boarded the war carriage.

  It was a marvelous construct of blessed wood and metal. She was surprised that the six towering creatures harnessed to it were capable of pulling something so large. Their taut, corded muscles radiated beastly power beneath their armor, yet the carriage itself was the size of a small house.

  “The invaders call them horses,” Atloc said as he boarded beside her. “Like the carriage, they were taken during one of our successful raids. Remarkable animals—capable of wonderful things. It is unfortunate, but thanks to the invaders, our people have advanced in many ways.”

  He settled in and continued explaining, filling her with knowledge of their enemies as the army behind them prepared for the march.

  Blessed bronze armor and weapons gleamed in the light, making the warriors look like an unstoppable divine host. Jimena was glad for their presence. If the strained expressions of the elders and chosen meant anything, it was that they would need every advantage they could muster.

  Standing at the forefront, bearing the weight of so many lives, felt suffocating. It was no wonder the flame inside her surged and struggled as it did. She couldn’t imagine what losing would mean.

  She watched as columns of warriors formed with practiced precision, flowing into disciplined rows behind the carriage, all while listening to Atloc’s steady voice.

  Like a spearhead, the carriage would be the first to meet the enemy. The horses were armored with the finest blessed relics, and the carriage itself was saturated with faith and divinity. Engraved pictograms along its frame glowed with raw power.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  With a surge of divine energy, Atloc signaled the beginning of the march. His aura flared into a pillar of light that encased the carriage. Drums began to beat in time with the warriors’ steps as voices rose in unison—words she couldn’t understand, their meaning lost in translation, but unmistakably meant to inspire.

  -

  The carriage moved so quickly that everything outside blurred together. The Caxcanes had built dirt roads through jungles and forests, but most were winding and riddled with bumps. The carriage bounced and rattled, yet they remained relatively comfortable—considering the sheer number of holes in the narrow road.

  Only specially trained warriors on horseback were able to keep pace, riding hard behind the blessed carriage. Through the narrow wind slits, Jimena caught glimpses of their strained faces and wondered if they would be able to endure the relentless pace.

  Atloc had proposed something to her—that was the reason they rushed ahead instead of waiting for the entire army to reach the city together. Even with blessings to hasten the march, the full force would arrive far too late.

  They had to reach Tlālātēnco before the enemy did. Hopefully, before the invaders could deploy their cannons.

  Atloc had analyzed previous battles long ago and identified their greatest weakness. It was the reason his city had invested so heavily in the carriage and the horses.

  The time it took the invaders to set up their relics was the single opening they had. Their best—and perhaps only—chance to win. Otherwise, Atloc had looked at her with undisguised dread and said simply that they would die.

  Their people had always held the advantage in strength and numbers. If not for the traitors, the Light Empire’s advance would have ended very differently in these lands. At the mention of them, Atloc had needed to pause, composing himself before explaining the Otomí in greater detail.

  Only after he calmed did he resume outlining the plan, clearly satisfied that Jimena understood everything so far.

  Together, she and Atloc would pierce straight into the enemy ranks and destroy the cannons they had brought. Atloc reassured her that the invaders never carried more than two golden cannons at a time—that was their primary objective. The iron and bronze cannons could be dealt with later.

  He had emphasized, repeatedly, the absolute necessity of destroying the weapons before they were fully set up. The fear of death was plain on his face as he made certain she understood.

  “Rest, and prepare yourself for what’s coming, Chosen,” Atloc said, studying her intently. “We can’t afford a single mistake.”

  He turned and entered one of the rooms within the carriage. A few elders sat around a table where pictograms floated above a rough map of the region. Smoke twisted and writhed in the air as low chanting guided the shifting symbols, attempting to divine the path ahead.

  The door closed as Atloc gave her a final nod, his voice lowered to a whisper, urging her to rest once more.

  -

  Everything had felt like a blur after they arrived. The city had yet to be sieged, but thousands of warriors were already setting up a siege camp. Many of them were dressed similarly to the Caxcanes’ own army.

  Atloc had urged Jimena awake after she had unknowingly fallen asleep, giving her no time to think too deeply about what she would be doing next.

  Jimena had never feared her power—never thought she would—but the smoking bodies that now surrounded her, the charred stench in the air, forced her to retch.

  Her Xolo mask opened, allowing her to empty her stomach. The spectral flame seemed to take note of her state and proceeded to turn everything to ash, leaving no trace of the carnage she had wrought—save for the massive mound of gold fused to the earth.

  Once released, Jimena had found it impossible to stop the spectral flame from taking control. Wrath seized her mind instantly. No matter who fled, they were never fast enough. The spectral flame behaved as if alive, swimming through the air like unseen currents—deadly torrents of heat that moved with merciless intent, engulfing all it deemed guilty in a slow, agonizing pyre.

  The flame reveled in the suffering it inflicted. It was sickening. Jimena couldn’t tell if this was truly her doing, or the flame acting of its own will. Its whispers intertwined with those of Mictecacihuatl, urging her to kill.

  The voices haf confused her as she wandered the battlefield in a crazed, manic haze.

  It hadn’t felt like a battle to Jimena. Even Atloc had gone from awed to horrified as she walked through a screaming inferno, clad in her blazing armor. Her Xolo helmet snarled and snapped at the Chosen when he tried to intervene, terrifying him when her flames grazed too close.

  Mist had formed during the slaughter, reminding her of Marisol. It eased her slightly, though it felt different—its power cool and steadfast. It tried to calm the burning of her soul, but failed. Her divinity simply overwhelmed Atloc’s, refusing to relent until everything in sight had been purged.

  The massacre had continued for hours, until the sunset finally brought her back to herself. Everything felt distant, like a story she had only experienced secondhand. The burning embers drifting through the air were a reminder of what she had done.

  She stared at the golden cannon, melted down into slag—the only one she had spotted when she flew over the army and smashed down into their ranks.

  She hadn’t even noticed how some of them were dressed differently, the remnants of their metal armor scattered among the ashes.