With the aid of her goddess, Marisol had finally mended the cracks that had split Jimena’s cuauhxicalli. Its once heroic, hopeful light returned—steady and true. Though the brilliance it radiated was weaker than before, dimmed by the corruption it had endured, its true power remained untouched. It still stood tallest among the three stone statues, its surface draped in colorful beads that caught the light.

  Marisol could feel that Jimena was safe.

  The flame within the cuauhxicalli’s bowl burned steadily now, strengthened by the corruption that had attempted to flee it. A few thin strands had escaped into the air, slipping beyond the hut—but they were so small that even her grandmother had not reacted as they vanished.

  Unless one focused directly on it, corruption was difficult to purify. Like tar set aflame, it did not disappear—it merely changed form.

  What Jaime had done had been dangerous.

  It was only because his god had taken on part of the burden that he still lived. The pictogram on Jaime’s forehead flickered intermittently as it digested the corruption he had absorbed. With each pulse, the bloated state of his body—now resting beside Marisol’s grandmother—slowly eased, returning to something closer to normal.

  Marisol had panicked when Jaime first collapsed.

  Her goddess had calmed her, anchoring her focus back onto the cuauhxicalli. She had shared the truth of the danger Jaime had faced by drawing the corruption into himself—how close he had come to disaster. It was thanks to Mictlantecuhtli, guiding the flow of corruption, that the damage had remained an imbalance rather than a fatal rupture.

  Her goddess then asked Marisol to watch over Jaime while his condition passed.

  She told her it would be easy.

  That reassurance eased some of Marisol’s fear.

  Chalchiuhtlicue’s whispers had remained gentle throughout the restoration, guiding Marisol’s hands and spirit alike, soothing the strain that had settled deep into her bones.

  Faith and divinity became her materials.

  Will and soul, her guiding hand.

  Her divinity poured forth, her faith hardening it into form.

  And when the work was finally done—

  Marisol collapsed.

  She fainted just as Jaime had, her body giving in at last to exhaustion.

  ---

  Atloc watched Jimena depart atop Kauyumari after she had rested for a day within the city’s temple. She stayed only briefly for the celebration held in her name before leaving once more.

  She appeared whole again—steady after the state he had seen her in.

  No matter how he tried to speak with her, Atloc received only silence in return. The young fire mother did not seem to need his comfort.

  Not that she appeared in need of it at all.

  Her body radiated a tense, raw strength—one Atloc had rarely seen even among his finest warriors. Nothing on the battlefield had been able to touch her godly form. She had been a true embodiment of judgment.

  After witnessing that power—after nearly feeling her flame when he had tried to calm her—he could not forget the glow of her red eyes, nor the strange, living helmet she bore.

  Atloc resolved then to follow in her footsteps.

  Even the blue deer had confirmed it.

  Kauyumari looked as majestic as the first time Atloc had seen him—a vision many Chichimeca children remembered encountering at least once in their youth. Though worshiped primarily by the nomadic desert tribes, elders across many lands still sought his blessing before journeys or hunts.

  That such a being lingered near the fire-chosen spoke volumes.

  The city’s reaction had already made Jimena’s place among the Chichimeca unmistakable. While she slept, the people sang her praises openly. None spoke of fear for the destruction she had wrought upon their enemies.

  They revered her for it.

  So many had attempted to force their way into the temple just to glimpse the mortal god that Atloc had struggled to keep order. Eventually, he had been forced to act—calling down a sudden shower of cold rain that drove the unruly crowd indoors.

  The sight of that gathering unsettled him.

  It reminded Atloc of his own role—and of how little he had truly done.

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  He had always wielded his power to impose order. He ruled the city through decree, never through presence. Walking among the people had always seemed a waste of time. A single decision from above could reshape thousands of lives—that had been his way.

  Receiving everyone warmly, regardless of filth or sickness, was foreign to him. Why heal one person when he could water fields enough to feed an entire city? He had believed this was wisdom.

  Yet Jimena had used her power not only for the many—but for the few.

  That choice confused him.

  Especially after witnessing the sheer magnitude of her strength.

  Still, he could not ignore what he had seen: her divinity had grown—quietly, subtly—while she walked among the people. The awe her godly form inspired had ignited something within him.

  There was more than law and security.

  More than the endless cycles of life and death, nurture and harvest.

  There was the tending of the people’s hearts and minds.

  Guidance.

  The role he had forgotten he was meant to fulfill.

  Where had his heart gone along the way? Had he truly stagnated… or was this all he had ever been?

  Atloc turned the thoughts over and over, ruminating on Jimena’s power—on the mystery of the young mother of fire, brought to them in their hour of need by an ancient guide.

  And for the first time in a long while, he wondered who he might yet become.

  ---

  The mountain shook.

  Itzcamazotz shattered the statue of the girl with a single blow. Stone split and collapsed as the cuauhxicalli fell silent—its divinity gone, the flame of faith extinguished.

  He roared.

  Wrath drowned reason as he launched himself into the air, wings tearing through stale cavern winds. He longed to rip the spirit from the wretched little runt who had dared to rebel. A miscalculation, nothing more—one that could be corrected by his direct intervention.

  And that was the problem.

  If he left his domain, the balance he had labored so carefully to construct would unravel. The effects would be immediate, visible—drawing eyes he had no desire to attract.

  He remembered what such attention had brought before.

  The era of blood had ended with the fall of the Aztec war god.

  Itzcamazotz, like many others, had reveled in the hunts that followed—dark skies filled with screams, gods and monsters taking lives as they pleased. Until they arrived.

  Gods draped in white and gold.

  Winged figures. Floating orbs.

  Radiant beings crowned with blazing halos.

  They smote everything in their path.

  He had survived by becoming shadow—slipping between annihilating arrows that erased any who dared linger in the open. Even now, the memory tightened something ugly in his chest.

  He forced himself to calm.

  That was why he planned.

  Why he cultivated.

  Why he shaped the perfect spawn.

  The realization only fed his rage.

  With a shriek of fury, Itzcamazotz plunged back into the depths of his domain, retreating into the dark, damp caverns of the mountain.

  Everything had come to a halt.

  So much effort. So many meticulously laid plans—ruined by a single, wretched girl.

  And yet…

  The way she had interfered with him—using his own power against him—drew a wide, crooked grin across his grotesque bat-like face. It was ingenious.

  Thrilling.

  It was rare for Itzcamazotz to encounter someone more devious than himself.

  That rarity was precisely why he was so enraged.

  He raked his claws along the cavern walls, stone screaming beneath his touch. He stomped through the swarming shelled bodies below, their forms bursting and squelching beneath his furred feet.

  They had been perfect.

  The union of powers—so elegant, so divine.

  But he would reclaim them.

  No matter how long it took. No matter how far he had to search.

  He would lay his traps.

  Solve the puzzle anew.

  Impose his will.

  The Tliltic that remained would suffice for now. They would lurk in the darkness, maintaining balance within his claimed domain while he prepared.

  Preparations that would ensure the loyalty of the betrayers—

  For eternity.