Marisol greeted the ever-growing group of children gathered around the clay mound. Many of the villagers had taken turns excavating fresh clay from the surrounding earth so the children could continue shaping their dolls. Whenever they were able, the three Chosen breathed life into the figures, and placing them at the base of their cuauhxicalli had imbued them with something more—something subtle, still unnamed.

  She patted Bruno’s head gently. He had become a kind of goal for the younger children, along with the other dolls crafted by Xalli. The girl had unintentionally taken on the role of leader among the clay molders. Though just as inexperienced as the others, she showed the same calm confidence Marisol had glimpsed in her mother during their rare meetings.

  Marisol hugged the children and sat among them, watching as Jimena and Jaime moved through the crowd of adults nearby. It was finally time to plan for the future. The village had outgrown survival; now it needed direction. Jimena had returned from her journey with many ideas—some shared freely, others kept close to her heart.

  Laughter drifted through the air as the children played. The boys barked dramatic commands, their dolls responding with surprising obedience. The girls played at families, dressing their creations in carefully molded clothes and reenacting scenes etched deeply into the dolls’ thick clay heads.

  One little girl sat apart from the rest, completely absorbed in her work, ignoring every invitation to join the games.

  Xalli’s star blessing had changed. What had once been a clear celestial mark had become a brown circle, like a smudge of clay pressed into her skin. Over the days, it began to exude a gentle calm that relaxed anyone nearby. When she worked, it glimmered faintly with gold, and her eyes shone softly—much like Jaime’s.

  The area near the baths grew rowdier with each passing day as children chased one another, dolls clutched tightly in their hands.

  New huts sprang up constantly, especially along the green road where nature flourished in abundance. A canal now ran beside it, dug from the sanctuary spring. With Marisol’s help—divinity guided by nature’s will—the spring had expanded, gushing fresh water endlessly so long as it was tended with care.

  The grove sanctuary had grown as well, though her focus there had been lighter. Some of the more solitary refugees chose to settle near it after asking her permission—something she found unnecessary. All she asked in return was help caring for the grove.

  Villagers could often be seen pruning the towering trees whose branches loomed over the nearby forest. Only a few lone trees rivaled their height. The work was dangerous, and only the most agile dared climb them. The massive lower branches were especially prized for construction, yet there never seemed to be enough to meet the demand for new homes.

  The monkeys had not been pleased by the sudden influx of neighbors, so Marisol spent an entire day planting new groves around the larger one, pouring nearly all her divinity into the effort.

  With many new families arriving—men eager to help where hands were needed—progress quickened. The women no longer bore the burden alone, and the village began to move with purpose.

  The newcomers had yet to receive blessings, but curiosity and wonder filled them as they watched the children and some adults wield strange abilities. Their growing faith drew them to the now-crowded great hut that housed the cuauhxicalli.

  After Jimena’s return and their efforts to help Sol purge the miasma infesting the outskirts of his village, refugees arrived in waves. They fled unseen horrors.

  Many villages had no divine protection—no Chosen to stand for them. The gods that came to their homes did not nurture; they harvested. Survivors spoke of shadows that followed them, of terrible creatures glimpsed only briefly. Hunters and warriors fell in moments, bodies taken no matter how fiercely they resisted.

  So they ran.

  They ran to the only place rumored to offer salvation.

  Word had spread by way of a stranger with a long nose—someone no one seemed to recognize beyond that single, distinct feature.

  As the danger mounted, Marisol asked Sol about the injuries that had nearly killed him. Reluctantly, he shared what he could: the creatures he had seen clearly, the few he had managed to kill, the brutal cost of facing them. When he finished, he refused to say more.

  Marisol and the twins noticed the pain that still crossed his face at times and suspected he withheld much—but they did not press him.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  What he had shared was enough.

  It would allow them to plan.

  And this time, they would not face the darkness alone.

  ---

  Mort ran from the Tliltic pursuing him. He had already killed the weakest among them, leaving only the relic-wielding, blessed creatures behind to try and corner him on their own. Itzcamazotz seemed to be lacking in manpower. Each new squad sent after him appeared more fragile than the last—their black shells pale, soft, unfinished.

  The transformation he had guided was fractured and incomplete in these newer pursuers. It would not be long before Mort finally broke through their encirclement. Still, he could faintly feel the looming shadow of the corrupt god. It had halted its advance after entering the first village on Mort’s path out of the region.

  The Chosen there had not welcomed his presence. He had eaten, drunk, and rested briefly before leaving, his every movement watched until he disappeared into the trees.

  Many of the villages he passed afterward were empty. Perhaps that was due to the evil gods—or to his own actions, not long ago. The memories were too vague, too distorted for Mort to know what he had truly done. Any attempt to dig deeper sent waves of crippling pain through his body. He chose to wait until he had healed before attempting such introspection again.

  The devastation in some places spoke of more than just Itzcamazotz’s passage. Mort caught the faint scent of blood—not old, dried traces, but something fresh.

  The smell tugged at his primal instincts, urging him to follow it.

  Mort turned away.

  The unstable beat of his gem—weak, uneven—forced caution upon him. He avoided conflict whenever possible, using his failing power only when completely surrounded. Even then, the Tliltic had managed to trap him only a handful of times, more by luck than skill, as they seemed to have little idea where he truly was.

  The dense forest, broken by stretches of lush jungle, made it difficult for Mort to even discern direction. So he walked without purpose, lost among the trees.

  Searching for something he did not yet realize he was missing.

  ---

  Rafael felt the oppressive weight of the sea collapse upon him. It was crushing—his now-physical body slowly compacting inward as it yielded to the pressure. There was no resisting it. The corrupt script binding him continued its work, refining his light into thick, pulsing corruption.

  He choked.

  Tar-like filth filled his lungs, suffocating him from within. He tried to struggle, but there was nothing he could do. He knew then that matters had passed the point of escape. Destroying this body would have been his only option—if Salutaris had not already corrupted his core so thoroughly.

  This vessel was lost. Its connection to him brought only corruption back into his light. Yet abandoning it meant losing the divine core he had nurtured for so long, and that loss would be catastrophic to his divinity.

  So he shifted his focus.

  La Esmeralda and her captain still fought.

  She clashed with minor drowned gods that ravaged her hull, her relics blazing with astounding power as they fueled the galleon’s desperate defense. The spirit of the ship sang a mournful dirge while the collapsed side struggled to mend itself. Across the armada, the spirits of the other galleons joined the song, drawing upon nearly the last of their strength to launch a unified, desperate assault.

  Their power crashed into the minor drowned gods that clung to their prey like hands around a throat.

  The light gods—finally freed from their own opponents—began to channel vast reserves of power. They charged a single, devastating attack, meant to scour away the parasites latched onto them.

  Blinding light consumed the battlefield. Darkness was annihilated.

  Yet even that brilliance could not pierce the veil, nor blind the countless eyes watching from the other side of the mirror.

  Rafael refused to yield to Salutaris’s triumph—but refusal was all he had left. Helpless, he watched as the wretched little snake dragged him deeper, allowing the veil to strip him of divinity and grind him down into something more primal.

  Far away, a statue in his temple cracked.

  The ever-bright light of his shrine dimmed, casting a subtle shadow. Where once warmth and welcome had lived, something greedy stirred—hungry light glinting faintly in the eyes of a familiar, kindly face.

  The change was imperceptible to all.

  For the shadows had already begun reaching for them.