“Morty, my baby.”

  Mort dreamed of his childhood—of his mother holding him, of a pink-colored time where love had been simple and abundant.

  Then the dream turned gray.

  Something pierced him, burrowing deep, leaving behind an ache in his chest that refused to fade. In the nightmare, he understood why it hurt. Shadows laughed at his pain, cursing him with more anguish. He cried out to them in supplication, begging to know how to make amends.

  The phantoms only clawed harder—either unwilling or incapable of healing their own wounds.

  He ran from them, stumbling through the void until he slipped into an endless world of black.

  Here, the hollow felt full—yet something was always missing. He was sated, yet still starving. The contradiction bewildered him as he fell without end.

  If not for Renata, curled safely within his gem—her faint breath and steady heartbeat lighting the eternal night—Mort wasn’t sure how he would endure even a single day in that lingering twilight.

  Even as the ache remained, he held onto hope.

  With Renata’s help, it would heal.

  When he woke from his uncomfortable bed of earth and grass, Mort resumed his journey through a lush jungle. Few people lived here. The cries of birds announced his every step. Small animals scattered. Insects droned endlessly.

  This was his only company.

  His journey felt as though it had only just begun. He walked aimlessly, guided mostly by scent. At times, he stumbled upon predators guarding fresh kills, their ferocious eyes tracking him closely. Other times, he crossed paths with hunters preparing their meals.

  Neither welcomed him.

  Mort wasn’t sure what it was about his face that provoked such reactions. He had done nothing to them, even when they spat vitriol at him—or stalked him like the Tliltic. Even when he knew he could tear them limb from limb.

  He never did.

  He felt different now. Free of the childlike haze that had imprisoned him for so long. Free of the invisible chains he had worn for his god. His will had returned—his desires, his sense of self.

  The need inside him, once foreign and forgotten, had awakened. The sensations were relentless.

  At first, it had been exhausting. Now, every scent and sound whispered to him. Nature called—just as his mother once had. Not wet and wicked like the corrupt god, but warm and welcoming.

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  With every step, he felt himself drawing closer.

  Mort didn’t know where he was going. Only that he had to go.

  He carried the weight of his past as he moved toward something truer to himself. The need to do so was desperate.

  It was unfortunate that the Tliltic—and the corrupt god—did not care.

  The mindless creatures came again.

  Their armor was paler than before, their forms more human—and more grotesque for it. Half man, half insect, their bodies twisted by incomplete transformation.

  Mort scowled and pounced, slim but powerful arms outstretched, baiting their instincts.

  The first Tliltic’s swipe was weak. Pathetic.

  Mort kicked, crushing its frail joint. Bone—never properly formed—crunched and squelched beneath his bare foot, splintering under pallid skin. He ended its cries quickly.

  The two far behind, arrived.

  Mort slipped behind a large tree and climbed it as they split to circle him. Their sickle-arms twitched as they surrounded the trunk.

  Once they spotted him above and began to climb clumsily, Mort tore free thick branches, shaping them into rough spears—leaves still clinging to wooden shaft.

  When the first Tliltic reached him, Mort drove the spear downward with brutal force. Wood pierced its skull. Swollen eye burst as the branch gouged it out.

  The body fell.

  The second shrieked and climbed faster, its shivering form reminding Mort of a repulsive baby bird. He impaled it through the sternum—the soft bone there barely formed—ending it in a single thrust.

  Another Tliltic watched from the forest’s edge.

  Then it fled.

  Likely to hide. To wait. To bring reinforcements.

  Mort sighed—and gave chase.

  Each Tliltic he killed dulled Itzcamazotz’s ability to follow him. Each wave slaughtered earned him a little more rest. But the corrupt god had grown devious—sending ambushes while Mort slept, striking when he was weakest.

  Still, Mort pressed on.

  One day, he would be strong enough to kill them all. To escape the gods’ reach entirely.

  To be free of the hideous corrupt god—

  At last.