Quetzalli walked with Xalli toward the clay mound, as had become their daily routine. Ever since the chosen had begun watching over and teaching the children, the parents of the village had breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  Mothers could finally focus on their daily tasks. Grinding maize into masa for tortillas was labor-intensive work, especially for women whose daughters were still too young to help. And that was only one of many responsibilities they carried each day.

  The men, too, felt the change. When their wives no longer greeted them with exhaustion and complaint upon returning home with the day’s meat, the hunters seemed to thrive. With happy wives, their spirits lifted—and their hunts grew more successful.

  It had become a virtuous cycle, one many feared would break once the chosen tired of the rowdy children.

  Thankfully, it had not.

  Marisol, in particular, had taken on the role of nurturer for the community. She cared for the villagers in countless ways—some so subtle many had yet to notice. The sanctuaries she created were spoken of often, though Quetzalli herself had yet to see them. Still, even the green road alone felt miraculous.

  She longed to explore more of the wonders of her new home. But that could wait. Their hut had only just been completed, and little Xalli was still growing accustomed to everything.

  What Marisol and Jaime had inadvertently begun at the clay mound had transformed it into one of the safest places in the village—second only to the sacred shrine that housed the cuauhxicalli, where Elder Priestess Chia greeted them each morning.

  That alone was reason enough for the clay mound to become the symbol of happiness it had grown into.

  Nestled between two of the most sacred places in the village, it naturally drew people in that direction—Quetzalli included.

  The baths had become another blessing. A relief for the women and a source of joy for the children. Her husband praised them often, recounting evenings spent sharing pulque with other men while soaking. Though Quetzalli had thought such behavior improper, he insisted the sacred rules here were more relaxed.

  The chosen did not mind the villagers’ odd ways of worship.

  Clay dolls, woven crafts, and simple offerings adorned the shrines—not symbols of wealth or power, but of people.

  Perhaps it was the chosen’s youth. They had yet to create rigid rituals to draw faith. Quetzalli remembered her mother telling stories from her own childhood—of temples thick with copal smoke, acrid and stinging, of ceremonies that left the air heavy and the visions unclear.

  She poked Xalli’s nose, pulling herself from such thoughts. The girl scrunched her face and puffed her cheeks, smiling—a silly expression her father often made when they were babies.

  Bruno walked beside them, watching with an intensity Quetzalli had yet to understand. The mud doll fascinated her. She often studied it, sensing there was something more to it, though its magic still eluded her.

  Chia had taught a handful of women some sacred practices—quietly, discreetly. Quetzalli knew better than to speak of it, even to her husband. The elder priestess hadn’t seemed overly worried about secrecy, only warning them of the burdens such knowledge could invite.

  No one argued. Many remembered how responsibility had weighed on Chia.

  When the clay mound came into view—already crowded with laughing children—Xalli tugged free, nearly forgetting to hug her mother before running off with Bruno. Quetzalli chuckled as she watched her daughter settle in her own corner, already shaping a new doll.

  Many of the figures running scattered around the mound were Xalli’s creations. Being able to breathe life into one doll each day filled the girl with pride, and the praise she received only drove her to work harder.

  Quetzalli’s own blessing had not changed. The eight-pointed star on her forehead remained as it had been since Jimena’s journey—one many still whispered about. It granted her and her husband better health and strength. Nothing more.

  And that was enough.

  She wanted no greater power. Only for her child to grow healthy and strong.

  Her thoughts quieted as she entered the large, crowded hut of the chosen. Inside, villagers placed offerings into the sacred fires—each one said to grant a different kind of miracle.

  Marisol’s fire, of the axolotl, healed and nurtured. It mended bones, cured illness, and fed the people through her blessed waters.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Jimena’s fire had grown the strongest. Though adorned the most, it was no more revered than the others. Its warmth granted protection—to hunters alone in the forest, fishermen on cold waters, and homes plagued by biting insects.

  Jaime’s fire brought clarity and invention. Many elders favored the owl’s flame, seeking insight and illumination where confusion reigned.

  Quetzalli sat among her friends, listening as Chia spoke. The elder had never intended to give sermons, but people had begged her. She had guided many upon their arrival, offering calm where fear ruled, clarity where confusion reigned.

  Chia had become the bridge between the people and the chosen.

  For many newcomers, it was not easy to stand before beings who could perform miracles and speak to them as equals. People wanted—needed—to rely on them. The protection the chosen offered was reason enough to worship.

  No one dared blaspheme a god.

  And yet—here they were.

  Three chosen who cared.

  That, more than any blessing on her forehead, made Quetzalli feel truly blessed.

  The sermon lasted only a short while. Afterward, food was shared—fruit, maize, vegetables—placed into the bags everyone had brought. Laughter followed, hugs were exchanged, and Chia was gently ushered off to her own duties.

  People returned to their homes or their work.

  And the children kept playing.

  ---

  Rafael had been turned into an angelfish.

  Squeezed into a new reality by the very cage he had once created to contain corruption, his change in polarity had sealed his fate. The prison he had designed to strip gods of their divinity had done its work flawlessly.

  On him.

  Salutaris loomed above like a living storm cloud. It mocked Rafael for long stretches of time, until boredom set in—only to begin again moments later, cackling at the sight of the once-mighty god reduced to something so small.

  Rafael’s new form was pitiful.

  A diminutive body of black and bluish scales, edged in thin rims of golden yellow. Those same markings ringed his eyes, wide and protruding on either side of his head, giving him a perpetually startled, almost comical expression.

  He hated it.

  Whenever they drifted across pebbles or coral fragments that still bore the residue of lesser gods, Rafael greedily sucked them in. Even the faintest remnants of divinity were precious now. He hoarded them, desperate to accelerate his growth—desperate for even the smallest chance of escape.

  That hope was always shadowed by Salutaris.

  “You’ll remain like this for the rest of your damned existence,” Salutaris purred, its long body twisting lazily around him. “Just as you intended for me.”

  It laughed and tightened its coils.

  “How does it feel?”

  Rafael’s eyes bulged as pressure crushed in around his fragile body. Pain lanced through him, sharp and helpless.

  “Your only way out,” Salutaris continued smoothly, loosening just enough to let him breathe, “is to help me escape as well. How else do you think you’ll carry all the treasures of the deep?”

  It opened its mouth slightly, revealing a beautifully smooth stone hidden within. Its surface rippled with slow, living waves of energy.

  A powerful natural relic.

  Even in his diminished state, Rafael recognized it immediately.

  “In your dreams will I ever help you, wretched thing!” Rafael squeaked, his voice thin and strained as he shouted with all the feeble might his tiny body allowed. “I would sooner rot here than aid you!”

  Salutaris hummed thoughtfully.

  “Why must you upset yourself?” it crooned, its tone falsely gentle. “I only wish to cooperate.”

  It nudged other glowing objects toward him—pearls, fragments of coral, artifacts lost to the abyss. Each radiated faint power. Each was a temptation. Its words followed, soft and poisonous, meant to soothe, to wear him down.

  Rafael’s fins trembled with rage.

  He was not yet muddled enough to fall for such manipulation. Not yet corrupted beyond himself.

  He would endure this humiliation. He would find a way out. And when he did, this audacious little worm would be punished so thoroughly it would never again dream of rebellion.

  With a violent flick, Rafael kicked up a cloud of silt and debris, wrenching himself free from Salutaris’ loose coils. He darted into the nearby coral forest, vanishing into narrow gaps and twisting passages where his small form could hide.

  The coral was dense.

  Crowded.

  Perfect.

  There, Rafael would begin again.