Marisol was greeted by what appeared to be a very grumpy group of people.

  They watched her warily, spears in hand. Most were young warriors wearing rough-woven fabrics or broad leaves harvested from the massive trees surrounding the small settlement. Their stances were tense but controlled—ready, not reckless.

  Marisol wasn’t entirely sure what she was meant to do here.

  She had followed the whispers faithfully, step by step, but now her goddess had fallen silent. The last guidance she’d received was no more than a subtle push—do something for these people—without explanation or instruction.

  And Marisol didn’t know what that something was.

  The anxious faces before her clearly didn’t know what she was either. The glowing motes that had followed her during her walking meditation lingered for a long moment, drifting through the air like soft embers, before slowly dispersing along with the fireflies that had guided her to this place.

  She took a breath.

  “Hi,” Marisol said gently. “I’m Marisol.”

  She infused her voice with divinity, weaving it with the power of understanding she had learned from her goddess. She hoped it would allow them to hear her as she intended, just as she had been taught. The whispers had come faster lately—too fast—leaving her little time to fully grasp them before the next instruction arrived.

  “Who are you?” one of the braver men asked, stepping forward. “How did you get here?”

  He was covered in a layer of black mud, his body bare except for fabric tied at his waist. His muscles tensed as he shifted his weight, but he didn’t raise his spear. The others mirrored his caution—alert, wary, but not openly hostile. They kept their distance from the stranger who had arrived glowing out of the forest.

  Relieved that she could understand them, Marisol spoke again, more clearly this time. She repeated her name and gently introduced herself to the gathered warriors.

  They listened.

  No one moved closer, but no one retreated either. They seemed to be waiting—for proof, perhaps, or intent.

  So Marisol waited too.

  After a moment, she stepped forward and offered a fruit to the man who had spoken. He accepted it cautiously, turning it over in his hands before peeling back the skin and taking a tentative bite.

  Then he laughed.

  He passed the fruit to the man beside him, whose long hair was braided with twigs woven along its length. That man took a much larger bite, grinning broadly as juice ran down his chin.

  Seeing their reaction, Marisol offered the rest of the fruit she carried. The warriors glanced at the mud-covered man, and at his nod, they eagerly stepped forward. Hands reached out, taking fruit from her arms with growing enthusiasm.

  Glad to be relieved of the weight, Marisol stretched her shoulders and glanced past them into the settlement. She smiled when she noticed small faces peeking between the warriors’ legs and shoulders.

  A few children met her gaze and immediately startled, darting behind the skirts and backs of women who were also trying—less subtly—to see the strange newcomer.

  As the warriors relaxed further, they parted slightly, still passing fruit around after taking generous bites. Juice smeared their hands and faces as they laughed, teasing one another about something Marisol didn’t yet understand.

  Then a small, shriveled old woman emerged from among them.

  She walked slowly, leaning on a carved stick, her sharp eyes fixing the men with a look that made them choke back laughter with little success. Only the mud-covered man straightened fully as she approached.

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  The woman stopped directly in front of Marisol.

  Sensing the shift, Marisol relaxed her outstretched senses and bowed respectfully. From within her huipil, she withdrew another fruit—a small berry, the kind Axochi had enjoyed the most.

  She had planned to keep it.

  But as she met the elder’s gaze, Marisol knew it belonged here instead.

  Marisol followed the elder into the settlement after a brief exchange—just enough to earn a fragile thread of trust. The old woman spoke softly, but every word carried purpose.

  She had already known Marisol was coming.

  The elder explained it simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The warriors at the entrance, the small feast prepared within the settlement—none of it had been coincidence. All of it had been arranged in quiet anticipation.

  They entered a well-made hut at the heart of the settlement. A controlled fire burned at its center, tended by a girl about Marisol’s age who carefully prodded the embers to keep the air flowing.

  The scent of warm tortillas filled the space. Several kinds of meat rested on clay plates while women ground hard nuts with practiced hands. The children were uncharacteristically quiet, seated close to the women, watching their work with wide, attentive eyes.

  Marisol smiled at a few of them, but most shrank back, hiding behind their mothers. A handful of curious ones leaned forward only to be gently scolded and pulled back. The women avoided Marisol’s gaze altogether.

  So she only smiled and greeted them with a respectful nod as she was guided to sit on a mat woven from leaves. She took in every face, every gesture.

  The elder alone met her eyes—and smiled.

  “Welcome, chosen of Chalchiuhtlicue,” the old woman said.

  She lifted a small idol from her robes and pressed a reverent kiss to it. “We have prayed for many years for this moment.”

  Silent tears slipped down the elder’s weathered cheeks. Faith burned bright in her dark eyes—deep, vast, and unwavering.

  Marisol felt her divinity respond.

  Light blossomed from her skin as her body began to glow, an aura of life filling the cramped hut. A soft pink mist unfurled around them, curling between women and children alike. It seeped into them gently, answering their devotion without conscious intent.

  One by one, a faint pink mark appeared upon their foreheads.

  Marisol froze.

  The elder bowed deeply, still weeping. Two women rushed to steady her, rubbing her back as she bent again and again in reverence. Marisol could only watch in mounting discomfort as the whispers surged, demanding her attention, urging her forward.

  When the murmurs finally faded and the weight of the moment settled, Marisol drew in a steadying breath.

  She straightened.

  If this was her role—then she would try to fulfill it properly.

  Her voice came out firmer than she intended as she spoke the words of Chalchiuhtlicue, grimacing slightly at her own sudden authority. She told them of her village, of the sacred waters, of a place where they could live beneath the goddess’s protection.

  She expected hesitation.

  Resistance.

  Fear.

  Instead, relief washed over the women’s faces.

  The elder clasped her hands together, eyes shining with urgency. “We are ready to leave this forgotten forest, dear chosen,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion that hadn’t been there before. “Please—take us away. We wish to bathe in the sacred waters of our lady!”

  The desperation in her tone startled Marisol.

  Whatever these people had fled—or been hiding from—had left deeper scars than she had first realized.