Arturo took in the disheveled state Alvarado had arrived in and smiled inwardly.

  His gambit had paid off.

  The greedy pig that was Alvarado would never ignore the promise of even a single gold coin. The invitation had done exactly what Arturo intended—luring him into a carefully planned gauntlet of ambushes along the road.

  He also noted the absence of Alvarado’s lieutenant. The reports he had received had not misled him. The man had dared to protect a slave—and in doing so, had angered the foul creature now standing before him.

  With the decorum and dignity his position demanded, Arturo greeted Alvarado and waved over his soldiers. All had been briefed on the man’s temper. They stood a step behind Arturo, his own lieutenant solemn at his side, ready to begin unloading the remaining carriages at a word.

  Alvarado, however, seemed far more interested in lashing out at the dirt beneath his boots. He ignored Arturo entirely, offering him no acknowledgement even after the greeting.

  The signs of an earlier outburst were impossible to miss. The hollow-eyed woman trailing behind Alvarado bore a swollen cheek, her gaze fixed downward. Yet Arturo could still sense a flicker of spirit in her—trembling beneath the effort of restraining her emotions.

  Once more, Arturo felt vindicated in the path he had chosen.

  None would ever again look down on him and say, “Arturo, no eres nada.”

  None would treat him as Alvarado treated that poor servant.

  He felt his father’s soul watching from the heavens, from within their god’s domain. The thought filled him with resolve. Alvarado’s behavior was sacrilege—not only against decency, but against the divine effort of generations who had built this empire.

  Arturo hummed softly, chanting a small hymn in his mind to calm the anger rising in his chest. The stench wafting from Alvarado’s folds and creases demanded distraction.

  Courageously, I will lead.

  With strength, I will persist.

  With honesty, I will guide my flock…

  At last, Alvarado turned toward him, smiling wretchedly. The lack of sweets had taken its toll—his once-proud girth noticeably diminished. He launched into excuses, speaking at length in an unnervingly calm tone that clashed with the violence Arturo had just witnessed.

  Arturo acted as though he had seen nothing.

  He took Alvarado’s clammy hand and smiled as if greeting an old friend, ignoring the slick sheen of sweat and grime coating his palm. When they finally parted, Arturo waited until Alvarado turned away before wiping his hand thoroughly.

  Greed had no place in the empire.

  May the gods forgive him for his deception—but the living embodiment of sin standing before him could not be allowed to continue poisoning everything it touched.

  With the backing of the empire’s nobles and the quiet support of the natives, Alvarado had already been chosen as a sacrifice. Peace demanded it.

  Arturo reflected on the path that had brought him here—the hands he had shaken, the heads that had fallen. Removing a sinner would be easy.

  The native peoples already allied with them had gained much from the collapse of the old empire. As long as the conquistadors honored their agreements and avoided provoking their allies’ wrath, more would follow. This land would yield wealth—both in reputation and in gold.

  The thought made Arturo smirk as he guided Alvarado through his residence, proudly displaying his luxuries. He reveled in the gleam of greed flickering in the man’s eyes—desire he could not yet act upon.

  Gentle servants and a meticulous mayordomo were introduced, each movement precise, controlled. Arturo led Alvarado at last to his quarters—the final stop of the tour.

  The place where they would discuss how Alvarado would help him.

  Not that Arturo truly needed such a fiend.

  The empire could enact miracles no mortal would dare blaspheme. Those who had resisted already lay at the bottom of the deepest abyss. The ancient way was brutal—but it had ensured supremacy.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  A millennium of conquest, followed by centuries of defense. The empire had endured wars this corner of the world had yet to comprehend. That was why some romantically called this place a new world.

  Arturo scoffed at the term.

  It was merely conquered land—another lie to convince peasants to throw themselves onto ships that often meant death. He had seen the pamphlets the wealthy printed, overflowing with sweet promises and false hope.

  He could recall dozens of such advertisements plastered across recruiting houses in his territory. No harbor lay near his domain, yet it remained one of the most stable and prosperous regions—precisely why opportunity thrived there.

  And why this bloated fly had landed exactly where Arturo wanted.

  The bait had been set.

  The natives would do the rest.

  -

  Mort had remained in the flower meadow for a full week, learning the ways of his new goddess. He let her memories seep into him, lessons carried on sensation rather than words—visions of a life once lived, and of a people whose history had been eroded by time.

  Joy and pain came entwined in every image. He felt laughter echo through sunlit valleys, then the quiet dignity of death as hope lingered stubbornly in the eyes of the fallen. It had been another corrupt god, much like Itzcamazotz, that brought about their end.

  That god had arrived slowly, almost gently, and consumed her people piece by piece. Yet even it had not endured. Three separate gods had descended upon the land and devoured the interloper, bringing a grim conclusion to her story—tragic, but final.

  Or so she had believed.

  Hope had returned in an unexpected form: a small bee, breathless with urgency, chattering endlessly as it carried news. It spoke of a boy who had run for dozens of miles—frail, desperate, yet defiant—fleeing an inescapable shadow. The animals already knew of the corrupt god’s influence. Many had abandoned the mountains for these open plains, seeking refuge from its rot.

  The slopes where so many had once been born were now infested with corruption. Those who lingered too long were twisted—bodies reshaped, minds warped into reflections of the god’s will. They became tools, enslaved for purposes too cruel to name.

  That was why the boy’s escape was nothing short of a miracle.

  He reeked of the god’s malice, saturated in its presence, yet lacked the tether that bound others. A vessel capable of standing so close to divinity without being claimed by it. To her, he was the final chance she would ever have.

  Her time was already running thin. Without faith, her divinity bled away, color and emotion draining from her concept until she would become nothing more than a simple nature spirit—lesser even than the young alebrije that sometimes wandered into her meadow. Her bees, too, were fragile. Without miracles to sustain them, they could not endure forever. One great disaster would be enough to erase everything she had left.

  So she had acted.

  She spent every mote of divinity she had hoarded, emptying the last shallow pool of the divine to cry out across the land. She called to the winds, to the roots, to every creature that still listened—guiding, urging, pleading for the boy to find her.

  And somehow, he had.

  Now, within the boy she inhabited, faith trickled in slowly—from bees, from flowers, from small living things that believed without knowing why. Gentle, fragile power. Nowhere near enough to restore her fully, but enough.

  Enough for Mort to begin his journey.

  The urge for progressive growth stirred deep within his heart, unfamiliar yet undeniable. At the same time, the goddess’s anxiety sharpened with each passing day. For the shadow had not vanished.

  It still lingered—watching, waiting—at the edge of their shared thoughts.