Renata fought the memories leeching into her being. She lashed out in every way she could within the intangible realm inside Mort’s gem, waging an almost endless battle against an enemy that had been invited inside. She wanted to seize Mort, to shake him until he felt the same fractured dissonance tearing her apart.

  Emotions dragged her in opposing directions. Images seen through unfamiliar eyes crashed together without mercy. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. The bipolar pull sent her spinning through the void, a space that had slowly begun to accumulate a finite measure of faith.

  The flower born of that faith revolved alongside her, offering no sense of direction—no up or down, no anchor. Instead, it worsened her dissociation, nudging her closer to what the goddess was. Her pale skin gained a faint honeyed hue. Her tiny form grew, subtly reshaped into something between the woman she had once been and the divine presence now blending into her.

  Renata had been forced into the gem after the goddess implanted fragments of herself into Mort’s three souls. Not only Mort, but Renata as well, had been infused with divinity. The spirit had been given no choice—nor had she been aware of what the goddess intended.

  To gods, splitting oneself could mean many things. Most often, it resulted in diminished power, fragments of a divided whole used only to observe distant places. Such an act served little purpose unless born of desperation—or absolute certainty of success. No god would do this lightly.

  So what was the goddess planning?

  The little doll had no answer.

  She only knew she wanted to remain herself, no matter how much corruption clung to her shell. Darkness was all she had ever known. It was what had given birth to her—though somewhere deep within it, there may once have been something gentler. That mercy, however, had never been extended to her.

  Her existence had been forged for a single purpose: to chain a soul. A tether meant to hold fast to the collar that had once bound Mort.

  Vague impressions of something more stirred within her fragmented being, but nothing could be made whole from the broken images drifting through her mind. That was why the goddess’s actions struck so deeply.

  Renata did not know what she was. She did not know what the world demanded of her. So when she was given purpose—when she was given identity—how could she not reach for it instinctively?

  Only the corruption refused to release its hold.

  It clung with wicked hooks, embedding itself into the tender emotions and fragile essence of Renata’s pure soul. A half-spirit anomaly, festering within Mort, threatening to become something the cruel god could once again command.

  That was, until the goddess intervened.

  A single ray of hope pierced the void, touching the damaged soul drifting within it. Even if corruption still barred her from the light for now, it would not do so forever.

  Renata’s anger was fierce—but it was not enough to keep the warmth away.

  -

  Jimena forced the countless thoughts pressing in on her mind back into silence. She expelled the surging emotions that followed close behind, refusing to let them take root. The night had stretched on endlessly, and still it was not time to return home. Her goddess continued to call her onward, guiding her through the weight of distant prayers that reached for her all at once.

  She had already left the sleeping Wixárika far behind. The blue deer guide appeared the moment Mictecacihuatl finished her work, waiting patiently to lead Jimena toward her next path.

  Kauyumari let her rest as they traveled. His presence carried a quiet certainty, steadying her anxious thoughts. Even so, the vague shape of what awaited her had already settled deep within her heart.

  Rage rode the streams of faith flowing into her—prayers cried out from faraway places, heavy with fury and grief. Xolo burned through that rage until nothing remained, leaving no ember behind that could shake her growing resolve.

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

  Kauyumari sensed the shifting winds. He knew the torrents that were coming—forces that would sweep away everything not anchored by faith or divinity. The scent of a new era was already in the air, sharp with iron, foretelling earth soaked in red.

  Above them, the crescent moon seemed to smile—

  a thin, knowing curve cast over the unfortunate mortals below.

  -

  Sol surged with golden flame, fighting against the mounting pressure his god brought down upon him. He felt like iron laid upon an anvil, refined beneath the relentless blows of divinity.

  The jaguar cub within his gem helped him endure the crushing force. It fed him divinity drawn directly from his god, mending him as he broke. Shattered bones reknit. Torn flesh sealed. Spilled blood flowed backward into his veins, until Sol shone with an ever-growing brilliance.

  Huehueteotl said nothing. Like a stern father, he offered only direction—a path honed so precisely that any deviation would dull Sol’s shine. None of which could be allowed.

  Pain was simply part of the process. Sol had to learn to rely on himself and on the secrets his body had yet to reveal. Huehueteotl was no minor god. He was an ancient who had fallen in the old wars, and now he would bare his ferocity once more.

  He would show the warring gods the futility of struggling against time itself. There would be no second chances for him. Either he would rise again, or he would fade into obscurity, his divinity scattered to the winds.

  So his chosen would finally bear the mantle destined for him, no matter its weight. The stewardship of time, the nurturing of a people—these were burdens Sol had long tried to carry, even without knowing their names.

  Now that the moment had come, Huehueteotl would not hold back. Mercy would only cripple his chosen further. Sol had already suffered humiliation at the hands of one more powerful, leaving behind a hidden sequela that barred his ascent.

  A flaw in the iron.

  A fracture that had to be shattered out of him.

  Normally such work demanded patience and care—but the time god had no time left. Too much had already been spent reaching this first step. If they could not climb, then they would leap.

  Each thunderous strike of the unseen hammer shook the earth, echoing like the feared tremors that preceded volcanic eruptions—

  a warning that something ancient was awakening.

  -

  Camazotz had been patient, gathering corruption from the decaying animals he trapped and tortured. He nurtured the fetid pool within the hut he had claimed, feeding it his putrid blood with deliberate care.

  Newborn worms writhed in the murky, foul-smelling black puddle, splashing with sickening vigor. Their translucent bodies blurred together into a single squirming mass. Only their furry, grayish heads stood out—snapping at one another with saw-like mandibles.

  For the past week, Camazotz had devoted himself almost entirely to these tiny monstrosities. He avoided interaction with the villagers who occasionally came to check on him, feigning illness or behaving strangely when avoidance proved impossible. The loner of the hut had become unusually popular, despite living far from the village.

  He hadn’t cared enough to remember why any of them had come. He had parasitized them regardless—so what value did their words hold? Mortals mattered little. Their only worth lay in the faith they could produce.

  Without that usefulness, the corrupt gods would have exterminated such pests from the plane entirely. None of them possessed the capacity to consider consequences. Madness always drove them toward the cruelest path available.

  And that was why they were feared.

  That was why none dared bar his way.

  The dread of his reprisal was too great to challenge. These insignificant gods and their lowly mortals would learn that truth soon enough—

  through suffering.