Camazotz encouraged the growth of his spawn, lifting mature larvae with pus-ridden hands and dropping them into a shallow trench that had once served as the previous owner’s waste pit. They writhed in his grasp, biting into his dead flesh, their movements revealing bloody carapaces beneath pale skin.

  He tore away the stragglers clinging to his fingers, uncaring when chunks of flesh came off with them. His transformation had already been completed. The parasite that squirmed through the corpse had fully claimed it, nesting deep within what was no longer truly a body.

  This form Camazotz wore was not his primary vessel. It was an extension—his culmination of plague. Every foul, wretched, and festering substance he had cultivated now churned within his stomach, ready to be unleashed upon this blasphemous land.

  A sharp crack rang out.

  Beneath the skull, his maxillae tore free, shredding and consuming the decomposing meat that masked them. Mandibles rapidly expanded, splitting the skull apart and revealing compound eyes beneath. A proboscis unfurled, sheathing a long, thin tongue that flicked outward to lap up blood, cleaning the new form with unsettling care.

  It was a creature far more hideous than the Tliltic. The compound eyes swiveled on stalks, surveying everything with godly perception. He traced the paths of fate his worms would follow, glimpsing mere seconds into the future before his divinity ran thin.

  That was enough.

  Reassurance flooded him—his beautiful children would reach their target. They would deliver the agony owed. Mort had chosen the hard path when he fled Itzcamazotz, leaving Camazotz no choice but to purify the land in blood to find him.

  He clicked his mandibles and tore into his disguise, taking quick, ravenous bites before tossing the remains into the spawn pool—a small, murky puddle alive with writhing forms.

  One more day. That was all he needed.

  Two souls would suffice to give birth to the third. Even divided from his true self, he was still a god. Those three who had humiliated his flesh—who had torn apart what he guarded so jealously—would suffer the same fate.

  The hatred burning within him promised one thing with absolute certainty.

  When he found Mort, the next collar he forged would be made from the bones of those three lowly divinities.

  ---

  The night passed swiftly as Jimena slept upon the soft, steady back of Kauyumari. His long blue pelage wrapped around her, keeping her snug as he moved, absorbing any jolt his light steps might have caused. He drew warmth from her and kept it from overwhelming her, cooling her instead with the rushing wind that followed every graceful leap of the sacred deer.

  Her rest was uneasy. Restless dreams clung to her, but the soft whispers of her goddess—and the visits that took the shape of her mother—steadied her fraying emotions. They urged her onward, telling her not to stop, even when the path hurt. They supported her as her mother once had, offering strength where her own wavered.

  Jimena stretched as Kauyumari slowed to a walking pace. His hooves left no mark upon the earth, and the gentler rhythm allowed her to wake fully, to feel where she was and what awaited her.

  The absence of her father weighed on her mood, a sharp ache she tried to ignore. She shook her head, forcing the thoughts away before they could take root. Instead, she leaned into Xolo and her goddess, surrendering the reins of her body to them for a moment, trusting them to maintain the delicate cycle of her divinity.

  The faith she now received never ceased. It pressed against her constantly, threatening to overwhelm her. The thoughts and emotions carried within each prayer bled into her being, seeping into her soul and staining it with something that was not wholly her own. It was changing her—slowly shaping her into something claimed by devotion rather than choice.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Jimena still did not understand how the gods could single out one voice from the countless cries that battered her mind. The prayers and pleas had become a cloak she wore, heavy and inescapable. Like a shadow, the voices and faces followed her, always reminding her of those she protected—and of the price of failing them.

  She slid from Kauyumari’s back and summoned her obsidian armor. It flowed over her body, sealing her within its heat. The pressure and warmth smothered her spiraling thoughts, forcing them into focus.

  The agony, wrath, and despair carried in the prayers fed the untouchable fire burning within her—fuel for what she would soon be called to do.

  ---

  Alvarado followed after Arturo, the sensation of being treated like a servant gnawing at him with every step. He swallowed the insult, forcing it down as he fixated instead on the vast wealth that would soon be his once the filth infesting this land was driven out.

  It disgusted him how the natives lived—no better than animals, squatting atop near-limitless resources they refused to exploit. The silver found within the borders of his own governorship alone rivaled what the empire produced in a year from dozens of mines combined. Wasteful. Infuriating.

  “When are we to depart tomorrow?” Alvarado asked, his eyes roaming over the fine decorations adorning every corner of Arturo’s mansion. “My men are hardy—just as I am. And I would rather finish this quickly so I may return to my own affairs.”

  Arturo did not respond. He continued walking, his brisk pace leaving no room for pause. Alvarado was forced to quicken his steps, his bulk making the effort all the more humiliating.

  Unbothered by the silence, Alvarado pressed on. Matters in his own territory were delicate, and silver delayed was silver lost.

  “If we can settle this with fewer of your meetings, this will go much faster,” he said, irritation bleeding into his voice as they neared Arturo’s training field. “Waiting only gives the natives time to prepare. I’ve had ample experience dealing with them. If you allow me to lead—”

  “Alvarado.”

  Arturo stopped abruptly, speaking without turning. “Do you truly expect me to hand command of my troops to you?”

  The question hung in the air, sharp and cold. After a brief pause, Arturo resumed walking.

  Alvarado ground his teeth and followed, stamping down the impotent fury burning in his chest. Arturo would not dare treat him this way if his standing were higher. Wealth and power—that was all that mattered. Once he possessed enough of both, no mortal man would ever look down on him again.

  That was why he crushed the natives so relentlessly. Territory, slaves, sacred lands stripped bare—each conquest bought influence, and influence could always be purchased with silver. Their gods were flimsy things, unable to truly protect their people even when they briefly outmatched his troops. Easy prey for the strong, meant to be consumed and discarded.

  Yet after the disastrous journey here, doubt crept in despite himself. How was he to claim his share of the monumental wealth buried in this land when he arrived so weakened? Even now, he felt exposed, painfully aware of how many men Arturo had at his command.

  If not for the dim-witted native allies wandering about as if they owned the place, Alvarado would have already wrapped his hands around Arturo’s neck and crushed the life from him, stealing whatever obscene luck the man possessed.

  But patience prevailed.

  It would not be long now. Once the ships arrived, everything would change.