Jimena greeted the Caxcanes’ tlatoani clad in full obsidian armor. The Xoloitzcuintli helm began to growl softly as it received the immense flow of faith pouring in from the city behind the chief—rowdy roars of worship, cries of veneration from the weak, and the fervent supplications of the strong.

  The faith struck her like a river of flame. Bright, scorching, and relentless as it poured into her gem, the immolating emotions of the people threatened to burn her from within.

  Startled by Jimena’s expanding aura, the chief stepped back, signaling his warriors and priests to let her act as she willed. Not knowing what was unfolding, he kept a respectful distance, watching as a regal, billowing cape spread behind her—filled with the restless ghosts of the dead.

  The glyph of death ignited upon Jimena’s Xolo helm. Tattoos hidden beneath her armor flared to life, forming a looping circuit with the many pictograms etched across her skin.

  Waiting for Jimena to address them, the chief continued retreating, pulling the enraptured priests away from a growing spiral of magenta flame.

  The gathered priests and warriors—present more for ceremony than defense—looked up as the magenta fire surged skyward in moments. A mounting pressure radiated from Jimena, the air wailing as it burned and rushed away from her.

  Their shields, larger than their bodies, were unwieldy and ornate, each bearing depictions of Jimena’s most recent battle. At their center she stood amid charred remains, enemies reduced to bone and ash drifting on the wind. The vivid images triggered memories and phantom scents, but she let them wash over her as her tattoos flared, restraining her surging emotions.

  After a long moment of reorientation, Jimena opened her blazing eyes and finally focused on those standing before her. As the magenta flames subsided, she found speaking difficult in her current state.

  “What do you need of me?” she asked curtly, holding back the pressure swelling within her like a waking mountain.

  The chief felt the weight crash down upon him. His vision swam, his body trembled, and he nearly collapsed before dropping to his knees. He slammed his forehead against the earth, then scooped a handful of soil into his mouth with both palms, swallowing it in a display of reverence.

  Only then did the pressure ease. The suffocating force released the rest of the cohort, who collapsed limply to the ground, groaning from the pain they’d endured.

  “We ask the Mother of Fire to forgive our impertinence,” the chief cried, tears streaming down his face. “An evil has consumed our children, killed our elders, and taken our young and strong captive. We beg you—liberate us. We grovel before you for your mercy.”

  Mistaking Jimena’s uncontrolled pressure for divine wrath, the chief spilled his plans in full—schemes to pit her against a wretched man named Alvarado. His blubbering sobs made it difficult to follow, and Jimena’s body still struggled to adjust to the seemingly endless flow of faith that surrounded this city. Perhaps to himself and many others, his actions were truly guilty.

  Yet to the young chosen, still unversed in politics, the chief was not guilty. Her arrival was a turn of fate, driven by the countless voices that filled everything. Not some misguided plans a mortal man had thought up.

  The tlatoani continued striking his head against the ground, begging forgiveness for transgressions he believed unforgivable. He would soon faint if she did nothing.

  The whispers that rode the strands of faith into her gem, combined with her goddess’s relentless teachings, left Jimena deeply disoriented the closer she drew to the city. If not for Xolo, burning away impurity, she would have already lost herself—to the voices, to the raw emotions she could almost touch.

  Each burned prayer left a faint residue behind, shadows clinging to her shoulders. Lingering echoes of the strongest emotions—those that would not release her unless their rancor was answered.

  The only way to do that was justice.

  Everyone pulled at Jimena, existence itself urging her forward, demanding she fulfill her role and bring renewal through flame.

  There was no blame to assign.

  With a simple gesture that cost her nearly all her will in her current state, Jimena sent out a wisp of fire. It lifted the chief and his entire group gently from the ground.

  Her Xoloitzcuintli helm snarled as the tattoos across her body ignited fully. A concentrated mass of worship slammed into Jimena as she opened herself to it—and her three souls trembled beneath the overwhelming divinity she had invited inside.

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  Yet if Jimena had not intervened, she feared the chief would have cracked his own skull open. Even now he continued to sob, muttering fearful prayers toward her as he curled in on himself, his cohort struggling—and failing—to bring him back to his senses.

  Jimena turned her gaze toward the city gates. Hundreds of warriors barred the entrance, holding back frantic crowds beyond. The pressure of their faith pressed against her skin like heat.

  She chose to sit.

  Drawing on her overflowing divinity, Jimena shaped the earth around her, raising a small chamber from the ground. Stone flowed and folded at her will, sealing her away just enough to breathe.

  Its creation sparked another wave of cheers from the distant crowd. The boldest citizens surged forward, pressing against the wall of warriors. Elders, trembling and overcome with emotion, were allowed through. Some wept openly as they hurried toward Jimena.

  At their head ran an elderly woman clutching a small pink huipil in both hands. She wailed as she ran, pouring all her strength into each step. A young warrior chased after her, barely able to keep pace, his frantic calls thick with worry.

  Worried that Jimena might harm her?

  The thought made Jimena’s chest tighten.

  She understood the fear. The scenes painted on the shields, the chief’s broken reverence—it all pointed to an uncomfortable truth. One she could no longer deny.

  Her fire could destroy utterly.

  It was a truth she would have to live with. One etched into her name and carried in every prayer that reached her. Still, it hurt deeply to be seen not as a protector, not as a guide—but as a weapon waiting to be unleashed.

  Xolo, fused with her armor, sent warmth through their bond. Steady, grounding emotions that reassured Jimena of her place among the people rushing toward her. Mictecacihuatl followed, her whispers softer now—tender even—breaking the relentless cadence of instruction that had never truly ceased, even as Jimena teetered beneath its weight.

  She was at a point where only her body seemed capable of listening. Her skin recorded her goddess’s words in light and heat, tattoos glowing with an ever-growing power she barely contained.

  Jimena tried to meditate the way Marisol had taught her. She leaned inward, pressing herself against her goddess’s presence, letting the armor become a shell—another layer of self meant to guard the fragile balance forming inside her.

  The secondhand knowledge was difficult to grasp, but she tried whenever she could. Each attempt taught her a little more about her own body. About its limits. About how close she was to them.

  “Please, goddess… please help us. Help us find our missing children.”

  Jimena opened her eyes.

  The elderly woman had finally reached her. The warriors who had chased after her were held back by the chief’s cohort, their faces pale with apprehension. They watched closely, fear flickering in their eyes as they waited to see if the crushing pressure would return.

  That fear—no matter how small—pulled at Jimena’s heart.

  She drew a deep breath and gathered herself. With divine effort, she reined in the inferno of her aura. She grappled with it, forced it down with intention, hammered it into submission with her will, and finally smothered it beneath raw, boundless emotion.

  Something shifted.

  A euphoric sensation rippled through her, from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. Faith no longer slammed into her gem like a tidal wave. It flowed instead—steady, calm—mending the fractures left by the surge of unchecked emotion.

  Those same emotions reached her now in a single, clear tone.

  The elderly woman’s plea.

  For the first time, Jimena could speak without strain. Her body eased, allowing her to withdraw the Xoloitzcuintli helm. Crimson hair spilled free, catching the light as it shimmered in the air.

  The shell of stone she'd formed around herself parted. Allowing her to meet with the elderly woman face to face. Kneeling before her as the elder did, bringing them to equality.

  Her magenta eyes pulsed faintly with divinity.

  “Point me in the direction,” Jimena said softly, taking the elderly woman’s trembling hand and holding her upright as she wept. “I will find your children… or I will avenge them.”

  The words alone sent a visible wave of relief through those watching. Even from a distance, even without hearing her voice, the way Jimena knelt and held the woman reshaped something fundamental in their hearts.

  For the first time, they did not see only a weapon.

  They saw a goddess who listened.