Alvarado had pushed matters forward as much as Arturo would allow. The man’s infuriating habit of meticulously analyzing every possible outcome grated on his nerves without pause. What was there to think so hard about when they so clearly outmatched their opponents? They needed only to reveal themselves, and the natives would scatter like startled rodents.

  Alvarado was certain everything would proceed smoothly. The prolonged delay had at least allowed his soldiers to rest—if a day or two of sleep could even be called rest. Not that it concerned him much. Their well-being was their own responsibility. Why else would he pay lowborn men to serve as troops beneath him?

  The only truly unfortunate matter was Arturo’s stubborn refusal to lend even a fraction of his forces. Without them, it would be far more difficult to plunder whatever riches lay ahead. Herding captives—men and women alike—would also prove troublesome without sufficient manpower.

  It was an irritating dilemma, one Alvarado had only partially remedied by turning to the most desperate locals within Arturo’s territory. Inexperienced men, drunkards, and ill-intentioned miscreants—all of them cheap, easily swayed by promises of spoils and glory.

  Fodder. None of them would ever see a single coin, and Alvarado would make certain of that. Allowing such greedy wretches to return home alive would be a disgrace. Poor and weak, yet still audacious enough to think they could dictate terms to a conquistador.

  Alvarado spat a thick wad of mucus onto Arturo’s polished floor, then cleared his throat. The loose flesh of his neck shook as he did, reminiscent of the large, noisy native birds that strutted about gobbling to no end.

  -

  Arturo had already received the message to proceed with the plan. His troops had been meticulously trained, his captains and lieutenants fully briefed on the coming movements. None had shown hesitation after witnessing the kind of man Alvarado truly was. The few times he had visited Arturo’s town had been eye-opening events—ones Arturo wished had never occurred, yet for which he was grimly grateful. What lay ahead would be far easier to justify because of them.

  He despised the thought of orchestrating the downfall of one of his own. Yet if no man dared to confront what Alvarado had become, how long would it be before the divine itself arrived at their gates, tearing apart everything Arturo had worked so hard to build?

  The fat man had no understanding of what life was truly like along the borderlands. Living deep within conquered territory was peaceful enough, once the natives had been fully integrated—or annihilated. But such measures were nonsensical here. Impossible, even. And illegal, according to the decrees of long-dead god-kings whose words still bound the empire.

  The fools who ran amok in the name of conquest only sullied the empire’s legacy. They sowed the seeds of future corruption—gods born not of faith, but of cruelty—for the next generation to shoulder once they had grown fat and complacent from their idyllic lives. Alvarado was a living example of the rot his peers allowed to fester within their souls.

  Corruption consumed everything it touched, hollowing men out until only a sinful husk remained for the masses to judge. And yet such wounds would never truly heal without the slow, merciless passing of time.

  Arturo faced a choice: allow himself to become an instrument of the man’s judgment, or stand as a wall to protect him. The latter was something he would loathe far more than the task before him. He chose instead to think of it simply—of roasting a greedy pig long overdue for slaughter.

  Let the foul body nourish peace and stability for years to come.

  Already, many native allies had begun moving closer to the city, integrating more willingly than before. Their chatter—what little Arturo could understand—often spoke of a new living goddess who had risen to judge the invaders. A goddess of fire. One who had annihilated an entire troop, along with a lesser conquistador who had been utterly powerless before her.

  Arturo had sent numerous scouts to confirm the rumors. Every report returned the same.

  It was a sign of what was to come. The gods of this land had begun to act once more. Their movements, long hidden from mortal sight, now unfolded openly—confident, deliberate, and empowered.

  Arturo was only one man, burdened with the protection of a growing city. Whether empire or native tribes, he would do what was necessary for those he had sworn to protect.

  -

  Alvarado groaned and cursed under his breath as the carriage lurched forward. The cramped, uncomfortable ride only worsened his foul mood. Having to heed the commands of a man he considered an equal—at best—made him question why he had agreed to aid Arturo at all.

  He had been offered no concessions. No guarantees. So why should he strain himself for this bastard?

  The answer had already settled in his mind. He would hang back while Arturo bore the brunt of the fighting, striking only when opportunity presented itself. Lone squads on the outskirts, scattered defenders retreating in panic—easy targets. A position framed as support, but one that allowed Alvarado to conserve his strength and reap what spoils he could without unnecessary risk.

  The village they approached lay deep within the mountainous forest, cradled by narrow rivers and scattered lakes. Its people lived nestled among caves riddling the stone walls—natural shelters formed long before the empire had ever set foot on this land.

  Arturo had repeated these details endlessly.

  By now, Alvarado found them grating.

  What did it matter how many useless men the village housed, or where they chose to burrow like animals? Their flimsy weapons would never withstand an open clash against blessed imperial iron. Steel forged under sanctioned rites, wielded by men who knew how to take and keep what was theirs.

  Only the strongest of the natives had ever posed a threat—and that had been at the very beginning. Even then, their vast armies had barely managed to slow the empire’s advance. The so-called Blood Empire that once ruled these lands had resisted for a few short years before it, too, fell beneath the purifying light.

  Not that Alvarado had cared enough to read the histories of those conquests.

  He had never been one for lessons of the past.

  He acted in the present—and only for the wealth that lay within reach.

  -

  Olinder had always been a man of few words. He had traveled far and wide, mostly due to foul luck rather than choice. Captured within the Empire of Light after his crew faced a trial far beyond them, he had spent years imprisoned—years that stripped him down to little more than stubborn endurance.

  When release finally came, it did not bring freedom so much as usefulness.

  First a sailor, then a settler. Working from dawn until nightfall, his days blurred together until exhaustion claimed him. More than once he’d woken in a ditch, strangers standing over him and whispering that they had thought him dead.

  Wine had never been a cure for his troubles, but it had kept him sane through his short life’s many crossings. He counted himself fortunate that his god had not abandoned him, even after he turned away from his people and learned to survive among foreigners. Adaptation had been cruel work.

  It was only through divine grace that he had lasted this long.

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  yet, something in him knew this road would be his last.

  His gnawing need to drown himself in sweet nectar could not be satisfied without coin—and the fat man had promised coin. He had walked the streets and gathered men like Olinder, offering spoils of war, enough silver to drink away their sorrows until death itself grew dull.

  What the bastard had failed to mention was where they were going.

  Everyone in the city knew of the forest tribes. The horror stories clung to tavern walls and alley corners alike—tales of vanished patrols, of bones strung like charms, of screams swallowed by the trees. Those stories kept most newcomers firmly within the city’s walls.

  Yet still traders came. Still the desperate followed.

  The name Arturo had been the only thing that made this land bearable. A shield against the multitude of natives pressing in from every direction.

  So why—why—had Olinder let his thrist take control?

  A shadow passed overhead. He trembled.

  His breath eased only when he spotted the source: a large bird of prey perched in a tree, its talons gripping a half-devoured rabbit. The crunch of bone echoed softly as its hooked beak tore flesh with effortless precision.

  The bird’s eyes locked onto his.

  A warning.

  Olinder clutched the silver necklace at his throat, fingers digging into the circular pendant—the last thing keeping him lucid. A ward against the many evils that stalked unseen among them, while the rest marched on, blissfully unaware.

  He could feel it now. The end drawing close.

  His hands shook. Memories rose unbidden. The dread these lands had planted within him bloomed into something vivid—a yellow, funnel-shaped flower unfurling inside his mind. Its intoxicating scent beckoned him forward, urging him to peer into its hollow eye.

  An eye that stared straight into his soul.

  Olinder screamed.

  The sound ripped through the column, startling everyone. The already tense band of ragtag soldiers lurched and panicked, leveling unblessed spears at one another. Shouts rang out as troop leaders barked orders, cursing and striking shields until weapons were raised and discipline, brittle as it was, returned.

  But the fear lingered.

  Olinder knew the forest had already noticed them.

  -

  Arturo, leading his men at the front, finally received the signal he had been waiting for.

  With Alvarado retreating toward the rear of the procession, Arturo had been given the opening he needed. Through quiet coordination with the surrounding tribes—those who stalked the column from the base of trees to the highest peaks—most of Alvarado’s men had already been poisoned. Patient hands had worked unseen, slipping toxins into waterskins and rations long before steel would ever be drawn.

  All of them waited now.

  Arturo raised the cloth around his neck to cover his face and waved his troops forward. He urged his horse into a gallop, the column breaking into speed as they raced toward the caves ahead—the agreed-upon refuge that would hide his forces from the carnage soon to be unleashed upon Alvarado’s men.

  The forest came alive around them.

  Rustling echoed from every direction as hundreds of native warriors moved in practiced unison. In their hands burned pungent torches, their black smoke thick and acrid, clinging heavily to the air and seeping into lungs and minds alike.

  Arturo felt it first as a pressure behind his eyes.

  Even his powerful body offered little resistance to the foreign toxin. His breath grew labored, his vision wavering—until the golden necklace at his throat flared to life. Its sudden warmth cut through the haze, clearing his thoughts as laughing skulls dissolved from the edges of his vision.

  His men were not so fortunate.

  Some staggered. Others coughed violently, struggling to remain upright on horses despite the weeks of harsh training they had endured without him. Secrecy had demanded distance; discretion had cost him presence.

  Seeing the soldiers' struggle, Arturo wondered if his time might have been better spent among them, leading their effort in some way. Still, he knew how much worse this could have been

  The screams from far behind answered that thought.

  They rose sharply through the smoke—ragged, panicked, final.

  Arturo did not look back.

  He pressed on, leading his men beyond the expanding cloud, into stone and shadow, leaving Alvarado to the mercy of the tribes he had spent his life underestimating.

  -

  Jimena walked hand in hand with the elderly woman who had reached her first, guiding her back toward the city along with those who had been unable to reach her earlier. As they moved, Jimena paused often—embracing the sobbing elders she passed, offering quiet reassurances. She gave them warmth and hope through her flame, promises spoken not just in words, but felt deep within their bones.

  When they reached the gates, the warriors parted without hesitation, bowing their heads as she passed. Some glanced toward the priests behind her, who bore their tlatoani upon a litter. None looked at Jimena with anger or fear.

  Only gratitude.

  The feeling unsettled her, but she did not linger on it. She continued forward with the people, who gathered around her much as the Wixárika once had—hands brushing her arms and shoulders, fingers lingering as if seeking a blessing, or perhaps trying to offer one in return.

  Faith pressed against her again, threatening to surge into her gem like a roaring inferno.

  With Xolo’s steady presence and her goddess’s guidance, she held it at bay. The flow settled, calmer now, purposeful—nudging her not toward chaos, but toward what the people needed most.

  Before that, she listened.

  Her goddess’s whispers guided her steps through the dense crowd, which parted easily before her. She felt little resistance as she walked, until she reached the heart of the city.

  There stood a statue.

  It was unmistakably her—though older, more refined, shaped by time she had yet to live. Even so, the resemblance was undeniable. The sight stole her breath. She had never been here before, never seen this place, and yet the statue stood as though it had been waiting for her.

  Jimena accepted the strangeness as she had learned to accept so much else.

  She stepped closer, lifting a trembling hand and placing her palm over the statue's chest—where her gem would rest within her own body.

  The statue responded.

  Light bloomed from within the stone, brilliant and blinding. Cries of shock rippled through the crowd before falling abruptly silent as the air began to hum. A divine melody filled the space, soothing hearts, easing fear, quieting doubt.

  Jimena did not hesitate.

  She focused on the whispers and followed them without question. Her pictograms flared to life, radiant with power as she gathered the vast faith surrounding her. She drank it in until she could hold no more—then poured it all into the statue.

  The embryo of divinity sealed within the stone shuddered.

  It absorbed the faith eagerly, drawing in fragments of Jimena’s aura, echoes of her soul. Not a perfect reflection—never truly her—but an idea shaped from her essence.

  An idol.

  A presence the people could worship. A beacon they could lean upon when she was far away.

  And as the light dimmed, Jimena felt the city breathe as one.