Jimena sat astride Kauyumari, the wind rushing through her magenta-tinted hair. Playful flames trailed her form—circling, sparking, bursting in tiny detonations of light. Her fire reveled in the boundless faith it had consumed, emboldened further by the creation of her idol.

  The beacon would gather faith in her stead, weaving it together for her to harvest—whether guided by her goddess or through her own visits to the city. Visits she hoped to make, one day, when she could afford leisure.

  She leaned forward and rubbed Kauyumari’s neck, whispering her thanks. The sacred deer accepted them in silence, his presence grounding her as she prepared herself for what lay ahead. For the cruelty she would have to deliver upon those who had harmed her people.

  The pain they had inflicted would be returned—multiplied, refined, deserved.

  Jimena wished, distantly, that they looked more like demons from some other realm instead of wearing human faces. That would have made this easier. Instead, she would become a blind arrow—divine and unyielding—delivering judgment without hesitation.

  There was nothing left to consider.

  Acceptance was all that remained.

  The whispers guided her forward, steady and inexorable. Mictecacihuatl offered one final reassurance before the voices faded into silence, leaving behind an unfamiliar loneliness.

  Jimena pressed herself against Kauyumari’s blue pelage, clinging to the warmth of his presence. He rarely spoke, preferring action to words—and so he carried her onward without comment.

  Time passed unnoticed until the sun reached its zenith. Its warmth spilled over her, strengthening both body and resolve. Kauyumari slowed and came to a halt before a dense forest, her obsidian armor forming instinctively around her.

  The trees were too thick even for him to navigate. His great size would betray him here.

  This was where they would part.

  Doubt flickered briefly through Jimena’s mind. The journey she had chosen—its weight, its pace, the sheer number of events compressed into so little time—felt overwhelming when she allowed herself to reflect.

  She did not.

  Drawing a steady breath, she formed the Xoloitzcuintli helm over her face and stepped into the forest alone, allowing faith to guide her toward her mark.

  The scent of blood permeated the air—so thick it was indistinguishable from the land itself. Whatever man she hunted had been steeped in death for far too long. The corruption clinging to him made her wonder what kind of empire allowed such rot to thrive so openly.

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  Or perhaps that rot was the source of its strength.

  She pushed the thought aside and focused.

  Her armor flared, and she surged forward—testing her new limits, sprinting through the forest with divine speed. Faith carried her onward, and she allowed fragments of her people’s emotions to bleed into her own.

  Wrath. Grief. Hatred.

  She did not turn away from any of it.

  Ethereal flame seeped from her pores like pale mist, scorching the earth beneath her steps. Smoke unfurled behind her like a cloak, thick with resentment. Spirits of the dead emerged within it, cackling as their hollow eyes burned with violet embers.

  The glyph of death flashed—and laughed with them.

  Jimena unleashed her power fully, yet kept her fire leashed. She advanced with care, her body settling into perfect equilibrium. Her mind emptied of all distraction.

  Xolo guarded her heart.

  Her goddess guarded her mind.

  Still, nothing could have prepared her for what she found.

  The forest opened into a clearing filled with hundreds of warriors—frozen mid-motion, transformed into golden statues. Their faces were locked in expressions of terror and fury, mouths stretched in silent screams.

  One by one, they began to crumble.

  Golden motes flaked from their forms, drifting upward like embers caught in a divine breeze.

  Jimena stood transfixed.

  She felt nothing—no anger, no fear. The emotions and faith that had driven her here were washed away by the strange golden radiance. Whatever divinity had touched these souls had purified them completely.

  Too completely.

  Mictecacihuatl flared within her, fury and grief intertwining. These souls were lost—beyond her reach, beyond judgment. The realization carved a hollow ache into Jimena’s chest.

  On her forehead, the once-laughing glyph fell silent. The cloak of skulls stiffened, murderous intent radiating outward.

  Her restraint shattered.

  Invisible flames coiled around her like living tendrils, brushing against stone, bark, and earth—disintegrating everything they touched.

  And somewhere ahead, something had just pierced divinity itself.