Mort held the priest’s gaze, refusing to acknowledge the angry elder beside him or the murmuring crowd that had gathered behind. Many of them were children—curious, anxious, confused—drawn by the sudden disappearance of Renata after the strange man had carried her away. The boys in particular looked unsettled, their unease sharpened by the fact that they hadn’t been close enough to hear any farewells.

  Some of the more frightened children had run to fetch their parents. Now those adults stood among the crowd, eyes sharp and distrustful, their bodies angled protectively toward their young. Of everyone present, the priest alone appeared calm.

  Mort knew that calm would not last.

  He had turned the problem over endlessly in his mind. There were dozens of ways this could end in disaster, and only a handful of paths that even might let him do what needed to be done. Drawing in as much air as his lungs would allow, Mort spoke.

  The certainty in his voice—fragile but real—made the crowd hesitate. Just for a heartbeat. Enough space for Mort to shatter whatever image they had begun to form of him. His words stumbled at first, the sentences awkward and uneven, but the goddess stirred from her corner of his mind, lending him steadiness.

  Xochiquetzal, brushed against his thoughts—her own fear of death tempered his panic rather than worsening it.

  “I apologize,” Mort said, his voice carrying farther than he expected. “To all of you. For the confusion I caused… and for running away in fear of infection.”

  He bowed deeply. Yet even then, he never took his eyes off the priest. The man’s reaction mattered more than the rest combined.

  Whispers rippled through the adults. The children glanced up at their parents, searching for cues. Mort continued before doubt could take hold again, pushing forward while their attention remained fixed on him.

  “You welcomed me into your homes, fed me, trusted me. And I gave you nothing in return.” His hands clenched at his sides. “I ran like a coward. Please—give me one more chance. As a lesser divinity, I can help treat the sick… if you can place some faith in me.”

  The priest’s expression darkened, and Mort felt his stomach sink. But the words were already spoken. He needed belief—needed it desperately. Without faith, his divinity was barely enough to sustain him, let alone reshape reality. The swarm’s surplus had once given him a margin of safety, but he had burned through every last drop.

  Replenishing it would take days.

  Days they did not have.

  He had seen the sick through the open windows of the huts. Families here placed their ill close to light and air, and Mort hadn’t needed a careful examination to know the truth—many were already worse than the man he’d inspected earlier.

  “I believe…” Mort said quietly, then forced the words out, “that I have a way.”

  He bowed his head again.

  It was a lie—or at least, not yet the truth. He had no clear solution. Only resolve. But if they believed in him, even a little, hope might still bend reality’s cruelty.

  Understanding the source of the sickness gave him an edge. Seeing their god so soon—seeing what lurked within it—had clarified the stakes. Now he could measure the danger, and what it would cost.

  Xochiquetzal whispered suggestions, guiding him gently, her hand entwined with his thoughts. She coaxed him toward calm, humming a quiet melody of flowers to steady both their hearts.

  Only with steadfast hope could they face what was coming.

  -

  Renata walked with her friends while Mort moved ahead with the priest, the rest of the adults trailing behind them. After tense discussion, Mort had been granted another chance—allowed to examine the same man he had already checked once before. Renata watched his back as he went, wondering what he had realized that made him so certain he could help now.

  She felt irritated by all the hesitation, but relief outweighed it. Things were finally moving. More than anything, she believed in her brother’s ability to push through impossible situations. Renata hoped, fiercely, that she wouldn’t have to leave her friends so soon after finally finding people who felt… right.

  Perhaps it was time she did her part.

  The small threads of faith flowing from her friends could serve Mort better than they did reinforcing her own body. As long as she had a place to call home, building herself again would not be difficult—especially if everyone’s belief worked together.

  She squeezed one girl’s hand and hurried after Mort, straining to catch the priest’s sharp, scolding words. Another man walked beside them, berating Mort in a harsher tone, but there was no threat of violence in his posture. Reassured, Renata let her attention drift back to her friends, listening to their animated chatter as they walked.

  When they reached the hut where the sick man lay, Renata said her goodbyes. The children lingered only a moment before peeling away, their curiosity giving way to unease. Renata slipped inside after Mort, who had already disappeared into the hut with the priest and the elder.

  The cramped interior assaulted her senses. The air was thick with the sour tang of illness, damp rags, and crushed herbs left too long to steep. Renata wrinkled her nose, fighting the urge to bolt back outside. Only the thought of Mort—doing this for her—kept her still.

  With a quiet resolve, she chose another path.

  Her body dissolved into motes of divinity, vanishing in a shimmer and racing into Mort’s gem faster than thought. Within that boundless void, she settled onto the meandering flower whose winding path led nowhere and everywhere at once—the shape of Mort’s world.

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  A deep instinct stirred within her. She felt that she should have always been here, guiding the flow of faith, anchoring the flower—becoming the axis mundi. The vortex that fueled Mort’s soul.

  Guilt followed close behind.

  She was as responsible as Mort for the state of this world. Yet the closer the flower drew her toward its purpose, the more she resisted. She had refused to be bound within it. At the very center lurked a black hole—an emptiness that frightened her. Renata felt smaller for that fear, weaker than she wanted to be.

  At the heart of Mort’s world lay a darkness even she dared not face.

  She was grateful he had never forced her into it. Instead, Mort had always seemed overjoyed when she stayed by his side, as if her presence alone was enough. There were few memories of her dancing with him, yet the emotions tied to them felt ancient—etched into her soul. Confusing. Warm.

  It was that lingering sensation she had followed, hoarding faith whenever it drifted her way, shaping her body into what she instinctively believed was right. She had been selfish. Only now did she begin to understand how much Mort had suffered for every scrap of belief he gathered.

  Wasn’t faith everywhere?

  It shimmered in the air, visible as a vast, blinding sea of color. Could Mort not simply reach out and take it as she had? He had fused with a goddess—surely she could teach him.

  Renata’s justifications unraveled one by one.

  Even she did not fully grasp the cruelty of the boundless realm, where gods and mortals alike could be consumed without mercy. Where power was no guarantee of safety.

  And for the first time, Renata truly understood how alone Mort had been.

  -

  Mort looked over the man one last time. As he did, something surged within him—warm, dense, and unmistakable. Faith and divinity flooded his body in a way he had never experienced before. Even Xochiquetzal faltered, struggling to understand what was happening.

  Since splitting herself into three, her awareness beyond Mort’s mind had become fragmented. Each vestige of her divinity served a specific function. The shard bound to his Tonalli understood what Mort understood, but the connection was one-way. It could offer him intimate thoughts, impulses, and guidance when she wished—but it could not see beyond what Mort himself perceived.

  So she did not understand what had changed inside him.

  Unless Mort explored it.

  The moment the thought brushed his mind, he halted his second examination of the patient. Mort turned toward the elder beside the sick man and the priest who stood just behind him, watching every movement with hawk-like scrutiny.

  “I will need time to prepare,” Mort said evenly. “I don’t know how long it will take.”

  He closed his eyes and sat on the ground, tuning out the elder’s sharp protests as if they were no more than a passing breeze.

  “I need my energy intact if I’m to succeed,” he added when the man’s agitation grew louder. “Please. Give me space.”

  Once his gaze turned inward, the outside world faded.

  Mort examined himself with care—his body, his breath, the subtle hum beneath his skin. He searched for irregularities while Xochiquetzal spoke softly, guiding him. Together, they traced the surge’s origin using the resonance of the three souls housed within him.

  The answer was immediate.

  Renata.

  She had returned to his gem.

  Not only that—she had entered the very center of his inner world. The place she had always avoided. The place Mort himself had believed to be nothing more than a scar left by Itzcamazotz’s corruption.

  He had never imagined it could draw faith directly from the air.

  The fragment of Xochiquetzal dwelling in Mort’s mind held most of her knowledge and personality, subtly reshaping him in ways they had yet to uncover. Renata, by contrast, carried pieces of the goddess’ emotions and only faint traces of her will. Even that had been contested—the strange spirit within Renata had rebuffed Xochiquetzal’s influence from the beginning.

  Mort had inherited the bulk of her power. Until now, Xochiquetzal had seen no issue with that.

  Only now did she realize what had been missing.

  Renata.

  Had she known sooner, she would have pushed harder to guide the doll’s growth. But the unusual spirit that was Renata had confounded even a goddess. Her nature lay just beyond her grasp.

  Mort was her first forged chosen. Not her first chosen—but the first shaped deliberately by her hand. The last priest worthy of her blessing had been old, his potential nearly exhausted. He had never opened a single one of his three souls, relying solely on a sturdy body to endure Xochiquetzal’s love.

  That limitation had blinded her.

  And in that blindness, she had allowed catastrophe to unfold.

  The weight of that realization crushed her for a fleeting instant—then vanished. Her spirits soared when Renata began to guide faith toward Mort in earnest. The flow was clumsy, thick, and polluted by countless conflicting beliefs—but it was faith nonetheless.

  It poured into Mort, raw and heavy.

  Compared to the vast surplus once provided by the swarm, it was insignificant. Yet it was enough. With refinement, Xochiquetzal could restore Mort’s divinity to a stable state.

  Not strong.

  But whole.

  It was only the first step.

  And the road ahead would be merciless.