Sol had spent the last week finalizing hunts, overseeing the quenching of blessed iron, and making repeated visits to their sister village, Bahia Oscura.

  Chantico had been a flurry of activity these past few days. Celebration rippled through both villages after the ascension of three chosen.

  Under other circumstances, Sol’s long-nurtured jealousy—the rivalry that gnawed at him since he met the adolescents—would have flared into something bitter.

  But his own lesser ascension was approaching.

  Huehueteotl had forced the matter upon him, forging his body relentlessly as though he were iron laid across a divine anvil. Each day felt like another hammer strike.

  Resentment had grown in Sol’s chest at his god’s merciless methods. Yet if those younger chosen could endure trials and rise to such heights, why could he not secure his own ascension through effort?

  Huehueteotl had not spared him from comparison. The god fed his jealousy deliberately, recounting the others’ accomplishments while tempering Sol’s flesh with timeless divinity. The forging was constant—unyielding.

  If not for his spirit guide, he might have fractured under the strain.

  “Tezcalotl,” Sol murmured to his gem.

  A small blue jaguar cub materialized beside him, stepping upon the air as though it were solid ground. The creature’s body shimmered with turquoise flame as it padded forward and leapt gently onto Sol’s shoulder.

  It rubbed its small head against his cheek.

  Warmth spread through him. The cub’s soft, steady purr filled him with quiet determination.

  “We’ll be busy again today,” Sol said, scratching behind its ear before setting off.

  There was still too much to prepare. If left solely to the villagers, the work would not be completed in time. Sol had been practicing the blessing of iron, striving to usher Chantico into a new era of craftsmanship. He had taught the smiths what little he could of divine infusion, though much of the burden still fell to him.

  All of it was preparation.

  Preparation to catch up with Bahía Oscura.

  He would not allow their chosen to pull too far ahead.

  Sol clenched his fist, squeezing Tezcalotl in a brief surge of motivation. Realizing the gesture might have been witnessed, he glanced around quickly before continuing forward with measured composure.

  Even Jaime—who had done little besides plan and build for his village—had earned enough worship to ascend alongside the others. Huehueteotl had reminded him that ascension was never solely the chosen’s effort; the strength of their gods played a decisive role.

  Still, it did not change the truth.

  The chosen of Bahía Oscura supported one another. They advanced together while pursuing their individual ambitions.

  Sol had neither such camaraderie nor divine abundance. Huehueteotl lacked the wealth of faith necessary to sponsor a rapid ascension, and Sol himself—taciturn and iron-willed—did not make allies easily.

  Not that any nearby chosen were worth befriending.

  On that point, his god agreed. Most other deities were stubborn relics or idle dreamers—traits that would not survive the coming era.

  Huehueteotl had made one thing clear:

  If they intended to rise alongside Bahía Oscura, changes were necessary.

  Sol would have to adapt. He would need flexibility.

  Even the strongest iron, if left rigid, became brittle beneath the relentless tides of time.

  Drawing a steady breath, Sol donned his turquoise armor. Light shimmered around him as he dashed forward, stepping into brilliance that carried him toward the hunters waiting beyond the village boundary.

  Today they would pursue several large deer sighted nearby. The hunters had tracked a herd—and a number of lone bucks that had entered rut later than usual. The prosperity of the Green Road had drawn numerous herds to the region, swelling the population. Abundant forage and the hunters’ vigilance against predators had allowed many fawns to survive.

  The balance now required careful correction.

  They would target bucks too wounded to endure another season or too old to withstand winter’s approach. The goal was clear: enough offerings to support Sol’s ascension—and enough meat to grant the villagers a celebratory feast.

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  They had earned it.

  Sol still felt overwhelmed by the faith the village had shown when he reintroduced himself to them. He had promised to grow alongside Bahía Oscura, to become a worthy successor to Chantico’s legacy.

  So he would work harder than any before him.

  He would temper himself like iron.

  And through his divinity, he would raise his people to the forefront of the coming age.

  The day passed quickly.

  By nightfall, dark clouds had gathered around one of the nearby mountain peaks. They churned in slow, unnatural spirals, heavy and swollen. The oppressive air reached even Chantico, pressing down upon rooftops and lungs alike. Some of the more sensitive children began to cry without understanding why.

  Something was wrong.

  Huehueteotl’s whispers slithered through Sol’s mind—warnings edged with urgency. They drove him back to the forge, forcing him to work deep into the night to complete what he had begun weeks ago. A culmination delayed by more immediate crises.

  No longer.

  Before him lay the piece of iron he had struggled relentlessly to shape. He had forced it into its current form through sheer will and divine infusion. As his divinity filled the rectangular length completely, pictograms surfaced across its surface—ancient symbols etched not by chisel, but by power.

  The phenomenon had startled him at first.

  Now, he understood it as resonance.

  The material responded to him.

  Guided as much by Sol’s intent as by the nature of the iron itself, the weapon had begun to feel… alive. Not sentient, but aware—like a sleeping ember waiting for breath.

  The short sword shimmered faintly in the forge light, saturated with as much divinity as Sol could pour into it without fracturing its structure. Compared to it, the bracer he had once crafted from Jimena’s blessed iron felt crude.

  He acknowledged, fairly, that the girl had only experimented with forging—she was no true smith.

  Still, Sol allowed himself a flicker of pride.

  He had achieved something that had long eluded him.

  Now that divinity flowed through him without obstruction, the act felt almost simple. His hands moved with certainty. Yet his mind remained too dense—too rigid—to fully grasp the effortless weaving of miracles like other chosen seemed to manage.

  So he found his own path.

  If emotions refused to be molded…

  Then he would hammer divinity into reality.

  The blessed hammer in his grip glowed red-hot, forged through a succession of increasingly resilient tools—each one an improvement upon the last. This was the first focused, deliberate test of his evolved skill.

  And it would not fail.

  No matter how many strikes it required.

  Each blow rang through the night, steady and resolute. Sparks scattered like falling stars. The iron did not resist him now—it answered him.

  This blade would symbolize his transformation.

  He would remain iron—unyielding, stubborn, forged in fire.

  But even iron could be melted down and reforged with purpose.

  His purpose was clear.

  His village.

  The people who had placed their faith in him.

  Sol pressed his palm against the flat of the cooling blade, feeling the divine pulse within it sync faintly with his own.

  He would strive toward ever-greater creations.

  Let storms gather on distant peaks.

  Let rivals ascend.

  He would secure his achievement with hammer and flame.

  And may divinity never forsake his effort.

  -

  Jaime slipped away from the several-day festival still unfolding at the heart of Bahia Oscura. He needed a moment to think—to breathe—after the dizzying progress of the past week.

  The celebration itself wasn’t the problem.

  Though his father and several of the older men had reached the stage of drunken singing that bordered on theatrical tragedy, that alone wouldn’t have driven him away.

  Cimi, however, had grown restless.

  And when the owl grew restless, Jaime followed.

  Reluctantly, he left behind the large meal he had carefully assembled for himself. Fortunately, he had already eaten more than enough.

  Tacos stuffed with roasted meat. Corn grilled and slathered in spice. Beans simmered to perfection. Several thick stews. Freshly baked bread.

  Nearly every household had insisted he taste their newest creations. The newly built clay ovens had become a point of pride, and many had tested their limits tonight. To his great—and slightly sweaty—delight, Jaime had been the primary judge.

  It was difficult to believe all of this abundance had emerged in such a short time.

  Jimena and Marisol had eaten nearly as much as he had. The women and children had pressed plates into their hands with eager smiles, insisting their chosen try everything. At one point, the three of them had been surrounded so tightly that they’d resorted to stuffing their faces simply to keep up.

  Jaime had nearly laughed himself breathless.

  Now, as he walked beneath the quieter stretch of night, those memories softened his expression.

  They also stirred something more complicated.

  Doubt.

  His ascension as a lesser divinity still felt… fragile. Compared to what Marisol and Jimena had achieved, his accomplishments seemed almost clumsy. Improvised. Accidental.

  And yet—

  The faith flowing into him was undeniable.

  The villagers appreciated his awkward ideas. His trial-and-error solutions. His willingness to experiment, even when he wasn’t entirely sure of himself.

  Cimi was the true architect behind much of it.

  The owl hovered constantly—sometimes perched atop his head, sometimes nested within his thoughts. Her insight sharpened his own. Her perspective steadied his doubts.

  Jaime reached up and scratched beneath her feathers.

  Cimi hooted softly, leaning into his touch. Her golden plumage emitted a faint, warm glow that shimmered against the surrounding darkness.

  Many villagers still lingered in the new village center, laughter drifting through the night air. But families with small children had begun to retreat indoors. Whiny toddlers protested from behind freshly clay-covered walls, their complaints softened by exhaustion.

  Jaime waved to those he passed, offering quiet blessings over their sleep. Even the mischievous guardian dolls stationed at the fronts of homes received a nod.

  Some of the waist-high versions—affectionately called “Lil Brunos” after Marisol’s own—stood dutifully beside doorways. Larger figures loomed nearby, far less tame in appearance but equally protective.

  The largest gentle giant Bruno himself had begun sprouting plants along his form with Marisol’s guidance. What had started as an accident—tiny shoots emerging from cracks in his surface—had become deliberate. Chia, especially, had been delighted, encouraging the growth until he resembled a walking garden.

  Jaime continued walking until he reached the edge of the village.

  Though even that boundary felt temporary now. New dwellings crept steadily into the forest, pushing their claim outward with quiet confidence.

  He slowed.

  Something caught his attention.

  Above a nearby mountain peak, dark clouds gathered in a dense spiral. They did not drift naturally. They churned.

  Jaime frowned.

  Cimi’s feathers fluffed faintly.

  Celebration could not dull vigilance.

  If danger intended to draw near, he would need to account for it.