Three gods sat upon the divine thrones their people had created for them.

  Three golden seats, etched with blessed pictograms, anchored their presence. Vast rings of divinity—tens of meters in diameter—rotated in slow, solemn orbits around each throne, gods whispering softly as they turned. Each whisper was a concept, engraved and bound by divine will. Around them floated murals of living scripture, a long woven tapestry given shape through godly power.

  A hymn of supreme resonance filled the void.

  It shook and echoed through every mind present, reverberating across soul and thought alike. Their souls gazed upon reality itself, while their bodies fluctuated between the realms of the living and the dead—existing fully in neither, yet commanding both.

  The energy the gods emitted produced waves in empty space, folding and distorting time. Those gathered here knelt and chanted in reverse, voices unraveling causality itself. Only when the hymn reached its cadence did time resume its march forward—only to be undone again.

  This cycle repeated without end.

  Thus did the faithful support their gods, seated upon pyramids of gold.

  Mictlan trembled beneath the divine might of its three leading gods—its protectors, its foundation. A world forged in unison by their hands, alongside countless lesser and minor gods, now labored to shield it from its own creators. Their combined efforts dampened the ripples of divinity, preventing them from tearing apart the citizens of the underworld.

  Beams of power pierced every level of Mictlan.

  Through them, the three tapestries were projected—each god’s will made manifest. They infused every layer with immense divinity. Pictograms and ancient language spilled from the woven murals, flying outward before slamming into the world below. They merged with the very fabric of reality, rewriting it.

  The world changed.

  Its new citizens were informed—etched into soul and stone alike—of the coming war.

  Mictlan would not fall behind.

  It would not allow its people to suffer.

  It would protect them.

  It would grow.

  And when the invaders arrived, Mictlan would stand against them—

  —and consume their souls.

  -

  Salutaris had grown impatient.

  The knowledge that other fallen gods were succeeding where he remained trapped gnawed at him. Still, there was satisfaction to be found—some of his assurances had pierced the veil after all. The artifacts he had been forced to relinquish still ached like open wounds in his greedy heart, yet the thought of what would come next made him writhe through the water in rapture.

  He swam through the great coral forest where Rafael hid.

  Salutaris stalked the angel fish as it grew within the reef, observing its countless brushes with death. The creature was weak—frail, barely half the size of many of the reef’s inhabitants. Each encounter, even with its own kind, was a desperate struggle for survival. Victory was never assured.

  Salutaris chuckled.

  His body shifted grotesquely as he condensed nearly all his divinity into a single eye. The swollen orb consumed most of his skull, forcing his elongated body to flatten along its length to counterbalance the weight pulling him forward.

  Through corrupted divinity, he saw everything.

  Every lie, every false current of reality bent beneath his gaze. He peered through coral and flesh alike, not to act—but to calculate. Fate branched endlessly before him, paths folding and unfolding as he observed. He relied only on his passive sight, the gift that allowed him to see through reality’s deception, seeking cracks in the false world of the veil that bound his soul.

  News had already reached him.

  The few contacts he still possessed in this wretched prison relayed whispers through the coral. Others sent lesser minions to explain the shifting tides. Now Salutaris faced a choice: force Rafael’s divinity into use—or continue tempting the angel into falling.

  The latter was preferable.

  A permanent key would be far more valuable than a temporary breach. Yet Rafael was stubborn, and mistakes would be costly. Salutaris had already witnessed the angel fish gathering minor trinkets, drifting in quiet contemplation. Since then, under the weight of Salutaris’ gaze, Rafael had taken to the darker corners of the reef after every victory.

  Thus, Salutaris maintained this grotesque form.

  Losing track of his only key would be catastrophic.

  His massive eye rolled in ecstasy as a viable path solidified. If he could use Rafael to damage the foundation of the coral forest—the structure that powered the veil—he could open a gap wide enough for gods like himself, masters of shape and form, to pass through.

  With Rafael, his true body—nurtured in this abyss—could impose real change upon the mortal plane.

  He would flatten the empire that had blasphemed him.

  There were other methods, of course. Spectral bodies could be weaponized, used as vessels for corruption. The spectral forms of gods of light were particularly useful—masking the true nature of corruption and serving as blades sharp enough to pierce the veil for a single instant.

  Either method would allow passage.

  But only in spectral form.

  A defenseless state, easily destroyed without the means to sustain divinity or claim a new vessel.

  Rafael was different.

  He had arrived early, helping form the core of the prison itself. His potential as a permanent breach was unmatched—once his soul was fully bound to the abyss.

  Salutaris remembered the betrayal clearly.

  Rafael had sacrificed him, along with one of the most precious artifacts he had ever possessed. That relic had been used to bind Salutaris' soul—and countless others—to the abyss, cutting them off from faith by any means other than slaughter.

  The gods of the Light Empire called beings like Salutaris corrupt.

  They were fools.

  Compared to the truly wretched entities of this plane, they were small fish pretending at monstrosity.

  Salutaris had not been long with Rafael. He had merely been another conquest—subjugated and forced into service beneath overwhelming divine pressure. He remembered that cruelty vividly. It was the one memory that returned with crushing clarity, refusing to fade.

  Forgiveness was impossible.

  His giant eye reddened as rage overflowed.

  He had served faithfully. He had surrendered his home—his mate.

  And still, he had been sacrificed.

  His mind had never fully recovered. Fragments of his former self drifted without cohesion. His soul was amorphous, lacking even the memory of its true shape. Only vague impressions remained, buried beneath layers of silt and borrowed identities.

  His flattened body writhed as wrath boiled within him.

  Tomas had stirred something dangerous. The man’s memories mirrored his own past too closely. Each time Salutaris twisted the fool’s mind, something had reached back—touching his blackened soul. No matter how deeply he tried to break him, Tomas had endured.

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  One thought had resisted him.

  Love.

  That burning presence had followed Salutaris back even after Tomas’ defeat. It lingered, festering into something unfamiliar.

  A ghost in the recesses of his mind.

  A phantasm of a forgotten self.

  It made Salutaris feel… whole.

  It urged patience. It filled him with perverse joy each time Rafael spilled blood. It whispered that the long road was the correct one—that vengeance, when delayed, would be all the sweeter.

  So Salutaris waited.

  And watched.

  And planned.

  -

  Mort accepted the strange Xochiquetzal, taking her spectral hand and allowing her to guide him into her shrine.

  It was humble—almost pitiful.

  A tiny clay idol shaped in the goddess’ likeness lay hidden among the largest, most vividly colored flowers. From them spilled a heady, intoxicating scent that drew swarms of bees. These minuscule creatures had become her sole source of faith, working tirelessly to tend the comparatively large statue. They polished it with pollen, repaired cracks with wax, and danced devotion into the air.

  Renata disliked the insects immediately.

  Using the meager divinity she had managed to regenerate, the doll formed a small translucent dome around Mort’s shoulder. A trace of scorn etched itself into her porcelain face. Her cold ruby eyes lingered on the idol, pressing down upon what little pride the goddess had left.

  Xochiquetzal had learned—quickly—to ignore the doll.

  She attended only to the bare minimum of Renata’s requirements, acquiescing without complaint. Whenever possible, she tried to ingratiate herself, especially now, while the doll’s divinity had yet to fully recover. Survival demanded humility.

  Mort, however, moved as if detached from the moment.

  He went through the motions, his mind strangely pliant, accepting whatever the goddess guided him toward without resistance. Seeing this, Xochiquetzal pressed forward. This shrine was not merely shelter—it was meant to seal their bond.

  She felt an ache of urgency.

  With so little worship and only this one vessel, she needed refuge within his soul. Mort’s body was young, masculine, already altered by powers beyond the mortal norm. Within him, she sensed potential. With him, there was hope—hope that her name might one day be spoken again by multitudes.

  So she drew him close.

  Xochiquetzal wrapped herself around him, resting her head against the shoulder opposite the doll. Carefully, reverently, she released a thread of divinity. It sank into his Tonalli, branding it with her mark. His Teyolia shifted, aligning with her cause. She did not command—she coaxed. She became the rhythm of his breath, the warmth behind his thoughts, the focus of his emotion.

  She would not force him.

  She would let him choose her.

  As Mort closed his arms around Xochiquetzal, accepting her spirit and opening himself as her vessel, his body began to change once more.

  His hair softened, lengthening into a luminous shade of brown that caught the sunlight and fractured it into dancing colors. His pale skin warmed, blooming with a gentle pink tone. The malice and pain that had once clouded his eyes dissipated like smoke on the wind, revealing clear emerald irises—eyes that seemed to smile even in stillness.

  Corruption fled.

  Mort’s mind flooded with memories not his own.

  He saw a joyous people gathered in this very field, weaving flowers into crowns and garments, offering them in laughter and song. They wore fabrics of bright orange, accented with yellows and vivid pinks. Their lives were simple, radiant, and full of devotion.

  He let the memories take root.

  As they imprinted upon his soul, a mark began to form on his forehead.

  A flower.

  It began as a circle, from which two roots stretched downward. From its crown, life surged upward. Six white petals bloomed first, followed by five more—turquoise, gold, pink, red, and purple—until the pistil and stamen emerged, completing the pictogram of the perfect flower.

  At the threshold of their union, Xochiquetzal split herself.

  Seeds of her divinity were planted within Mort’s three souls.

  And something new—fragile, radiant, and dangerous—was born.

  -

  Alvarado had traveled the wretched roads for nearly a week.

  He had departed fat and content, his procession a gaudy parade of wealth—dozens of carriages, most of them crude cargo haulers weighed down with silver. The caravan had been meant as a spectacle, a deliberate insult to Arturo. A promise. Look at what I possess. Imagine what we could take together.

  Now only a handful of shattered carts remained.

  Fury made his hands tremble, but the absence of sweets left him weak. Without sugar to sustain his excesses, his body refused to match the violence boiling in his mind. It was the only reason the soldiers still lived. So much of his silver had been lost to their incompetence, yet he had stubbornly refused to rely on his golden blessed rings. Each loss gnawed at him, every day blurring into the next—misery from dawn to dusk.

  The sweets had been taken first.

  As if the wretched natives had understood exactly where to strike. As if they had known how to hurt him most. The thought alone made his deflated flesh quiver. His skin sagged without its usual indulgence, trembling with restrained rage. The silver followed soon after—warbands striking from hidden positions, bleeding the caravan dry with methodical precision.

  That was when Alvarado finally used a ring.

  He unleashed his restrained wrath upon them, tearing through the ambush with divine violence. He made an example of their arrogance, scattering them long enough to buy time—but not victory.

  They had planned it well.

  The bastards attacked only when escape was impossible, harrying the caravan whether he advanced or retreated. To turn back now would have been humiliation, unthinkable after coming this far. So he forced the march onward, expending everything he had left to reach Arturo.

  Revenge would come soon. Of that, he had no doubt.

  The natives always lived atop the richest veins of the land. That was why their villages burned so easily—and so often.

  When the caravan finally arrived, it did so in ruin.

  Most of his soldiers lay dead along the road, left to rot beside the natives they had managed to kill. The stench of failure clung to everything.

  Alvarado turned on his assistant, the urge to strike her overwhelming—but he stopped himself. His temper was too frayed. One more blow might kill the frail woman outright. Already, the slap he had delivered earlier had left her cheek swollen and purple.

  He exhaled slowly.

  There would be time for punishment later.