Renata felt frustrated with Mort, but her limited vocabulary only allowed for small insults and the occasional glare thrown his way. If her supposed brother didn’t help her now, how was she meant to care for him later? She huffed and kicked at the ground, the stone skittering forward to strike Mort in the shin.

  He only grimaced and looked away from her glare, too guilty to respond. Instead, he picked up his pace, weaving between the huts and peering inside each one. He checked for signs—any indication the sickness had worsened, or that it had begun to change.

  There were no more screams after the first.

  Renata knew from the other children that one of them had been sick—too weak to fight whatever had taken root in him. The scream must have been the woman’s howl of agony after realizing her son was gone.

  Sympathy struck Renata without warning.

  She stiffened and forced it down.

  The flower-shaped mark embedded in her chest throbbed faintly. It had replaced a real heart—yet it beat all the same, pumping divinity through her body. It gave her sensitivity, turbulence, longing. Just like a true heart would. She knew this without being taught. Her instincts told her so, just as they told her how to walk, how to speak, how to move among others.

  None of it had ever felt strange before.

  Not until recently.

  Comparing herself to the other children had made Renata aware of how different she truly was. Whether it was her mind or her body, she didn’t know how she was supposed to act. All she had were sudden bursts of emotion—confusing, tangled things—paired with instincts that often clashed with her own personality.

  Mort was usually too lost in his thoughts, or too busy whispering with the goddess, to notice. And so Renata’s world had shrunk, dulled into something quiet and dormant.

  She admitted—only to herself—that she didn’t spend much time inside the gem either. Another instinct tugged her toward it, urging her to guide energy, to do something important. But she ignored it. Shepherding divinity all day felt exhausting, and she refused to burden herself with it.

  Even if her body looked like everyone else’s, she wasn’t the same. Whether she understood the reason or not no longer mattered. What mattered was that, here, she felt whole.

  And yet—

  Sometimes, something stirred in the darkest corner of her mind. It crept and coiled, slimy and gray, twisting closer with each thought. When it became too much, her friends had pulled her back. Simple affection—a hand held, laughter shared—had reminded her she was more than a doll.

  She dreamed of it some nights.

  It always moved toward her flower, hungry for the divinity within. The anxiety it caused her was difficult to name. She knew, somehow, that the danger wasn’t meant for her.

  It was meant for Mort.

  Where her rotating world resided—bright and tempting, like fruit hanging from the tallest branch. Overflowing with divine nectar for anything clever enough to reach it.

  She knew Mort was weak. She didn’t deny that.

  Still, Renata yearned for what this village offered. For the children who played together day after day. For the safety of falling asleep each night in the comfort of her brother’s arms.

  She wanted stability.

  She tried to tell Mort. Again and again, the words slipped through her grasp, dissolving before they could leave her mouth. Each failure only made her more frustrated. She stomped her foot, scowling, wishing he would understand her instantly—especially when they were connected.

  Renata hated his hesitation.

  But as they reached the edge of the village, she forced herself to stop spiraling. At the very least, she reminded herself, Mort cared enough to listen.

  And for now—

  That had to be enough.

  -

  Jimena spent some time resting after her return. She bathed and spoke with the village women—young and old—who accompanied her in turns. As a lesser goddess, her body carried a far greater threshold for both tolerance and sensitivity than any mortal’s, and the ritual reflected that imbalance.

  The lukewarm water she heated was nearly boiling to the women. None complained. They accepted it as a purification rite. Their pores opened, and the blessed marks upon their foreheads drank deeply from the motes of divinity that escaped with each of Jimena’s breaths.

  Mist rolled around them, thick and luminous. Within it, the women glimpsed visions of their wants and unspoken needs—clarity where confusion had lingered, resolve where doubt had taken root. Nourishing energy washed through them, easing the weight of years from the elders, vitalizing the adults, and nurturing the young.

  Those who could not endure the scalding heat still benefited by remaining at the edges, where the air alone carried Jimena’s blessing.

  Chia was present only as a guide. She intended to soak later, once everyone else had finished safely. With practiced patience, she taught the women how to endure the heat—how to breathe, how to step in slowly, how to listen to their bodies rather than challenge them.

  Many attempted to remain longer than they should, chatting casually while grit and pride kept them upright. Several would have fainted if not for the blessed marks that healed them as they bathed. The children, in particular, were restrained from attempting anything too ambitious, spared from the dangerous bravado of youth.

  Chia watched from the corner.

  Beside her lay a second pool, filled entirely with Marisol’s divine water, similar to the others—but altered. Herbs floated along its surface, chosen to cool overheated flesh while working in tandem with the women’s marks to mend strain and burns alike.

  Most of the women could only endure a few seconds before retreating, breathless and flushed. Only the toughest—thick-skinned elders hardened by years of labor—lasted more than a minute or two in the fire-infused water. For those who did, their marks bloomed visibly, brightening as their connection to Jimena deepened.

  They gained something more than endurance.

  A voice.

  These women became the first priestesses of fire—able to speak more directly to their young goddess. Coincidentally, those who reached this threshold were the same elders Chia had once taught. Women long dismissed as powerless had found refuge in Chia’s wisdom, especially those newly arrived in the village or brought by Marisol during her divinely guided wanderings.

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  Afterward, their bones were quenched in the cooling pool, Chia guiding them gently as herbs and divine water soothed what the fire had refined. Those who had endured longest emerged changed. Their movements were lively, their laughter unrestrained. Passion burned behind their eyes—a hunger for life rekindled.

  Chia noticed strands of red appearing in a few of the older women’s hair, faint but unmistakable. The same hue that marked Jimena herself.

  Though Chia refrained from bathing, she still felt the ritual’s effects. Her blood flowed faster as unseen obstructions dissolved with every vapor-laden breath. Divine energy coursed through her veins, embracing her in sensations that bordered on overwhelming.

  Gentle waves of phantasmal divine fire rolled outward from Jimena, infiltrating every hidden corner of flesh and spirit—disintegrating corruption wherever it dared to linger.

  -

  Marisol played with the boys who had been—rather unfairly—excluded from the bath. To her surprise, they didn’t sulk or linger nearby in envy. Instead, they created their own event and invited her into it. The simple inclusion filled her with an odd, unexpected happiness.

  Being one of the boys was its own strange amusement.

  The game they devised revolved around dozens of clay dolls the children had made themselves. Most were new creations, still unaware of the mischief their owners would soon subject them to. Yellow eyes blinked with curiosity, wide and bewildered by the world. The older dolls behaved like veteran brothers, guiding the younger ones through the rituals of movement, play, and imitation of life.

  The boys arranged the dolls into rows, mimicking the battles they had heard described in stories of old. Many of the lines were crooked, at least from Marisol’s vantage point. She sat atop a clump of clay as large as a hut.

  The clay shifted.

  Like a lumbering giant, it took a step, lifting her higher and granting her a better view of the makeshift battlefield. Bruno had grown—swollen with form and weight—after Marisol had infused him with an extreme measure of divinity. She’d wanted to test the limits of a doll’s faith core.

  With Jaime preoccupied by construction, she’d taken it upon herself to investigate. To her delight, experimentation turned out to be its own kind of play.

  Together with the children, she’d poured as much divinity into the dolls as they could handle. Some endured. Others… popped.

  The explosions were small—sparkling clouds of divine motes—but dramatic enough to send a few of the more tender-hearted children into tears as their beloved dolls vanished. After that, a new rule formed naturally.

  All dolls were offerings.

  When the children handed them over, they did so solemnly, agreeing they would be sacrificed. Marisol hadn’t suggested it. The dolls, apparently, had gone rogue often enough—and caused enough trouble—that such measures felt justified.

  One particularly handsome doll—the first of its kind—had attempted to lead an uprising against the children. The response had been swift and merciless. The children, acting like tiny tyrants, imprisoned the rebels and marched them forward in a pitiful line. The dolls looked downcast, shuffling like defeated soldiers toward judgment.

  Marisol hadn’t been sure if she was allowed to laugh.

  She’d held it in then.

  Now, remembering it, she let out a soft chuckle. Beneath her, Bruno trembled faintly, his instincts picking up on her mirth and echoing it through his massive frame.

  While Marisol indulged in memory, the battlefield below finally organized itself into four district camps—shaped by the equal number of children and the space they’d claimed for their war.

  Composing herself, Marisol signaled the beginning.

  She flicked her hand, forming a globe of water, then slowly reshaped it into a cloud. Rain fell across the battlefield, soaking the dolls and the children alike. Those dolls that lasted longest received a steady infusion of her divinity, their cores absorbing the memory of the storm.

  The children, meanwhile, were free to revel in the rain. Splashing nurtured their marks further, deepening them in a way similar to Tlalli and Xalli’s. Marisol hoped more adults would eventually awaken such abilities, but children—adaptive and unburdened—were always the first to change.

  With a sleepy gaze, the young goddess watched the doll war unfold below.

  The memory burned itself into the dolls’ cores, etched deep into their being. Long after, the dread of the laughing nature goddess would linger—an unshakable instinct warning them of what happened when play crossed into defiance.

  -

  After much painful deliberation, Mort decided to help the village.

  Renata’s glare—and the occasional accidental kick or thrown pebble—had not swayed the outcome. If anything, they had only given him the space to arrive at the decision honestly. Not out of fear, nor obligation, but for the sake of his own happiness.

  Renata was his world.

  He would prove it to her by doing the one thing he feared most—standing against a god. Together, they would reach for their heart’s yearning, no matter how distant or impossible it seemed.

  Mort would make the miracle real.

  He pulled Renata into a tight hug, sudden and fierce. She responded with muffled protests, wailing soft punches against his chest in embarrassment more than anger.

  He deserved worse.

  Mort had much to atone for, but the only thing that truly mattered to him was Renata. His mistake had shaped both their lives, carving paths neither of them had chosen. So he would make it right—not by running, but by building something new.

  A place she could call home.

  This village would be their foundation. Whether it saved him or destroyed him no longer mattered.

  He squeezed Renata a little too tightly. She let out a startled squeak, the sound so unexpected that Mort burst into laughter. The warmth of the moment—simple, familial, real—steadied his heart.

  When Mort finally released her, the noise of approaching voices reached his ears.

  Still smiling, he turned to face the gathering crowd.

  Ready, at last.