Mort sagged against the outer wall of the last hut he had treated, breath dragging harshly through his chest. The night air clung cool against his overheated skin, steam faintly rising from his bald scalp.

  He had insisted on continuing through the darkness.

  No matter how long it took.

  No matter the cost.

  I will purge them all. Every last parasite. Tonight.

  The vow thundered through his mind, and he pushed himself upright again.

  Divinity flared.

  His burning passion roared through his veins like molten metal. Blood rushed near boiling, his gem and heart beating in violent synchrony. Wherever that fervent love coursed, it scorched his flesh from the inside—only to immediately mend it. Singe and soothe. Agony and ecstasy.

  The rhythm became fuel.

  Pain sharpened his focus. Healing rewarded his endurance. The cycle fed itself in a feverish loop that kept him upright when his mortal body longed to collapse.

  Inside his mind, Xochiquetzal shuddered.

  Mort’s application of her divinity was… barbaric.

  Such intensity, such heat—those were meant for artistry. For poetry inked onto parchment. For soft grass beneath entangled limbs. For warm breath and silk sheets. Not this brutal self-immolation.

  She huffed, scandalized, even as she continued to guide the flow precisely so he would not truly damage himself. Her awareness brushed against Renata through the great flower now anchoring their inner world. The shrine had deepened the connection between the goddess and Mort’s divided souls. A closeness she had gone without for far too long.

  Renata had collapsed some time ago within the bloom, exhausted from her monumental labor. She slept curled at its center while roots pulsed gently beneath her. Yet her earlier effort had filled Mort with enough refined divinity to sustain another ten or so extractions.

  And the parasites had grown weaker.

  Smaller.

  The villagers in better condition.

  Mort clung to that pattern like a promise.

  There had been no sign of Itzcamazotz.

  No whisper.

  No shadow pressing back.

  Mort did not know whether that meant he was unnoticed… or being allowed to continue.

  Either way, he refused to slow.

  He rolled his shoulders and ignited another surge of heated devotion, hopping lightly in place as if preparing for a hunt. The pink glow beneath his skin brightened his flushed features, veins standing out against muscle hardened by repeated strain.

  He waved at the priest.

  “Next.”

  The priest blinked.

  It had only been days—less than a week, surely—since he had first met this thin, haunted young man. Now before him stood a broad-shouldered, red-faced, bald figure radiating heat like a kiln. The transformation was so abrupt the priest had to look twice to be certain it was the same person.

  Mort waved a hand in front of his face until the man startled back to himself.

  “Yes—yes. This way.”

  They moved quickly through the village, weaving between huts arranged in a crescent around the dark lake. Dawn was still hours away, yet faint light already touched the eastern horizon.

  Whatever Mort was doing—it was working.

  The priest could not deny it.

  Fear lingered, yes. Mort’s methods were strange. His miracles invisible to mortal sight save for faint pink glimmers and the sudden gasps of recovering patients.

  But the results were undeniable.

  A fragile ember of faith began to kindle in the priest’s heart.

  Their god—present, tangible, once magnificent—had grown cruel in recent years. Bloated by offerings. Demanding more. Watching silently as suffering spread.

  The priest remembered the first time he had seen the great toad deity as a boy. One of the rare mortals able to perceive the divine. He had heard its whispers clearly, felt its presence wrap around him like humid air before a storm.

  He had believed it a blessing.

  For decades he had served faithfully.

  Which was why the grief cut so deep.

  He had watched families wither. Watched his own kin fall ill. Heard prayers go unanswered. And through it all, the god remained—silent, swollen, demanding sacrifice.

  He led Mort to the next hut with a conflicted heart.

  Behind him walked a man who burned himself to save strangers.

  Ahead waited another soul caught between corruption and hope.

  For the first time in many years, the priest did not know for which god his faith should be for.

  Mort grabbed the priest’s shoulder and gave him a small shake.

  “Stay with me.”

  He wasn’t even sure this was the correct house. The priest had never once asked permission before entering a home—he simply pushed through the curtain each time, urgency overriding courtesy. Mort, however, hesitated. It felt wrong to barge in without the man who belonged here.

  So he waited.

  The pause gave him time to notice things he normally pushed aside.

  The huts were close together. Small cooking fires still burned inside several despite the late hour. Shadows moved behind woven walls—families keeping vigil. No one slept alone at night here.

  A tightness tugged at Mort’s chest.

  No one had ever walked freely into his home. No neighbor had crossed the threshold with casual familiarity. And he had never been invited into theirs. The only person who had opened a door for him without hesitation had been his mother—and even she had sometimes tried to bar his way with whatever object she could grab.

  He blinked the thought away.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked as the priest coughed harshly.

  The man suddenly groaned and curled inward, clutching at his chest. His breath came short and ragged, as though he had run a great distance.

  Mort’s anxiety spiked.

  Has he been infected?

  If anyone in the village were vulnerable, it would be the man closest to the toad god. The conduit. The bridge.

  Mort patted his back repeatedly. “Are you alright? Priest?”

  The priest nodded weakly and shrugged off Mort’s hand before stepping through the hanging curtain. Inside, he immediately looked for somewhere to sit, ignoring the startled looks from the wakeful residents.

  Mort frowned.

  He had assumed his own exhaustion was simply the cost of divine exertion. But watching the priest deteriorate like this unsettled him. The man had done little more than walk and speak—yet he looked worse than some of the infected.

  The pattern continued.

  Five more huts.

  Five more extractions.

  And the priest swayed between each one like a tree about to fall. He mumbled under his breath, stumbled, caught himself against walls. Twice he nearly collapsed outright.

  Mort tried to help him every time.

  Every time, the priest refused.

  “I can walk,” the man muttered through clenched teeth. “I must.”

  Mort’s irritation began to simmer.

  “Is there a point to this, priest?” he finally asked, more sharply than intended, after having to pause yet again while the older man leaned heavily against a hut wall. Mort couldn’t tell if the heat crawling under his skin was divine passion or growing frustration.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “I would like to finish before daylight.”

  He reached out to steady the older man as he sagged.

  The priest wheezed, then lifted his head. “My name is Todloc,” he rasped. “Young man… what is yours?”

  The question caught Mort off guard.

  “…Mort.”

  He forced Todloc upright, lending his shoulder despite the priest’s resistance. Up close, Mort could feel it clearly now—the man’s strength wasn’t merely drained.

  It was thinning.

  Like something was siphoning it away.

  “Is there a reason you’re like this?” Mort asked quietly.

  Todloc pushed away once he regained his footing. “Do not worry about me. They are waiting.”

  And they were.

  Word had spread. Nearly every hut they approached already had family members awake inside, small fires lit, doors for the few that had them, parted in anticipation. No one complained at the intrusion. No one questioned Mort.

  They simply watched him with desperate hope.

  Mort felt that hope like a weight.

  And beneath it—envy.

  These people kept vigil for one another without hesitation. They bore suffering together. Even exhaustion did not drive them apart.

  Each pause between huts became more dangerous for Mort.

  When he stopped moving, his thoughts caught up.

  Darkness stirred inside him, hooking thin claws into his resolve. Whispering. Slowing him. Pulling him back toward doubt.

  What if this is part of Itzcamazotz’s design?

  The thought slithered through his mind.

  What if the god already knew? What if this entire struggle was simply another dance arranged by wicked hands? What if Mort was still nothing more than a puppet—strings tied to corruption, forced to spin in time with a melody he could not hear?

  His stomach churned.

  The shadowed presence felt distant—but not absent.

  Watching.

  Mocking.

  Waiting for Mort to exhaust himself.

  Mort clenched his jaw and ignited another surge of heated divinity through his veins. The burning pain steadied him. Anchored him.

  “I am not your puppet,” he muttered under his breath.

  Ahead, Todloc stumbled again—but this time Mort caught him before he hit the ground.

  And for a brief, terrifying moment, Mort felt something cold pulse beneath the priest’s skin.

  He’s lost his faith in his god. That decline is far worse than any parasite, Xochiquetzal said softly in Mort’s mind. Todloc may not survive it.

  The answer settled heavily in Mort’s chest.

  Even so, he kept the priest upright despite Todloc’s repeated attempts to pull away. Mort wrapped an arm around the man’s waist and bore most of his weight, letting the older man lean against him as they shuffled forward.

  They only stopped when Todloc rasped out a direction change.

  “Why?” Mort asked once they reached the next hut.

  He couldn’t focus on another extraction—not with the priest dying against his shoulder.

  Todloc’s head sagged. For a moment Mort thought he had lost consciousness, but then the man forced himself upright with trembling resolve.

  “Must you ask?” Todloc whispered.

  Up close, beneath the robes, his frame looked hollow. His cheeks had sunk inward. His hands were little more than bone wrapped in thin skin.

  Xochiquetzal’s sorrow rippled through Mort like a distant tremor.

  It is miserable to watch a priest lose his faith, she murmured. The blessings that sustain them often lengthen their lives. When faith collapses, so does the scaffolding around their soul. How tragic…

  Mort frowned.

  That wasn’t enough.

  If faith could sustain, then perhaps—

  He gathered divinity in his palm.

  No! Xochiquetzal’s voice cracked like a whip inside his mind, seizing control of his flow and forcing his hand down.

  You must not interfere.

  Mort stiffened.

  To fill him with my divinity while he is still shaped by another god would tear him apart, she continued urgently. Two opposing concepts will not blend kindly inside a failing vessel. You would not save him—you would shred what remains.

  Mort’s jaw tightened. “So we let him die?”

  You continue, she said, her tone firm now. Even if he falls. You cannot afford to falter again. The darkness waits for that hesitation.

  Her presence steadied, though grief lingered beneath it.

  Mort… people are not meant to walk this plane eternally. Not mortals. Not priests. Not even gods escape endings. If he has chosen this path, you must honor it by finishing yours.

  Silence followed, but she did not withdraw. She remained behind his thoughts, bracing him. Supporting him.

  Renata slept within the flower shrine, her earlier fury spent, her roots still holding the fractures of his inner world together.

  Mort looked down at Todloc.

  “Why?” he asked again, quieter this time.

  The priest’s lips twitched in something like a tired smile.

  “When the god I served… began demanding children,” Todloc rasped, “I told myself it was divine will. When sickness spread, I called it a trial. When the offerings increased… I called it necessity.”

  His breath shuddered.

  “But tonight… I watched you.”

  Mort’s throat tightened.

  “I saw nothing with these eyes,” Todloc continued, tapping his temple weakly. “Yet I felt something leave those people. The air changed. The weight in my heart lessened.”

  He swallowed painfully.

  “And for the first time in decades… I hoped my god was not the answer.”

  The words seemed to cost him everything.

  “When faith breaks,” Todloc whispered, “it does not shatter cleanly. It rips.”

  Mort felt it then.

  Not a parasite.

  Not corruption.

  An emptiness.

  A hollowed space inside the priest’s Tonalli where devotion had once burned bright. The divine scaffolding Xochiquetzal had spoken of was collapsing inward, leaving cracks Mort could almost see.

  Todloc swayed.

  Mort tightened his grip.

  “You could choose differently,” Mort said quietly. “You don’t have to fall with him.”

  Todloc’s eyes sharpened faintly at that.

  “Perhaps,” he breathed. “But faith is not a garment to change at dawn. It is bone. And mine… is breaking.”

  The hut before them stirred. Someone inside had heard their approach.

  Mort looked between the door and the priest leaning heavily against him.

  The dark still watched.

  The village still waited.

  Todloc’s pulse felt thinner by the second.

  Mort inhaled slowly, steadying the surge of emotion threatening to twist his divinity out of control.

  “I will finish,” he said.

  Todloc gave the smallest nod.

  And together, one burning with stolen dawn and the other fading like dusk, they stepped toward the next trial.