It was still dark in Bahia Oscura. The croaking of frogs and the drone of insects filled the humid, cool air. No one stirred—save for prowling cats and the rodents they hunted.

  In separate corners of the village, the three chosen slept.

  The days had been peaceful, unmarred by conflict. A season of growth and nurture, almost idyllic. But the night brought no such mercy.

  Dreams came—visions of a future too blood-soaked to endure. Darkened skies loomed over red-stained earth. Tortured screams echoed endlessly as black swarms devoured everything in their path.

  Three gods reached across the veil, bearing divinity accumulated over long ages. With the limits of their power, they shaped guidance into forms their chosen might one day understand. Indecipherable pictograms and garbled divine language poured forth, recorded into the cuauhxicalli of each shrine.

  New objectives were set—true ones.

  The chosen would soon take their first deliberate steps into the game of gods.

  The era that followed would fracture the world’s current order, plunging it into chaos. And within that upheaval lay the perfect opportunity for the three to make themselves known once more.

  Chalchiuhtlicue’s guidance came as gentle reminders. She did not force Marisol toward the path ahead, only coaxed her forward with quiet resolve. The mother goddess sighed as visions of pain unfolded—battles, broken paths, and lands left drowning in blood reflected in her deep ocean eyes.

  Mictecacihuatl’s words were far less forgiving. They carved themselves into the colorfully adorned Xolo. What had once been a small clay figure now stood several feet tall, a bowl resting atop its head. Within it burned a magenta flame—one that seemed capable of consuming all impurity.

  Mictlantecuhtli’s guidance was harsh and exacting, leaving no room for deviation. He attempted to press his will directly into the statue of Cimi, but the owl resisted. The power touching her was altered—softened—becoming a gentle shroud that settled over her stone feathers like divine dust, further embellishing the statue.

  A low grunt of dissatisfaction echoed through the void.

  Nothing more.

  The three gods continued their efforts until they could no longer, sealing their divinity within the cuauhxicalli so their chosen would receive the message when the time was right.

  That night, only fragments of the future reached them.

  Enough to steal rest from their sleep.

  Enough to force preparation.

  The time for ease was ending.

  -

  Chia felt the change settle deep in her heart.

  The god she had once worshiped no longer answered her soul. She was no chosen, but her sensitivity to the divine had always allowed her fleeting communion—brief moments of understanding that others never felt.

  The loss brought a flicker of sadness that passed quickly. She sighed, lamenting the movement of time. It felt like only a blink ago that she had stood among faces now long gone, their smiles still vivid in her memory.

  Her body, though aged, could still bear divine presence—thanks in no small part to Marisol. Every morning, sacred water filled her clay jugs as part of the early rites. All drank from it, sharing in the subtle blessings of health and renewed vigor the water bestowed.

  She stretched and rose from her bed with care, allowing her body to settle. Bones popped and cracked as she stood, bare feet meeting the cold, compacted earth.

  There had been talk of expanding the great hut. Jimena often spoke of the temples she had seen—vast structures built to house the divine in distant villages and cities. And beyond that, the impossible architecture of the gods’ own realm.

  Chia had resisted the idea. There were still needs far more pressing than comfort.

  She had tried to guide new curanderas along the sacred paths of healing, but most lacked the patience or curiosity to walk them properly. Only Quetzalli showed the quiet attentiveness required to continue. Still, Chia never denied anyone the chance to learn.

  She rubbed warmth into her limbs, coaxing them into motion. Once her body loosened, movement came easier. Her diminished sight mattered little in the dark—she navigated by memory and instinct.

  Swiftly, she made her way to the cuauhxicalli.

  Leaving herbs there had become her habit. Within that sacred space, faith and divinity infused them with remarkable potency.

  With practiced hands, she began a series of movements too swift and precise for most eyes to follow. The old woman was far more than she first appeared.

  A faint divine glow gathered around her.

  The power was not hers—never had been. She held no true control over it. Yet she moved it all the same. Like a wary animal, she lured it with faith-filled mixtures, guided it with sacred diagrams, nudged it gently forward—

  —until it showed her the way.

  -

  Javier woke with a start.

  The sharp crack of splitting wood echoed from the rooms beside his own. Anxiety surged through him, adrenaline flooding his veins before his thoughts could catch up. The grunts and strained moans that followed sounded unmistakably like his children.

  He rubbed the sleep from his face, struggling to piece together what was happening. Jimena’s recent fits had accustomed him to broken furniture—her beds rarely survived long. If she weren’t so deeply beloved, he might have wondered why she didn’t simply sleep on the floor. She hated hammocks, claimed they tangled her hair, though he suspected it had more to do with how restlessly she slept. That had begun after her mother’s passing.

  Liliana’s memory pressed softly against his heart.

  He sighed and finally rose. It didn’t feel right to disturb them. Still, every cry of pain made him pause, his pulse jumping before he forced himself to breathe. He tried to sense the divinity in the air, as Chia had taught him.

  She had always assured him that his children were no longer merely human. They were changed in ways even they did not yet understand. Only when the divine faded from their bodies, she said, would true harm be possible.

  So he went to the kitchen instead.

  He lit a small fire beneath a clay pot of water, preparing a bitter cacao drink. Tearing a piece of tortilla, he ate it with salted fish as the water warmed. When it began to boil, he dropped in the crushed, roasted beans and let them steep, standing only to stir now and then as the rich scent bloomed.

  He wasn’t sure how long he waited before the sounds of pain finally ceased.

  Perhaps when he had fallen asleep.

  Jaime appeared before him then—sudden and unreal—eyes glowing, a garbled message impressed upon his mind before the vision snapped away.

  Javier startled awake.

  The warmth of the drink grounded him as he looked around. The darkness felt heavier than usual, deeper somehow, stretching longer than it should have.

  He dismissed it as waking too early. Finishing his meal, he set the pot aside and went to check on his children.

  Both beds lay destroyed, wood splintered and crushed. Jimena and Jaime were still asleep, their bodies thrashing softly, power rippling through even their smallest movements. Javier dared not approach too closely.

  Deep furrows scarred the packed earth beneath them—marks left by what should have been light motion. Awe and unease mingled in his chest as he carefully cleared away sharp debris. Even knowing the wood would be reduced to nothing but dust beneath his children, he tried.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Javier covered them with fabrics, wiping away sweat when he could. The gesture was more for his own comfort than for that of his divine children.

  -

  Luciano had been restless these past few days. He knew, at least in part, that fear fed the delusions that plagued him—but knowing that did little to dispel them. At times they felt entirely real.

  Just as real as the terror he had once lived through.

  The horror of those days still clung to him, haunting his thoughts even though they had been but a brief moment in his long life. He could not shake the sensation, no matter how hard he tried.

  He ran his hands through sweat-soaked hair and rose from his hammock. One of the few things he had managed to keep from his past—along with the precious fabrics he wore that night, garments he believed offered some small protection.

  His wife, long taken by time, had been one of the few true joys of his life. His son another—also gone. Luciano wiped at his eyes and splashed water from a nearby clay jug onto his face, steadying himself.

  Life was good in Bahía Oscura. He knew that. His people had slowly adjusted to the gentler rhythm of life here. The three chosen had eased the transition—not only through strength, but through the quiet miracles they brought.

  Still, he wished they could have done more for his village.

  The thought was irrational. He knew it was. Yet he could not help the ache that followed it.

  If only…

  Having wiped away the sweat, he straightened—only to come face to face with a nightmare.

  The darkness pooled and twisted into a grotesque figure pulled straight from his dreams. It laughed, jaw unhinging as it stretched wide enough to swallow his head whole.

  Luciano froze.

  Then he inhaled slowly and forced calm into his limbs. When he opened his eyes again, the vision was gone. Only the moon remained, pale and distant in the night sky.

  The visions were becoming more frequent. The nightmares too. They nudged his thoughts toward places he tried desperately to avoid.

  The hut felt too dark. Too quiet. Too empty.

  So he stepped outside.

  The flimsy door of his hut barely offered real protection, yet crossing its threshold felt like shedding a weight. The oppressive darkness seemed to thin as soon as he emerged.

  Fireflies.

  Hundreds—no, thousands—floated through the village, their gentle lights illuminating paths, rooftops, and faces. The sight loosened something tight around his heart.

  Tears welled as he watched their clumsy, drifting flight.

  Why was this village so blessed?

  A flicker of selfish envy surfaced—then vanished as several fireflies settled on his arms and shoulders. He felt no disgust. Only awe.

  Their lights pulsed in quiet harmony, a living constellation.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Others had woken early, drawn from their restless sleep by the same unease—or perhaps by the same unspoken calling. They stood silently, transfixed by the simple miracle of life… and perhaps something more divine.

  None of them had ever seen such a display so early in the year, when the air was still cool and the rains had yet to return.

  -

  Sol felt something stirring. The night outside seemed to be gathering in on itself. He could sense something there, just beyond his sight—present, watching. He stared into the darkness, straining to make sense of it, until his grandfather shook him awake.

  At least, what he thought was his grandfather.

  What he turned to see was a gray figure, its skin dull and lifeless. Its impossibly large eyes writhed with something trapped inside. It gasped for air as green-veined arms stretched toward him. Fingernails were missing, raw fingertips nearly brushing his nose. The stench of death filled his lungs.

  The body collapsed.

  It burst apart into a writhing pile of insects.

  They crawled toward him, snapping their pincers, spitting foul substances, trying to latch onto his skin. Sol screamed for help, but no sound escaped him. His throat felt clogged, scratchy—wrong. Lumps swelled beneath his skin, shifting and crawling as if something inside him were trying to escape.

  Then Sol woke.

  The hearth glowed with golden fire, its warmth steady and familiar. A thin thread of dark smoke drifted upward from the flames—corruption too faint to clearly see in the low light. His grandfather sat beside him, watching with worry etched deep into his newly sighted eyes.

  Sol rubbed his face and looked around, disoriented. He felt as though he had witnessed something important—something dangerous—but every time he reached for the memory, his mind slid away from it, leaving only unease behind.

  He took a sip of pulque they had been sharing, the bitterness grounding him, easing the frantic beat of his heart.

  Soon enough, he slipped back into their conversation as though he hadn’t just been torn from a nightmare.

  The late nights spent with his grandfather had begun to change him. He paid less attention to his power now, turning his focus inward—to himself, to his family. The recovery of his grandfather’s sight had sparked celebration throughout the village, a joy Sol hoped one day to share with all the elders, once he learned how to do so properly.

  For now, the villagers had left him alone.

  Even in celebration, they gave the two of them space—as though they understood there were bonds older than miracles that needed tending. Sol didn’t mind. Not in the slightest.

  It was another late night, just the two of them. Talking as they always had—though this time, Sol listened far more than he spoke.

  -

  Huehueteotl felt a surge of rejuvenating faith flow into him from the villagers of Chantico. The changes Sol had undergone in recent weeks astonished the old god. The villagers’ renewed trust—quiet, sincere, and deeply rooted—was what allowed such a windfall to take shape.

  The recent celebration had carried with it the faith Huehueteotl so desperately needed.

  With that strength, he pushed his domain outward, pressing against the fading corruption that had lingered for so long without its god. It resisted weakly now, brittle and hollow, as though held together by habit rather than will.

  The gods of the region watched as the corrupted god abandoned its mountain nest. It fled with frantic purpose, chasing something none of them could clearly discern. No one moved to intercept it. To do so would risk injury—perhaps even dissolution.

  Many of the gods were like Huehueteotl: spectral beings who had lost their physical forms long ago, weakened by countless wars fought across ages. Wars that had scarred the land even before the arrival of the light gods.

  Only the youngest—or the most cowardly—still possessed flesh. And they were often the source of chaos. Ignorant gods, hungry for dominion, eager to claim an entire plane without understanding the cost.

  Huehueteotl withdrew his awareness and settled himself.

  He began shaping his domain in earnest.

  What was coming would not be gentle.

  Defense, above all else, would be necessary.