Camazotz had just finished adjusting to his new fleshly body—a lone adult male of adequate fitness. He had been fortunate enough to land near a water source the locals favored for drinking.

  His current form, a small slug-like body, could shift at will, and divinity cloaked him easily. Finding a suitable puppet was quick work, a minor concern for an experienced corrupt divinity.

  The transition was smooth.

  He swam up the man’s nose and burrowed deep into his skull, reshaping himself to fit snugly inside. He had no qualms about pushing things aside to make room.

  His body secreted a pale foam that engulfed the brain before drying, cocooning the organ in a sticky web through which his divinity flowed freely. It allowed Camazotz to issue commands to the body while also peering into fragments of the man’s memories. Most of which was useless clutter, however, and sorting through it took time.

  After some effort—and several awkward mistakes that required him to wash himself clean in the river beside the man’s shack—Camazotz finally settled in. The structure itself was a shoddy thing, built from old rough planks and scavenged branches. Improvements would be necessary before his plans could truly begin.

  Carefully, he kneaded the delicate organ within the skull. As acquiring a new body every time he moved too forcefully and shattered a bone would be inconvenient, even for him.

  -

  Mort had arrived at the place the whispers called the strongest.

  The voice grew louder as he ventured into the thick forest, swelling with every step beneath the shadowed canopy. After what felt like an eternity of walking, he emerged into a vast clearing.

  The plain was carpeted in a dense mat of vibrant flowers. Their colors glowed with a soft, gentle light, petals swaying as though beckoning him forward. The voice in the air seemed to rejoice at his arrival.

  The sensation was nothing like what he had felt from Itzcamazotz.

  This presence felt like a distant memory of his mother—warm in his chest, aching in a strange, intimate way. A longing that pulled and pushed at him simultaneously, urging him onward.

  Mort did not stop walking, even when he stumbled or tripped carelessly to the ground. Each step came faster than the last, until he broke into a sprint.

  The wind rose, lifting petals of every color and kind. They spiraled together, shaping the form of a voluptuous woman. Petals gathered and fused, stacking upon one another until a floating goddess took shape before him.

  She wore little more than the illusion of fabric—petals arranged to cover only her most sensitive regions. Wheat-colored skin shimmered with every supple movement, petals shedding from a bounty barely contained.

  She danced through the fragrant air, giggling softly as she appraised him. Each completed circle brought her closer. Light, tentative steps and gentle caresses drew Mort deeper into a sweet, intoxicating trance.

  Iridescent eyes locked onto his, a teasing smile poised to conquer his heart.

  Or so the goddess had planned.

  Mort now writhed in agony at her bare feet, his thrashing tearing through the flowered plain and destroying her carefully crafted garden. All the effort she had poured into her welcome was ruined in moments. The little divinity she still possessed had been enough only for this.

  The goddess lamented the loss as she watched the man begin to regain his senses. Her gaze lingered on him possessively, as though he already belonged to her.

  Mort had just endured one of the most painful torments of his life. His gem burned red-hot within him, flooding his body with the excruciating sensation of being consumed by fire.

  For a brief instant, the small, weakened form of Renata stirred inside the gem before sinking back into slumber. The peeved expression on her round face went entirely unnoticed by Mort.

  -

  The three chosen awoke aching in mind, soul, and body.

  It felt as though they had been branded all over with countless tiny needles. Their skin was bruised from head to toe, marked by the work that had been done—until their powerful regeneration quietly concealed every sign of it.

  In the end, their cuauhxicalli had not been the only vessels to receive the gods’ full attention.

  Finding further ways to prepare their chosen, the gods had gone beyond their initial intent. Divine tattoos had been etched into every inch of them—pictograms of power, not unlike those already borne by the twins Jaime and Jimena.

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  The gods hoped this would allow them to follow their chosen once they left the safety of their domains. Jimena’s trial had forced them to make assurances of their own. After all, losing such precious seeds would be… inconvenient.

  Jimena woke with a low, irritated groan.

  Her flames incinerated everything on and beneath her. The compacted earth melted into a smooth glaze before cracking apart. Spectral fire licked outward, threatening to consume the hut itself, but faltered as her consciousness fully returned.

  Obsidian armor sealed itself around her body as she stood, still groggy and smoldering.

  Jaime opened his eyes in his room, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar sensation of waking. His body was drenched in a slick, foul-smelling substance. The blankets beneath him reeked of waste.

  With a sharp huff, he stood, grimacing at his soaked clothes.

  Marisol stretched and yawned, a soft pink mist bathing her in a cool, gentle embrace. As she rose, a floating glob of foul liquid drifted away and vanished outside.

  Her body cracked and popped as she loosened herself—twisting at the waist, reaching toward the sky. A satisfied groan escaped her as everything finally fell back into place.

  Something had changed.

  She could feel it, though she couldn’t name it. Only a vague sense of being blessed—of having accomplished something important.

  She skipped toward her grandmother, but didn’t find her until she reached the front of the large hut.

  The cuauhxicalli radiated intense divinity.

  Xolo remained the tallest among them, but it was no longer the sole vessel adorned with wonders.

  Marisol reached out and caressed the statue of Axochi, tracing her fingers over the tightly packed, glowing pictograms etched across its surface.

  Whispers flooded her mind, dragging her into a deep illusion.

  A void unfolded before her—endless, shifting, hungry with language. Time rushed past like a surging river, while she drifted through reality like a still, ephemeral lake.

  An eternity seemed to pass.

  Then she was back.

  Marisol gasped for air as her grandmother held her close, the fading images of an entire lifetime dissolving from her mind.

  -

  Alvarado sneered at the letter the messenger had just delivered.

  Arturo de Soto—conquistador of supposed heroic renown—was asking for his help.

  He scoffed and tossed the expensive parchment aside as if it were refuse.

  The brute had once laughed openly at his appearance. Jeered at his impressive collection of wealth. What did it matter how it was attained?

  Plutus was blind, but never blind to the manner in which wealth was acquired. Alvarado knew this of him—and cared little. Wealth brought happiness. Wealth made everything right.

  As long as he delivered enough riches back to the Empire, sainthood itself would surely follow. Gold paved every path, even those leading to the heavens. He had partners awaiting his return, men who counted on him to bleed this land dry.

  If only the ships would arrive on time.

  Alvarado slammed his meaty fist onto the blessed rosewood desk. It vibrated violently before settling with a deep hum, the force dispersing evenly into the ground beneath and sending a faint tremor through the area.

  His assistant stiffened in fear but said nothing, continuing to fan him with trembling hands. The messenger stood rigid, fear undisguised as he waited for a response. He would receive one—eventually.

  No matter how Alvarado weighed it, this was an excellent opportunity to acquire more silver.

  Perhaps even gold—if the brute finally loosened his filthy grip on it.

  The land Arturo governed produced silver in obscene abundance, far more than Alvarado’s own holdings and with far less effort. It was as if the metal sprouted from the soil like maize.

  Envy curdled in his gut.

  That such an animal should bathe in what Alvarado considered rightfully his was an insult he would not forget. Still he would help solve his problem.

  The Chichimeca would soon learn the true might of the Light Empire. They would learn what it meant to defy boundless wealth—and the devastation it could bring to those who dared threaten its flow.

  Alvarado laughed loudly, scooping a fistful of sugarcane sweets into his mouth. His bloated body jiggled with every wet smack of his lips.

  A silent assistant to his left dutifully wiped away the excess saliva.