The goddess waited patiently for Mort to finally turn his attention to her.

  She drew upon what little power remained, weaving miracles and charm together in a careful display meant to ensnare him. She had already seen it once—the lovestruck gaze, soft and willing. She knew it could return.

  For a heartbeat, it did.

  Then Mort collapsed again, falling to the ground in a fit of writhing agony.

  Her expression tightened.

  She folded her arms and halted her courtship, irritation bleeding through her carefully maintained allure. Closing her iridescent eyes, she reached outward with her senses, tracing his vitality with practiced ease. Her gaze pierced flesh, spirit, and intent alike, searching for corruption, malice, or some hidden influence clinging to him.

  She found nothing.

  She searched again.

  Still nothing.

  Impatience crept in like a thorn beneath her skin. Her chosen—her future chosen—stood before her, yet she could not draw even the faintest thread of worship from him. A single spark would have been enough. Just one offering of faith would have allowed the bond to begin.

  She knelt beside him instead.

  Her fingers brushed his cheek, then traced idle circles along his chest. Her movements were light, teasing—coquettish gestures meant to stir desire. Yet each touch only seemed to deepen his suffering. Mort trembled beneath her hand, pain rippling through him as though her presence itself were an affliction.

  The goddess recoiled slightly, frustration tightening her chest.

  At last, she withdrew, rising and putting distance between them. She would watch now. Observe. Study the strange resistance that defied both her power and her presence.

  She had already made her impression.

  All that remained was his response.

  -

  Mort didn’t understand what was happening to him.

  He couldn’t look inward—couldn’t feel or observe anything within himself—so long as the pain continued. And it only continued when the goddess touched him. Something he would have ended himself, if he could.

  But like a cruel game, she had leaned into him instead, pressing close and deepening his torment.

  Agony tore through his body, lancing through bone and marrow, blooming outward like wildfire. His thoughts frayed under the strain, sensation blurring until his mind dulled and his body slackened. By the time the goddess finally pulled away, Mort had been reduced to a trembling, drooling wreck.

  Only then did the pain ease enough for him to look within.

  A growing mass of power pulsed in his chest.

  The gem burned red-hot, radiating an overwhelming heat that felt both familiar and terrifying. Within it, something stirred.

  Renata had awakened.

  The crimson flower enclosing her small body unfurled, petal by petal, spilling the first rays of divinity into an otherwise empty world. The little girl’s eyes fluttered open, turbulent emotions churning within their ruby depths—rage, grief, hunger—before settling into an unnatural calm. Like a stormy sea that suddenly went still.

  Mort gasped, wiped away drool and pushed himself upright, closing his eyes to better visualize the space within the gem.

  He vaguely remembered it once being filled with endless oceans of blood, a place where he and Renata had fed without thought or restraint. The memory made his stomach twist, so he rejected it, choosing instead to believe it had always been this barren, hollow place.

  When Renata sensed him, she vanished.

  Then reappeared.

  With a soft flutter of her voluminous red dress, she settled onto Mort’s shoulder like a porcelain doll. Her small frame was still, but her ruby eyes burned as they fixed on the goddess hovering above them.

  Mort began speaking at once, words tumbling over themselves. He poured out grievances and confusion, his voice thick with indignation over every slight and agony he’d endured while she slept.

  Renata did not listen.

  She felt no affection, no jealousy, no particular attachment to Mort in this newly awakened state. Her attention never wavered from the goddess. From the way she had looked at them. From the way she had touched.

  Disgust curdled within the little doll.

  That gaze—hungry, possessive, indulgent—was intolerable.

  Renata raised one tiny hand.

  A doll finger-thin ray of condensed divinity lanced outward, sluggish and incomplete, barely reaching the goddess before dispersing. The goddess drifted higher with ease, the attack little more than a pinprick even in her weakened state.

  -

  The goddess evaded every ray with a playful flutter, giggling all the while until the spears of divinity ceased. She understood then—perfectly. The little spirit had not merely noticed her actions; she had judged them blasphemous.

  So this was where favor truly needed to be won.

  Xochiquetzal descended, her form shifting midair. The scant petals that had barely covered her before lengthened and intertwined, wrapping her lithe body in a regal gown of blooming flowers. A headdress of short green feathers crowned her head, its sides adorned with long plumes of yellow and red that swayed with the sweet-scented wind.

  She dimmed herself deliberately, draining a portion of her remaining divinity. Her body turned translucent, ghostlike—fragile. Then, with practiced drama, she collapsed to the flower-strewn ground, reaching out a trembling hand toward the stunned man.

  Mort went still.

  Silence fell over him as he stared at the goddess’s carefully crafted display. The little doll on his shoulder huffed softly, her expression sour—but she did not interfere. She watched. Evaluated.

  That alone was permission enough.

  Mort hesitated, then slowly reached for the fallen goddess.

  Concern clouded his dark eyes, dulling the lingering allure she had stirred earlier. Xochiquetzal smiled at that—but quickly hid it within the folds of her floral robe. The little doll’s ruby gaze never left her, sharp and unblinking.

  Careful, Xochiquetzal reminded herself.

  Do not cross the line.

  The spirit had spent nearly all her power. Like a tired little jaguar, she could do little more than glare, coiled and dangerous in her stillness.

  Xochiquetzal took the offered hand.

  She composed herself for the most important moment, turning her head just enough for the headdress and its plumes to veil her face. The wind caught her hair perfectly, sending it streaming behind her. Light—sourced from nowhere—spilled over her form as she assumed a pose of otherworldly grace.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Her fingers tightened around his.

  For a heartbeat, anticipation made her hand tremble. She crushed it down, transforming it into the fragile quiver of a weakened goddess clinging to existence.

  She rose, floating just enough to make it seem as though Mort were helping her to her feet. When she judged the distance right—close enough to feel him, to reach him—she snapped her face back toward his.

  Their eyes met.

  She gazed deep into his soul, past his fear, past his pain, into the hollow ache that longed for comfort. For warmth. For something that felt like home.

  “I am Xochiquetzal,” she said softly. “Would you be my chosen?”

  The little doll did not react.

  But Mort—

  Mort stared at her, entranced. Old images stirred within him: the memory of gentle hands, of a voice that soothed, of a love he had lost too early.

  Xochiquetzal let her form fade just a touch more, as though the wind itself might scatter her if he hesitated. As though this were his only chance.

  And perhaps, if he refused, it truly would be.

  So she waited—breath held, divinity trembling—as the first threads of a bond began to reach for him.

  -

  Sol could feel the change that had settled over the night. The whispers of his god—once brief, repetitive, and frustratingly sparse—now flowed without pause. The same voice that had once offered nothing but the same tired counsel now pressed him forward with purpose.

  This was the change Sol had waited for.

  And with it came an urge to act.

  The murmurs guided him toward a new trial, one he hoped would finally erase the stain of his earlier humiliation. His steps quickened with resolve.

  If only the strange spirit lodged in his chest would stay quiet.

  At times, Sol truly wished he could silence the jaguar cub entirely. Its constant, indecipherable mewling scraped at his nerves, drowning out the guidance he needed most. The god’s words came only once—soft, fleeting—and demanded focus. But how could he concentrate with that incessant noise clawing at his thoughts?

  He had been fortunate before. There were days when the cub slept, its presence little more than a warmth in his sternum. But today, it seemed determined to drive him mad—and the sun had barely risen.

  Sol knew the spirit could communicate properly with some effort. He simply didn’t care to deal with it now. Whatever had awakened within him—this restless itch that had begun the previous night—demanded attention first.

  Behind his cuauhxicalli stood the building that had once been his home. Abandoned by time and by him, it remained tended by a handful of villagers who still regarded it as sacred.

  Cal and his family were among the few who continued to believe Sol would become the chosen they had once hoped for. It was for the villagers that he had tried so hard. It was for them that he had finally let go.

  Let go of the useless desire to be something he was not.

  He was not fire meant to destroy.

  He was fire meant to nurture—fire that protected without fear of burning.

  The realization left him heavy with regret for the years he had wasted. His hand brushed against the hollow stone statue beside the cuauhxicalli. It felt different now. Not just etched with new pictograms, but changed in weight and presence—as though something within it had been filled.

  Curiosity won out.

  Sol gripped the statue and lifted it. As a child, he had done this countless times, back when it had been little more than a small clay figure—no different from the statue of his god.

  An old man seated in eternal rest, a broad brazier-like sombrero obscuring his face.

  Huehueteotl’s long dormancy hadn’t troubled Sol then. He had been young, thrilled simply to wield power, too naive to notice what was missing.

  Sol chuckled softly as he hoisted the now slightly heavier statue. The flame burning within its bowl tilted with the movement but remained steady, undisturbed.

  On impulse, he broke into a light jog, weaving through the open space.

  Gasps followed him.

  Villagers stared in disbelief as he passed, the sight of their firebearer running with a sacred statue in his arms shocking them into silence. Then laughter rang out as children, brimming with delight, chased after him.

  For the first time in a long while, Sol felt light.

  And somewhere deep within his chest, the jaguar cub fell silent—if only for a moment.

  -

  The three chosen gathered to decide their next steps.

  Marisol was the first to try again, kneeling before the cuauhxicalli and tracing its edge with trembling fingers. She attempted to read it once more, but the result was the same as before. The visions surged too violently, overwhelming her senses before she could grasp any meaning. She staggered back, breathless, her mind ringing with half-formed symbols.

  Jimena tried next.

  The attempt proved far more painful.

  The moment her awareness brushed against the vessel, agony lanced through her skull. She collapsed without a sound, flames guttering out as she struck the ground. Even with her greater power, she remained unconscious for hours. Whatever the cuauhxicalli held, it was not meant for them yet.

  The visions were beyond their reach.

  What did press upon them, however, were the vague impressions emanating from their gems—unease, urgency, a distant pull that refused to be ignored.

  Jaime, seeing both of them fail, insisted on trying.

  Cimi perched upon his head, radiating quiet assurance. The owl’s presence lent him confidence—too much, perhaps.

  The result was catastrophic.

  Jaime collapsed almost immediately, his body seizing as blood streamed from his nose. He did not wake for the rest of the day, and the bleeding did not stop for nearly an hour. Chia hovered over him in growing panic, forcing bitter remedies between his lips and muttering prayers until the flow finally slowed.

  Only then did she breathe again.

  With Jaime incapacitated, Jimena and Marisol returned to their daily duties, unwilling to let worry paralyze them.

  Outside the large hut, the village had grown restless.

  Men argued loudly over plans that had yet to take shape. Children darted between them, shrieking with laughter as they chased dolls that rode dogs and canines ran after frightened cats.

  The air buzzed with anticipation, confusion, and the faint sense that something was coming—something none of them could yet name.

  The chosen felt it too.

  Whatever the gods had set in motion, it was already pulling at the edges of their lives.