Marisol flew back toward Bahia Oscura, leaving Bruno and the small clay dolls behind to continue protecting the area she had just seeded. Her sanctuaries would require some tending as they grew, ensuring the living wall formed as she intended.

  It was unfortunate that so many animals would have a harder time accessing the area, but the village needed protection.

  Marisol already had plans to ensure the villagers of Chantico helped maintain the trees and springs. The animals would also need to be respected—so long as they minded themselves as well.

  Not that she expected them to understand human boundaries.

  Which was yet another task Bruno and the clay dolls would have to help her manage.

  She only hoped their mischievousness stayed to a minimum before her return.

  The brief glimpse of the wisp Piltzintecuhtli had given her still troubled her deeply. It urged her to discuss the matter with Jaime—and hopefully Jimena, who should not be long in finishing her journey.

  There had been much to discover about their new capabilities as lesser gods.

  Not only had their power grown, but their miracles and blessings had become more plentiful. Faith now reached farther, altering the world around them with greater ease.

  Their cuauhxicalli had changed as well, growing heavier and more solid. The stone itself seemed to be transforming into something beautiful—something they could not yet fully perceive in the physical world.

  Only the arcing aura radiating from them hinted at the shifting structure within.

  The wells of faith inside each of them continued to grow larger, allowing them to expand their domains and strengthen the blessings placed upon the villagers.

  It had drained them considerably, but the results had been remarkable.

  The villagers had gained wondrous abilities.

  The youngest were the first to adapt.

  More children had learned to breathe life into dolls, like Xalli. Others could coat themselves in earth the way Tlalli once had.

  Adults, however, struggled more with manipulating faith directly. Instead, their bodies simply grew stronger and healthier.

  Still, that alone had transformed village life.

  Work was finished faster, and people now lived with far greater ease.

  As Marisol reflected on everything that had changed since completing the sacred trials, a warm flutter stirred in her chest.

  The world had gained a gentle tint of pink since the gray days of her childhood.

  The strength they now possessed would be used to protect what they loved.

  Reality itself would bend to her will if it had to.

  When she finally descended toward Bahia Oscura, Marisol felt a strange tension lingering in the air.

  Something new had entered the pool of faith.

  Yet within it, she sensed something familiar.

  A wide smile spread across her face as she hurried forward, heading toward the gathering crowd.

  The people of Bahia Oscura stood together, murmuring quietly about the travelers who had arrived alongside Jimena.

  Marisol rushed forward and hugged the fire goddess tightly.

  Both women laughed softly, happy to see one another after their time apart. They embraced openly before the waiting villagers, unconcerned with the curious audience or the tired strangers standing nearby.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The newcomers all looked worn from the long journey.

  Jimena most of all.

  Even as a lesser goddess, her body still radiated vitality—but the exhaustion in her expression told another story. Guarding so many travelers across the road had clearly taken its toll.

  When Jimena attempted to introduce everyone to the Wixárika and quickly began fumbling through the names, Marisol's grandmother stepped in.

  With a few commanding gestures, she took control of the situation, smoothing over tension and awkwardness with practiced ease.

  The rowdy coatimundi that followed her everywhere helped as well.

  Anyone foolish enough to stand around distracted soon found their snacks mysteriously stolen from their pockets.

  Seeing her grandmother handle the introductions effortlessly, Marisol gently pulled Jimena and Jaime aside.

  The three walked down toward the shore.

  The coastline had always been a place of peace for Marisol. Even the tragedies of her past had never managed to steal that comfort from her.

  They stood together watching the waves roll onto the sand.

  Nearby fishermen occasionally glanced in their direction while holding their rods, though none had yet felt a single tug on their lines.

  "Take a look at this," Marisol said.

  She drew out the wisp she had been carrying, keeping it contained within a small cloud of pink divinity.

  "Another god sent a messenger to give us this."

  She handed it to Jimena first.

  The fire goddess grabbed it immediately.

  "It shows the general area of the ritual recorded inside," Marisol explained.

  She waited while Jimena looked through the memories.

  Then Jimena tossed it over to Jaime with open disgust.

  Her fiery hair had begun to rise along with her temper, a deep frown forming across her face.

  Jaime’s reaction mirrored Jimena’s.

  His face twisted with rage as he looked through the wisp.

  Cimi, perched atop his head, shrieked toward the sky the moment she recognized the source of the corruption. Her eyes narrowed as she absorbed every detail the memories revealed, her claws digging lightly into Jaime’s scalp.

  At last.

  The source had been found.

  The odious corrupt god would face judgment at the hands of the three young lesser gods. The owl spirit guide knew this with certainty.

  She had seen it before.

  The way corruption spread if it was not cut away quickly.

  An ancient memory stirred within her—a painful lesson that would never fade.

  Deep beneath the earth, their patron gods were already discussing the plans and support their chosen would require.

  Of the three spirit guides, the owl was the most informed. She carefully remembered every whisper shared with Jaime. And when she lacked answers, she constantly pestered Mictlantecuhtli with questions.

  Cimi intended to ensure that no harm would come to her charge.

  Through knowledge and foresight, she would guide him safely.

  Mictlan itself had begun to stir into motion—slowly, but surely.

  The dead would lend their tireless aid.

  But only when the moment was right.

  The owl had seen glimpses of the coming days. Though the visions were vague and constantly shifting, certain events appeared immovable—threads of fate that had already been woven.

  Nothing could change them.

  Not unless a being equal to a living ancient intervened.

  And such a thing was impossible in this age.

  Cimi’s calculations were interrupted when Marisol asked the twins for their thoughts.

  Even Jaime seemed uncertain.

  They all understood one thing clearly: the corrupt god had to be destroyed.

  The problem was how.

  Jimena immediately suggested the most direct solution.

  They would simply go there and burn the entire mountain if necessary.

  The plan, however, gained little enthusiasm from Marisol or Jaime. The destruction alone would be immense, and even if Jimena possessed the power to do it, the cost in divinity would be enormous.

  Jaime proposed a different approach.

  They should scout first—locate the exact position of the creature’s nest, then prepare an ambush.

  This idea resonated far more with the others.

  But Cimi immediately struck it down.

  Their recently gained powers were still poorly practiced. Against an experienced corrupt god, that alone could prove fatal.

  Any assault would require the guidance of their patron gods.

  Otherwise, the three young deities risked suffering a disastrous defeat.

  The warning left them all in deep thought.

  Fortunately, their patron gods—though only shadows of their former glory—could still guide their chosen along the proper path.

  The world around them suddenly faded.

  Whispers drowned out the sound of the ocean.

  The brilliant sunlight dimmed as a sudden chill swept through the air. Then the scent of marigold blossoms filled the space around them.

  The ground trembled lightly.

  Before them rose a gate woven from vibrant orange and yellow flowers.

  Beneath the blossoms, skulls were carefully hidden within the structure.

  The voices of their patron gods soothed the three chosen as the miracle unfolded.

  They allowed the phenomenon to complete itself.

  One gate became many.

  A long tunnel of cempasúchil death gates stretched before them, each doorway glowing faintly with divine power.

  The three lesser gods stared in awe at the masterful manipulation of divinity.

  The path led through space.

  Toward the thrones of their three patron gods within Mictlan.

  These were the gates of the dead—pathways used to travel between the levels of the underworld and reach its core more swiftly.

  Because of their slight misalignment, the three could now see between those gates.

  Glimpses of the many levels of Mictlan flickered into view—realms they had once struggled to traverse during their trials.

  Now the underworld welcomed them as lesser gods.