Shadows shifted in the dark cave. The roots of ancient ceiba trees broke through the ceiling, hanging like twisted veins. A stench of rot and tallow clung to the air, rising from heaps of bones and animal hides.
Venemaris moved among them—once a man, now a hollow creature bound by hate and vengeance. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark as he worked in silence, his breath ragged, his motions mechanical.
This had once been a sacred place. Now, it was defiled. The floor was scarred by failed ritual circles, their edges smeared with soot and dried blood. Each center still smoked faintly, as if the divine energy that had passed through them refused to die.
He hissed in frustration. The tallow he had rendered from the slain beasts was useless—too weak, too mortal, too far from the divine spark he sought. Rage boiled within him, and he smashed a fist against the stone, cracking it.
His god would not accept failure.
The thought filled him with terror and despair. His body was a ruin—bones twisted, flesh marked with glowing fissures where divine power had burned through. The energy that lived within him seared his organs, consuming him from the inside out. Yet the god's voice in his skull was sweet as honey, soothing the pain with lies of purpose and love.
He knelt in the filth, trembling, whispering praise into the smoke. His voice broke, half sob, half hymn.
Then he rose again, obedient.
He carved new circles into the stone. His clawed fingers bloody as he traced glyphs of offering and sacrifice. Blood filled the grooves, running to the feet of the statue that dominated the cavern—a crude image of his god, its surface slick with old sacrifices.
With every drop of blood, the statue pulsed brighter. A crimson mist coiled around it, whispering secrets that only Venemaris could hear.
A new plan. A promise.
Something to finally shatter the barrier protecting the village—
and bring Venemaris his long-awaited revenge.
---
The three youths, after laughing at Xolo's silly antics, gathered around Chia. The old woman beckoned them closer, her frail hand curling toward them like a slow breeze. She no longer sat on the ground but in her old rocking chair, which had been brought here from her dilapidated hut.
Marisol hugged her grandmother tightly. It felt as though years had passed since she'd last held her. Tears welled in her eyes — the weight of life's fragility pressing hard after seeing both her parents again. Chia, understanding the unspoken ache, simply patted her back, letting the girl cry without shame.
Javier fidgeted, glancing at his daughter as if unsure whether to speak. His hesitation made Chia's eye twitch — like a child, she thought — but she let it slide. The man had suffered enough. The twins, at least, seemed strong enough now. Jaime smiled awkwardly, trying to placate the still-peeved Jimena. Even Xolo joined in, licking Jimena's cheek in a desperate attempt to dissolve her anger.
Cimi appeared the least interested of the divine guides. She closed her eyes, hooting softly in her sleep, the rhythm of her breathing filling the hut.
For a fleeting moment, the old woman allowed herself to enjoy the sound — the laughter, the warmth, the miracle of their return. Time had stolen much from her, but for now, she could feel it giving something back.
Then her gentle pats stopped.
"We have a problem," Chia said finally. Her tone was flat, her gaze sharp. The change in her voice sent a chill crawling up their spines. Even the villagers peering from the doorway felt the shift, backing away instinctively.
Everyone in the village knew that look.
The past month had been restless. Strange rituals in the forest, the constant loss of livestock, the shrieks echoing from beyond the fields. Something lurked in the dark. Something patient.
So far, it hadn't harmed anyone — but not out of mercy. Everyone knew that. The villagers whispered that it was Chia's presence alone that kept the evil at bay.
Chia, however, knew better. Their trust in her "old bones" was misplaced. She was only a woman, after all — one who remembered too much of what the gods were capable of.
Many evil gods still roamed the land, preying on the forgotten and desperate. They enslaved tribes, twisted worship into madness, and reshaped bodies into mockeries of life.
And deep down, she knew the truth:
the scaled, twisted creature she had glimpsed in the night —
was once someone she had called a friend.
Chia hadn't told anyone what she knew. Would they understand, even if she did?
Did they need to?
The thought lingered as she studied the faces before her — villagers crowded at the doorway, wide-eyed and silent, waiting for her to speak as though her words alone could hold the world together.
"As you all know," Chia began, her voice carrying the authority of years. She recounted the strange happenings that had plagued their home — the vanishing livestock, the mutilated offerings, the shrieks that rose from the forest like dying prayers. Each detail woven together into the pattern she alone could see.
No one doubted her. No one dared. They had all heard the cries in the night. They had all felt the unseen eyes watching from the dark.
The creature's restlessness was growing.
Chia, of course, had a clue why. That fury — that boundless grief behind its eyes — was something she recognized. The same she had once seen in Tomas.
She could still remember the night he lost his wife and unborn child. The way he'd wept over her body, the desperate prayers to gods who never answered. His devotion had curdled into despair. Something inside him broke beyond repair.
Chia had believed time would heal him. She'd believed faith would bring peace.
But life had shown her the cruelty of hope.
Now she saw what had become of him — the scaled, twisted creature that haunted the woods. A man once faithful, now enslaved by something darker.
For the first time in decades, Chia felt powerless.
She chuckled softly, the sound brittle in her throat. The villagers startled at the unexpected noise. Raising Marisol had felt easier than this, she thought — easier than confronting the ghosts of her own failures.
After a long and weary meeting, the crowd dispersed, whispering prayers as they vanished into the night.
When the last of them left, Chia turned toward the three youths — chosen by gods, marked by fire, water, and death. They were her future now, and perhaps the only light left for this broken world.
They sat before her expectantly, their divine companions resting nearby.
Chia sighed, adjusted herself in her creaking chair, and began to speak — her words not loud, but filled with the gravity of revelation.
As she spoke, the veil lifted from their eyes. They listened — truly listened — as she told them what she had seen, what she had learned, and what still waited in the shadows.
A familiar spark shone in their faces — curiosity, fear, and wonder all at once.
Chia smiled faintly. In their gazes, she saw echoes of her younger self — three souls standing at the threshold of a world they could not yet understand, burdened and blessed by the weight of destiny.