They reached the village without incident, though the weight of dread clung to their hearts like damp mist. The battle had left its mark—not just on their bodies, but on their confidence.
Without the nearness of their patron gods, their strength had waned. That lesson had been made painfully clear. Still, understanding what they now faced would help them prepare. The enemy was powerful, yes—but alone. If they planned carefully, they could overwhelm it.
The creature's hatred for Marisol had been its undoing. That same obsession had given Jaime the chance to strike a final blow, that sent it into the water. Capturing it, however—that was Marisol's idea. She had insisted it was possible, if they could disable it. Jaime and Jimena had both objected, but she stood firm.
The ambush had been meant for her. It had waited in the cliffside's shadow, watching for its moment. When it lunged, Marisol had reacted fast—too fast for it to land a clean strike. But when Jaime appeared, her focus split, and the creature seized its chance. The way it fixated on her, the pure bloodlust in its eyes, had shaken even the twins. They no longer dared to place her on the front lines so freely.
And yet, Marisol couldn't shake the strange sense of familiarity she'd felt in its presence. Something deep in her chest resonated when she looked into its eyes. She would have to speak with her grandmother—to finally understand why their people lived in fear, and why they had chosen the bay as their refuge.
Before they parted, she asked Jimena to speak with her father. Jimena started to protest, but Marisol silenced her with a look.
"We need the hunters," she said. "If we want to capture that thing, we can't do it alone."
After a tense silence, Jimena agreed.
They had rushed ahead, blind with faith in their power and the reverence spirits supposedly held for their kind. But the world was no longer so simple.
There were other gods out there—ones who wished them harm. Marisol had felt it in the creature's aura: divine energy, thick and suffocating. Its very presence attacked the senses, numbing the body and clouding the mind. One mistake could have ended them.
She would not allow that again.
As dusk settled over the village and they prepared to part for the evening, Marisol turned to Jaime.
"Ask around," she told him. "See if anyone needs our help. We're more than just three chosen with power—we're leaders, Jaime. Let's start acting like it."
He looked at her, surprised by the calm in her expression. The fear she'd felt earlier was gone—washed away, replaced by something stronger.
In her eyes, he saw a flowing river—steady, relentless, and unstoppable.
That night, Marisol and her grandmother didn't go to Javier's house for dinner as planned. Instead, they stayed home, seated before the flickering fire in the dim hut. To Marisol's surprise, her grandmother spoke openly—more openly than she ever had before—about her past, and about how the bay and the surrounding villages had come to be.
The story she told was ancient.
Long ago, there had been a powerful god, born from the union of primordial deities—a war god who ruled through blood and fire. His strength was unmatched, his domain vast. Through endless conquest, he built an empire sustained by ritual sacrifice. The blood of the fallen fed his flames, and in return, his divinity poured into the hearts of his worshippers, granting them unnatural power.
But even gods can fall.
In time, this god met his end—defeated by a mightier empire, or perhaps undone by elements unknown. No one could say for certain. What mattered was that his reign ended, his body torn apart, and his spirit scattered across the lands.
Her grandmother's voice grew softer as she spoke.
"What I fear most," she said, her eyes reflecting the firelight, "is the return of that god's faith. There are those who still remember him—followers of blood and flame. Cannibals who worship violence as divinity. If they rise again, they will drown these lands in chaos."
Marisol listened in silence, her heart heavy.
When she asked about the creature they'd fought, her grandmother hesitated. Then, with a long breath, she began another story—this one about her own youth.
She spoke of her travels through a world filled with strange gods and restless spirits. Of the first time she'd seen the ceiba forest and felt its sacred breath. Of the battles she had fought, and the companions she had lost.
And finally, of how she had come to this quiet bay—this fragile refuge between the forest and the sea—and chosen to make it her home.
Ma Chia skipped over much of her own past and instead began to speak of her old friend, Tomas—her voice soft, as if naming a ghost.
He had once been the heart of faith in this region, she said. A man touched by another god, one partly responsible for the downfall of the ancient war god she had mentioned earlier. Padre Tomas, as everyone had called him, led a humble church not unlike the new faith center the children had built. But this one had been dedicated to a god of light—a benevolent deity whose radiance purified water, crops, beasts, and people alike.
"At times of danger," she said, waving her hands as if conjuring the memory, "that light could shield us. Its brilliance could drive back any corruption, any curse."
Marisol watched the way her grandmother's fingers trembled as she gestured, as though the power still flickered at their tips.
Then Ma Chia spoke of Tomas himself—of their friendship, their travels, their shared devotion. "We were companions," she whispered, "worshipers of the same light." Her eyes grew distant. "And perhaps… that was our undoing."
Marisol could see the pain rising in her grandmother's expression. She reached forward and embraced her gently, feeling the frail woman's shoulders quake.
After a long silence, Ma Chia spoke again, her tone raw and trembling.
"It was the day your parents died," she said. "The day half our village was taken."
She leaned back, groaning softly as if her memories were a physical wound. Marisol tried to calm her, rubbing her back, but the old woman pressed on—determined to release the grief that had festered for decades.
"The storm came without warning," she said, her eyes glassy and unfocused. "Thunder cracked like the gods themselves were at war. The sea rose—silent, black, hungry. It crept upon the first houses before anyone stirred. Those poor souls never even woke…"
Her voice broke.
"Your parents were among the few who woke in time. They had felt it—a nightmare that gripped them, a shadow that smothered the light. The connection to our god was severed. The enemy struck at the moment our faith was weakest, when the light itself was veiled."
Marisol swallowed hard, her throat dry.
"The first wave took the lower homes," Ma Chia continued. "But the survivors escaped into the mountains. Your parents, along with a few passing curanderos, had long ago built a sanctuary deep in the forest—a place where the god's light could still touch the earth. There, the herbs stayed fresh as the day they were picked. The sick healed quickly. The air itself shimmered with purity."
Her eyes hardened suddenly, gleaming with the memory of divine terror.
"But that other god… it found them."
Marisol leaned closer, barely breathing.
"I felt it from miles away," Ma Chia whispered. "The air turned to fire on my skin. The earth trembled. Then I saw it—"
She lifted a shaking hand toward the darkness above them.
"—a serpent of black water, vast as a mountain, crawling from the ocean. It moved like a creature made of flesh, twisting with the power of divinity. It struck the mountain where your parents, and everyone hid."
The old woman fell silent then, the crackling fire filling the room with its quiet roar.
Marisol sat frozen, her hands gripping her knees. In her chest, her gem pulsed faintly—like a heartbeat answering the storm that had once taken everything from her family.
Ma Chia's eyes dimmed, her words growing slower, as if each one pulled her further back through the years.
"We could gather herbs late into the night," she said softly. "The god's light guarded us, kept the dark at bay. But that night…" —her voice trembled— "that night, the light faltered. It dimmed all at once, as though something vast had swallowed it. The air itself burned with power, terrible and unnatural."
She stared into the hearth flames, the reflection of fire dancing in her gaze. "I ran," she whispered. "I ran as fast as I could. But by the time I reached them—" she shook her head, "—I was too late. Even if I'd arrived sooner… what could I have done against such a thing?"
The old woman's hands tightened on her lap. "When our faith broke that night, so did we. Confusion took root in our hearts. The people we had prayed beside, trusted all our lives, turned on one another. The storm took many—but others vanished in ways I still cannot speak of. Whole families washed away, as if erased from the world. Only those who remembered them could keep their names alive."
Her voice fell to a near whisper. "Those who survived never spoke of it again. We let silence carry the burden. Perhaps that was our sin."
She looked toward the window, where the sea wind pressed faintly against the wooden shutters. "The neighboring villages helped at first. People moved—some to rebuild here, some to flee forever. In time, the memory of what happened faded like mist. Only a few of us carried the truth."
Marisol felt her throat tighten. "And Tomas?" she asked quietly.
Ma Chia's expression changed—grief tempered by something harder, something bitter.
"Tomas…" She took a long breath. "He refused to let his faith die with his wife. When no one else would listen, he clung to the light as if it were the last thread holding him to the world. I visited him, long after the storm. He seemed—" she paused, searching for the word, "—broken, yes, but trying. He had rebuilt the old church's garden, planted herbs again. People came to him for help. For a while, it seemed as though he had found peace."
She fell silent. The fire crackled.
Marisol waited, knowing there was more.
When Ma Chia finally spoke again, her voice was barely audible. "I do not know what became of him after that. But I am certain of one thing…"
Her gaze lifted to meet Marisol's, sharp and wet with sorrow. "The creature you faced—the one that hunts you—it is Tomas. I feel it in my bones. That same light I once prayed beside… twisted now, poisoned by loss and hatred. He was consumed by what he could not save."
The room went still. The only sound was the hollow echo of the waves beyond the walls.
Marisol could not speak. The image of the scaled creature—the venom in its eyes, the strange sorrow beneath its rage—flashed in her mind. It all fit.
She clenched her fists, whispering to herself, "Then we'll save him… or end his suffering."
Ma Chia said nothing. She only stared into the fire, her reflection flickering like the last ember of a long-dead light.
Morning came quickly, the night's weight scattered across restless dreams.
Marisol dreamed of water—endless, shimmering water—and a serpent gliding through it, circling closer and closer until its eyes met hers.
Jaime dreamed of the village restored. He saw the people smiling, the children running free of fear, the old homes rebuilt. He worked tirelessly, fixing, helping, until the faces around him blurred into light and laughter.
Jimena's dreams were harsher. She argued again and again with her father, their voices clashing like thunder. But somewhere amid the shouting, she saw his face soften. Words of forgiveness—real or imagined—soothed her until the anger ebbed and her body finally stilled.
When dawn came, all three awoke with a start. The village was already stirring, waiting for their chosen leaders to bring about a new day.
They gathered to eat together—sweet maize bread, beans, fish, and warm tortillas passed from hand to hand. The air filled with the scent of smoke and salt, laughter rising even among those who had once been wary of them.
That morning, the hunters joined them for the journey. Their task was to extend the path they called the Green Road—a living corridor that connected the heart of the village to the world beyond. The first road, leading to the Blue Deer Lagoon, had already begun to flourish, sprouting fruit trees and edible herbs along its edges. This new one would head toward what they hoped was still another thriving settlement.
If danger came again, the hunters would be there.
Marisol had convinced the twins—and the others—that they would capture the creature, not kill it. Her conviction was steady, her plan precise, though the memory of the serpent's eyes still haunted her.
At least, she thought, that's the plan—if everything goes accordingly.
So they went—slow and steady.
Jimena and Marisol focused entirely on shaping the Green Road, their powers intertwining as Jaime guarded them alongside the hunters.
Some hunters took notes as they went, whispering among themselves about the creatures they encountered. It was strange, they said, to see so many small mammals so close to the village—these were usually the first to disappear when hunting began.
The plants that sprouted from Marisol's sacred water thrived. Many were edible, and even those long out of season grew rapidly, drinking deeply of her divine essence.
The slower they moved, the more their energy seeped into the earth. Fire and water strengthened each other—Jimena's flames purifying the soil, Marisol's streams breathing new life into it. The plants shimmered faintly with a divine glow, their leaves pulsing with soft light.
They walked carefully, listening for every rustle, every shriek, every strange call that echoed through the forest. Yet Father Tomas did not appear. Even as they paused to eat—taking turns and chatting quietly—the forest remained still. The green corridor behind them stretched wide and lush, growing at a pace visible to the eye.
The hunters were awed by their new priests. Few among them remembered what it had been like when the god of light ruled this land, but witnessing such miracles stirred a reverence that words couldn't describe. To see life grow where destruction once ruled—it drew them closer to belief.
When they reached the place of the ambush, they searched carefully. They found only faint drops of blood and scattered scales, glinting faintly in the sun. After some debate, they decided to move on, leaving behind a small sanctuary—Marisol's idea, a resting place that could one day hold meaning.
By the time they turned back, the sun was low. They rested once along the return path, eating small berries plucked from vines and shrubs. The fruits hummed with the energy of the road, sustaining them more than any meal could.
The three chosen walked at front and back, guarding the hunters and the sacred path they had built. Their vigilance was quiet but unbroken—Father Tomas might return, and this time, they would be ready.
Thankfully, they made it to the village without incident.
Marisol, however, knew that Tomas was still out there—somewhere in the forest, watching. Waiting. But they would not go searching for the creature.
The new era had changed the very air. Small traces of divinity now drifted through it, subtle but potent—energy that all living things could use to grow in strength. It was the same current that had once awakened the gods themselves. Even in such small amounts, it was enough to nurture minor divinities and sustain the three chosen, divine vessels carrying the vast power now anchored at the heart of the village.
Its influence could already be felt among the people. Javier, who had suffered under mental corruption, was recovering faster than anyone expected. Still, worry shadowed his face whenever he saw his daughter leading others into danger. His son had grown strong—judgmental at times, yes—but Javier could see the love in his children's eyes. Their fiery words during that last argument had reminded him so much of their mother. Everyone had always said his temper was the greater one, but he knew the truth: that fire had been hers—and it burned in their daughter's heart.
Chia stood off to one side, watching as the villagers gathered to greet her granddaughter. The difference in how they were treated now was striking—gone was the old fear and avoidance. People waved, smiling, even laughing. Chia returned a few of those waves, her old friends among them.
She understood the way people were—their fear, their silence, their sudden warmth when hope returned. She had left her bitterness behind long ago. Now, as she looked upon the green shimmer that crowned the village, she knew: their community would heal. It would grow. It would prosper.
She could see it.