Dinner had turned into something of a village gathering—hunters and fishermen seated side by side with the chosen.
The fishermen spoke first, their voices uneasy. Strange shapes had begun to appear deep in the ocean waters—movements that were too deliberate, too unnatural. Going out to sea was becoming harder with each passing day. So far, no one had been harmed, but the chosen still warned them all to stay close to shore. Any loss now would be devastating.
The hunters, by contrast, were the most animated that night. They retold the day's journey with wide eyes and loud laughter, their words rising with excitement as they spoke of the chosen's powers—the living road, the glowing plants, the way divine energy shimmered in the air. The animals and plants became mere side notes to their story of bravery and wonder.
Ma Chia was absent that evening, busy with preparations for something she would not yet name. Her absence added a strange quiet to the night. Yet, within that stillness, a growing confidence pulsed through the villagers. Faith, once fractured, was slowly being mended.
The croaks of frogs and the ceaseless hum of insects filled the air, louder than usual, as if the night itself was alive and restless.
When the gathering ended, the three priests lay to rest, their minds heavy with the weight of stories, worries, and plans. Each turned in their sleep, their thoughts weaving into the tapestry of dreams.
Morning came without warning. The light broke through open windows, brushing over tired faces.
Marisol had chosen to stay the night, sharing a bed with Jimena, who slept sprawled across the mattress meant for two.
Marisol chuckled at the sight of her friend's sleeping form, limbs sprawled across the bed like a starfish.
Stretching, she cupped her hands and summoned a pool of water that shimmered in the dim morning light. The liquid clung to her palms as she rubbed her face, washing away the last traces of sleep.
Her sacred water had come with many small blessings. No more worrying about finding a stream or well—the water she conjured was always pure and sweet. It cleansed her skin, banished odor, and left her feeling light. Using her gift in these minute, everyday ways had helped her refine her control—each simple act, another lesson in grace and balance.
She had shared that thought with Jimena the night before. But finding a daily use for fire, they'd both agreed, was harder. Aside from warmth and keeping the darkness at bay, fire didn't lend itself easily to gentle habits.
Slipping quietly from the house, Marisol stepped into the cool morning air. The village was only beginning to stir—faint voices, the smell of woodsmoke. Behind the home sat the small outhouse, a plain wooden structure sheltering little more than a hole in the ground.
Jimena had spoken often of improving it—of creating something more dignified after what they had seen in the temple that once housed them in Mictlan.
Marisol had agreed. A flowing channel of water, clean and constant, seemed far more fitting for a people blessed by divinity than a pit in the soil.
Back inside, Marisol found Jaime already awake, eating with a few of the hunters who had arrived early. They were dipping sweet bread into steaming cacao, eating with the kind of gusto that came from long days and honest labor.
Jaime looked up as she entered and gave her a small nod. He noticed Jimena's absence but didn't comment, only motioned for Marisol to sit. She joined them, breaking off a sharp-edged piece of bread and chewing thoughtfully as she began to plan the morning's route in her mind. Nothing would change much today—just the pace and direction.
The room settled into a comfortable silence, filled with the sounds of quiet eating, the scrape of mugs, and the occasional laugh between hunters. Then Jimena appeared, hair still tousled from sleep, her presence brightening the dim room. She squeezed in at the table, somehow fitting among the tangle of elbows and shoulders.
A few moments later, Javier stopped by. The twins' father looked hurried but managed a smile before explaining that the farmers needed his help. He didn't linger, only placed a hand on Jaime's shoulder and nodded to Marisol before heading back out into the brightening day.
Not long after, a messenger arrived from Ma Chia. The old woman, it seemed, had taken charge of the village's safety for the day—perhaps even for the next. The messenger seemed puzzled by the certainty in her tone, but Marisol understood. Her grandmother wouldn't have made such a promise without reason.
She smiled faintly, feeling a flicker of confidence. If Ma Chia said the village would be safe, then it would be.
With spirits lifted, they packed their bags—bread, dried fruits, and seeds filling the woven satchels. The hunters warned against bringing meat, reminding them how easily its scent drew unwanted attention.
With that, the group gathered outside. The air carried the faint scent of wet leaves and sea salt. Birds called from the trees. Someone shouted a cheerful blessing, and laughter followed.
Then, with a final round of cheers, the chosen and their companions set out once again, the morning sun glinting on the edges of their green road.
They jogged through the first half of their journey, moving as one through the forest's green shade. The hunters, struggling to keep pace, snatched handfuls of berries from low shrubs whenever they could. Even with the quick tempo, their breaks were brief and efficient.
By midday, they reached the sanctuary clearing that overlooked the ocean cliffs. The place had changed overnight. A ring of young saplings had sprung up where none had been before—forming a natural fence of vibrant green that swayed gently in the sea breeze.
They took lunch in turns, keeping their eyes on the green road and the shadowed forest beyond. The hunters had already inspected the cliff face for signs of Father Tomas. Finding none brought no comfort; if anything, the silence only deepened their unease.
The hunters whispered among themselves about what they had seen along the way. The animals, they said, had been different. Rabbits and foxes refused to flee at their approach. Birds hissed from branches instead of taking flight. Even the insects seemed agitated, darting and circling as if caught in a spell. None of them mentioned it to the chosen, uncertain whether this strangeness was tied to their gods' work—or something else entirely.
The plants too had changed. Some grew too fast, blooming and withering in moments, their colors unnaturally bright. Others pulsed faintly with light, drinking deeply of the sacred power that seeped into the soil. The hunters exchanged wary looks. The chosen's powers, though miraculous, were still a mystery to them.
When their rest was done and the sun hung heavy overhead, they began the second stretch of the green road.
Jimena led the way, her hands glowing red as she burned through the overgrowth. Flames roared ahead of her, clearing vines and thorns with ruthless precision. Animals shrieked and scattered; insects burst and sizzled in the heat.
Then came Marisol—her wave of sacred water rolling forward, cool and luminous. It washed over the blackened trunks, and life bloomed in its wake. Leaves unfurled. Flowers opened. The air filled with the scent of wet earth and renewal.
But beneath that fresh sweetness lingered something else.
A faint metallic tang.
Like blood carried on the wind.
No one noticed it at first. A faint sweetness drifted on the air—pleasant, almost floral. It clung to the back of their throats, growing stronger the farther they walked from the cliffside sanctuary.
Small animals gathered along the green road, staring with glassy eyes. They refused to flee, even when the hunters approached. Only when the singe of Jimena's fire reached their fur did they bolt, shrieking into the undergrowth.
Then came the first real sign that something was wrong. The sweetness sharpened, turning cloying—almost intoxicating. Beneath it, the metallic sting of blood.
The hunters stumbled, their movements sluggish and unfocused. Vines thickened underfoot, curling along the path like serpents. Thorns snagged at boots and clothes, creeping up legs as if alive.
"Keep together!" Jaime shouted, cutting through the haze.
But the forest was no longer obeying reason. The vines lashed out, snapping around ankles and arms. The branches above shivered and twisted, spilling clouds of pollen that glimmered gold in the sunlight.
Jimena flared. Her entire body ignited in a violent burst, flames rolling outward in a ring of heat. The vines blackened instantly, shriveling to ash. Marisol had to leap back to avoid being scorched.
The animals hissed, growled, and lunged from every shadow—possessed by something unseen. Their eyes shone red with unnatural light.
Jaime rushed to the nearest hunter who had fallen, his obsidian macuahuitl flashing in arcs of black and gold. He cleaved through vines and beasts alike, the blade's divine hum cutting through the growing madness.
The clearing descended into chaos. The chosen split apart, each taking a portion of the fight. Jimena's flames carved swaths through the swarming insects and crazed beasts, while Marisol's sacred water swept across the choking roots, purging their corruption in waves of sacred water.
Jaime fought wherever the battle burned hottest—keeping the largest creatures, and the thickest of the creeping vines, from taking anyone unprepared.
It wasn't just a frenzy.
It was corruption—something divine turned wrong.
Things only worsened when Tomas appeared—Jaime spotted him through the chaos, but a maddened buck charged at him before he could react.
The creature struck first, slamming into Marisol's obsidian shield. Her instincts flared faster than thought; divine glass shimmered and held under the impact.
Jimena moved next—pure reaction, pure flame. She collided with Tomas's side, her fire bursting in violet fury. Feathers and scales sizzled black where her heat struck.
Then Xolo erupted from Jimena's gem in a streak of smoke and light, jaws latching onto Tomas's scaled arm. He growled low, refusing to let go even as the creature thrashed.
Jaime charged through the storm. Each step left golden cracks in the earth, obsidian armor forming over his limbs, heavy and radiant. He smashed aside the beasts still crazed around him and brought his macuahuitl down on Tomas's back with all the strength he had left.
The blow landed deep. The obsidian edge sank through scales and sinew, divine light spilling from the wound.
Tomas howled—a sound that wasn't human or godly, but something broken between. The noise sent ripples through the corrupted forest, every beast freezing for a heartbeat.
Jaime pressed harder, eyes blazing with the same frenzy that filled the air. For an instant, it seemed he might lose himself to it.
Then light burst from within his armor, golden veins spreading outward as if the earth itself breathed through him. The madness faded from his eyes, replaced by clarity—and wrath.
The three chosen stood united:
Jimena wreathed in violet flame,
Marisol shielded in obsidian and pink light,
Jaime blazing gold and black at the center.
Even Xolo growled with divine fury, teeth still buried in the creatures arm.
They had struck together, perfectly—taking ambush into victory.
Then Tomas lashed out.
Divinity surged from his bloodied body, scales knitting together as green ichor pulsed through his wounds. The terrible gash Jaime had carved sealed shut in moments, as if time itself bent to his will.
Marisol braced herself, divine energy pouring into her obsidian shield. The barrier shimmered with layered reflections—her face, her fear, her resolve.
Jimena blazed bright, fire licking skyward as she rushed to grab Tomas—but his tail snapped out like a whip, slamming her into the dirt. Scorched marks where she struck him healed instantly, scales glinting with sickly light.
Tomas's fury turned wholly toward Marisol. He hammered at her defense with clawed hands that dripped a glowing liquid, each strike screeching against the obsidian glass. Jaime and Xolo staggered nearby, still dazed by the sweet scent that thickened the air, dulling their senses.
Claw met shield, again and again—
A terrible rhythm that shook the clearing.
And then—
Jimena roared.
A comet of violet fire slammed into Tomas's back, carrying him through the undergrowth. They crashed into a massive ceiba tree that split with the impact, leaves raining down like embers.
For a heartbeat, everything stilled.
Tomas lay sprawled, smoke rising from his body.
Jimena turned, eyes gleaming with triumph. "That's what you—"
Her words died as a sickly green aura began to seep from Tomas's body. It oozed like rot, curling through the air with the stench of decay. The ceiba tree blackened, its bark blistering as corruption spread outward—only to burn away when it touched Jimena's violet flames.
Marisol, Jaime, and Xolo rushed forward, but Tomas was already moving. He snapped upright with inhuman speed, claws and tail lashing wildly. His eyes burned blood-red within the haze of green, madness and divinity twisting together.
He shrieked—not words, but something ancient and venomous—and leapt not at Marisol as expected, but at Xolo.
The blow struck before anyone could react. The dog yelped, tumbling across the dirt, divine smoke leaking from his wounds.
"Xolo!" Jimena screamed, dropping to his side.
But Tomas was already gone, fleeing into the forest. His laughter echoed through the trees—shrill, mocking, and hateful.
Jimena's eyes burned like twin suns. She pulled Xolo close, whispering a soft promise as he dissolved into light, retreating into her gem to heal.
"He'll be fine," she muttered, voice trembling with rage. "But Tomas…"
The ground around her cracked from the heat she gave off.
"No one hurts my family and gets away with it."