Ocotlán praised the toad without pause, his voice hoarse from constant devotion.

  The small hut he had claimed as his own was carefully arranged in honor of his god. Though modest in size, the shrine he constructed for communion was meticulous—worthy, in his mind, of divine attention. It was built from the most precious materials he could gather in the area. Dried frog specimens and delicate bones formed its foundation, arranged as base offerings in reverent symmetry.

  Ocotlán knelt before the small altar.

  At its center stood a frog-bone effigy he had carved himself. Once the incense was lit, it emitted a faint aura of decay—thicker, heavier than before. That presence had not accompanied previous rituals using the same materials.

  He noticed.

  And then he chose not to.

  Pressing his palms together, he bowed deeply.

  He thanked the toad profusely—for another day of life, for another day of sustenance, for the mercy of breath and bone. Gratitude spilled from him without restraint as he laid fresh offerings at the base of the effigy.

  Several small animals from his traps.

  Mostly rats.

  The abandoned village teemed with them.

  The ceremony was both ritual and penance. A daily practice he was fortunate to continue, even after he and the rest of his people had become homeless. It was also a payment—one he offered willingly—for the salvation of his soul.

  He pressed his forehead to the packed earth floor.

  “Thank you,” he whispered again and again. “For your mercy. For your love.”

  He wept as he praised the toad’s boundless magnanimity. For saving them. For sending warnings to their priest. For granting strength to the sick and frail when madness had descended upon the two gods they once believed were allies.

  Ocotlán’s body curled inward as he sobbed.

  He remembered the moment the bedridden had risen, trembling but empowered, escaping what would have been certain slaughter. He remembered how their god had guided them through the chaos of losing their home—how it had led them to this empty settlement, abandoned yet untouched, as though prepared for their arrival.

  This had been providence.

  It had to be.

  Some among the survivors suggested the village might have belonged to followers of the toad god as well. No one had family here, though a few recognized it from brief visits in years past. That familiarity had been enough. They slept that first night without fear, convinced guidance would come with the dawn.

  But guidance had not come.

  Days passed.

  Then more.

  So they ate from the village’s stored food, rationing carefully, whispering their doubts when they believed no one was listening.

  Ocotlán made certain he listened.

  Whenever he heard hesitation—whenever faith wavered—he spoke louder. He proclaimed the toad’s will with fervor, forcing others to repeat his praises until uncertainty dissolved beneath repetition.

  Blasphemy could not be allowed to fester.

  Otherwise, he would have to do to them what he had already done in secret.

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  They would not understand the necessity.

  They had not seen what he had seen.

  He still remembered the day his brother was swallowed whole—chosen as an offering when his time came. Ocotlán had watched in reverent horror as the toad’s will was fulfilled.

  It had been beautiful.

  It had been righteous.

  His parents had ensured he understood that.

  They had beaten adoration into his flesh. Branded devotion into his skin and mind. They had given him blessed tonics that burned through his veins, allowing him to peer further—to see beyond what ordinary men perceived.

  Through them, he learned his purpose.

  He was an instrument.

  A vessel.

  The toad whispered to him sometimes. Usually small things. More offerings. More devotion. Tasks the priests hesitated to complete or postponed in cowardice.

  Ocotlán never hesitated.

  At first, it had been insects.

  Hundreds. Thousands.

  Crawling, leaping, buzzing offerings gathered in clay jars and traps. That was how he learned to hunt. How he learned to survive after his parents disappeared without explanation.

  His hand rose sharply.

  He struck his own forehead with force.

  “Do not stray,” he muttered.

  Memory was weakness.

  He needed only the light of his god.

  He struck himself again, harder, until pain flared bright and cleansing. He welcomed it. He needed to empty himself—to become hollow enough for divinity to fill.

  He was worthy.

  He had proven it.

  Even now, when the toad remained silent and unseen, Ocotlán maintained the faith of others. While the priest allowed doubt to linger among the foolish, Ocotlán purged it.

  Quietly.

  Efficiently.

  His parents had told him he was blessed. They had burned that truth into him with sacred tonics and sacred pain. Through suffering, he had glimpsed the greater design—the all-embracing divinity of his god.

  The toad took.

  And the toad granted life.

  Balance required both.

  Like this time passed, the quiet night settling over the unsettling village.

  Ocotlán had done nothing but commune with the toad god. All other tasks were beneath him now—chores the others could perform, or matters he would attend only when his body neared collapse. The dull throbbing in his head came and went like distant thunder.

  He barely noticed it anymore.

  At first, the squirming sensation beneath his skull had disturbed him. He had feared that something had finally come to claim his soul despite all he had sacrificed.

  Then he laughed.

  Maniacal, unrestrained laughter filled the dark, blood-slick hut. The air reeked of iron, stomach bile, and the sour stench of improper butchering. Feces and rot blended into something thick and suffocating, burning his throat with every breath.

  The sacrifices lay scattered around him.

  Several goats.

  At least—he thought they were goats.

  Someone had left them at his doorway.

  Or perhaps he had fetched them himself.

  No… no, they had been wandering the village.

  Though… they had seemed oddly shaped.

  “No.”

  Ocotlán struck his forehead with the long knife he’d found days earlier. The metal rang dully against bone.

  “Goats.”

  There was something in his head.

  Something he had forgotten.

  The priest had told him something before leaving.

  Leaving.

  Left.

  Left side. Left hand. Left path.

  “Leffft…” he slurred, his mouth sagging as one side of his face drooped suddenly. His eye twitched. His vision dimmed.

  A loud crunch echoed inside the moon-shadowed room.

  “No!”

  He smashed the knife’s handle against his forehead again and again until the crunching stopped—until blood streamed down into his eyes.

  He shivered.

  He laughed.

  Then the sound began again.

  Crunching.

  Slow. Wet. Persistent.

  His thoughts frayed. The edges of memory tore loose. He tried to grasp his god—tried to focus on the image of the sacred toad—but something writhed against that image, devouring it.

  Ocotlán clawed at his face. At his scalp. At his temples.

  Something was inside him.

  The memories came all at once.

  A torrent.

  Faces.

  Names.

  The people he had accused in righteous fury. The villagers he had quietly offered up in the night. The small bodies he had dragged to the lake. The larger ones that had struggled and begged.

  The murky waters had swallowed them all.

  He had called it mercy.

  Now they clawed at him from the dark.

  Their fingers scraped against the inside of his skull. Their teeth sank into his thoughts. Their voices shrieked accusations that drowned out his prayers.

  The crunching grew louder.

  Bone splintered.

  Pain erupted—white and absolute—until it was suddenly replaced by a sickening pop.

  Ocotlán felt something slide free from the back of his skull.

  Warm liquid poured over his shoulders, thick and heavy. He understood dimly that it must be vital—must be life itself spilling away.

  But clarity came only in one final, blinding flash.

  He saw them.

  Those he had slaughtered in devotion to a bloated god.

  They stared into his eyes without hatred.

  Without mercy.

  The goats he had dragged by their horns as they cried and fought. The men and women he had drowned in sacred water. The children who had trusted him.

  He understood.

  In that last breath, he understood what they had felt.

  Helplessness.

  Betrayal.

  Terror.

  Something cold and slick slid fully from his ruined skull, dropping wetly to the floor behind him.

  The worm pulsed once.

  It had waited patiently.

  He had fed it everything.

  And in the end—

  It wanted him too.