Marisol woke with a start, startled by the noise. Piercing light flooded the hut, bright enough to banish sleep even before the sun had fully risen. She yawned, then rose quickly, washing the remnants of exhaustion away with a single thought.

  She already knew who had caused the disturbance.

  Jimena—gone long enough to leave everyone worried—had returned. And the surge of divinity rolling through the village was a hopeful sign that she had come back stronger than ever.

  With an excited spring in her step, Marisol rushed outside, eager to greet her friend. The divinity flaring around Jimena blinded her for a brief moment as she stepped into the open, but she adjusted quickly. What surprised her more was the glow that crept along her own arms as she wrapped Jimena in a hug. The circular pictograms around her gem burned especially bright.

  Kauyumari, who had carried Jimena home, bowed deeply in respect before departing. With careful, measured steps, the great deer vanished—hidden amid the light and music—leaving the villagers none the wiser as to what, or who, had passed through their streets.

  Jaime arrived soon after, worry etched deep into his expression. He hugged his sister without hesitation, and his body too began to glow. The bells and chimes that filled the morning air grew warmer, their enthusiasm seeping into their hearts as Jimena’s divinity continued to rise.

  Hidden tattoos surfaced across their skin, slowly saturating with power as beams of light converged upon the three. Like a divine beacon, they drew everything toward them—faith filled with joyous intent, mist heavy with creative dreams and unspoken hope. All of it wrapped around them, marking the trio with their first ascension.

  Without thinking, they clasped hands, just as they had at the start of their journey. Leaning into one another, they balanced the immense power that threatened to burn them whole. They pushed and pulled, willing the divinity to bend to their intent. They had begun as one—and now, they would end as three.

  Jimena struggled the most. Her internal injuries had yet to fully heal, and she groaned as the once-gentle flow of faith turned searing. Molten divinity poured into her tattoos, branding her with overwhelming energy. Pure power surged outward, bathing the area in its splendor.

  Marisol reacted instantly. She drew the excess divinity into herself, quenching it with her water—cooling and smoothing its edges—before returning it to Jimena. Strengthened by Marisol’s aid, Jimena used the reprieve to heal, if only slightly, before reigniting the flow.

  Jaime maintained their balance, watching for even the smallest shift. His eyes shone gold, and Cimi atop his head acted as a conduit, focusing and guiding the circulating power.

  When equilibrium was finally reached, a deep hum resonated through the air. It rose with every completed circuit of divinity between them. Each pass filled another ring within their tattoos, until the markings joined together, transforming their first song into a rising symphony.

  Their bodies lifted from the ground, resonating in perfect harmony. Then—three divine rings appeared behind them, pulsing outward as glowing glyphs formed at their centers.

  Obsidian armor flowed over their forms as their divinity continued to grow. A regal cloak manifested first for Jimena, then Marisol, and finally Jaime—whose frame expanded as his heavy armor settled into place.

  Golden feathers drifted behind Jaime in a radiant cloak of light. Marisol’s mantle was woven from strange, living plants, glowing with vibrant pink divinity. And Jimena—her transformation marked by an explosive flare—donned her own cloak at last. Free of rancorous souls, it flowed behind her in phantasmal fire.

  They had ascended.

  The chosen had now become lesser divinities—mortals partially ascended into immortal flesh. Their souls, freed from former confines, could now take any shape they desired.

  Yet it was wiser to remain anchored to flesh. The air itself was thick with faith and corruption, and an unmoored soul could easily be warped—polluted by foreign thoughts and emotions until something twisted and abominable was born.

  Marisol twirled through the air, laughter spilling freely as euphoria washed over her. Stepping upon empty space felt effortless, as though the world itself laid invisible stairs before her feet. Reality bent willingly, accommodating her every motion. She giggled again, unable to contain the joy swelling inside her.

  With a gentle push, she appeared beside Jimena and wrapped her in another tight hug—grateful for the gift her friend had brought them all.

  Their power mingled within their cuauhxicalli, swelling into a unified surge of divinity before spilling outward. It flowed through every living soul within their domain, binding them together in a quiet, unseen web.

  Marisol felt it immediately—a stabilizing connection to the villagers. Slivers of their thoughts, their hopes and wishes, brushed against her awareness. It reminded her of how her goddess spoke to her… only this was louder, closer, and far more overwhelming.

  Her smile wavered as the pressure mounted.

  She leaned against Jimena, who in turn rested against her, a dull ache beginning to throb behind her eyes. They allowed instinct and spirit to guide the torrent of energy as it hammered through them. Nearby, Xolo—still barely recovered—whined softly, clearly displeased with Jimena’s relentless misadventures.

  Jaime sat beside them, steady and composed. He allowed his divinity to surge freely, letting Cimi guide its flow. His obsidian armor dissolved into drifting motes of light, revealing the glowing tattoos etched across his skin. Each marking held firm against the crashing faith, channeling it safely through him as Cimi directed its path.

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  Every pictogram represented an aspect of their nature—carved into mortal flesh so it might grow alongside them like a second skin. The circular designs functioned as wells, capable of being filled and emptied. In time, they could be used to intone sacred rites… or to grant the wishes of those who placed their faith in them.

  For now, most of that power remained beyond reach.

  The trio had only just stepped fully into divinity—lesser or not. Even so, their reliance on their patron gods had already begun to lessen. They were freer now, in a way. Not alone—but no longer entirely guided by distant hands.

  Their gods would remain. Watching. Planning. Setting things into motion without the burden of uncertainty or mixed emotion.

  Gradually, the waves of faith receded, granting them room to breathe.

  Marisol hugged Jimena one last time, squeezing tight before finally reigning in her overflowing happiness. She was still smiling when the rest of the village began to stir.

  Children were the first to emerge, racing toward the trio without fear. The blessings upon their foreheads had shifted once more, taking on the same specialized quality as the first children—marks unique and quietly radiant.

  Marisol scooped several of them into her arms, settling them in her lap when they allowed it. She delighted in the new sensations that came with the contact—the warmth, the completeness, the gentle hum of fulfilled emotion.

  Those with the purest faith made her chest ache pleasantly whenever she hugged them too tightly. Their squirming protests eventually coaxed her into loosening her grip, laughter bubbling up once more.

  She was growing accustomed to her role as a nurturer within the village. The more time she spent among children and animals alike, the more an aura of living nature clung to her presence.

  Flowers bloomed wherever she walked—and each carried something extra.

  A quiet vitality that made them unmistakable among the rest.

  -

  Mort had finally convinced the priest to allow him to examine one of the sick.

  It had taken several days—days spent repeatedly encountering the older man in the forest as he searched for herbs. Just as his goddess had promised, patience and coincidence proved effective. Each meeting was small, unassuming. A shared observation. A quiet suggestion. Then gifts—rare herbs Mort had infused with careful threads of divinity.

  They worked.

  The priest’s trust grew, if only slightly. Enough to grant Mort this chance.

  Which meant Mort had been forced to venture deeper into the forest for replacements. Some of the same herbs were required to feed the more particular members of the swarm—those that had begun to change.

  A few had made breakthroughs along their path.

  Their shells gleamed with layered blessings, colors shifting with every movement. The sight of them stirred something unfamiliar in Mort. A greedy urge to nurture more. To cultivate every hue, every shimmer his swarm could offer.

  The thought helped steady his nerves.

  Because now the moment had come.

  The man lay still before him, breath shallow but steady. Mort poured every last meager drop of divinity he could spare into his examination. He combed through flesh, blood, and breath. An hour passed.

  He found nothing.

  The priest stood nearby, watching without blinking. Mort half-wondered if the man’s eyes might shrivel from the strain. But he didn’t look away. Not once.

  Mort swallowed and pressed on.

  With what little divinity remained, he formed long, thin tendrils—ghostly and pale. Gritting his teeth at the cost, he slipped them deeper. Past muscle and bone. Past thought. Carefully brushing against soul, mind, and body alike.

  He was meticulous. Conservative.

  Failure was not something he could afford.

  Especially not under that stare.

  Mort couldn’t help but wonder if the entire village was like this. The priest’s gaze lingered often too long, too sharply. It was… intense.

  He shook himself free of the thought and began again.

  Faster this time.

  The body was intact. Weak, yes—but only from prolonged lethargy and the unconscious state the man remained trapped in. No sign of poison. No rot. No imbalance.

  Next came the soul.

  Mort searched for curses, bindings, fractures. Again—nothing. Not even a scar to suggest tampering.

  His chest tightened.

  Confidence eroded, grain by grain.

  If not for his goddess whispering reassurances, Mort was certain he would have failed outright. His own thoughts turned vicious, striking at him for his inadequacy. Each spiral dragged him deeper until his goddess clawed him back out, again and again.

  He inhaled. Slowly exhaled.

  There was one place left.

  The Tonalli—nested within the mind. A delicate, sacred locus. The wellspring of vitality, identity, and worship. A place capable of generating boundless faith.

  Mort nearly scoffed.

  No mundane sickness could touch something so fundamental.

  He gave it only a cursory glance, already cataloging other explanations in his mind.

  Then his goddess screamed.

  Not a whisper. Not a warning.

  A shriek of pure terror that tore through him.

  Out.

  Get out—NOW.

  The command shattered his self-reproach instantly. Mort recoiled, tearing his tendrils free as understanding slammed into him all at once.

  This was no sickness.

  And they had already been seen.