The lake lay silent beneath the moon, but beneath that silence the earth breathed.

  The swarm was not idle.

  Every root system concealed tunnels. Every hollow log housed chitin and mandible. Beneath stones and within reed beds, thousands upon thousands of tiny bodies waited in disciplined stillness. They did not fidget. They did not fear.

  They listened.

  The queens, newly ascended into half-spirit forms, pulsed faintly within their chambers. Their bodies remained physical—heavy with eggs, slick with resin and nectar—but their awareness extended beyond flesh. Threads of faith bound them to one another and to their distant goddess.

  Through those threads, they felt purpose.

  The smallest drones trembled with anticipation. They had tasted corruption and survived it. They had consumed polluted motes and transformed them into something structured. Something useful. Where rot once festered, now discipline thrived.

  The queens absorbed the corrupted fragments drifting through the soil and air. Not blindly—never blindly. They filtered them through glands altered by divine nectar. Corruption became fuel. Fuel became vitality. Vitality became brood.

  Eggs glistened in layered combs carved from mud and sap.

  Within them, tiny shapes churned.

  At first they were little more than writhing clots—spheres of stolen corruption gnawing at the faith embedded in their shells. The process was violent. Many perished. Those that endured were stronger for it.

  When the time came, the queens administered their honeyed sacrament.

  Through trophallaxis, they shared a thick, shimmering mixture—faith, nectar, powdered herbs, and diluted divinity gifted by the goddess. The fluid carried concept. Obedience. Identity.

  It refined the larvae.

  Some grew into warriors, their mandibles thicker, their carapaces harder.

  A rare few carried a resonance that made the queens pause. Those were marked internally—potential future sovereigns. Future kings. Future queens.

  The beasts adopted into the swarm watched from the perimeter.

  Armadillos rooted near the outer trenches, their armored backs blending with the terrain. Beside them now stood others—badgers with scarred muzzles, lean wild dogs, even a pair of massive horned deer whose antlers had been wrapped in hardened resin.

  They were fewer.

  But they were deliberate.

  Pitfalls had been dug and disguised with reeds and loose soil. Burrows interlinked beneath the outer ring of huts, forming escape routes and ambush corridors. Humans might only twist an ankle if careless—but larger, heavier threats would not be so fortunate.

  The swarm’s expansion had already begun.

  In a widening carpet of glinting bodies, they marched outward from the village. Not in chaotic frenzy, but in organized waves. Scouts first. Harvesters behind. Soldiers last.

  Small predators were overwhelmed and subdued. Nests of rival insects were assimilated or dismantled. Aggressive beasts were either driven away or broken down into nourishment.

  The queens pushed their hives to capacity.

  They worked without rest.

  Because the promise had been made.

  Ascension.

  The goddess had whispered of alebrijes—spiritual forms anchored to idols or marked with divinity. Guardians that would not fade when flesh failed. Beings of concept given shape and permanence.

  The word alone ignited something primal within the swarm.

  To rise beyond instinct.

  To become symbol.

  To stand beside their goddess not merely as tools—but as protectors of her domain.

  The queens trembled at the thought.

  Above the lake, a faint breeze stirred.

  Beneath the earth, thousands of tiny hearts beat in synchrony.

  They did not know precisely what was coming.

  But they were preparing for it.

  And when corruption surged from water or sky—

  The village would not stand alone.

  -

  Mort watched the growing crowd before him. Most looked reluctant. Even after healing so many, it still wasn’t enough for them to trust him completely.

  He understood why.

  He had barely spoken to those he’d visited, leaving as soon as each extraction was complete. He’d waved away tears and gratitude from the villagers, refusing to linger long enough for familiarity to take root.

  The faces he recognized in the crowd all shied away from his gaze. Whether they disliked him or feared something else, he couldn’t tell. They cast glances from afar as offerings slowly accumulated in front of him. Workers moved quickly, careful to maintain a respectful distance.

  Todloc came and went in intervals, greeting Mort each time before dropping off bundles of fragrant flowers. Their perfume drifted through the air, gradually easing the tension as the colorful piles grew higher.

  Xochiquetzal giggled when mischievous children darted forward to snatch a few blossoms from the thousands forming the vibrant mounds. After that, she finally pushed Mort from his resting place on the ground, urging him to interact with the villagers he had saved. She nagged him to finish sowing the seeds of worship within them.

  Mort could only sigh and relent.

  It also gave him an excuse to rise and search for Renata. His body had grown faintly numb without her guiding the flow of energy within him. The flower dormant in his gem refused to move fully at his command the way it did under Renata’s touch.

  Not that he needed the little girl beside him at all times. He had done this in part so she could enjoy something closer to a normal life. Their strange circumstances were his fault, after all. The least he could do was make amends.

  Starting with connections.

  He sighed and scanned the gathered villagers.

  He found Renata quickly. She stood at the center of a group of girls already adorned with flowers, wearing crowns and necklaces of blossoms. With Renata leading them, none of the girls seemed uncomfortable in the large gathering, even as the event dragged on toward what Xochiquetzal considered an “adequate accumulation.”

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  She had complained endlessly about that.

  Todloc had only managed to convince a handful of villagers fully. The rest kept their distance, watching events unfold with cautious eyes.

  Mort had even heard whispered jeers about the toad god coming to smite him. But those voices were only a few among hundreds. Most seemed to hope for a better future—they were simply too afraid of the toad to act.

  Just as Mort had once been afraid of Itzcamazotz’s cruelty.

  Stepping forward, Mort raised his arms.

  He willed his divinity to gather in his palms, urging the pink essence to flow outward. It unfurled like clouds of sweet-scented mist, drifting gently across the crowd.

  He needed a moment before addressing them.

  So he used it to examine their health.

  With everyone gathered so closely, he no longer had to enter each home individually. The clouds enveloped villagers one by one. Within the pink haze, flurries of color flashed—signals of imbalance—before settling back into a calm rose hue when nothing was amiss.

  Most of them were healthy.

  Only a few elders required his direct attention.

  Xochiquetzal made healing effortless. The pink energy merged eagerly with flesh and spirit alike, seeking corruption and wrapping it in a passionate embrace. Pain and suffering hidden in the darkest corners of their hearts were smothered and drawn into warmth.

  Soft sighs escaped those burdened by old traumas and long-held hatred.

  Families turned in alarm at the sudden expressions of bliss, asking what had happened. Their eyes soon drifted back to Mort, standing amid the mounds of flowers, waiting to see what else the young divinity would reveal.

  Mort allowed the energy to dissipate.

  He was satisfied.

  Despite the looming threat and the sickness that had afflicted dozens only days ago, the villagers were remarkably resilient.

  Now came the harder part.

  Trust.

  Mort wasn’t sure how to begin addressing everyone present, so he leaned on the goddess. Her whispers came smoothly, with the practiced ease of someone long accustomed to tempering emotions and bending them to the moment.

  They had agreed the village needed to know what was coming. Without understanding, the villagers would be vulnerable—reinfected the moment they sought communion with the toad. So Xochiquetzal stirred Mort’s emotions, kindling fervor within him as he finally revealed the truth.

  Mort channeled Xochiquetzal’s divinity, letting the sweet-scented clouds that still lingered in the air soothe the crowd even as his lips shaped words of blasphemy. The villagers shifted uneasily, but no one screamed in outrage. Mort couldn’t tell whether the clouds had done their work or whether their faith in the toad had never been as firm as he’d assumed.

  What he did see was confusion—then the slow, creeping terror of realization.

  The elders understood first. Before panic could spread, the pink haze thickened around them, pouring out the last reserves of stored divinity to coax calm back into the gathering.

  The energy seeped into skin and filled their lungs with every breath. Euphoria followed, then softened into a deep, pliant relaxation. The villagers slipped into something close to enlightenment—minds opened, sharpened, focused by the intoxicating touch of divinity.

  Mort continued, now speaking like a prophet of Xochiquetzal. Images bloomed in the air around him, shaped by carefully guided strands of divine power. Faith circled him, hesitant but curious. Those he had healed before were the first to lean forward, convinced by memory as much as spectacle. Small motes of belief—carrying fragile hope—drifted toward him in loose clusters.

  Xochiquetzal turned his passion higher, until it simmered near boiling. Mort’s body swelled, veins standing out as blood surged violently through him. The strain brought a strange clarity. His thoughts flowed clean and sharp, perfectly aligned with his words.

  He promised hope. He promised health. He promised happiness.

  Still, nearly half remained uncertain, watching him with guarded eyes—fearful of rejection, of annihilation, of divine retribution. Mort sensed it and cooled himself, tempering his fervor until it mirrored the doubt in their hearts.

  The goddess drew back the heat entirely, cloaking him in something colder.

  Mort’s body shrank, bones cracking softly as they settled. His racing heart slowed to a deliberate, measured beat. He surveyed them like a predator—not lunging, simply present. Cold ruthlessness washed over the crowd, and memories of the pain he had once inflicted surfaced in his mind.

  “I will bring judgment upon anyone who harms you.”

  His gaze locked onto the most fearful among them, piercing as if searching the reflections of their souls. He stood open before them—an embrace waiting to be accepted.

  “I will return your faith with the nurture and protection of a father.”

  Embarrassment flickered within him, but he did not falter. His mind blended more fully with Xochiquetzal’s, her divinity saturating him until the line between them blurred.

  “I will become your blanket at night and your guide during the day.”

  His aura flared. Something answered from deep within, pulling more divinity outward, wrapping him in radiance.

  “I will teach you how to hunt—and how to bring shade.”

  Faith, once scattered, now flowed steadily. It pooled and spun around him, weaving itself into divine armor of shifting color. Darker emotions—fear, wrath, vengeance—twisted into wicked thorns along its surface.

  “I will show you miracles born from your devotion.”

  The whirlpool of faith slammed into him at last, solidifying the armor and hardening his lesser divinity into something tangible, something real.

  And this time, the villagers did not look away.