Mort and Xochiquetzal worked in tandem, carefully distributing divinity throughout the gathered crowd. They spread emotions of acceptance, gently guiding the villagers toward hope for something better. The toad had been a tyrant—one without care for their health or growth—keeping them forever beneath him. Mort offered them their first true blessing.

  He surged with lesser divinity, leaning on Xochiquetzal to guide and shape the flow. Together they intoned the commencement of the cuauhxicalli ritual, absorbing all errant faith into the gem.

  He called for Renata, who almost instantly dissolved into divinity and blurred from within the crowd into the gem. Her friends startled at her sudden disappearance, but Mort’s divinity steadied their rising emotions, keeping them calm for the wonders yet to unfold.

  The armor sealing his body within its thorned protection was finally revealed as its shifting colors settled into darker tones of red, purple, and green. His helmet was woven from thick, dark-green vines, barely concealing red eyes that glowed with bloody divinity beneath. A crown of woody rose thorns rested upon his brow, and atop it sat a closed purple flower bulb, its crimson-veined surface pulsing softly.

  With Renata inside the flower shrine—now guiding the divinity flowing through his veins alongside Xochiquetzal—the goddess could focus solely on refining control and flavoring the divinity used to quell emotion. Mort exuded greater volumes of scented clouds, his armor acting as a conduit for his goddess’s power.

  Rose-colored divinity coated the frame, hardening it with every breath he took. It was as though Mort wore an exoskeleton of living plants that strengthened with age. Red resin accented the dark-green wooden plates, while purple veins pulsed with power, channeling divinity throughout the structure. The armor enhanced Mort with divine strength and other abilities he had yet to fully discover.

  The fruit-scented clouds began to take shape—forming young, buoyant women. Xochiquetzal infused them with an extra measure of divinity, and blessed marks appeared upon their foreheads. The colored phantasms gained a flicker of sentience. Upon awakening, they were commanded to begin a gentle dance among the villagers.

  Each carried a bundle of flowers matching her hue. In perfect synchrony, they tossed them into the sky, where the blossoms burst into petals that rained down through the colorful mist.

  Mort and Xochiquetzal intoned together once more, and a massive phantasm appeared above him. The giantess sang a melody of life, hardship, and enduring hope. Her voice flowed like a sacred rite, each note guiding divinity through the air.

  The villagers swayed with the hymn, savoring the calming warmth spreading through their bodies. Their apprehension melted and was reborn—sprouting into joy like a rooted plant beneath the sun. They embraced the simple miracle of being alive.

  As the flower phantasms danced, they began to age.

  The youthful nymphs, skipping lightly among the villagers, scattered their flowers until their hands were empty. They matured into regal beauties clothed in flowing dresses of cloud, twirling gracefully before rising into the sky to drift among the petals they had sown.

  Then they became elder women, their forms slightly stooped, some bent with time. Yet they continued to dance. Each careful step carried the intonation of their goddess—movements as precise and elegant as the most masterful performers. Their aged bodies belied the lightness of their steps as they hopped and spun with effortless grace.

  When Renata had finished refining the faith absorbed into the gem and released all the divinity she could draw from it, Mort joined the dance.

  A long cape of petals flowed behind him, held together by divine will. Pink, yellow, and brilliant red shimmered with profound emotion, each color alive with devotion and promise.

  Mort took solemn steps beside the elderly nymphs, embracing them and twirling them gently as the towering phantasm of the goddess Xochiquetzal completed the first movement of her hymn. She began again with greater cadence, her voice rising in command—urging the very plane to acknowledge her claim.

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  The world seemed to acquiesce.

  A soft blush spread across the air, tinting everything in rose. The color seeped into hearts, filling all with overwhelming love. Villagers turned to their families, embracing one another with tears streaming down their faces. It felt as though life had numbed them until this moment—like they had walked their paths with closed eyes, watching helplessly as those they loved disappeared one by one.

  Then Mort’s purple flower bloomed.

  The blossom atop his crown unfurled in full, releasing a scent of pure agony. Buried pain surged to the surface. No one remained silent—whether their suffering was small and childish or carved deep by years of grief. They cried openly. Saliva and snot mingled with salty tears. The village became a chorus of raw humanity.

  “I am Xochiquetzal, goddess of love, beauty, and art.”

  The giantess continued her hymn as a smaller phantom of the goddess formed before Mort. She shaped herself from the drifting petals of his long cape, her body shifting and luminous.

  “I will bring fertility to everything around you, sprouting flowers to surround you.”

  Her power flooded the village, saturating soil, air, and water. It was the final preparation for the birth of the cuauhxicalli.

  “I have brought you a protector. He will guard you in my stead—my champion in this life.”

  As she finished, her smaller form dissolved back into Mort. Once joined, they intoned together, igniting their combined divinity to summon the vessel.

  The earth trembled.

  Beside the lake bordering the village, a cuauhxicalli of clay rose from the ground. Divinity lingering in the air surged toward it, drawn like breath into waiting lungs. The villagers’ faith followed—bright motes of hope and tender devotion drifting forward like living embers.

  They filled the statue in scattered bursts of color, bringing its carved scene to life. Firefly-like lights lingered, hovering in quiet admiration of the warmth growing within.

  Families wiped each other’s tears, sharing final kisses and embraces before turning to witness the miracle fully.

  The statue depicted a small girl surrounded by blooming flowers, sculpted from rose-colored divinity. In her hands she held a wide bowl, mischievously tipped forward as though about to spill its contents into the lake.

  And then it did.

  A rose-colored flame flickered into existence within the bowl. It moved like liquid fire as it poured into the lake below. The water ignited—not in destruction, but in steady, creeping radiance. Flame spread rapidly across the surface. Steam rose in twisting rivulets.

  One by one, Mort summoned the mounds of flowers to hover next to him. They hung suspended until the goddess willed them forward. Following the rhythm of her hymn, Mort cast them into the steaming waters.

  At first, nothing dramatic occurred. The flowers simply sank, their colors leeching away in a quiet farewell. The faith and divinity bound to them dissolved and fused into the lake.

  Then Todloc stepped forward from the crowd.

  His eyes were red from weeping, yet resolute. With him stood the dozen villagers he had convinced to believe in a better future—people who had hated the toad for stealing the little they possessed: their families.

  Each carried a woven reed basket. Inside lay the fruits they had once offered in fearful tribute to the tyrant. Some baskets also held bundles of pungent herbs, their scents sharp and potent.

  They waited to be called.

  When summoned, they emptied their offerings into the lake. The waters began to ooze prismatic faith, shimmering with layered color. Beneath the surface, aquatic creatures gathered, watching in rapture as faith seeped into their simple minds and bodies, flooding them with overwhelming sensation.

  Mort frowned faintly, wondering what precisely the goddess intended.

  Then it happened.

  Dozens of writhing, translucent forms tore free from within fish and other hosts. Wretched worms—spawned by Itzcamazotz—rose twisting toward the surface.