Xolo noticed the abomination pinned beneath the dead and acted without hesitation. The gentleness of his previous launch was gone, replaced by a ferocious beam of concentrated divinity. Its path could barely be discerned—only the blinding lance at its terminus betrayed its existence as it tore through the mass of dead flesh.

  The resulting explosion blinded reality itself.

  A sphere of monochrome swallowed everything. White noise drowned all sensation. For a heartbeat, neither god nor mortal could tell what had survived.

  Then reality snapped back into place.

  Air rushed violently to fill the void, the pressure wave hurling Jimena away from the epicenter. Mictecacihuatl reacted instantly, easing the catastrophic flow of divinity and guiding it carefully through Jimena’s body—trying to mend what she could before her descent finished.

  Jimena’s mind could not endure much longer. The gem housing her soul teetered on the brink, dust drifting away as fine fractures spread across its surface.

  Xolo had already fallen back into slumber.

  His last desperate effort had left him no choice. His spirit flickered, translucent within the gem, where it would be tended by its energies as both slowly recovered.

  From Jimena’s navel, two nascent energies stirred.

  They emerged cautiously, using fragments of their growing strength to heal her blistered flesh—knitting torn muscles and tendons, reinforcing cracked bones, coaxing shattered structures back into alignment.

  Most of the damage, however, had been inflicted by the goddess herself.

  Mictecacihuatl’s divinity was simply too vast for Jimena to wield for so long. Yet, with the shape of the future now visible, it was clear this would not be the last time her body was pushed beyond its limits.

  The gods had already prepared for what was coming.

  Now it was only left for their chosen to do the same.

  This battle was merely the beginning—one of many in the dawning godly era.

  Mictecacihuatl guided the last remnants of divinity from Jimena’s body and slowly loosened her hold. The warm, all-encompassing embrace that had lingered too long finally receded.

  In its absence came something far harder to bear.

  Emptiness.

  Jimena’s senses returned in fragments. She winced as aches and pains surfaced—then gradually faded—but the hollowness remained. It washed through her from head to toe, as if she might simply fall apart and drift away on the wind.

  The boundless energy that had once defined her every day was gone.

  For the Jimena that remained, such vitality felt impossible.

  She wanted nothing more than to collapse, to sleep, to disappear into unconsciousness.

  The agony in her bones was insignificant compared to the exhaustion that hollowed her out completely.

  Jimena moved like a wisp—light, unanchored—as she stepped forward. She let the obsidian armor fall away from her body, reshaping it into a simple huipil that hugged her frame. She kept it long out of habit, though modesty felt distant now.

  What little divinity had once supported the obsidian was gone. The garment felt unbearably heavy against her skin. Everything beneath it—cloth, leather, comfort—had long since been reduced to ash. So she endured the weight with each hollow step, carrying it because she had no other choice.

  Her short journey brought her to the aftermath of Xolo’s final strike.

  The earth had been hollowed into a vast crater, its edges blackened and glassy. Nothing remained at its center but a smoldering ruin. Even so, the abomination’s body had endured in some form—though what lay there now could only be described as a lump of coal. Cracked. Burned. Empty.

  Plutus descended without warning.

  The sudden pressure made Jimena recoil. She misstepped, tripping over nothing, her body moving like spilled water. She fell hard, landing on the scorched ground with a sharp gasp. Fear crept coldly into her chest as she scrambled backward—until she realized the presence before her had no weight.

  It was only a specter.

  A bodiless phantasm lingered above the crater, watching Jimena one final time. It did not speak. It did not act. Its power was conveyed solely through its existence—a silent reminder that today’s reprieve had been granted, not earned.

  And that it would demand payment.

  Then the specter dissipated, unraveling into the wind as if it had never been.

  Only then did Jimena allow herself to relax.

  She lay back fully, surrendering to the exhaustion her body had been screaming for since the battle’s end. She closed her eyes—just for a moment.

  Her dreams were empty.

  No whispers followed her. No radiant pictograms danced behind her eyelids. Only a vast, cool void stretched endlessly before her. Here, at least, she was spared her physical pain—if nothing else.

  Still, the gem embedded in her sternum ached with every heartbeat. A deep, spiritual wound that throbbed in time with her pulse. One that would take time to heal.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Time she likely didn’t have.

  Hunger dragged her back to consciousness.

  Her stomach growled sharply as she blearily opened her eyes. The late evening sun struck at a low angle, flashing her vision with harsh light. It blinded her completely—hiding whatever approached from behind.

  Jimena saw the horses before she saw their riders.

  Her position on the ground kept her view low, the powerful legs and armored flanks filling her vision as they approached. Only after a breath did she realize how many there were. One rider became several. Several became many.

  Apprehension stirred in her chest.

  They looked nothing like the native tribes she had encountered before. Their armor, their posture, the way they held themselves—it all carried a foreign weight. Caution replaced fear. Though her gem still throbbed painfully, denying her access to divinity, she could feel her physical strength slowly returning. Wounded or not, she would not allow herself to be treated lightly.

  The horses halted a few meters away, forming a loose semicircle around her.

  For a heartbeat, Jimena expected violence.

  Instead, the men dismounted.

  A single man stepped forward from behind the first line. He was dressed in a way that felt oddly familiar—his garments reminiscent of her own, and some of his accessories echoing a tribe she couldn’t quite place. He carried himself with respect, though not reverence, and that alone set him apart from what she had grown accustomed to.

  “Mother of Fire,” he said, bowing his head, “we thank you on behalf of both Conquistador Arturo and myself. I am nothing more than a humble translator, but we offer you gifts as a greeting.”

  At his signal, the riders stirred into motion, breaking from their stunned stillness.

  Two men emerged carrying a beautifully embossed chest, its surface etched with intricate designs. A third followed, gently coaxing a horse forward toward Jimena. The creature was magnificent—strong, well-kept—but its fearful gaze made something twist painfully in her chest.

  “We invite you to meet our governor, Arturo, at any time you wish,” the man continued.

  He stepped closer and placed a ring into her hand. It hummed faintly against her skin, blessed iron warm to the touch. Silver inlay filled the engraved symbols along its band, glittering softly as she traced them with her fingers.

  “We will also help you leave the forest, should you wish an escort. If not, we will depart your presence at once.”

  He bowed deeply, waiting—braced—for rebuke.

  None came.

  Relief flickered across his features as he straightened and gestured toward the chest. “Inside are garments of the finest make.”

  At his signal, the men opened the decorated box. He reached inside, lifting a fold of exquisite fabric and holding it up for her to see.

  Jimena only stared.

  Her mind lagged behind the moment, still heavy with exhaustion, still trying to understand how the world had shifted so quickly—from divine battle to measured diplomacy—while she had been lying in the dirt.

  Jimena’s stomach, unlike her pride, was far more attuned to the present moment.

  It growled loudly—unmistakably—its demand echoing across the scorched clearing. Hunger, long ignored, proclaimed itself without restraint. There was no mistaking what it wanted, nor when.

  The silence that followed was painful.

  To the chosen, still half-sprawled on the ground after a long, bone-deep rest, it was the last thing she wanted to announce. Yet the expressions around her were far worse. Shock flickered across their faces, followed by awkward amusement. A few men exchanged glances, lips twitching as they struggled to remain solemn.

  Jimena felt heat creep into her cheeks.

  Embarrassment flared—but she smothered it with practiced composure. Drawing on what little divine poise she could muster, she lifted her chin as though nothing at all had gone awry.

  “Do you have anything to eat in that chest?” she asked, her voice calm and regal.

  She began to rise slowly, deliberately, turning the effort into something that looked almost leisurely. Each movement was measured, disguising the strain gnawing at her muscles and the hollowness clawing at her core.

  The men watched carefully.

  Despite the gifts they bore, Jimena did not trust them—not fully. Finery meant little to her, especially now. Silk and silver would not still the ache in her gem or quiet the fire burning through her veins. Food, however… food would earn a measure of belief.

  Once upright, she planted her bare feet firmly into the earth.

  The ground beneath her was glassy and uneven, charred smooth by divine fire. The strange texture grounded her, pulling her thoughts away from fatigue and suspicion alike. She let her toes curl against the cooled obsidian, anchoring herself to the land she had just bled for.

  Only then did she lift her gaze back to the men.

  Waiting.