Mort had slowly adjusted to the uncomfortable transformation he’d undergone over the past few days. Little by little, he grew accustomed to the different kinds of faith now filling him—vibrant, restless emotions that surged through his body as if they were a limitless well of energy.

  He felt like leaping and skipping through the flower meadow without reason or restraint. Even Renata, who had resisted the transformation more fiercely than himself, had finally given in to the change. The thought alone made Mort’s chest swell until his joy could no longer be contained.

  So he did what he had always done.

  Whether his heart felt heavy or impossibly light, he allowed the ardor in his soul to guide him. His arms flowed, his legs kicked, his toes curled into the soft earth. Every spin and stomp released gentle divinity, whispering invitations to the smallest of creatures to join him.

  His honey-scented aura and familiar rhythm coaxed life closer.

  He hummed a melody of living things, riding the wind alongside butterflies, darting like bees through the blossoms, rolling across the grass with armadillos that chirped in surprise. Laughter slipped easily from him, carried on the breeze.

  Until a grumpy doll appeared directly in his path.

  She stood with arms crossed, now nearly double her previous height—almost a full meter tall. Her lips were stained a deep violet, curved into a sweet smile that did nothing to hide her displeasure. Crimson irises, tinged faintly with pink, flared with a restrained but violent fire.

  Mort chuckled and pushed himself up, stepping forward to hug her.

  Renata stepped back instead.

  The meadow reacted instantly. Bees and butterflies scattered, armadillos fled into the grass. The doll’s ominous aura sent the smaller creatures scrambling for safety.

  “What’s got you so upset today, Renata?” Mort asked gently as he brushed dirt and petals from his clothes. His own aura flared softly, counteracting the turbulence of her emotions.

  “I don’t like this dress,” the little girl muttered, her frown deep and unyielding.

  Her solid body moved like liquid, skin supple and seamless. Each segmented joint rolled fluidly as she shifted her weight. But the large, puffy dress she wore clearly hindered her, its exultant pinks and yellows competing loudly with the surrounding flowers.

  The colors drew curious bees and butterflies—only for them to be driven away by a sharp glare of murderous intent.

  “Can’t you control it?” Mort asked, genuinely confused.

  He squatted to her eye level and pressed his forehead to hers, feeling the riot of emotions beneath the surface.

  The goddess’ soul had yet to fully fuse with Renata. Though the rest of the soul had melded seamlessly, a stubborn line still divided the two minds. So, whenever the goddess’ will interfered with their shared body, Renata felt it sharply—and resented it.

  With the gem’s aid, Mort gently dispelled the alteration. The gaudy fabric dissolved, reshaping itself into the flowing red dress Renata favored.

  Her expression softened immediately.

  A sweet smile bloomed across her face as she threw her arms around Mort in a sudden hug. Then, without another word, she skipped away through the flowers as if nothing had ever been wrong.

  Mort watched her go, warmth lingering in his chest as the meadow slowly returned to life around him.

  He could feel the goddess’ whispers guiding him ever since he had accepted her into his soul. Subtle at first, then persistent—urging him to seek out new devoted, to fill the empty well with fresh faith. To grow in ability and power, so they might one day seize their future with their own hands.

  It was a welcome pressure. Gentle compared to the agony the corrupt god had once inflicted upon him.

  Mort had learned to wield fragments of Xochiquetzal’s abilities, enough to bring the entire meadow beneath her divinity. Yet that same success made the truth impossible to ignore. The meadow was no longer sufficient. It had nurtured him, sheltered him—but it could not shape him into something greater.

  So he listened.

  Leaving its safety was necessary.

  He would need to journey far to build his faith, to test himself against the vastness of the land. Thankfully, his goddess would keep his steps true, ensuring he did not lose himself along the way. This world was filled with secrets—many of them dangerous. Gods and mortals alike posed threats far greater than beasts or wilderness, dangers that would require her guidance to survive.

  And somewhere out there, the corrupt god still lingered.

  Mort needed to grow.

  More than that—he wanted to grow.

  He wanted to wake beneath the sun and sky without fear, without doubt shadowing the next day.

  He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with freedom and possibility, then began walking after Renata. Each step carried him toward what he hoped would be a brighter tomorrow. With every breath and footfall, the critters of the meadow answered his call, falling into step behind him.

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  Using what little divinity he possessed, Mort shaped a light, loose-fitting set of clothing around himself. As it formed, patterns emerged—carefully woven by industrious leaf-cutter ants. Flower petals were placed within the fabric as it came into being, their work precise and reverent.

  His first devoted were nothing like what he’d imagined.

  Yet their tiny faces had rooted themselves firmly in his heart.

  He would protect them. Guide them. Lead them along the path, just as his goddess guided him.

  Insect queens clung to his long brown hair, riding in comfort while their drones filled the air above in vast swarms. The meadow erupted into ordered chaos as creatures organized themselves into families, colonies, and migrations—trailing behind chosen and spirit alike.

  In claws, snouts, and mandibles they carried seeds and brood, forming a startling procession of forest animals and insects. Some bore strange markings along shell or fur, signs of faith beginning to take hold.

  Only the armadillos lacked such a leader.

  So they wandered at the edges, searching for opportunity.

  A man and his meadow friends set out together—

  toward a world that had no idea what was coming.

  -

  Toad watched as his people succumbed to a strange sickness.

  Powerful blessings slid from his worshippers’ bodies as though they had never existed. Like dirt washed from skin, every boon—no matter how weak or potent—slithered away and vanished. Faith remained, prayers remained, yet the divinity that once clung to them refused to stay.

  Many had been sealed inside their homes. Relatives and priests worked tirelessly, using every tonic, poultice, and ritual known to them. For now, the situation was contained.

  Yet Toad felt watched.

  Something lingered in the dark, unseen but present, its gaze heavy enough to weigh upon his domain. His powers felt dulled beneath that attention, suppressed in a way he could neither trace nor resist. Even when he investigated personally, he found nothing—no trail, no residue, no divine signature.

  Toad had never been inquisitive by nature. But even his most diligent priests came back empty-handed.

  The examinations were thorough. Invasive. Nothing was left untested. And still, no cause could be found. No corruption. No curse. No poison.

  Only illness.

  His divine eye revealed little more than shifting, blurred lines moving through the infected—distortions that refused to resolve into meaning. He dismissed them as symptoms, tricks of whatever sickness had taken hold. After all, the priests had found nothing within the afflicted.

  Toad moved from lake to lake, checking the villages scattered throughout his domain. Thankfully, only the settlement closest to the river—nestled beside the smallest lake—had been affected. The others remained healthy. Even the village surrounding his own nest showed no signs of decline.

  That, at least, brought him some comfort.

  He snapped out his tongue and swallowed a platter of offerings whole, chewing slowly as he sank into thought. His massive body settled into a bed of plants and grasses, the earth yielding beneath his weight. Dozens of clay plates filled with fruit surrounded him, writhing with insects—small, wriggling delicacies he scarcely noticed.

  The bird and the monkey had already been informed.

  Things were far too suspicious, especially after the corrupt god’s abrupt visit. His defeat had felt wrong. Too easy. Too clean.

  None of the three could say why.

  And that uncertainty gnawed at Toad more than hunger ever could.

  -

  Camazotz had finally linked with the second body he had left dormant within the mountain.

  Itzcamazotz had done well. Dozens of sacrifices had been enough—enough corruption gathered, refined, and pressed into form—to create an idol worthy of anchoring the connection. Through it, the bond snapped into place, and power flowed once more.

  His chosen would soon realize their mistake.

  The insects had finally located the hiding hole.

  Camazotz clicked his mandibles in delight, the sharp chirring echoing through the cavern he currently resided in, as anticipation swelled within him. Each sound carried promise—of suffering, of reckoning, of blood repaid.

  Together, Camazotz and Itzcamazotz began to pour faith into the third body still lost in slumber. His gift for stasis had preserved him through countless disasters, through eras of starvation and near-erasure. This time would be no different.

  Those foolish enough to anger him would suffer.

  And not alone.

  All who worshiped them would share in the price when his recovery was complete.

  The seeds he had planted—quiet, insidious, and patient—were already stirring. Soon they would blossom, feeding him faith, fear, and devotion in equal measure.

  Fuel for a rapid ascent.

  Fuel for conquest.

  Fuel for the land that had forgotten how dangerous he truly was.