Mort moved so suddenly that the elder barely had time to react.

  He didn’t wait to hear what the man had to say. Didn’t look back. He walked quickly—too quickly—through the village, keeping his head down so as not to draw attention while searching for Renata. She had been nearby not long ago, laughing with a few local children.

  He needed her. Now.

  “Healer! What is wrong—what happened?”

  The elder caught up to him despite his age, breath ragged but determined. Before Mort could slip away, a hand clamped around his arm.

  Hard.

  Mort froze.

  The grip trembled, yet it was iron-strong, refusing to release him. Mort hadn’t realized how much the man on that bed meant to the elder—not until now. The desperation in his hold left no room for negotiation.

  Mort felt heat rise to his face.

  His goddess was shouting in his mind, screaming at him to leave the area immediately. But he couldn’t—not without Renata, and not with the elder anchoring him in place. He tried to calm himself.

  The way he yanked at his arm was anything but calm.

  “I—I’m sorry,” Mort said quickly, his words fighting through his goddess’s frantic cries. “I made a mistake. I won’t be able to heal him either.”

  For a moment, Mort thought that might be enough. That the elder would loosen his grip, accept the answer.

  Instead, the man’s expression hardened.

  He reached for Mort again.

  Mort stepped back, hands raised, trying to explain—but the elder spoke first. His eyes burned red, whether from anger or tears Mort couldn’t tell. The shifting expressions confused him. Human faces were difficult like that—too many meanings layered at once.

  “The way you ran out of the hut means you know what’s going on!” the elder shouted, voice cracking. “It was enough to make you run.”

  He gestured wildly, anger spilling over. “I’ve known many healers in my life,” he continued, lowering his voice as if sharing a dark secret. “None of them fled like you did after an examination.”

  Mort avoided his gaze, looking away as though he hadn’t understood. But the old man wasn’t fooled.

  “How can someone so grown act like a child caught with the last sweet fruit in hand?” the elder growled. Frustration overtook him, and he grabbed Mort’s clothes, bunching the fabric in his fists as if afraid Mort would vanish.

  “Please,” the elder said, stepping closer—no longer shouting, only pleading. “My son has been like this for so long.”

  He wiped at his eyes, hands shaking. “If you know what it is… why won’t you help us?”

  Mort stood perfectly still.

  “Please,” the elder begged again, then stopped abruptly, as if a realization had struck him. His hands loosened. He stepped back, staring at Mort in horror.

  “Are we all going to die?”

  His gaze darted around the village, searching for something—anything—to contradict the thought. His breath came shallow and fast, like a fish dragged from water.

  Mort didn’t know what to do.

  His mind felt locked in place, thoughts refusing to move. The goddess’s shouting and the elder’s desperation clashed inside him, drowning out any clear path forward.

  For the first time since arriving in the village, Mort truly understood how badly things could go wrong.

  And how little time they might have left.

  Mort shrugged and tried to breathe.

  It didn’t work.

  His chest tightened instead, panic climbing up his throat. He grabbed at his head and screamed, fingers digging into his hair as he rubbed at his scalp like he could scrub the noise away. He shouted—not words, just sound—drowning out every other voice but his own.

  He needed to think.

  Everyone expected too much.

  When the embarrassment finally caught up to him, Mort stopped. He straightened, smoothed his hair with trembling hands, and deliberately ignored the elder’s stunned expression.

  He took another breath.

  This one came easier.

  Even the elder seemed to sense that something had shifted, his posture changing as he waited. Mort still hadn’t fully formed the words in his head—but he knew what direction they would take.

  Xochiquetzal, deeply offended at being yelled at, retreated to a distant corner of his mind to brood. Mort could still hear her muttering, sulking against an imagined wall and whispering things that were anything but kind.

  At last, Mort made his decision.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I can’t treat the illness.”

  He turned away before he could see the old man’s face. “I’ll leave your village and never return. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  Before the elder could respond, Mort quickened his pace, weaving through the widely spaced huts as he searched for Renata.

  The urge to call out to her clawed at his throat—but he swallowed it. Drawing more attention was the last thing he wanted after that conversation. Instead, he reached inward, feeling for her through his gem, calling her name silently.

  Nothing.

  The meager divinity he had left wasn’t enough. Mort frowned as weakness crept into his limbs; he had already spent what little he’d stored and was beginning to draw from his own body. The sensation left him hollow.

  He sighed—and then he saw her.

  Renata stood among a cluster of children. The girls crowded close, fascinated by her clothing and bright presence. The boys lingered farther back, watching warily, as if unsure whether to approach or flee.

  Mort wondered briefly what Renata might have done to earn such caution—but the thought slipped away as he drew nearer. She spoke animatedly, laughing, gesturing with small, excited movements. For a moment, she looked no different from the other children.

  It made his chest ache.

  The memories surfaced unbidden—interlaced with torment and regret. Mort wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do anymore. Seeing Renata like this made leaving feel cruel.

  He crushed the feeling down.

  What he and the goddess had seen was too dangerous. Staying wasn’t worth witnessing what would follow. The people here couldn’t be saved—not even if they believed him over their own god. The only choice was to flee, to put as much distance between themselves and this place as possible, and face it another day.

  “Renata,” Mort said softly, leaning close. “We need to leave.”

  The children startled at the sudden shift in his tone, falling quiet as they stepped back to give them space.

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  Renata frowned but didn’t argue. She hugged each of the children goodbye, murmuring soft words of regret. The sweetness of it tugged painfully at Mort’s heart, but he repeated to himself—there’s nothing I can do.

  Even the still-brooding goddess agreed from her corner of his mind.

  That should have been enough.

  But when Renata looked up at him, troubled and hesitant, Mort faltered.

  “You’ve grown awfully attached to these people,” he said carefully, watching her face. “In just the few days we’ve been here.”

  He searched her expression, trying to understand how much this meant to her.

  He would do anything for her.

  She was the only person in his world—and he owed her everything. If this village mattered to her… if it was worth the risk…

  Then Mort would try.

  Alas, Mort didn’t have to worry any longer about making a decision.

  The sharp scream of a nearby woman tore him out of his thoughts. It cut through the village like a blade, raw and panicked. In the same instant, Mort felt it—attention. Something vast and alien settled over the area, heavy and suffocating, as though the sky itself had lowered its gaze.

  Something had descended.

  Mort scooped Renata up and ran.

  He ignored her startled protests, her small hands pushing uselessly against his grip. Panic drove his legs forward as he fled between the huts, breath tearing from his chest. Nothing around them could help with what was coming. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere safe.

  They’ll be used as weapons, he realized dimly.

  Guilt slammed into him with crushing weight. Everything that would befall these people was because of him. He had come here. He had lingered. He had brought disaster to their door.

  His grip tightened without him noticing.

  Renata gasped—then bit him.

  Mort cried out, more in shock than pain, and stumbled. The sharp sting cut through the fog in his head, grounding him. He released his crushing hold at once, pulling Renata close instead of restraining her, his breathing slowing as he forced himself to calm.

  He let his emotions drain away, just as Itzcamazotz had once taught him—locking them behind cold walls, letting something darker and steadier take control. His goddess offered no comfort this time. Mort would have to rely on himself.

  He ignored the ache in his arm and looked around.

  Nothing catastrophic had happened yet.

  The village still stood. The people still lived. Perhaps he had panicked too soon—though the situation was far from safe.

  Then he saw it.

  A god hovered above the village, swollen and immense. Its gray-green skin sagged over a wide, bloated body. The toad’s massive form loomed in the air as it surveyed the settlement below with slow, deliberate movements. Horizontal pupils cut across its eyes, unblinking.

  Mort met its gaze—and nearly choked.

  Inside those eyes writhed something wrong.

  The same twisting forms he had seen infesting the Tonalli of the sick man squirmed freely within the god’s pupils. Worm-like, hungry, alive. Yet the toad god seemed utterly unconcerned, regarding the village as if they were the carriers of corruption.

  Mort’s throat tightened.

  The irony struck him bitterly. He had worried about suffocation before. What stood before him now promised something far worse—death, if not erasure. In his weakened state, he wouldn’t last a heartbeat against such a being.

  Even his goddess recoiled from the sight.

  Not because the god would strike them for trespassing—but because the truth was unmistakable.

  This god was the source.

  The sickness wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t mortal. It was divine rot, spread unconsciously—or uncaringly—by a god already compromised. A god too arrogant to question itself.

  Mort waited in silence as the toad god finished its inspection. It made no effort to search for the real cause, no attempt to cleanse itself. After a time, it withdrew, satisfied in its judgment.

  When the pressure finally lifted, Mort exhaled shakily.

  “What’s the use of gods,” Renata muttered, crossing her arms as she glared up at him, cheeks flushed with irritation. “If even they can be fooled like that.”

  “Only a corrupt god can infect its enemies this way,” Mort replied, repeating his goddess’s words aloud. His voice was hollow. “There’s nothing we can do. Not if we want to survive.”

  He paused, then looked down at Renata.

  Softening his tone, he asked quietly, “How much do you like your friends?”

  The question hung between them, heavy with implication.

  -

  Itzcamazotz’s eyes snapped open.

  Fetid hatred spilled from them like rot given form. The corrupt offerings piled around his makeshift altar withered and collapsed as his presence drank them dry, their putrid energy pulled into him in long, greedy draughts. Bone, flesh, and faith dissolved alike—consumed until nothing remained but residue and silence.

  His form knitted itself whole.

  The worms—carried through blood, spit, and bile—had been a masterstroke. Seeded into the river, guided by Camazotz’s careful hand, then loosed to infect and hollow out prey from within. Simple, elegant, inexorable.

  Marvelous, Itzcamazotz chuckled, the sound wet and grinding as his newly reformed vocal cords twitched into place. He tested them, savoring the vibration of his own voice as muscle and cartilage finished knitting themselves together.

  The living were such pliable things.

  They could be used in ways so beautiful. Yes, guiding them required a firmer hand—more control—but what god worth worship could allow their livestock to wander freely? Left unguided, they festered. They starved. They rotted in ignorance.

  Look how foolish they were.

  He turned his attention outward, peering once more through the borrowed eyes of the toad god he had infected first. The gluttonous creature had scarcely noticed what it consumed, swallowing his brood whole without a thought. A perfect vessel. A perfect beginning.

  “Oh, how wonderful,” Itzcamazotz sang softly to himself, delight lilting through every syllable. “How blessed I am.”

  Frustration gave way to abundance. Loss turned to opportunity. Every scheme, every seed planted in desperation now bloomed all at once.

  Truly—

  Blessings upon the honest.