Mort alone witnessed the vicious creature’s final moments. It collapsed inward, its form deflating into acrid smoke that still clawed desperately for purchase—on Mort, on the air, on anything. He answered by expending more divinity, enclosing the residue within a cloud of opposing nature: love made manifest. The two forces collided and consumed one another, breaking down into base motes of faith that dissolved into the greater river the plane endlessly exhaled and inhaled.

  The parasite had resembled a many-tentacled lamprey. Its circular mouth had left behind a visible scar upon the soul—an ugly blemish burned into the man’s forehead where his Tonalli resided. Mort would have to heal it later, once he had dealt with the others who carried the infection. He wanted to discuss treatment with the priest, but doubted most mortals could perceive what had truly been afflicting them.

  Using the faint, loathsome connection he shared with Itzcamazotz, Mort had been able to locate the corruption tied to the ugly god. The revulsion that churned in his gut whenever he neared it served as a compass, guiding him to the parasite. Even so, it had proven stronger than he expected—strong enough to seed doubt in his mind for a brief, dangerous moment.

  Thankfully, Renata and Xochiquetzal were quick to nag the hesitation out of him.

  The difficulty of the excision made Mort suspect this was precisely why Itzcamazotz had used divine faith as his vector. By exploiting the bond between mortals and their god, the corruption could travel unseen—riding the vast currents of faith like a phantom swimmer moving effortlessly through an ocean. Mort and Xochiquetzal analyzed the process together, piecing together the parasite’s abilities. Its attunement to faith streams, its uncanny instinct for hosts, and its ease of movement had all been made possible by Itzcamazotz infecting the people’s god directly, opening a straight path to every worshipper.

  The creature’s warped anatomy and unfamiliar corruption were a novelty even to Xochiquetzal. Their conclusions, she admitted, were speculative at best.

  With no better option, Mort turned to the priest and asked to see another infected.

  The man’s eyes widened in surprise. From his perspective, Mort had done little more than wave his arms. The faint pink glow that had surrounded him was too sparse, too subtle, to offer any real explanation of what had occurred.

  “Let me check my son first,” the elder said, rushing forward. He half believed Mort’s words, yet the mere glimpse of energy he had perceived was enough to convince him that something had changed.

  Mort wasn’t certain how the cruel god had achieved this method of infection, but if every case proved as difficult as this one, the outlook was grim. The priest would be unable to intervene at all—any attempt would only invite the parasite to latch onto him instead. The divinity within the creatures was potent enough to unsettle even Mort. Though still diminished, he alone possessed divinity great enough to counter them safely.

  He searched for ways to hasten the process. For allies. For alternatives.

  None came.

  So Mort waited as the elder examined his slowly recovering son. Color had yet to return to the young man’s face, but Mort was confident that with time—and once the soul scar was treated—recovery would follow in the days ahead.

  Xochiquetzal’s divinity coaxed the body toward healing in subtle, beautiful ways. Mort needed only to guide the energy where it was required; the soft pink radiance would do the rest under her gentle, unyielding control.

  Mort was grateful for Renata. He had expected resistance—but not this much. The sheer amount of divinity he had expended would have left him utterly hollow in the past. Now, while the effort still weighed heavily on him, it no longer threatened to break him.

  The creature, bloated with stolen faith and the unrealized futures it had torn from the man’s soul, had fought viciously. Mort knew he would have lost if not for his little sister. In gratitude, he sent a pulse of divinity toward her—a small gift among many she deserved for her tireless work.

  Once the elder had finished examining his son, and it was clear the man was no longer in critical condition, Mort was granted permission to see another afflicted villager. Since the subject had arisen, Mort asked about the woman whose scream he had heard earlier.

  The priest paused.

  It was the kind of pause that revealed an answer before it was spoken—a silence heavy with the weight of too many deaths. When so many had fallen in recent days, it became difficult to remember individual faces. Especially for someone tasked with knowing every soul touched by the sickness.

  “I’m not sure who you speak of, young man,” the priest said at last. “There are no children currently suffering from the affliction you are treating.” He rubbed his chin, then sighed. “There was one child who was… unfortunate enough to be chosen as an offering by our god.”

  He fell silent, speaking of it as one might mention poor weather.

  Mort sensed the quiet discontent buried deep within the man, but it went unspoken. To utter blasphemy against a god was unthinkable for those bound beneath one. Mort did not press further. He had only asked out of lingering unease after the scream, and Renata's own concern for her friends.

  Renata, however, was far less restrained.

  Her drowsy calm evaporated at the cold truth of the village. No sickness had taken the child. The gluttonous toad-god had devoured their soul as an offering. Rage flared within her, and the flower shrine mirrored her fury. The distorted language etched into its petals ignited, birthing destructive miracles. She turned that wrath on the grotesque creatures wandering Mort’s inner darkness, blasting them back into raw motes of faith—absorbing and refining them for her own use.

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  Feeling the storm raging within his gem, Mort remained silent as he followed the priest to another hut not far away. From above, the village formed a rough crescent around a small lake, its huts scattered unevenly along the curve.

  They stopped at a secluded nook where three huts faced one another, as if standing vigil together. A somber presence clung to one of them—the hut the priest entered without a word.

  Mort followed inside.

  The interior was more spacious than it appeared from outside, large enough for a small family and the two unexpected visitors. Mort had anticipated anger at the intrusion, yet the occupants barely spared them a glance before returning to their work.

  A mother and daughter tended to a man lying on a bed of softened reeds. The gentleness of their movements stirred a flicker of envy in Mort—quickly smothered when he saw the sickly pallor of the man’s skin. Whatever still clung to his soul had already done grave damage.

  The parasite had been feasting here for some time.

  Mort glanced at the priest, who cleared his throat and offered a brief greeting before presenting Mort to the mother and daughter much as he had to the elder. The two women barely acknowledged the priest, yet when their eyes settled on Mort, something fragile shone there.

  Hope.

  This time, Mort could meet it without flinching.

  He rubbed his newly bald head with faint embarrassment before inclining his head respectfully to the mother. He addressed her first, recognizing her as the pillar of the household in her husband’s current state.

  Keeping his words brief, Mort asked for space to work alone. Though he had dispatched the previous parasite swiftly, he still did not fully trust these creatures. If startled, they might leap to a new host. He would not risk it.

  Besides, Renata’s efforts ensured faith continued to trickle into him, steadily replenishing his divinity. His limbs felt lighter with each passing breath. Yet a faint ache pulsed in his gem—a subtle strain he chose to ignore, attributing it to Renata’s earlier upheaval within his inner world.

  Seeing the gravity in his expression, the mother stepped aside without hesitation. She drew her daughter with her to stand near the entrance beside the priest. All three watched with restrained anticipation.

  Mort exhaled slowly and intoned a small miracle.

  He poured a considerable measure of divinity into shaping a domain steeped in love. A soft pink mist unfurled around him, sweet-scented and warm, clinging to the air like morning dew. Within its embrace, the sick man’s breathing deepened. Color—faint but undeniable—touched his cheeks as vigor returned to limbs long drained.

  Once the euphoria of divine affection saturated the space, Mort pressed his palm to the man’s forehead.

  He pushed his energy inward—not cautiously probing this time, but deliberately flooding the Tonalli. Rather than hunting the parasite through winding spiritual corridors, he would suffocate it and force it to reveal itself.

  Divinity surged.

  Mort poured more power in until he felt the man’s flow of faith shift violently. Pink overtook his vision as he enhanced his divine sight, preparing to pierce whatever camouflage the creature employed. Corruption could not truly hide from divinity once dislodged from the soul it parasitized.

  The response was immediate.

  The grotesque being lunged to defend its nest as Mort’s love saturated and constricted the space it inhabited. Mort tracked the distortion—watched as the circular maw detached from its place within the Tonalli.

  He saw it clearly now.

  The creature tore itself free from the man’s soul-space and thrust its head outward through the forehead, where it had been latched. As it emerged into the material plane, it expanded grotesquely—swelling to a size that made Mort’s breath hitch. Each writhing tentacle was as thick as his arm, barbed and slick with corruption.

  They lashed toward him, desperate to pierce his flesh and claim a new refuge.

  Mort reacted instantly. The pink mist condensed into bands of searing affection that snapped around the creature’s exposed head. He yanked.

  The thing shrieked, a sound no mortal ears could perceive, as love severed the tentacles still rooted inside the man’s Tonalli. Each tear ripped corruption apart with fervent, radiant opposition. The clash of concepts—devouring greed against ardent devotion—sparked like invisible lightning.

  Mort encased the creature fully in a sphere of brilliant rose.

  Then he tightened it.

  Love did not merely burn—it embraced, overwhelmed, smothered. Passionate and absolute, it boiled the rancid mass into choking smoke. The corruption tried to seep through cracks in the sphere, clawing for escape.

  Mort gave it none.

  With a final surge, he compressed the divine prison until the parasite collapsed into dissipating ash, its remnants unraveling into harmless motes that drifted away like dying embers.

  So would be the changing trials ahead.