The three children stood at the edge of the Obsidian Mountain's shadow. The last shards whirled around them, slower now, as though the mountain itself had exhausted its rage. Their armor glittered black and strange in the dull light, alive with the gods' breath.
Jaime's transformation was the most striking. The absurd headdress had vanished, the jaguar heads crumbled into dust that the mountain swallowed. What remained was lean, simple: a crown of obsidian feathers, no higher than a hand's span, resting easy on his brow. Perched in its hollow sat a ferruginous pygmy owl, tiny against his broad frame. Its golden eyes burned with knowing—but in their depths lurked something cold, a darkness that did not belong among the living.
The owl was not silent. It clicked and chattered and hummed endlessly at Jaime, who murmured back in low tones. The others gave them space. Whatever words passed between boy and bird belonged to them alone.
Jimena, though, found no jealousy rising in her. She had Xolo. Her faithful dog—her shadow turned stone. She had shaped the obsidian dust into armor around his body, sculpting him into something panther-like. He moved sleek and proud, each step leaving claw marks glowing faintly in the black rock. His eyes gleamed with intelligence, mirroring hers.
Marisol adjusted the cueitl that draped her form, sandals clicking over obsidian as she twirled her shield idly. Dust still clung to her, weaving bracelets and anklets that shifted patterns with each breath. She caught herself smiling, almost laughing. For a fleeting moment, she felt beautiful—not just armed, not just armored, but whole.
Together, they descended. Shields at their backs, obsidian weapons in hand, they crossed the threshold where the mountain's winds stilled. Behind them, the mountain sighed, its shards falling quiet at last.
---
In the village
Javier drank. And drank again. The pulque foamed at his lips, sticky and sour, but he cared little for taste. His brothers hovered near, worn thin by the endless cycle. They had tied him, beaten him, pleaded with him, prayed over him. Nothing slowed his charge toward the crevice, his ceaseless attempt to throw himself where his children had gone.
Tonight, he was worse. The grief had hollowed his chest, leaving only rage to burn in the gap. His great hands trembled as he slammed the cup down.
"Brother," Joaquin began, careful as if speaking to a wild bull. His voice was soft, but the moment Javier's head turned, he faltered. Those eyes—red, broken, blazing.
"Wwwhaattt," Javier slurred, swaying on his feet, his hand pressed to the table as though he'd fall through the floor without it.
Jorge hesitated. But silence stretched too long, and so he tried. "We've heard Don Esteban say… that Chia received a message from the gods."
He hadn't even finished when Javier lunged.
"I don't want to know!" he roared, shoving Jorge to the floor. His voice, thick with grief, was startlingly clear. "I don't want to hear anything that old witch has to say!" Tears streaked his swollen face. "¡Esa bruja! ¡Se llevó a mi Liliana!"
The great man's knees buckled. He collapsed into sobs that shook the walls. For a heartbeat his brothers thought they could reach him. Then, just as suddenly, the fury came back. With a wild kick, he drove them both from his house, slamming the door behind them.
"Poor Marisol," Joaquin whispered, rubbing his bruised arm. "Her grandmother's the only one she has. But people will blame them still."
Jorge said nothing. He thought only of the flood. Of the temple, water rising, ceilings cracking. Of Marisol's parents—brave, selfless—holding the flood at bay long enough to lift the children to safety. Of Liliana slipping, the mud stealing her footing, the chaos swallowing her whole. And of the whispers that had poisoned Javier's ears, blaming the curanderos for selfishness, for sorcery.
He did not blame them. He never had. But Javier—Javier believed it now.
The thought had barely formed when the door to the house burst open.
A shadow lurched out, huge, staggering but unstoppable. Javier's eyes were wild, but his voice rang sharp as steel.
"¡Chia!" he bellowed into the night. "¡Chia!"
He charged into the darkness, his brothers stumbling after, knowing with dread that no man, no prayer, no tie of blood would stop him now.
Javier ran with all his might. He wouldn't allow the witch to take away what little he had left. His heart had withered halfway the day his wife drowned. That had been no one's fault—he'd seen it himself, the way she slipped on the mud, the panic in her eyes as the water swallowed her. She had been strong, brave, unyielding—except when it came to her children. For them she had fussed endlessly, never leaving even a speck of dust on their skin.
He had tried his best since then. He had kept them clean, fed, and protected. He had loved them with the strength of two hearts: his and Liliana's.
"Why!" he roared at the night sky. His throat burned raw. Why do you punish us!
When he reached the weather-beaten shack at the edge of the village, he faltered. Part of him wanted to turn back. But then he saw her—old Chia—standing in the doorway as though she had been waiting for him. The sight stoked his fury into an inferno.
"¡Bruja!" he bellowed, his voice ragged.
Everyone feared confronting her. She had been the village's pillar for generations, the only healer who had delivered half the people here with her own hands. But now Javier felt unstoppable. The pulque boiled in his veins, his grief burning hotter than shame. He charged forward and reached for her throat—
—and the world melted.
His body gave way beneath him, crumpling like a bull felled mid-charge. The ground rose to meet him, and everything went dark.
Old grandmother Chia only sighed, already expecting him this night. "Bring him inside," she said evenly to the two men now running up behind. "Lay him on the blankets."
Jorge and Joaquín froze, their brother's massive frame sprawled across the dirt like a broken child.
"Now," Chia added, her tone brooking no argument. She turned back into the shack with the slow shuffle of someone both ancient and weary.
Confused and shaken, the brothers hefted Javier's body, carrying him into the small hut heavy with the smell of herbs and smoke. They laid him where she had pointed, their hands trembling.
"What did you do to him?" Joaquín asked at last, voice sharp with fear.
"Nothing," Chia said, lowering herself into her rocking chair. She sipped cold tea from a chipped cup, as if tonight had been no more than an inconvenience. "Nothing he did not bring upon himself."
On the blankets, Javier stirred. His lips moved, whispering—not his wife's name, not his children's—but something older. Something dangerous.
The brothers leaned closer, but could not catch the word.
Chia's gaze lingered on Javier, then drifted away, her chair creaking as she rocked. "He is closer to the gods than any of you realize," she murmured. "That is both his curse… and perhaps his salvation."
Outside, the night fell silent, as if holding its breath.