Back at the village, beneath a bruised dawn sky, a grand ritual was taking place.
Javier—the butcher, father to Jaime and Jimena—lay inside a circle traced in white and red powders. The air was thick with the smell of burning herbs and minerals, each placed with reverent precision. Around him, a spiral of ash and salt glimmered faintly in the torchlight.
Chía, Marisol's grandmother, moved at the center like a shadow of ancient days. Her voice rose and fell in Spanish prayer, worn yet powerful, her hands weaving the smoke like thread. A bundle of sage and rosemary smoldered in her grasp, trailing ribbons of grey that coiled toward the man's body.
"Dios todo poderoso," she intoned, her voice both plea and command. "Santificado sea tu nombre…"
The villagers who had gathered held their breath as Javier convulsed. Foam spilled from his mouth, and each word from Chía seemed to pull another spasm from his limbs. His eyes rolled back, pupils lost in white, as if two forces battled for control inside his body.
The smoke thickened, turning the circle into a living veil. Its tendrils crept into his pores, nostrils, and open mouth. The butcher's strangled gasps grew quieter, replaced by a sound that didn't belong to him—a deep, rattling growl that shook the air itself.
A few villagers flinched but none intervened. Fear and reverence chained them in place.
When Javier had first begun screaming in the early dawn, most thought madness had finally claimed him. Others believed the gods had sent him a vision. But when they arrived and saw the circle, the smoke, and Chía standing over him, they knew something larger was unfolding.
An old truth was waking.
The air buzzed with it—faith, fear, and something older than both.
Children huddled behind their mothers. The hunters and farmers, their hands still calloused from work, stood in silent awe. Every face turned toward the ritual, lit by the flicker of firelight.
And then the earth trembled.
The powders in the circle glowed faintly blue, then red, then black. The flames bent inward, pulled toward Javier's body. His mouth opened in a final, guttural scream before going still—smoke pouring from his nostrils like a spirit leaving flesh.
A murmur spread through the crowd. Someone began to weep.
The elders, those whose blood still carried whispers of the old gods, felt sorrow bloom heavy in their chests. They understood what this meant—the peace they'd known would soon burn away.
The younger ones felt it differently. A heat crawled under their skin, a strange excitement. The promise of something fierce and divine.
Chía lifted her head, sweat beading her brow. Her voice dropped low, no longer in prayer but in prophecy.
"They stir," she whispered. "The old ones. The gods of water and venom. The children of blood have begun their trial."
Silence fell over the village.
And then, almost as if the world itself answered her words, the wind howled across the valley. The smoke from Javier's mouth formed a fleeting shape—an owl with burning eyes—before it scattered into the dawn.
Those who saw it fell to their knees. Those who didn't still felt the pulse of its passing.
A new war was beginning.
A war not of men, but of faith.
And every heart in the village—whether trembling or eager—felt its first heartbeat.
Chía's eyes glowed gold. Smoke coiled around her like a living shroud, whispering in voices not her own. In that thick incense haze, shadows began to take shape—the faint outlines of the children and their guides, glimmering like reflections on rippling water. Beyond them, immense forms stirred in the dark: the gods themselves, watching, waiting.
Then the smoke above Javier's body twisted violently, condensing into a single figure—the smoky apparition of the owl. Its wings spread wide, its head turning sharply toward the east. It shrieked once, a piercing cry that split the morning calm, and then launched into the sky, streaking toward whatever force had cursed Javier's mind.
Chía's breath caught, her body trembling with strain. If I cannot cleanse him… his madness will consume the village.
Villagers whispered nervously from the edge of the circle, their curiosity and fear mixing into a single heavy silence. Chía could feel their eyes on her, their faith flickering uncertainly. Stay focused, she told herself. Make do with what you have.
She raised her arms, palms open to the heavens.
The smoke surged upward, then inward, swallowing her whole. The power of faith—ancient, raw, and divine—poured through her body. It darkened the smoke, turned her veins into lines of fire beneath her skin. Her bones ached with it, her muscles spasmed, but her will did not falter.
She was no priestess. But she was a curandera—a healer born of generations who had spoken with both saints and spirits, who had stood between life and death when no one else dared.
This was her trial.
"I will not let you have him," she hissed, her voice echoing from somewhere both human and celestial. "Not my people. Not my blood."
The smoky owl shrieked again, its hollow cry now filled with purpose. It dove through the village streets, a storm of ash and gold, its wings brushing rooftops and scattering embers. Every house it passed was bathed in a fleeting golden light, as though a blessing—or a warning—had been laid upon it.
Then, with a sudden flare, the owl ignited. Smoke turned to flame, its feathers now tongues of sacred fire. The blaze illuminated the mountainside, painting the forest in gold and crimson.
Villagers fell to their knees, shielding their eyes from the brilliance.
And then, just as quickly, the light dimmed.
The burning owl turned its gaze toward the forest, its golden eyes narrowing. A shriek, fierce and holy, tore through the valley. It launched forward, wings slicing through air and shadow alike.
The night flashed with intermittent bursts of light as it flew, each one revealing the shapes of trees, stone ruins, and something moving deep within the woods.
The hunt had begun.
Its golden eyes blazed brighter than the moon. At last, the smoky owl spotted a pillar of faith burning faintly deep within the forest — a corrupted beacon pulsing like a wound. The apparition shrieked, folding its wings and diving through the darkness. It knew it would not last long; its body of smoke was already thinning, its light dimming. But if it could find the source that bound Javier, perhaps it could end this nightmare before it spread.
The forest below was silent, ancient. The trees twisted around ruins long forgotten — the temple of San Rafael. Its stone walls lay broken and strangled by roots, half-swallowed by the earth. The villagers had done everything to forget this place, to bury it beneath superstition and silence. But the past never truly sleeps.
The owl streaked downward, its body uncoiling into ribbons of smoke as it slipped through a gap in the ruins. Inside, the air was thick with rot and venom. A hiss echoed from the shadows.
A terrible figure stirred.
Scales glistened faintly in the dark — a blue-green shimmer crawling across its monstrous form. Its mouth opened wide, spewing a jet of venom that cut through the smoke like acid. The owl screeched, dispersing into a storm of shadow, wrapping itself around the creature in defiance. It circled again and again, trying to smother the ritual's energy, to choke out the faith that fed it.
Back in the village, Chía gasped, her body shuddering as she felt the venom burn through her spirit. Her eyes blazed gold. Through the owl's sight, she saw the scaled monster clearly now — and what she saw twisted her heart.
Beneath the fangs and the madness was a face she knew.
"Tómas…" she whispered, the name tearing through her throat. Her hands trembled, her voice cracked. "Tómas, por qué…"
Grief flared into fury.
She screamed — and the owl screamed with her. Their voices merged into one unholy sound, half divine, half human. The smoky owl ignited in the same instant, its talons transforming into blazing claws. It struck, slashing across the creature's neck, light against venom, faith against hatred.
The scaled man—no, thing—reeled back, shrieking in agony. Green mist poured from its wounds, hissing as it met the sacred fire. Its eyes glowed crimson, burning with rage and pain.
"Tómas!" Chía cried again, but the word was drowned beneath the creature's howl — a sound that shook the trees and sent birds fleeing into the night.
Then came the explosion.
The owl burst apart in a brilliant inferno, the fire washing over the ruins. For an instant, the forest lit up as if the sun had risen beneath the earth.
When the light died, silence returned — heavy, suffocating, and endless.
At the village, Chía fell to her knees. Smoke rose faintly from her hands. The strength that had filled her moments ago was gone, replaced by a hollow ache in her chest. Her heartbeat slowed, then steadied weakly.
She could feel the corruption still pulsing in the distance — alive, wounded, but unbroken.
She bowed her head, whispering through shallow breaths.
"Niños… hurry back… or this hatred will consume us all."
Her voice faded.
The candles went out.
And far away, in the ruins of San Rafael, something stirred again.