Chia sat between Marisol and Jimena. Jaime took the space beside his sister, who kept throwing low, irritated growls toward the chosen seated across from her. Sol returned her annoyance with equal dedication—hard glares, exaggerated eye rolls, or lifting his chin to look down at her with crossed arms. His impressive height dwarfed the tall girl, who only bared her teeth in response.
Their childish rivalry amused Marisol, who smiled at the lively sight. She held hands with Chia, the old woman leaning close now and then to whisper updates—plans regarding the coatimundi, plans for the green road, and other matters she wanted the girl caught up on.
The blind elder had already begun to eat, savoring a warm soup of maize, tomatoes, chilies, and other vegetables. A bowl had been set before Chia as well, though she hadn't touched it yet, still speaking quietly to Marisol. The murmur of conversation around them stirred a sense of safety that settled over the gathering like a comforting blanket.
Jaime enjoyed himself in his own quiet way. He carved small marks onto the wooden table, shaping a rough map of the village as ideas came to him. The sleeping Cimi atop his head glowed softly with contentment, warmed by the flourishing faith in the air. Her feathers shimmered a beautiful gold, streaked with deep brown that deepened their brilliance.
The festive mood swelled as the evening carried on. The completion of various dishes—mostly vegetables boiled or cooked over fire—marked a shift toward celebration. Creamy soups were handed to elders and children to keep them warm, gently satisfying their hunger and encouraging an even greater appetite in the restless little ones.
With much of the preparation finished, the villagers began rearranging the tables. They formed a loose ring around the central table where the elders and chosen sat. Fires had been stoked into controlled bonfires, warming the gathering and shielding them from the salty ocean breeze. Many of the hunters claimed seats along the outer edge, while farmers settled nearer to the center. Several of their tables were crowded with large clay pots of maize-and-vegetable soup that mothers ladled out until everyone had eaten at least a little.
Other dishes—meats, roasted vegetables, and bowls of salsa—waited off to the side, cooling until it was time to serve. The tortillas were wrapped in cloth to keep warm. Children and elders who finished their soup first sat chatting, playing, and teasing the mischievous dogs that lingered nearby in hopes of scraps.
The scent of cooked meat lingered heavy and warm in the air as the last of the preparations came together. Comales over several fires kept tortillas hot and pliable. At last, the hunters in charge of cooking began handing off large slices of roasted meat to the farmers, who cut them further—small strips, long slivers, hearty chunks—each portion shaped according to the tastes known best by the mothers waiting to serve them.
Everyone worked with the seamless rhythm of community, preparing a feast large enough to feed hundreds. Fishermen arrived near the end with their late catch, accompanied by the last of the bakers, who carried baskets of fresh bread made over long hours. Their contributions added to the bounty—proof that even without hunting, Bahia Oscura's farming sustained them all. The villagers of Chantico praised this abundance, the savory smell rising from their plates with each generous serving.
Tacos of every kind—meats, vegetables, herbs, and vibrant salsas—were passed around. Drinks of fruit, cacao, and fragrant herbs followed, served again by the mothers who knew the exact preferences of their picky children and equally picky husbands. Work and toil blended with joy as families came together to celebrate. This was the first of many feasts they hoped to share, and that hope settled into quiet expectation as all eyes turned toward the central table. Conversations dwindled; even the rowdiest children stilled under gentle coaxing from their parents.
Chia pressed her hands together in reverence, her voice steady and clear.
"Nos reunimos aquí para adorar a nuestros dioses y nuestros nuevos guías en este mundo de dioses," she intoned, offering the first part of the prayer. She fell silent, trusting the next voice to rise.
"Para aliarnos a mentes, corazones y espíritus comunes a nosotros," the blind elder continued, closing his eyes. A faint warmth glowed between his cupped hands, his trembling easing as the words lingered in the air.
"Para sanar estas mentes, corazones y espíritus juntos. Como un solo pueblo."
Marisol's voice followed, soft but unwavering. Her eyes closed as she felt something shift within her gem—an awakening humming inside a small pink egg. Her words stirred a heartfelt swell in the gathered crowd.
"Para crecer mentes, corazones y espíritus como un pueblo unido," Sol continued, his deep voice betraying the smallest tremble. Few noticed; most were too entranced as a heartbeat-like thrum began to pulse—first inside their chests, then throughout the open air. Something divine was taking form.
"Para innovar y empoderar juntos como familia unida," Jaime and Jimena finished together, their hands clasped, their voices harmonizing. Their final words fell like a spark onto dry tinder.
The three cuauhxicalli at the center of the village drank deeply of the gathered thoughts and emotions. Their glow intensified until each reached a threshold—and then, three waves of elemental energy surged outward. They washed over the village in a shared blessing, seeping into every person present, young and old, from both villages.
A four-pointed painted star shimmered briefly on every forehead, marking each villager as a bearer of a newly shared divinity.
Javier felt his mind clear.
The table he'd been sitting at—chosen earlier out of brooding habit—now felt oddly lonely as everyone around him basked in the swelling joy of the gathering. He rubbed at his forehead. The sluggish, tangled thoughts he'd been carrying for days—worry after worry looping endlessly—were suddenly… gone.
The more he tried to recall them, the more they slipped like water through his fingers. Why had he even chosen to sit alone? Why had he obsessed so fiercely over what his daughter might or might not be doing? His mind now moved differently, in a way he couldn't quite grasp—sharper, clearer, but also humbling. The strange, tense way he'd been acting felt embarrassing in hindsight.
With a quiet exhale, half sigh and half smile, he picked up his plate and made his way to sit beside his children. He'd forgotten, in recent memory, how to simply be a father—how to sit with them without fear or confusion swirling beneath the surface.
Jimena immediately stuck her tongue out at Sol across the table, then froze when she noticed her father watching. Her embarrassed grin blossomed into one of her old mischievous smiles. It warmed him—truly warmed him—to see that spark again.
Her hair color startled him as though he were noticing it for the first time. A vague impression lingered of the events that had caused the change, but even so, the vivid red struck him as strange and new each time he looked at it. It reminded him of a younger cousin from his youth—bittersweet, fleeting—before the memory dissolved once more. Instead, his eyes drifted to the map Jaime had carved into the wooden table.
Its detail shocked him. The accuracy of the locations, the scribbled lines of planning—precise, thoughtful, confident.
Since when had his son grown so… impressive?
Everything from the past two weeks felt misty, indistinct, as though viewed through fog. Anything further back was blurred entirely. His mind tried to reach for it, and failed.
A hand rested gently on his shoulder. Jaime. The boy—no, the young man—looked at him with steady eyes. Above him, the small owl perched on Jaime's head stared directly at Javier, golden feathers catching the firelight as though analyzing him. It sent a faint chill down his spine, but he forced himself not to react.
"It'll go away with time, Dad," Jaime said softly. "Don't force yourself."
The four-pointed painted star glowing on Javier's forehead shimmered with three brilliant points before fading into his skin. What remained was a small, dark triangle pulsing faintly—just like the mark now present on everyone gathered.
Sign of the three blessings received. With the last point waiting for the fourth.
Much of the floating faith still in the air had already been devoured by the cuauhxicalli. They growled, shrieked, and squeaked in satisfied chorus, their inner flames blazing hotter within their bowls—casting waves of warmth through the gathering, even from afar. Bright ethereal flame enough to hold back the ocean's evening chill for the entire village.
---
Unbeknownst to the celebrating village below, a great storm brewed high above them.
An invisible tempest gathered and churned, thunder without sound, lightning without light—its violence held back by a divine force. A wall of power, immutable and immovable, stood against the weak, grasping tantrums of lesser evil gods. Their outrage crackled like static against the firmament, insignificant in the face of true divinity.
Those malevolent gods, drawn by the intoxicating surge of faith rising from the mortals below, lunged hungrily toward it—only to be struck down.
Lightning-tendrils whipped outward, each strike booming through the heavens the moment it connected. Massive phantasms the size of storm clouds recoiled and fled, writhing silhouettes scattering across the sky as pure divine power arced mercilessly between them.
Salutaris hissed with frustration from the depths.
The growing divinity of the death god protecting the village burned at him—mocking him. That power should have been his. That surge of worship, the blooming faith, the strengthening of divine form—it belonged to him, not these minor deities rising in his place.
The ache of his own failure pulsed from the core of his being. The loss of his chosen was nothing compared to the power he had been poised to gain. Power snatched from his reach in the most humiliating fashion.
From within his underwater prison he writhed, coils twisting with hate. His eyes glowed brighter—venomous, simmering with unrestrained malice. Plans of carnage flickered in the darkness of his mind, each more fevered than the last, until they smoldered hot enough to stain the black waters around him. Creating a mirage of blood, an aura of evil.
Soon, he promised himself.
Soon.