The Sanctuary's walls shook under the fury of the storm. The sky split open again and again, lightning carving jagged veins of silver across the heavens, thunder rolling so close it rattled bone and set teeth on edge. Rain poured in sheets, drumming against stone and roof-tile, filling the gutters until water overflowed in muddy torrents.
The people streamed into the square, drawn as much by fear as by faith. Some clutched charms carved from bone or shell, their knuckles white; others held one another in desperate embrace, whispering prayers that faltered against the storm's roar. Mothers pressed wet cheeks to their children's crowns. Old men fell to their knees in the mud. The air itself quivered, heavy with a pressure that was more than weather. Something holy, or terrible, had arrived.
It was Phineus who felt it first. A deep ache bloomed in his chest, like his ribs themselves were straining to hold back a tide. His breath came short, shallow, and then broke into a cry. He stumbled out from the apprentice's quarters, hair plastered to his brow by the downpour, violet flickers reflected in his wide eyes.
"Open the gates!" His voice cracked against the storm, but carried. "Open them for our gods!"
The guards froze. Their hands hovered over weapons, their bodies taut with uncertainty. But the boy's command rang with something more than mortal urgency. It was not just his voice.
It was an echo, a vibration in the marrow, part command, part worship. They exchanged a single look and obeyed.
The heavy gates groaned as they swung wide, hinges straining, and rain surged inward in a flood that lapped at boots and skirts. The crowd held its breath.
And there they were.
Señora Behike and Alejandro came first, both bowed by exhaustion, steps heavy, as though they had carried the weight of the storm itself. But behind them walked Jaime and Elena, and the air bent around their presence. The wind seemed to hesitate at their passage, curving like a bow before snapping loose again. Lightning lingered, suspended, illuminating their faces with a dreadful clarity.
Elena's eyes glowed. Not the warm garnet her children knew, but violet streaked with indigo fire, stormlight alive within her gaze. Jaime's ocean-blue eyes shimmered as if reflecting tides unseen, every flash of lightning turning them into molten waves. Rain slicked their faces and hair, but neither faltered. Elena clutched the dagger of the slain child soldier, her hand wrapped so tightly around it that her knuckles bled white. She held it as though it were her own heart, torn from her chest and made steel.
Phineus fell to his knees. His body trembled with the violence of the storm outside and the greater storm within. "Mama…" his voice was a ragged whisper, breaking in awe and terror alike. "Jaime… gods of storm and sea."
Elena didn't answer. She broke forward with sudden, desperate speed, sweeping him into her arms. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, into his back, as if anchoring him to her would keep the world from ripping him away. She wept, not softly, but violently, the sobs shaking through her whole body, wracking her lungs until they ached. She pressed her face into his hair, breathing him in, clinging to him as though she had come from death itself to hold him again.
Jaime sank to his knees beside them, wrapping both mother and son in his arms. His cheek pressed against the boy's head, his hand against Elena's back, steadying them both. In that embrace there was no storm, no divine mantle. Only the raw, human need not to be alone in the wake of grief.
Moments later, others emerged through the rain. Esperanza, pale and unsteady, with Juan beside her; Aurora close behind with Vera clinging to her skirts like a shadow.
When Esperanza saw her mother's eyes, no longer warm, but lit from within by indigo flashes of light, her knees buckled. She gasped, a child's sound ripped from her grown body, and fell into the mud beside them. She reached trembling hands to her mother's face, to the shoulders that bore her, and sobbed. "Mama…" The word cracked, breaking against her throat. She pulled Phineus into her arms, pressing his head to her chest, and let Juan's steadying arms guide her into the embrace.
Elena opened her circle, pulling her daughter in, and suddenly they were four, mother, son, daughter, and the man who bound them together, clinging in the rain, divinity and bloodlines mixing with the mud beneath their knees.
Juan's head lifted. His breath hitched, and then golden light flared in his eyes. Gueyaba's voice. Low, rumbling, and ancient spoke through his lips, bowing his vessel's head toward storm and sea.
We honor you, gods who walk among us.
Elena's violet gaze softened, and she reached for him too. The god did not hesitate. Juan's body broke free into a boyish smile, rushing forward, kneeling to kiss her cheek as though it were the most natural devotion in the world.
Behind them, Aurora stood still as stone. Her eyes sought Alejandro, and when she saw the lines of grief etched into his face, the red-rimmed eyes, the jaw clenched against unspeakable memory, her heart tore. Without thought, she crossed the space and seized him, pulling him into a fierce kiss in front of all. "You are the bravest man I've ever known," she whispered to him, voice cracked but steady.
Alejandro said nothing. He buried his face in her shoulder, his body trembling. For the first time, his grief spilled free- tears, hot and unrestrained, soaking the space between them. Vera was pressed between their bodies, shielded by their arms. She stared out from the cage of her parents' embrace, wide-eyed, watching Elena and Jaime through the storm.
Not aunt. Not step uncle. Something else. Something vast, holy, terrible. She pressed her face into her mother's skirts, unable to name what she had seen. Alejandro bent low, covering her hair with trembling kisses, his tears streaking down to mingle with the rain.
The square was silent. None of the gathered people spoke. They only watched, breath caught in their throats, as the storm and sea gods knelt in the mud among them, dripping sorrow, holding their children, and being held in turn.
It was Señora Behike who broke the silence at last, her voice steady despite her nerves.
"At dawn, an elder's council will be called."
No one moved. No one dared to.
Elena and Jaime did not answer her. They did not look back. They only laced their hands together, fingers trembling, locking tight, and walked toward the cottage. Their family trailed close behind, clutching one another, carrying sorrow and divinity alike beneath the breaking storm.