With Marisol's help, Jimena dragged the unconscious Jaime to his bed and let him rest.
The soup still churned in her own system—tasting every bit as awful as it smelled—but she could feel it working. The last traces of whatever Tomás had done to her were fading, dissolving into her body like smoke into wind.
Ever since hearing the gods' whispers, Jimena felt like an onion—peeling back one emotion after another, uncovering more of herself with each layer. The changes within her felt strange, yes, but also… natural. As if they had been waiting.
Some time later, Javier arrived just as Jaime finally stumbled awake. His grogginess clung to him like heavy fog; the dazed expression and slack jaw were almost too much to bear. Jimena tried—and failed—not to laugh when he walked straight into the table, bent over and smacked his head.
Marisol handled it better. She masked her amusement beneath a gentle tone, calmly tending the bump on his forehead as though she weren't moments from giggling herself.
When Cimi finally reappeared atop Jaime's head, the shift was immediate. His eyes sharpened, posture straightened, and his usual seriousness returned. With a steady breath and a calm glance around the room, he began planning the rest of their evening.
Large rocks and bundles of corn stover had been brought over while the villagers worked. After some discussion, they settled on a spot just to the left of Ma Chia's hut—now unanimously called their temple. The three chosen couldn't afford to be particular about location, and besides, their cuauhxicalli were already stored there. A few elders had even begun offering small tokens into the pyre. It made the place feel natural—inevitable—as the village's new center.
Adding the baths would complete it.
Though the offerings were still sparse and had yet to produce any real change, the chosen had never asked for tribute—and they didn't intend to. There was no need to rush divine matters.
Improving village life came first. Especially with a creature still prowling the outskirts, testing for weakness.
Work began in earnest when the farmers arrived, carrying iron hoes and picks. They started by carving a shallow channel through the dirt to redirect water. One of the farmers had discovered a small spring not far from the village, and they decided to make use of it.
Everyone took turns digging, loosening soil and shaping the path the water would take. Once they reached the spring itself, Marisol would empower it—"seed it," as she had begun to call the process of creating her sanctuaries.
With Jaime taking the lead in marking the path—alongside the farmer who insisted he knew the straightest route to the spring—they managed to clear more than a hundred feet, judging by their steps, before the sun began to sink.
But night was coming fast, and progress had been slow. Jaime reassured everyone it would be finished within a few days, especially with the chosen helping. Their divine strength could cut through even stone when necessary.
Not that the men needed the reassurance. Their trust in the chosen remained steady. If this project meant hot baths after long days in the fields, then every swing of the hoe felt worth it. Given the tension of recent events, the work felt less like labor and more like investing in their own peace.
Jimena was just as excited about the baths—perhaps more so—chattering with the men about her ideas for improved toilets. To Jaime's surprise, the farmers seemed open to all of it, even the stranger concepts.
Marisol didn't join the digging, but she helped in her own way—moving from person to person, easing pain and exhaustion with her healing touch. A single pass of her hand could erase hours of labor.
And so they worked until the horizon dimmed, the last ribbon of light melting into dusk. Javier and Chia had insisted the chosen invite everyone to stay for dinner, but the villagers politely refused. Mothers arrived to collect their husbands with tired children. So the fathers hurried home, arm in arm with their wives, eager to begin the evening's routines.
The chosen stood together and waved goodbye to the flushed fathers, the bustling mothers, the rowdy children tugging at their parents' clothes. It was an ordinary scene, warm and familiar—one they would protect and help flourish at any cost.
The chosen settled around the table with cooked fish and yet more of the medicinal soup placed in front of each of them. Their expressions ranged from utter defeat to delighted anticipation.
Jaime slumped in his seat, earning simultaneous looks of disapproval from both Chia and Javier, who sat on either side of him. Javier, however, refused to face the soup at all. Even a single whiff had sent him reeling just as badly as his son.
Instead, he buried his face in the earthy scent of his cacao drink. The bitterness grounded him, a much-needed anchor. Cacao was becoming harder to come by—most of the trees grew deep in the forests surrounding the village, and few farmers or hunters wanted to venture more than a mile beyond the fields. Many said it was too risky. The lingering sweet scent of Tomás still haunted those areas.
The moment the creature crossed Javier's mind, a sharp throb pulsed behind his eyes. He pushed the thought away, forcing himself to stay present.
Jimena had enjoyed herself most that day. Not even the bitter soup could dim her smile. The conversations she'd shared with the farmers had given her new insights for her plans, and Jaime's project seemed like it could help hers along the way. The excitement lit her face even brighter than the red in her newly changed hair.
Marisol drained her clay bowl with surprising eagerness. The energy within the soup nourished her in a way no food ever had before. The difference between how her grandmother's soup tasted now, compared to before she became chosen, had stunned her at first. But she adapted quickly—especially relieved she didn't have to endure anything like Jimena's tearful ordeal. Marisol had suffered through that soup many times in childhood.
They ate together in warm, companionable silence, a gentle peace settling over their hearts.
The three chosen continued planning after Ma Chia and Javier left. Mostly Jimena—who simply could not contain the flood of ideas she kept having. The toilet revolution had to happen, she insisted more than once.
Jaime, meanwhile, was slumped in his seat, completely defeated by the soup. Even the fish on his plate had gone cold and stiff, untouched.
The sudden eruption of loud barking shattered the quiet. But just as abruptly as it began, it stopped. A sharp, pained whine followed.
That was enough.
All three jolted to their feet. Jaime's pale face sharpened with awareness as Cimi materialized atop his head. The owl's large golden eyes glowed, scanning through the wooden walls as if they were nothing.
Xolo manifested beside Jimena with a low, rumbling growl, bloody flames curling around his sleek form. Axochi drifted into existence near Marisol, floating on his pink cloud, mist swirling around her head.
The three guides stood ready—each alert, each coiled with divine instinct. This was their sanctuary, their center of divinity. Whatever creature dared intrude here would find itself outmatched.
Shouts erupted outside.
The chosen didn't hesitate—they bolted from the hut.
Ma Chia stood outside with a cluster of half-asleep hunters, their bows strung and machetes drawn, eyes wild and searching in the dimness.
From the shadows surrounding the neighboring huts, men emerged—silent, swift, and covered head-to-toe in black war paint. In the dimness they looked like moving patches of night, blending perfectly with the darkness.
They held several villagers captive, gripping them tightly while their eyes tracked every movement of the chosen and the hunters. As more invaders materialized from between the huts, the torches in the hunters' hands did little to push back the sheer number of painted faces.
Jimena reacted first. Her flame snapped to life—bright, violent, and impossible to ignore. It washed across the clearing and illuminated the raiders fully. Red had fused with her violet energy; the resulting magenta glow curled around her like a furious aura. It cast harsh shadows and made her look almost sinister. The invaders shifted uneasily beneath her fire.
One man at the back stepped forward, flaring his own flame—different in nature, but threatening all the same—attempting to meet Jimena head-on.
He faltered the moment Jaime's gaze locked onto him. Four golden eyes glared back at him with unwavering focus. The man recoiled, visibly unsettled. By man and owl.
The two groups stood locked in a tense stalemate. The chosen were outnumbered, badly so. Weapons glinted. Bowstrings creaked. Fear and anger swirled. Chaos was one heartbeat away.
That was when Marisol stepped forward.
Her obsidian armor snapped into existence across her body. A pink mist rose around her, seeping into the black stone. Her danburite armor began to form over it, glowing brighter and brighter—drawing in the divinity that thickened the air of their sanctuary.
"Why are you here?" she asked, letting the weight of her presence press down on the opposing force.
The man with the flame flared again, this time golden. It rose high, bracing against her pressure. She could see the strain in his trembling shoulders despite his effort to hide it.
"We were attacked by crazed animals. Many of our villagers were injured." His golden flame flared brighter, emotions burning hot behind his eyes. "We followed the path you formed. We come for revenge."
Marisol stepped forward once more, halting Jimena with a raised hand before she flared again.
"We created the green road for trade," she said, voice steady. "The frenzied animals came from another entity in the forest. A creature that hunts us—just as we hunt it."
Whispers rippled through the raiders. The tension shifted, no longer pointed solely at the village. Marisol eased her power slightly. Unlike in Mictlan, she could feel her strength draining too quickly—dissipating like steam in the open air. She could only maintain the posture of power for so long.
"Show us proof," the golden flame chosen demanded, stepping closer.
"We don't have proof," Marisol began, but a hunter called out and hurried forward. He handed her a sweet-smelling blue scale—smooth, shimmering with a faint green luminescence.
Marisol passed it to the golden flame chosen. The man sniffed it, eyes narrowing, then handed it to another raider with red paint around his eyes. The second man repeated the action. His painted face twitched with realization.
The scale was passed from man to man. Each one reacted the same—confusion turning into recognition, into unease.
After a long, nerve-wracking silence, the golden flame chosen gave a curt nod and signaled to his raiders.
They released the captive villagers.
The three chosen held their ground as the invaders lowered their weapons—arrows glinting, machetes catching the torchlight in wicked flashes before finally lowering to their sides.