Jaime stayed up with a group of hunters. Together they kept watch over the raiders in case tensions sparked again. The raiding tribe had seemed reasonable—more than reasonable, actually—if not for how furious they'd been upon arrival. From the fragmented talks and the agreement Marisol had wrestled out of them, it sounded like children had been harmed in the frenzy of the forest. Injuries that might alter the course of their futures.
Marisol was the one they respected most after her display. Jaime they watched warily. Jimena—strangely—did not frighten them in the least. This surprised both Marisol and Jaime, who had witnessed Jimena's flares shake grown warriors. But the presence of the golden-fire chosen among the raiders might have been the reason.
Ma Chia explained it when they returned to the hut. Marisol and Jimena sat beside her as the old woman warmed her hands with a clay cup of tea. She had them settle, breathe, then focus as she guided them through the next day's plan.
Based on Marisol's agreement with the golden-fire chosen, she and Jimena would travel to the raiders' village with a group of hunters. They would help treat the injured—children, foremost. Jaime was to stay behind and protect the village. A responsibility that had both comforted and weighed on him.
Tonight's raid had shattered the fragile sense of security they'd been building. Even with divinity humming in their bones, there were monsters like Tomás lurking beyond the treeline—and now rival chosen wielding flames of unfamiliar gods. Going forward, caution would have to become instinct.
Hours slipped by as Ma Chia told them stories—old interactions with what she believed to be an iron-working village. Many of their own tools had originated there. Trade for iron in exchange for food had once been a dependable relationship. There were other villages too, scattered across the land, though Chia withheld further introductions for now. Too long had passed. Too much had changed.
When finally they slept, Marisol shared Jimena's sleeping space to prevent any… complications. Jimena knocked out instantly, limbs sprawled, while Marisol took longer to drift. Ma Chia declined every offer to rest, as expected. She remained awake, muttering through plans only she could see.
Marisol dreamed vividly.
An old man appeared, wearing a massive brazier as a sombrero. Flames—golden, gentle, patient—burned within it. The same shade the golden-fire chosen had wielded. The god's face was lined and warm, and when he smiled, the world around Marisol brightened with a soft radiance.
A warmth washed over her—akin to Jimena's, yet different. Calmer. Less heat, more glow. A steady beacon rather than a blaze. His flame did not scorch. It illuminated.
He gazed at her for a long moment.
And Marisol felt, unmistakably, that she had been… acknowledged.
The next morning, Marisol struggled to slip out of Jimena's hold. The girl slept deeply, her limbs draped over Marisol with surprising tenacity. This morning her skin was cool and pleasant. So Jimena clung to her like a vine seeking shade. A thick layer of mist filled the room due to this as well, denser than usual and humid enough to bead across Marisol's skin.
It took effort—careful wriggling and patience—before Marisol finally freed herself.
She wished the communal baths were already finished. Instead, she waved her hand and gathered the heavy mist from around the room. It condensed in her palm, purified, then washed over her body. Sweat and grime dissolved into the water, and with another gesture she expelled the used moisture out the window. keeping the little energy that had formed in the droplets. Then letting it settle quietly into her core for the day ahead.
When she walked into the main hall, Ma Chia was still awake.
A large maize-flour circle marked the floor at the elder's feet, with four smaller circles placed precisely in each cardinal direction. Copal and other ritual herbs were arranged with meticulous care. At the center sat a small clay brazier, in which a tiny golden flame burned steady and silent.
"That looks familiar," Marisol murmured, trying to grasp the remnants of her dream.
Ma Chia only smiled, a secretive little curve of the mouth, and continued her preparations. So Marisol left her to it and stepped into the kitchen to gather the bundles and gourds they had packed the night before.
Once everything was secured, she returned to shake Jimena awake—an endeavor that required more determination than she expected—and then headed out to check on Jaime.
She found him at the edge of the village, near the spot where the raiders had made their temporary camp. The dawn light caught the war paint streaked across the raiders' faces as they stood ready, weapons packed and expressions tense. Jaime was already awake, already focused, his posture sharp.
He was glaring at the golden-fire chosen with golden eyes flaring—steady, unblinking, intense. Something must have been said between them.
Marisol didn't ask, though curiosity tugged at her. Instead, she greeted everyone, offering a calm smile. They only needed to wait for Jimena and the hunters who would be accompanying them. The hunters stationed with Jaime were already prepared to head back home and send over the others. For the moment, as everyone was gathered. Marisol asked a few questions.
Another day of negotiations, healing, and unknown dangers waited ahead.
After Jimena arrived—and after her inevitable flare of violet-red heat at the sight of the golden-fire chosen—they finally departed. Marisol walked at the front, guiding them toward the green road.
At first, the raiders approached the living corridor with hesitation. Their steps slowed, eyes darting warily along the woven walls of vines and flowers. But when their own chosen stepped inside without hesitation, they followed. Their earlier fear had come from the belief that the green road belonged to an enemy. Once within, their reactions mirrored those of the village hunters: awe, discomfort, and curiosity all at once.
Marisol knew they wouldn't return home that day. The distance alone made that clear. Even so, she pushed the pace, keeping to the road until the golden-fire chosen gestured for them to leave it. Jimena attempted to create a new path—thick violet flame curling at her fingertips—but both Marisol and the golden-fire chosen stopped her.
The raiders would guide them the rest of the way.
They passed small streams where deer drank without fear, and wide clearings glittering with wings—birds, butterflies, even a few shimmering beetles crawling over flowers. Then, at last, the raiders' village came into view.
A faint, dark pressure hung in the air. It clung to the skin like humidity but carried none of the warmth—only unease. The moment they crossed into the village's boundary, every member of Marisol's group stiffened.
The raiders, however, broke into a sprint. Warriors peeled away toward their homes, calling for loved ones. Only a handful remained to keep watch over the visitors. Even the golden-fire chosen vanished into the maze of huts without a word.
So the priests waited.
Time stretched. The air remained heavy, like a storm refusing to break.
Then the first injured child arrived.
He was carried by a man freshly washed, though streaks of black war paint still clung stubbornly to his ears and hairline. His steps were careful, almost trembling with urgency. He cradled the small child as if the slightest jostle might cause him to shatter.
The boy's face was red and blotched from crying, tiny gasps escaping him with each breath. His arm was bound between two pieces of wood—well-made splints, Marisol noted—but the limb had swollen horribly, purple and tight beneath the bindings. Whatever venom or corruption lingered from the frenzied animal had spread far beyond a simple break.
The man bowed deeply before Marisol, head lowered in supplication. His hands shook; grief and fear radiated from him as tangibly as heat.
Marisol crouched and examined the child carefully—but then stopped.
She reached up and touched the man's shoulder gently. When he lifted his gaze, she met his eyes and offered a soft, steady smile. A quiet promise.
There was no need to beg. No payment owed. No reconciliation or apology required before aid.
Helping this child—this innocent—was the bridge between them.
The man's breath shuddered out, his tense expression loosening for the first time.
Marisol turned her attention back to the little boy, lifting her hands as healing mist began to gather.
Marisol wasn't sure whether the boy clung to his father out of fear or shyness, but she didn't try to separate them. She let the child bury his face in the man's chest and hold on tightly with his uninjured arm.
Raising her hands, she gathered sacred water into a drifting cloud of tiny droplets—each one shimmering with soft pink light. With a gentle motion she guided the cloud toward the boy's swollen limb. The droplets settled over the splint, soaking into the wood, the binding, and finally the skin beneath.
Marisol felt her water enter deeper.
Into the tissue.
Into the bone.
And there she sensed what had halted the healing. The bone refused to mend—not because the splint was poorly made, but because something malignant gnawed at the child from within.
A venom.
A familiar venom.
When she had healed the hunters attacked by the frenzied animals, she hadn't sensed Tomas's divinity in their wounds. But here, within this little boy, it lingered—eating at bone and flesh, preventing recovery.
Her heart tightened.
Tomas's pain had spread far beyond what she imagined. And the longer they delayed capturing him—or laying him to rest—the more suffering he would leave behind.
Holding that thought close, she steeled herself. A quiet, firm determination rose in her chest.
She pushed her divinity deeper, battling the venom with careful precision. Then she guided life energy toward the damaged tissue—helping the child's body draw the nutrients it needed to rebuild.
The boy whimpered at first, then relaxed. His breath steadied. Color returned to his face.
Onlookers gathered silently around them. When the father saw his son's arm finally lose its frightening purple shade, he wept openly. Others rushed back into the village, and soon more injured were brought to Marisol—many of them relatives of the men who had worn war paint just the night before. Traces of black still clung to their ears, hairlines, and necks.
None had venom as potent as the child's, but their injuries were no less troubling—twisted backs, damaged feet, eyes clouded from blows or scratches. These wounds were dangerous in different ways; injuries like these could ruin futures.
Yet each person recovered after only a few moments under Marisol's sacred water.
She had nearly finished healing everyone when the golden-fire chosen reappeared—this time guiding a deeply wrinkled old man. The elder walked slowly, a furrowed brow carved permanently into his face. As they approached, Marisol noticed his eyes were greyed, unfocused, seeing little if anything. The golden-fire chosen supported him carefully, arm entwined with the elder's.
People parted immediately, creating a silent path for them.
Once before her, the old man spoke—each word slow, deliberate, crafted with effort.
"Welcome… chosen."
He smiled faintly, nodding though his eyes remained distant.
Marisol lifted her hand to offer a blessing—but the elder gently caught her wrist. His touch was soft, frail, trembling through his entire arm.
"We follow the cycle," he whispered, voice quivering. "Life and death. Creation and destruction. Breaking… and mending."
His unfocused eyes drifted somewhere beyond her shoulder. Yet his smile was serene—deeply, profoundly accepting.
Marisol's chest tightened with emotion. She returned the smile, bittersweet, and held his hand a moment longer, honoring the wisdom of a life nearly spent.