Jimena felt annoyed that everyone focused entirely on Marisol. Ever since they had met the golden-fire chosen, she had felt overshadowed somehow. Normally, she wasn't the type to care about attention or fall into narcissism—but the way everyone stared in awe at Marisol, the reverence in their eyes, the way they whispered about her healing… it grated.
And when Jimena showed her flame?
Mere nods.
Polite glances.
As if she were a bright child demonstrating a trick.
Something about the villagers' ease around her fire felt like disrespect. She knew it wasn't truly so—none of them had shown open hostility after the initial standoff. They simply didn't understand her nature the way her own village had started to. But still… something deep inside twisted with inadequacy.
She didn't understand what "protect her flame" meant. Didn't know what shape she was meant to take. She wasn't a hearth. She wasn't a torch.
An oven? A hearth? A fire pit? she muttered to herself, spiraling into strange metaphors, trying to place herself somewhere—anywhere—within the grand design she was supposed to embody.
But the chosen and the old man approached Marisol, greeting only her, praising only her, showering her with gratitude. Jimena braced herself for a greeting, an acknowledgement—anything.
Nothing came.
They didn't even glance at her.
When they began guiding Marisol away, without so much as a word to Jimena, something in her snapped.
Her steps thundered forward, her voice rising without her meaning it to—strained, hurt, aggrieved.
The entire village turned. All except the old man, who still gazed away with unfocused eyes, as if she didn't exist.
Humiliation burned through her. Anger bloomed right behind it.
The setting sun stretched long shadows across the ground—but Jimena's magenta flame rose in a sudden flare, swallowing the darkness whole. An ominous column of color burst skyward, its phantasmal light staining the nearby huts and trees. A cold wind swept outward as her fire grew, chilling those nearest.
Whispers fell silent.
Men stiffened.
Children hid behind their parents.
Only then did the old man turn toward her. The grey in his eyes—sightless, unfocused—stole the breath from her chest. Realization struck, sharp and sudden.
But even so…
Jimena held her ground, flame roaring, demanding—pleading—for recognition.
She wasn't going to be overlooked.
Not again.
Not by anyone.
Marisol tried to calm Jimena, but the elder lifted a hand to stop her. Smiling faintly, he turned toward Jimena and offered an apology. His voice was smooth and deliberate, the tremor in his aged body doing little to disturb his speech.
Behind him, the golden fire chosen had silently flared—territorial, irritated. But the elder cooled him with a simple wave, as if dismissing an unruly spark. The tension began to ease as he gestured for Jimena to come closer.
"Sorry, young lady. My eyes and ears aren't what they used to be, and this one behind me lacks manners." He patted the chosen's arm. The man only grunted, annoyed at Jimena's presence.
It was clear the two fire chosen did not get along. Marisol felt a mild headache forming at how Jimena had reacted—but she didn't blame her. She simply took Jimena's hand, and the girl's flame softened the moment their fingers intertwined.
Jimena whispered an apology under her breath as they walked hand in hand, whatever anxiety she'd built up slowly dissipating.
They entered what seemed to be the heart of the village. Several people still worked despite the hour, moving in rhythm beside one another. Fires burned bright in the night, warding away every trace of darkness.
Down a street lined with blazing ovens—where shadows struggled to exist and the sound of metal striking metal filled the air—Marisol spotted a cuauhxicalli carved in the shape of a jaguar. A shallow bowl rested on its back, holding a steady golden flame. Its divine presence pressed over them, firm and suppressive, commanding respect simply by existing.
"What are these ovens?" Jimena asked, fascinated as she watched men pour molten metal into clay molds while others hammered red-hot metal into shape.
"They are forges," the elder said. "These men are devoted to Chantico—a goddess who fell in the previous divine era." His expression softened into a distant, nostalgic calm. His milky eyes reflected the glow of the forges, as if remembering a world only he could still see.
"You remind many in this village of her," he continued. "Even without sight, I hear it in their silence. Though for now, you are still a child. And that is fine. There is hope in youth." He gently patted Jimena's arm. "You have a beautiful fire."
The old man turned his clouded gaze directly toward her, as though looking past the flesh, past the flame, and into something she had not yet realized was there.
Jimena wasn't sure how to respond to the blind elder who had, in his own way, called her beautiful. Nor did she know what to do with the idea of carrying the legacy of a fallen goddess. It didn't feel like the mold she fit into. Even if the forge work called to her—pulling at her curiosity and excitement—that didn't mean she wanted that kind of expectation placed on her shoulders.
Still, every flame in the forges seemed to acknowledge her as they passed. As though each fire flickered a greeting only she could truly feel.
The village homes here were sturdier than anything back home. Wooden huts suddenly seemed flimsy compared to these buildings, some made entirely of stone. Most had small forges burning outside their doors, embers glowing like protective eyes keeping watch. The darkness of night simply couldn't penetrate this place. Fire lived everywhere—warm, bright, and alive.
Jimena was captivated. She swung Marisol's hand lightly with her own as they walked, the unfamiliar joy of this place lifting her usual fierceness into something lighter.
The elder, who Marisol suspected saw more than his clouded eyes suggested, chuckled at Jimena's change in mood.
"Chantico was keeper of hearths and guardian of smiths," he said. "She held our warmth when all else grew cold. She was proud, fierce, and stubborn. Much like you."
They stopped before the jaguar-shaped cuauhxicalli. From here, Jimena could clearly see the golden flame burning within the bowl on its back—slow, steady, unyielding as it consumed the blackened offering beneath it. The fire radiated an eternal certainty.
"Life has a tendency to mold us into a shape not of our choosing," the elder said softly. "Breaking that mold—and forging your own—takes strength."
He released the golden fire chosen's arm and gently stroked the stone jaguar's head. His next words carried a solemn weight that reminded Marisol of her grandmother.
"Our village set out with a simple intention: revenge. A path that leads nowhere. Yet instead of enemies, we found allies." His face softened, and he turned to Jimena with deliberate care. "For that, I am grateful."
He looked directly at her—eyes clouded, expression warm—and then to Marisol. To the growing gathering around them.
In that moment, the village welcomed them both.
The hunters who had accompanied Marisol and Jimena joined them soon after the village's warm welcome. They settled together on soft woven fabric laid over a long stone slab used for seating. Before them, a wide stone table held many dishes they had never seen before. What struck Marisol most were the sheer number of meat dishes—cuts from animals she didn't recognize, each prepared with bright colors and fragrant seasonings.
Jimena, meanwhile, had become utterly fixated on a red spice the villagers used in nearly everything. She described its taste as similar to fire, which only deepened her fascination. Of course, Marisol thought wryly, this village had embraced fire so completely that even their food burned with it.
The night passed in easy merriment. Questions flowed freely from both sides—curious, respectful, excited. Clay cups were raised again and again in thanks, in welcome, in celebration. Even the golden fire chosen, who had been cold and distant, eventually softened enough to offer Marisol a cup of sweet coconut juice. She found she adored it.
By the time plans for the next day were settled, the hunters had been gently asked to camp outside the village due to limited space. None of them complained—they were far too drunk to care, groaning and laughing as they stumbled off with loud praise for the villagers' unusually strong alcohol.
Everything about the night felt warm, peaceful, and promising.
Which was why the golden fire chosen's final comment hit Marisol so sharply.
They followed him through a quieter stretch of the village toward the house where they would stay. Just as Marisol felt the evening's joy settling into her bones, he glanced back at Jimena—expression unreadable—and said:
"Some people should stay in their mold."
The words cut through the lingering laughter like a blade.
Jimena flared instantly, magenta flames leaking from her hands and shoulders before she could stop them. Steam curled around them as Marisol grabbed her arm, fighting to steady her before she burst. She could feel the furious tremble in Jimena's muscles.
Stay in their mold.
The chosen's voice echoed in Marisol's mind. And for the first time that night, the warmth of the village felt just a little colder.