Mariana let Ramón wrap his large arms around her. His thick hands drew her close, sealing the warmth between them as they stood watching the moonlit waves roll in and out.
Far beyond the dark horizon, she could feel the faint embers of distant flames—small candles of faith flickering in the storming wind. The crescent moon hanging above seemed to watch with them, and she dared to believe its soft glow held a loving smile.
The gods and their devout would soon reach the Fence of Gods—the first shining colonies of light standing sentinel over the Coral Garden. There, saintly caretakers watched over the karmic abyss and tended to the boundaries between divinity and the deep.
After that would come the Garden itself, a sanctuary grown atop old wounds. A place where many of the still-powerful evil gods fought endlessly against the divine laws that shaped it. Purified though some had been, their corruption lingered, and conflict was inevitable wherever their remnants resisted the light.
Beyond the Fence lay the deep abyssal trench—a vast descent meant to guide the weakened, filtered gods into the karmic abyss, where their divinity could be broken down and reborn. Garden and abyss working together, recycling darkness into something gentler. Something righteous.
Mariana understood all of this.
She knew the design.
She trusted the gods who had forged such a sanctuary.
And yet…
The tightness in her chest refused to fade.
She, a saint, could do nothing for what lurked in the immeasurable deep. Nor did so many gods traveling together need of her worry, their presence more than enough to quell any forgotten horror. Still her heart clenched with worry as she felt each flickering flame of faith from afar—small, fragile, and so terribly thin against the vast dark.
She held Ramón's hands with renewed firmness, lifting her silent prayer to the moon.
Repent, reform, return to the light.
Let their corrupted divinity be purified for a world that needed it.
"You care too much, saintess," Ramón murmured, teasing her ear with a soft breath.
She scoffed at him, but the concern etched in her brow did not fade. Those faint lights—barely visible even with the relic hanging warm against her chest—felt as though they would extinguish the moment she dared look away. Only the wide openness of her spirit allowed her to perceive them at all.
So she would not ignore them.
She could not.
She would hold on until she knew—truly knew—that they no longer needed for her to care.
For she was the Saintess of Care.
Mariana de la Paz.
Ramon, after much cajoling, finally managed to pry the worrying saintess away from the harbor. The cool air of this foreign land brushed across his skin—always a pleasant sensation. After the sweltering places he had once called home, this gentle warmth felt like a blessing. Ten years had passed since his life had changed, and he could not have imagined a happier path:
the woman of his dreams in his arms,
the power to help others,
and a place worthy of beginning anew.
The journey that had brought them here had been treacherous, even under the watchful eyes of the gods. The sea now lay calm before them—a serenity that had not existed years prior. He understood, then, why Mariana worried so deeply for the devout who were still crossing those waters.
Many evil gods lurked in both sea and sky. Some feasted on stray prayers and desperate faith, growing into grotesque abominations with endless hunger. Every saint had been taught the tragedies wrought by these beings—the reason coral gardens and deep abysses had been shaped into cages for such creatures, keeping them sealed away from mortal reach.
Ramon had read countless accounts of these horrors: faded journals, ink-washed drawings, fragments of diaries carried across generations. Mortals had lived in a tragic world once—one filled with festering shadows and old, waking torments. So Ramon filled himself with knowledge whenever he could. Blind courage helped no one, least of all those who depended on him.
He rolled his shoulders back and took a deep breath, letting faith and cool air fill his lungs. His joints cracked satisfyingly as his body eased, and he let out a small grunt—
—which was immediately covered by a soft kiss.
Mariana chuckled at his startled expression.
"You say I worry too much, but look at you, Señor Ramón."
She exaggerated his posture, sucking in a huge breath with her brow deeply furrowed and her lips pushed out like a duck. Then, before he could grab her, she darted away with a mischievous giggle.
She slipped between his reaching fingers with a twirl and sprinted toward their home, slamming the door shut just as he reached it.
Ramon tugged at the wood—carefully, mindful not to break it—then laughed at her antics. Deepening his voice, he knocked dramatically.
"Señorita Mariana, ¿me podría abrir la puerta?"
He paused when he caught movement from the side. Mariana peeked out from behind the thick curtains of the window, only her eyes visible. With a single finger she beckoned him closer… then vanished back inside. The wooden celosía remained open, welcoming him.
He shook his head, smiling wide.
"Will you have courage, Mister Ramón?" she called, her melodic voice teasing him from within.
She didn't get the chance to say anything more. Ramon dashed forward and slipped inside with one swift motion.
A shriek—and then rolling laughter—filled the little house.
It was only some time later that they both admitted it was time to work. Worrying endlessly about the incoming ships and the gods aboard them would change nothing, and they knew it.
After a hearty late-night meal of beans, bread, and fish—washed down with a bit of wine, saved only for celebrations—they finally settled in.
The night was already half gone, and these two saints still had much to do.
"Have we talked with any more locals about trading for eggs or chickens?" Ramón asked as he looked over the most recent count of their maize and flour stores. They had gone through much more than expected. His frown said enough.
"I've talked with several townsfolk," Mariana sighed, passing him a sheet of numbers. "But they're all asking for silver faiths in exchange. Prices have shot up ever since everyone realized how much the locals loved the eggs—and how surprisingly successful they were at hatching chicks from older ones."
"Jealousy?" Ramón asked, scanning the inflated numbers.
"Not for everyone," she said with a shrug. "Some just see it as a chance to earn more silver to send back to the Empire of Light. The arrival of those new boats—right after a long period since most of the gods had departed—seems to have meant something to them."
She flipped to another list. "The miners have also asked to be paid in silver faiths after hearing what they're used for." Another sigh escaped her, and she slumped forward, resting her cheek against the cool wood of the table before pulling another sheet toward her.
A sudden, thunderous snore jolted her out of her focus.
Ramón sat slumped in his chair, head thrown back, mouth slightly open, a thin trail of drool glistening in the candle light.
Mariana pressed a hand to her mouth, trying—and failing—to stifle her laughter. The more she tried, the harder she choked on giggles. Even that wasn't enough to wake the sleeping bear.
Still smiling softly, she began tidying their scattered papers.
Then, with a gentle sweep of her divinity, she lifted the large, burly man. She managed halfway before grunting and giving up on elegance entirely—hoisting him over her shoulder like a very large, very beloved sack.
The next morning—still warm with the passion of the night before—they rose with renewed energy, ready to tackle their problems head-on. Over a simple breakfast of sweetened bread and cacao, the couple chatted about the day's tasks.
"I'll try talking to the polleros again," Mariana said, taking a bite of her soft treat. "Maybe we can convince them to bring their prices back down to something reasonable."
"I'll check the grain storage for anything that might be eating through it—whether insect or human." Ramón's eyes met hers, the unspoken suspicion needing no words. "After that, I'll check on our platoon… or whatever's left of it."
He swallowed the last of his bread whole, softening it with large gulps of cacao, then stood, leaned down to kiss his beloved, and headed off toward the hórreos. It would give the captains time to drag themselves out of bed.
Years without gods watching over them had made many lax. Several hidalgos had grown fat and complacent after the wave of success that came with settling in this new land.
The neglect worried them both. Cases of corruption by evil gods were becoming more frequent in town. The corrupt ones cast out tendrils like fishermen laying lines—patient, hungry, always probing for a way into the mortal plane.
One of the smaller ones, too insignificant to have been caught in the previous purge, had managed to take root in their region. With scraps of scattered faith, it created a domain whose odd law only permitted short buildings—an irritation for the town's wealthy. But no matter how petty the rule, nobody had the power to defy a fully formed divine domain.
Not alone, at least. The saints could break the domain if they worked together, but their faith reserves were still strained. They had spent so much producing silver faiths to keep the town running. Divinity was to be used only in the direst of emergencies—any weakening of their gods risked terrible consequences.
So Ramón focused on what he could change: making sure the townspeople lived good, fulfilled lives. He had not endured so much or worked so hard to become the Saint of Courage only to be defeated by human negligence and greed. If he had to, he would knock sense into each stubborn, thick, fat skull.
With that thought, he lifted his chin and smiled as he walked. He waved at passersby, hugged elderly folk who gifted him fruit, kissed babies whose young mothers begged for blessings, and even carried a few mischievous children who trailed after him in giggling swarms.
Mariana left after dressing herself. The flowery dress the locals had made for her was one of her favorites, soft and vibrant, and even the sandals—woven with careful hands—were sturdy and beautiful.
With light skips she made her way toward the loudest corner of town, where most of the polleros had settled. Their choice of living so close to the forest had brought no small number of complaints, but none of them wanted to move, and the hidalgo refused to patrol more than they already did. It was just one more headache added to her growing list.
After nearly an hour of doors being shut in her face, Mariana finally gave up on the chicken sellers and decided to check on the silver mine. She already had a sinking feeling about what she would find.
According to the scholars who had traveled through the region after the fall of the previous savage empire, all proper deposits of gold, silver, and even iron were located further inland—or on the far side of the mountain ridge that blocked their advance. What little they had discovered nearby was already dug through. Searching for new deposits would cost more time than they could afford, especially with the locals beginning to adopt the greedier habits seen in the empire's cities.
Their town had grown rapidly by trading with local villages, using silver faiths only when dealing with citizens of the Empire of Light—mainly the platoon and the wealthier nobles who had come seeking opportunity. By "opportunity," of course, they meant tricking the locals with pretty words and unfair bargains.
It wasn't only one village they had strained; several communities had already turned a cold shoulder toward them. If not for the constant efforts of the saints to soothe tensions, they might have found themselves cut off from food entirely—a situation that was becoming increasingly dire, as food continued to go missing regardless.
After a brief, determined trek through the forest, Mariana reached the mine. Here, the miners worked tirelessly for what was becoming painfully little. The amount of silver extracted had dropped so low they could barely afford to pay the platoon, much less purchase chicken eggs or pay the local workers who once accepted almost anything in exchange for their labor.
She couldn't blame anyone for failing to keep the "open secret" hidden. Over the years, many of the local villagers had already integrated into their settlement—helping in the sugarcane fields, the fisheries, and in every mine discovered. They were part of the community now, even if the nobles refused to admit it.
Once the ships arrived, whatever maize remained—if any—would be sent back along with the granulated white sugar they'd managed to store and the fragments of silver they mined. In return, they would receive relics forged from sacred gold.
Relics needed to confront the other gods. Relics that would allow them to push deeper into the land, spreading the light of their divine protectors to more beautiful, thinking beings.