Marisol started the day with a light bounce in her step. The days since completing the green road to Chantico had been wonderfully peaceful. Jimena had finally found her rhythm after learning a handful of new tricks from the Chantico smiths. Jaime, too, had returned with clay-working techniques—though those had been quickly claimed by the village children, who eagerly molded figures resembling the chosen themselves.
The sheer number of children in the village continued to surprise the three priests. They had assumed the village was far smaller. But Marisol's grandmother reminded them that people often built homes near villages before fully joining them. It was entirely possible there were more families living just out of sight, scattered but still part of the village's living boundary.
Migration, her grandmother insisted, "just happens."
People lived where they pleased, the old woman said, before shooing Marisol away and disappearing into the trees, muttering about a coatimundi stealing her herbs again.
With a sigh—and a head full of questions—Marisol began her walk to the sanctuary near Chantico. The small grove she'd planted on the cliff side when Tomas still roamed, had grown into towering giants, their roots humming faintly with faith. They drew in tiny motes of divinity from the air, storing it deep within their roots and slowly expanding the sanctuary outward. A living bastion, gently protecting all life within.
She still felt a shiver of discomfort when she saw the many-legged creatures of the forest. That aversion clung stubbornly to her. But the birds and small mammals had nestled firmly in her heart.
Learning to care for all of them—furred, feathered, scaled, and crawling—took effort. But rest and meditation within her growing sanctuaries granted her glimpses of life's broader tapestry. The cycle of breathing, growing, decaying, and renewing. It was overwhelming to witness so much in just a few short weeks, yet this peaceful period had been her most productive since returning home.
Even the village reflected that sense of balance. Everyone had begun to settle into an easy, steady rhythm. Their renewed vigor fed the divine flame within her cuauhxicalli. She could feel its warmth even from the sanctuary, its expanding border drawing in more divine motes produced by every living thing. Faith, she realized, was a cycle of its own—breathing... growing… returning.
A sudden snap of a branch jolted her, a cold wave of sweat running down her spine. She spun around—only to find a group of children grinning mischievously at her from behind the trees.
Normally she might have felt a flash of irritation, but the flowing vitality of the sanctuary left no room for anger. Instead, only soft amusement rose to the surface.
"Are you not supposed to be with your parents?" Marisol asked, eyeing the group of children who had—quite obviously—followed her without realizing how far they'd come.
The first to speak was a boy as honest as he was dirty.
"We said we'd be with you, chosen!" he blurted out.
The older girl beside him elbowed him hard, her face flushing with embarrassment at being caught.
Marisol sighed. Truly, she should have been more aware of her surroundings.
"Come here and sit with me. I don't want any animals eating you up," she said with an exaggerated grin.
The children squeaked, paled… then scrambled toward her. The smallest one—a filthy little boy sucking determinedly on two fingers—reached her first. Within seconds, all four were sitting tight beside her, whether calm or trembling, each staring up with an expectation she had no idea how to answer.
So she resorted to her grandmother's favorite tone—the one sharp enough to straighten any spine.
"Next time, tell the truth. If I hadn't realized you were here and walked off, what would you have done alone in the forest? Where would you sleep? What would you eat? And where would you even go to poop?"
Marisol scrunched her nose pointedly at the girl. It worked instantly—the girl shrank in mortification—though the three boys imitated the scrunched nose and burst into laughter.
The laughter died only when the smallest boy grabbed her toes with fascinated little hands, his fingers tracing the obsidian of her sandals.
"I like your sandals," he said, large brown eyes fixed on the glossy black surface molded to her feet.
She yelped a laugh as his poking began to tickle, scooting her feet back.
"I made them, see?" She wiggled her toes, and the obsidian dissolved into dust before reforming, rolling over her feet in a smooth wave. The glossy black shone like moonlit water.
The children gasped, utterly awestruck.
Marisol smirked and gently guided them back on topic.
"So? What exactly did you plan on doing out here with me?"
"I dunno," the oldest boy mumbled, glancing at the girl for help.
Marisol planted her hands on her hips and began to stand. The shift in posture alone made the boy wilt.
She raised one eyebrow… crossed her arms… waited.
He broke.
"Our moms only let us play outside because of you, but we're still not allowed to explore! And the village is sooo boring. I don't want to take care of chickens all day…" His voice cracked, eyes shining with the beginning of tears.
Marisol's stern expression softened immediately. She sighed, leaning sideways and pressing a hand to her hip, the other massaging her forehead to cool the headache blooming there.
"What are your names?" Marisol asked, giving the oldest boy a moment to breathe and settle.
"Ni notōcā Xōchitl," the girl said first, wringing her hands and stuttering through her nerves.
The smallest boy immediately followed—far too loudly.
"Ni notōcā Tlalli!" he shouted, and before anyone could stop him, he shoved something into his mouth. He chewed with the speed and intensity of someone hoping not to get caught.
Marisol blinked. It felt familiar… vaguely.
She had only a heartbeat to piece it together before Xōchitl lunged at him.
"Mom said to stop doing that!" she scolded, tugging and pulling at him as he swallowed triumphantly anyway.
Whatever it was, he had eaten it. His teeth were now stained a suspicious brown. Marisol simply stared. The only hints she had were the girl's outrage and the little boy's extremely self-satisfied grin.
She decided—for her own sanity—to let it go for now and looked to the remaining boys.
They avoided her gaze at first, but eventually one spoke.
"Nehua notōcā Tochtli," said the smaller of the two, beaming proudly at his name.
Finally, the oldest boy straightened, wiped the lingering tears from his eyes, and declared,
"Niltze! Notōcā Cuāuhtli." He then made a small gesture as if swallowing something.
"Mom said we could be outside if we stayed near the chosen," he explained. "So we followed you. We didn't think you'd go so far… and we didn't want to go back alone."
His head drooped, the guilt clearly exaggerated for her benefit.
Marisol exhaled. They were with her now—there was no taking them back.
So she turned her attention to the life thrumming around her. The trees overhead heaved subtly with her will. A few ripe fruits shook loose from their lower branches, much to the outrage of the nearby spider monkeys who howled as if personally wronged.
Marisol laughed softly and handed the fallen mamey fruit to the children, who were already drooling in anticipation. Even Tlalli rushed over—though only after receiving a sharp pinch and whispered scolding from Xōchitl.
Marisol watched them sit together, peaceful at last. Their small, bright faith radiated like morning light, making her chest warm and a little dizzy with joy.