Luciano had tried his best.
A terrible premonition gnawed at him, radiating from the mountain like a silent curse. Each time its shadow stretched across the land, his heart clenched painfully in his chest. Yet even knowing—feeling—what was coming, his best had not been enough.
A weight pressed down on him ever since he had lost his son. And now his grandson.
Was he cursed?
How could such ruin fall upon his bloodline?
Pain bloomed behind his eyes. His head throbbed as his breath suddenly caught, constricted by an unseen force. Air refused his lungs. Panic rose as his chest seized, his body rebelling against him.
The agony lasted nearly a minute.
Then it released him.
Luciano collapsed from his chair, crashing to the floor in a broken heap. He choked on sobs, fingers clawing at the earth as tears streamed freely. Not for pain—but for helplessness.
"Don Luciano!" several elderly women cried out, rushing to his side.
They had come seeking his authority. Begging him to stop their husbands from this foolish display of strength. From marching toward the mountain as if will alone could defy fate. Their pleas—joined by the cries of children—had fallen on deaf ears. The men had shrugged off loving hands and fearful words alike.
It was fear that drove the women here. A foreboding too heavy to ignore.
Yet they arrived only to find their elder broken—mirroring the same despair they had seen creeping into their own hearts.
None of them understood what compelled the men to act so blindly. Even seasoned hunters—those who knew the mountain's dangers better than most—had joined in warning them. Still, the men refused to listen.
Now there was only one question left unspoken.
What would happen?
Hands clasped together in trembling prayer. Voices broke as they begged—pleading with any god who might still listen, with saints both known and unknown.
They prayed desperately.
As their elder lay sprawled on the floor.
-
The hunters kept their senses honed to a razor's edge, struggling to focus despite the press of bodies and the harsh rhythm of dozens of breaths crowding in behind them. The three of them should never have been here.
They had come only to warn the men—pleading with them to turn back, to remember the mountain's dangers. Being forced to join this march was something they would regret for the rest of their lives… however short that might be.
They had seen what now stalked the slopes.
A week after Mort had flown in this direction, the mountain had changed. They had seen the signs with their own eyes—carcasses twisted beyond recognition, the land itself bruised and wrong. The thing that roamed there now was no longer the boy they had once known.
They were brothers of circumstance, bound not by blood but by survival. Hunters who had once crossed paths as enemies, blades nearly drawn, before fate forced them together through a string of near-fatal encounters. Eventually, they had stopped calling it coincidence.
They hunted together after that. Watched each other's backs. Lived because of it.
But against dozens of miners armed with crude iron tools, rage, and blind conviction, there was little they could do.
Their only comfort was this: if they found that horrid beast that had once been Mort, they would meet their end together.
So they moved on.
Eyes sweeping left and right. Ears straining for sounds that did not belong to men. The sky above darkened unnaturally, clouds gathering like a closing fist.
Behind them, youths driven forward by their fathers climbed with trembling limbs. Unlike the others, their eyes did not burn with fevered resolve. They followed silently—keeping to the middle or the rear of the pack—hoping, desperately, to be overlooked by whatever fate awaited them higher up the mountain.
None of them wanted to be here.
Yet every step carried them closer to what none dared name.
-
Mort twirled his little sister, Renata, beneath the crescent moon.
The small girl neither giggled nor smiled as she was lifted into the air. Her large eyes shone like twin full moons whenever they caught the pale light above.
The innocent-looking creature had instinctively shaped a bright red dress for herself, mimicking the flower Mort had once given her. Crimson fabric flowed gently around her tiny form, stirred by a wind that did not quite feel natural.
Mort marveled at her ability. Pride swelled in his chest as he patted her head with a careful tenderness that seemed almost out of place upon him.
This had become their daily ritual since meeting their patron god. Itzcamazotz asked little of them—only that they play, hunt, and dance beneath the night sky.
Mort, especially, had been attentive to his sister's needs. He taught her words, movements, small rituals of living, though he had found her food requirements… unusual.
Not that he could judge.
Since the change, his own hunger had shifted beyond recognition. The memory of the previous night's meal—thick, warm, and metallic—still lingered on his tongue, stirring a deep longing in his gut.
He only needed patience.
The festival of a lifetime would begin soon.
Excitement thrummed through him as he drew Renata close, her tiny body cradled against his massive frame. She rested there like a porcelain doll—no breath rising in her chest, no heat, no pulse to speak of.
She allowed herself to be carried, fragile as a flower held in the hands of a brute.
Mort's palms, wide enough to encircle her waist, flung her outward again as he resumed their strange dance. There was no music—only the thunder of his heart and the occasional rough, choked gasps from the lesser spawn that lingered nearby.
Mort chose to believe those sounds were cries of awe from an unseen audience.
The thought sent a shiver of pleasure through him.
So he twirled and stepped, as he caught Renata. Leaning forward and back in careful rhythm, keeping the minuscule girl secure in his grasp. Her form was nearly lost against his monstrous silhouette, a splash of red cradled in shadow.
As the mountain watched.
-
When the hunters reached the mountain's apex, their stupor finally shattered.
They stared in disbelief, unable to comprehend where they stood—or how they had arrived. An entire day had passed without rest, without hunger, without memory of the climb itself. The realization struck all at once.
Horror seized them.
Above, the crescent moon seemed to sneer as a crimson glow bled across its surface.
A whisper rode the wind, carrying with it a strange, putrid heat. The stench struck their senses, yet their bodies refused to move. They stood rigid, trapped in the moment, as the rest of the men marched past them—eyes bloodshot, expressions hollow.
The youths faltered. Some struggled weakly as their fathers tightened their grips, dragging them forward.
This was no march for vengeance.
No quest for justice.
It was a sacrificial procession.
The three hunters fought with everything they had—muscles straining, voices breaking—but it was useless. The unseen pull held fast, grinding their will down to nothing.
From behind the thick, ancient trees, shadows began to move.
Pale figures stepped into the moonlight, their forms wrong and trembling. Each breath they took came in loud, choking gasps. Bright green veins pulsed beneath translucent skin, mapping unnatural paths across their bodies.
In their chests, hearts thumped visibly—bloody, luminous, alive with savage intent.
-
Mort felt it the instant his god willed it.
With one final, powerful whirl, he hurled Renata into the sky—straight toward the approaching mob.
Midair, she unfurled unseen wings, her small body twisting as she became a streak of crimson. At that moment, the lesser spawn were released from their forced restraint.
Renata landed feet-first on a man's chest, crushing him into the rocky ground. Her form unraveled on impact, dissolving into ribbons of blood that lashed outward. The viscous strands forced their way into the nostrils of every man nearby.
The lesser spawn crashed into the now-disordered mass. A little over a dozen pale bodies tore through the crowd with terrifying ease—puppets driven by Mort's will and his god's power. They darted forward, clawing with sharp nails, tearing flesh. The toxins within them ensured the wounds would never close.
Blood Mort would use to spread corruption.
Divinity bled outward from his body. An evil aura crept along the ground, clinging to stone and root alike. Manic whispers rode the wind, crawling into ears and minds.
A black flame ignited within the cuauhxicalli.
The vessel—pure black, shaped like a smiling girl—lifted the bowl and drank deeply from it.
Corruption bloomed.
High-pitched screams split the night, and Mort noticed some of the men finally break and flee. Nearly two dozen had already fallen within moments. Whatever frenzy had driven them here was nothing compared to the terror now tearing through them.
Pitiful as they were, scattering like frightened animals only encouraged the beast before them.
A true monster.
One that reveled in the nocturne. A festival of blood.
Mort's mind was no longer his own. Seized by his god, the chosen no longer understood what he had become.
His arms, nearly reaching the ground, palms wide and powerful, shifted as blood drained from the fallen. A cloak of crimson thickened around him—flowing, shaping, molding—until it transformed his body.
A terrible reincarnation of Itzcamazotz.
Mort laughed, the sound warped and inhuman.
Renata reappeared at his side, standing perfectly still. She looked up at him, waiting to be carried. One eye peeked from beneath her long black hair, her lips pulled into the faintest pout—cold, unreadable, and utterly inhuman.