Marisol looked upon the many weathered faces. The old looked older, their knees buckling as they stood before her. If not for Jaime moving past her and helping the nearest elders relieve themselves of their burdens, the few belongings—so light they were almost nothing—would have brought them to their knees.
Within moments, most had been helped by the strong young chosen, who guided them into the village toward its center, where the cuauhxicalli stood. Her grandmother would help sort out places for them to stay.
Marisol summoned her mist to cover the few dozen people gathered before her. The pink haze moved like a living swarm, whirling gently around them as they walked. Droplets landed and rolled over skin, lifting dirt and oil as fatigue was slowly healed away.
The deeply exhausted elders sighed almost in unison, their bones cracking softly as tension eased. The youths—some close to her own age—wiped tears from their eyes, clinging tightly to siblings or mothers who held them just as firmly.
Sol, who had watched like a disinterested spectator, murmured something to the hunters who had followed him, then turned and walked back onto the green road. His task, finished.
Marisol wanted to say something, but one of the hunters stepped forward and bowed. The next few minutes passed her by in a blur, her thoughts lingering on Sol's detachment from people who seemed more than grateful to him.
She had just learned from the hunter what these people had survived—an encounter with an evil god. How Sol could treat those who had faced such cruelty with such distance, she couldn't understand.
The thought of facing another such entity sent a shiver down her spine. Last time had been an unexpected stroke of luck—an opportunity Jimena had taken without hesitation.
Her swift action had allowed them to stop Tomas before he could grow stronger. Marisol still remembered the horrible stench of that cave, the memory making her gag, her unease deepening as she watched the hollow backs of what remained of the villagers of Tepe.
A part of her yearned for the comfort of her friend, who had been gone the entire night.
"While the cuauhxicalli burns strong, nothing will go wrong," her grandmother had said that morning, chuckling with the other villagers during prayer. Her words echoed the same worry they all shared whenever the chosen left the village—faith and routine their only comfort in the face of the unknown.
Marisol had too much left to learn. It had only just begun to feel as though things were calming down. She hoped, deep in her heart, that they truly would—that someone else might rise to strike down this evil. Even if she knew how unlikely that was.
There was a reason she had been chosen. No one else could face the growing corruption threatening their peace. Regular people—like her grandmother, if such a formidable woman could even be called regular—needed the chosen to protect and guide them. It was the only way Marisol knew. People were simply too fragile without the gods.
She looked toward the village of Chantico, where the hunters and Sol had returned. The fire-chosen, though unwilling, still did his duty. Perhaps she could persuade the older chosen to fight alongside them. They would need every ally they could muster against the danger lurking in the dark.
Marisol pressed a hand to the gem where the silent Axochi rested within. It was warm, pulsing in time with her heart. The spirit had been growing steadily since her recovery. It wouldn't be long before she reached her peak again.
The gentle circulation of energy flowing through Axochi filled her with quiet vigor—power she used to heal and nurture the life around her.
If she could find a way to hold more of it, she could wield her divinity freely, as she had in Mictlan. Or perhaps… she could borrow a little life.
She crouched and brushed her fingers over the grass at her toes. It bowed, then straightened at her call. Tiny motes of faith and life lifted from the blades and slipped into her index finger.
She felt the energy disperse along her skin, faint and fleeting—far too small to be of real use.
Marisol smiled and decided to end her morning musings. She gathered the meager offerings of faith and life and returned them, with a gift of her own.
Her divinity breathed over the tuft of grass, and it shimmered—green deepening as soft blue light threaded through it, pink gleaming along its blades. The small burst of color made her laugh quietly, allowing her, just for a moment, to forget herself.
When Marisol reached the large central hut that housed their cuauhxicalli, everyone had already been settled along one side of the entrance. They sat close together as a few small fires were kindled.
The traumatized villagers had arrived early, while much of Bahia Oscura was still asleep. Only a handful of hunters had passed through, pausing to inquire about the unfamiliar faces before moving on—after speaking with her grandmother and confirming they would still be allowed to hunt in the forest.
Life had only just begun to return to normal. The village needed meat to sustain itself. In harsher times, fish—and then their precious birds—would have to suffice. It would be a shame to lose their only reliable source of eggs.
Sleepy children followed Marisol with wide, lingering stares as she walked toward her grandmother. They were the only ones with any real energy, having slept through most of the night. Their exhausted siblings tried to keep them entertained but lacked the strength to manage much.
"Eat something, then lie down and rest. Sleeping near the shrine will help with any corruption that may linger," her grandmother said, gently urging elders—too tired even to eat—to rise. She asked Jaime, standing nearby, to bring reed mats, furs, and spare fabric.
"Come, mija. Help me with the children," her grandmother added as Jaime arrived with the first bundle. Six pairs of curious eyes turned toward Marisol as their families settled in.
She felt a little uneasy around the younger ones, but complied—especially when one small boy had already been nudged toward her by his mother.
Perhaps it would be good to show them their new home.
Jaime, busy arranging bedding, asked her to take care the children at the clay pile until he finished. He hooked her interest by mentioning the living doll he had made with them, gesturing toward a few resting near the shrine as examples.
He described the doll as oddly handsome—a detail that finally piqued her curiosity, along with the excitement of two children who seemed either more resilient than the rest, or simply more content.
Marisol held the hand of the shyest girl while carrying the smallest child on her left hip. Four boys trailed alongside, encouraging one another as they played, their laughter soft but persistent as they followed her onward.
At Jaime's request, she stopped at the clay pile, where a few early birds were already playing with the cool, damp earth. A worried mother glanced at Marisol and smiled, the tension leaving her brow as she gave a small wave.
The woman was gone the moment Marisol looked away.
Marisol laughed softly at herself when eleven earnest faces—naive minds full of expectation—turned toward her for guidance. Once again, she found herself in charge of children.
"Why don't you show me the doll you made with Jaime? He said it looked funny," Marisol said, unsure where the doll was.
"Xalli has it," one boy answered, pointing toward a girl standing at the back, her hands hidden behind her.
"Can you show me, Xalli?" Marisol asked, coaxing the little girl with her gentlest voice.
The girl shrank in on herself under the sudden attention, chin tucked against her collarbone as she avoided Marisol's eyes, her gaze fixed firmly on the ground.
"I want to help you make more. Can I please see it?" Marisol tried again, still unable to catch the girl's eyes. So instead, she turned her attention to the other children, chatting with them and praising their work, giving Xalli space rather than pressure.
The boys and girls eagerly showed off their latest creations, pushing and jostling one another to be first.
It became an eventful morning of play, Marisol's guidance helping them reach a new level of handsome mud-doll creation. Lopsided faces became deliberate expressions; thick limbs gained intent.
Xalli still hadn't shared her doll, but Marisol didn't rush her. With Jaime on his way, she was certain she would soon see the curious thing the little girl hid beneath her huipil—its subtle flailing already visible under the cloth.