When they stepped onto the vast platform, Jaime felt it—a suffocating dread, ancient and heavy. The air thickened into a dark haze that clung low to the ground, reeking of copper and decay.
A deep rumble shuddered through the mountain. At the center of the altar, the cuauhxicalli began to boil—its stone basin filling with bubbling, black-red blood. The thick liquid spilled over the carved jaguar heads at its rim, hissing when it touched the stone.
Marisol stayed composed, her face calm behind the veil of mist. She knelt to gently lay the sleeping Xolo down on a patch of grass that had sprouted beneath her feet. Jaime did the same with Jimena, his movements careful, reverent.
Then, together, they stepped forward.
They could feel it—the weight of the god's gaze, the trial's heartbeat beneath the stone. Still, they did not falter. The power of their patrons burned steady within them.
Droplets of water drifted from Marisol's armor, shimmering in the dim red glow. They began to vibrate, drawn into a widening spiral. A whirlpool of sacred water formed around her, stretching upward into the sky. Purple clouds rolled overhead, rumbling with a distant divine voice.
She could feel her goddess watching. Approval. Guidance. The storm swelled in answer to her faith.
Then the creature rose.
A jaguar—vast as the platform itself—emerged from the blood. Its fur glistened like molten obsidian streaked with crimson. Each movement rippled with predatory grace and divine malice. When it finally stood to its full height, it blotted out the sky. Its claws alone were larger than Jaime; each breath it exhaled came out as steam, thick with blood and heat.
Jaime's instincts screamed at him to run. His body trembled, yet Cimikora's steady presence within him silenced the fear. The golden light in his eyes cut through the miasma, allowing him to see the jaguar clearly—every muscle, every scar, every drop of divine ichor that oozed from its fangs.
He reached for his weapon, but Marisol raised a hand, stopping him.
Her glance said everything: Not yet.
Then he saw what she saw—the sleeping forms of Jimena and Xolo. If they fought recklessly, the shockwave alone could end them. Jaime clenched his fists, swallowing the instinct to charge forward. His father's old voice echoed in his mind: A man shields. A man stands in front.
But this time, he understood. He would stand behind, if it meant they survived.
The giant predator's eyes glowed with knowing cruelty. It watched the small, mist-wreathed girl approach, each step a challenge. The blood pooled at its paws quivered.
A low growl reverberated through the altar, shaking the air. The jaguar's maw opened, revealing rows of crimson-stained fangs. The miasma thickened, and the air itself seemed to bleed.
He had been here since the world's first sun.
He had weighed the hearts of mortals, devoured the unworthy, and guarded the gate between gods and men.
The Heart Eater had no name left—only hunger.
But this child carried a scent that stirred something deeper than hunger. Life. Divinity. Defiance.
He crouched low, muscles coiling. The platform trembled.
Marisol raised her hand, and the storm above roared to life—rain answering her call. The downpour easing the miasma, but still it persisted.
Marisol steadied her breath and hardened her resolve, the miasma circling her like a living entity—mocking her courage, testing her worth.
The massive being loomed, silent at first. Its maw quivered, salivating at the chosen's scent, the sweetness of divine life carried in her blood. From deep within its chest came low, rumbling growls—sounds born of hunger older than memory. At times it forgot itself, drunk on her aroma, only to jolt back to awareness with a snarl that rippled across the platform.
It inhaled deeply, savoring one final breath before focusing fully on her. Despite her small frame, he could feel it—the pulse of godhood that lingered beneath her skin. The faint shimmer of sacred markings, the first signs of priesthood. A true chosen.
For a heartbeat, the notion granted him clarity. The miasma around him faltered. But the hunger… that eternal, hollow ache gnawed at the edges of his mind. It whispered, demanding, consuming. It urged him to eat this chosen child, to devour the mortals who dared ascend his mountain. It had been so long.
So very, very long.
Marisol stood barely a meter away now, so close she could see the reflections of her own trembling hands in his molten eyes. His vast form eclipsed the heavens—she could scarcely comprehend his full shape. Yet even through the oppressive bloodlust, she sensed a flicker of the divine within him. A fragment of majesty, buried deep beneath the weight of endless hunger.
Between his titanic paws, the cuauhxicalli continued to boil. The blood within churned violently, releasing steam that shimmered with faint symbols. It waited. It wanted.
Then a voice—not spoken, but felt—echoed above her.
Offer me the weight in your heart.
The sound shook her to her core, reverberating through every bone. She knew what it demanded.
This journey had purified them—every trial a crucible that burned away fear, leaving only resolve. The gods had shaped them, tempered them. They were still young, yet had borne the burdens of many lifetimes. Now it was time to let those burdens go. To take up responsibility instead of regret.
Marisol pressed her palms together, bowing her head.
She whispered her goddess's name—softly, reverently—and prayed for strength.
Something stirred between her hands. Slick as oil, it pulsed with the weight of her sorrows, her doubts, her guilt. It struggled to break free, to spill and stain her again.
But she did not allow it.
She willed an obsidian shell into being, encasing the dark mass. Then, without hesitation, she cast it into the cuauhxicalli.
The stone bowl roared in delight, its growls echoing like thunder. The obsidian burden sank beneath the boiling surface, and the blood turned a deeper shade of crimson. The altar exhaled, releasing a wave of energy that rippled through the platform.
The jaguar god's bloodlust subsided. The miasma that had plagued the air began to thin, retreating into the bowl. In its place rose a gentler aura—divine, serene, and vast.
Only then did Marisol allow herself to exhale. The jaguar's colossal shape shimmered, its form shrinking, the violence in its gaze softening into distant remembrance.
Jaime stepped forward next, his armor dimming as he mirrored her actions. His breath came heavy, but his eyes were resolute.
The darkness within him was thicker—heavier than Marisol's. A sludge of guilt and fury, vast and unrefined. It leaked between his fingers, almost spilling to the ground before he forced it still, willing the same obsidian shell to contain it. His hands trembled from the effort, but he did not falter.
When at last he cast his burden into the cuauhxicalli, the bowl let out a deeper, resonant growl—a sound of ancient satisfaction.