Joaquín had left for the mountain long before dawn. The sky was still a deep bruised blue when he began the climb, breath fogging the colder than usual air. He worried he wouldn't make it in time to find Lilia a proper anniversary gift—something she insisted she didn't need. She hated the thought of him making the dangerous trek just for her.
But he wanted to.
He always did.
This would be his fourth time climbing the mountain, though the others had been earlier in the year. Still, he believed the effort mattered. It was his way of keeping the most beautiful girl in the village smiling.
He'd discovered the flower by accident as a boy. His father had taken them on a long, miserable trek over the ridge, and the only thing that saved the memory from becoming sour was his father's steady presence—and the view at the peak. From up there, you could see the entire region sprawled below like a painted map. The sun felt close enough to touch. The air was thin and bit at the lungs.
His father had taught him the breathing technique he still used now: deep, slow inhales that steadied his steps. Purposeful movements. No rushing. No waste.
He knew exactly how long the climb would take, up and back down. With November finally over, the orchids were likely to still be blooming—if he was lucky. The anxious thought didn't help, so he pushed it aside and focused on the path, alert for animals.
Hours passed. He rested when needed, careful not to waste strength. Despite the effort, the mountain always welcomed him—the sharp, minty scent of pines, the quiet, the sense of being lifted above the world. Something about the heights called to him. Maybe that was why he kept returning.
That, and Lilia.
Her smile was as unique and precious as the flowers he sought.
By the time he reached the ridge where the orchids grew, the sun was just beginning to rise. Joaquín inhaled the cold air, letting it cleanse the last traces of worry.
That was when he noticed someone else.
A lanky young man stood a short distance away, pale and hollow-eyed, dark circles smudged beneath his deep-set eyes. When he spotted Joaquín, he waved and moved toward him with an awkward gait—yet surprisingly fast, despite looking like he might collapse at any moment.
Up close, the young man's complexion was ghostly, his posture twisted with discomfort. It tugged at something in Joaquín—a desire to help—but he wasn't sure what could be done.
The stranger's shoes were worn thin and poorly made, and Joaquín wondered how in the world he had managed the climb at all.
He greeted the man and gestured for him to sit, thinking it might help the stranger catch his breath.
The young man introduced himself as Mort. He, too, had come for the flowers. The coincidence made conversation easy. Joaquín found himself talking animatedly—sharing the story behind the orchid, why he climbed every year, what the gift meant to him and to Lilia.
Mort mostly listened, nodding with a faint, polite smile. For nearly an hour he said little, until finally he shared his own story—softly, with a heaviness that dimmed his expression.
He spoke of a hard life in his village. Of feeling overlooked.
Of loving a girl who only ever gazed at him with pity.
Mort had climbed the mountain for her—for a flower as beautiful and rare as the one Joaquín sought. Not to win her heart, he said, but to earn even a single moment where she looked at him differently.
Joaquín smiled, heart warmed by the familiar hope.
---
Jimena woke with a strange chill that morning. She'd accompanied Marisol early before she left at dawn with Sol. The memory of his annoyed look still irritated her. As if she'd ever consider tagging along on their trip to the neighboring village. She'd only gone out that early to say goodbye to Marisol—that was the only reason she'd sacrifice sleep.
She had almost convinced Marisol to sleep together in her room the night before, but Marisol claimed she needed to get "enough rest."
Which confused Jimena.
They were going to sleep either way, weren't they?
Marisol had just laughed at her baffled expression, and Jimena still wasn't sure what she meant.
Sighing, she began heating the forge. The villagers had brought her more coal the night before so she could practice. It seemed the smiths here preferred working at night, their vision enhanced by Sol's presence—a fact many mentioned fondly.
No one had discovered the use of the blessing given by all four chosen yet. Chia had said it would take time. The divinity needed to fill whatever vessel it was meant for, required faith—both personal and communal. They would all need to work together.
Lost in thought, Jimena began striking the iron plate she'd been shaping. She wasn't aiming for anything specific. No intended form. It simply felt good to work—to feel her flame resonate in something physical. Each strike made the red-hot iron shimmer as if it were absorbing flecks of her magenta fire. Maybe that was just her imagination… or maybe not.
The steady roar of the forge soothed her. The flames devoured the coal, turning it to ash in a transformation that whispered to her—echoing somewhere deep within her own fire.
She didn't know how long they would remain in this village, but she refused to waste a single moment. She needed to hone her flame. To strengthen it. To never again feel the helplessness that had haunted her these past weeks.
She never wanted to feel that cold, gnawing fear in her chest again.
Her strikes grew harder. Each hit sent a sharp vibration up her arm until it went numb. Still, she kept going—pouring frustration, doubt, and stubborn resolve into the metal. Shaping it like she was shaping herself. Her will, taking form under fire and steel.
With a final shout, she brought the hammer down.
Sparks scattered across the dirt floor.
Xolo barked with her, the gem in chest glowing with power.
Jimena exhaled, chest heaving, the plate glowing beneath her hand like a captured flame. A megenta glow residing within.
---
Mort had been delighted to make a friend. Joaquin wasn't so different from the people he'd known—kind, open, and mercifully polite enough not to mention his appearance. That small grace made Mort strangely grateful. Their conversation stretched for hours, surprising them both when they finally noticed where the sun hung in the sky.
The descent from the mountain wasn't an easy one for either of them—especially not for Mort, whose frail condition made each step a test of will. Joaquin worried for the young man, but Mort insisted he would be fine. His own village, he said, was much closer to this mountain than Joaquin's.
Eventually, they turned their focus to finding the flowers that had brought them here.
Joaquin, experienced and patient, located one quickly—a rare orchid, its petals a soft pink that shimmered faintly in the cool breeze.
Mort, on the other hand, struggled. He didn't seem to know what he was looking for, wandering aimlessly among the moss and stone.
Seeing this, Joaquin decided to help. He spent another hour searching until he found a bloom that seemed to suit Mort's strange tastes.
Unlike the delicate, minty-sweet scent of Joaquin's flower, Mort's was darker—metallic. Its petals were a deep, almost wet crimson. The smell of iron clung to it, unsettling in a way that made Joaquin's stomach turn.
He made his opinion known, but Mort only smiled faintly, transfixed.
He simply stared at the flower, eyes wide and distant, admiring its ominous beauty as though it whispered something meant only for him.
Joaquin felt uneasy watching him, but brushed it off. Everyone had their quirks, after all.
With both flowers found, Joaquin showed Mort how to pluck and preserve them properly. The young man only nodded, half-listening, gaze still locked on the bloom in his hand.
After exchanging farewells, Joaquin asked one last time if Mort would be all right on his own.
Mort smiled again and said he would.
So Joaquin began his journey back home—his beautiful pink flower held carefully in hand, its soft fragrance guiding him down the winding path.
Mort, however, stayed behind.
He listened to the flower's whispering—soft at first, then clearer. The petals sang to him, weaving a haunting ballad of love and loss. The melody curled through his mind, sweet and heavy, pulling him into a waking dream.
At the cave's mouth, where the flower had grown, the air began to shift.
The once shallow hollow deepened, stretching into an unseen dark. Shadows crept along the stone, reaching toward Mort where he knelt in quiet rapture.
Hours passed. The waxing gibbous moon rose, casting silver light on the mountainside.
As its glow touched the edge of the cave, Mort's body went still—his shape slowly swallowed by the encroaching darkness.