Mort let the sweet whispers take him.
The cold slime coating his body felt… welcoming—like a soothing salve easing every ache that had lived in him for so long. The atrocity he had feared himself to be was embraced—fully, hungrily, lovingly.
He shuddered as something small and slick crawled into his ear, burrowing deep until it nestled at the base of his skull. He could feel its contentment. It had chosen him.
Chosen him.
Mort's chest swelled with a twisted joy. To be selected for such a task—to welcome others into the same embrace he now felt—filled him with trembling emotion.
He hugged himself, delirious, as a dream swallowed him whole.
In it, he fell into a vast, warm embrace. A voice—ancient, powerful, affectionate—called his name.
But Mort was not yet ready.
He lacked what the voice needed.
So he continued to fall.
And fall.
Until one day, he would rise from the pit—reborn.
Mort woke shivering.
The mountain air knifed through his clothes, and the harsh chorus of insects dragged him fully back to consciousness.
The sun hovered at the horizon, barely peeking over the treetops.
Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself upright. Every movement sent sharp, electric stabs down his back. Tears slipped down his cheeks as he reached for the dark, bloody flower at his feet.
He did not notice the eyes watching him from the shadows—dozens of them—unblinking, hungry.
The thrum of their hearts hid under the noise of the crickets.
The crimson glint of their stares revealed nothing but appetite.
Mort limped home, terrified of every shifting shadow.
Every owl's hoot made him whimper.
Every snapped twig, every squeak in the underbrush sent cold sweat pouring down his spine.
By the time he reached the village, he was shaking uncontrollably.
He thought he must have fainted at some point—he remembered stumbling, then nothing. The dull ache at his forehead suggested he'd hit something.
But he stood at his door, somehow.
Mort rubbed the tender spot, trying to calm the pounding in his head and the panic fluttering in his chest.
With a trembling breath, he pushed open the mud-hut door, desperate not to wake his mother. At this hour she would surely be asleep.
He was wrong.
His mother sat waiting beside their crooked little table. Moonlight leaked through the cracks on the roof, glinting off her eyes—eyes full of venom.
Mort shrank instinctively, biting back any groan the movement forced from his aching spine. She hated when he groaned. She hated his slumped back. She hated when he cried.
A sharp ache pulsed at the base of his skull, but he ignored it—just as he ignored everything else that hurt.
He dropped to his knees and braced for the leather strap.
But nothing struck him.
Through trembling fingers, he peeked—and saw her staring past him, sighing softly.
Moonlight washed over her face, revealing something almost like sorrow.
She gazed up at the waxing gibbous moon.
"You were born on this day, you know," she murmured. "Even though we never celebrated your birthday after your father died… I always held this day in my heart. The day you caused my fall into this living hell."
His mother punished him just the same that night.
The sting still lingered the next morning as he woke to prepare breakfast.
She had returned with meat—hard-won through trading the iron ore pieces Mort had dug up. He smiled despite the dull throb in his knees. The pain had been worth it. This was a grand meal by their standards.
He cut an extra-large slice for his mother, humming softly at the invigorating smell.
"Be quiet and finish making the food."
Her shout made him recoil, shoulders rising toward his ears like a frightened turtle. He swallowed the bitterness burning his throat and focused on the sizzling comal. His mood easing once he finished preparing her portion. She was always more agreeable after eating.
"Here you go, mother. Happy birthday."
He scuttled back toward the fire the moment she took the plate, ignoring the usual stream of insults she muttered under her breath.
For himself, he cut a much smaller piece, then—when her back was turned—sprinkled a bit of extra spice into it. A few shreds of green. Things she despised.
Anything green was "deadly" in her eyes.
Only the red of meat and blood ever satisfied her.
The red flower—
Mort froze.
He had forgotten it entirely.
Panic clawed up his throat as he patted down his clothes.
There—
A lump near his waist. One of the many tiny pockets he had sewn into his ragged shirt.
He pulled out the flower.
Still intact.
Still impossibly vibrant.
It glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat, whispering to him.
Before he could react, his mother snatched it from his hand.
"What's this? A present for me? Is that why you got home so late? I thought you'd run off."
She laughed, a sharp, scraping sound.
He opened his mouth to explain—
To tell her its true purpose—
But her glare cut him to silence.
Her birthday mattered more, he reminded himself.
More than the village.
More than his own reasons.
Resigned, he finished cooking his meal and sat down, leaning his aching side against the wall. He tore into the meat hungrily.
Each strand was chewed into paste, sucked dry of every bit of sweet juice before he swallowed.
The heavenly taste made a shiver skitter down his spine—
followed by a sharp crack of pain.
Then cool relief.
Another swallow.
Another crack.
Relief spreading in strange, unsettling waves.
He kept eating.
And the cracking continued.
For a brief moment, Mort felt no pain from the heavy lump on his back.
His twisted side stretched freely—weightless, almost normal.
Then a sharp pain arced down his spine.
A rapid series of cracks snapped through him as his body hunched again, bones grinding from the effort. He nearly cried out, jaw trembling, but he forced the sound down.
He glanced toward his mother, worried she might notice.
But she wasn't moving.
The flower in her hand was.
Its petals peeled apart like a mouth, and its stem slithered up her arm. Tiny barbs dug into her skin, fastening themselves with sickening precision.
Mort watched her eyes dart wildly, searching for him.
She couldn't see him from where he crouched in the corner.
The flower reached her neck.
It burrowed in.
His mother gasped—choked—her eyes bursting red as rivulets of blood flowed down her back. The motion was brutal, invasive, horribly swift.
Mort didn't move.
The process was too fast for him to stop.
Not that he would have.
Something in the back of his mind finally tore itself free—
unfurling into him, flooding his skull with heat and pressure. A slick membrane of raw divinity wrapped around his thoughts, pulsing.
Mort's vision rolled upward.
His eyes turned white as his body seized.
He felt himself collapsing, limbs twitching uncontrollably, consciousness draining away like water through cupped hands.
The last sound he heard was his mother's wet, gurgling scream.
And then—
nothing.
---
Chia wasn't sure what it was that had her so restless.
The colder-than-usual air, perhaps. Or the way the people in this village refused to sit still for even a heartbeat.
Always hammering.
Always striking metal like their lives depended on the noise.
Each clang reverberated through her almost-deaf ears, vibrating deep enough to make her want to tear her hair out. She truly wondered how Jimena tolerated it.
The girl fit this place far too well—fire, metal, and stubbornness. A child of Chantico in all but name. Not that Chia would ever say such a thing aloud. Especially with how these villagers looked at Jimena. Their worshipful eyes sat poorly with her. Devotion always carried the risk of turning strange.
Still, she had no intention of interfering.
Not unless someone tried something foolish with one of the children.
Chia returned to her work, carving the final lines of the ritual circle into the packed earth. The blind elder sat a short distance away, silent. He had been quieter than usual today, though with him it was difficult to tell. Old minds spun in so many directions that pattern often looked like stillness.
She scoffed softly at her own wandering thoughts.
With the last marking finished, Chia straightened her back and moved to the next step. Her hands shifted automatically, falling into the practiced rhythm of a ritual only she still remembered—movements as old as the mountains, as familiar as breath.
The world outside clanged and bustled.
Inside the circle, a hushed, heavy stillness gathered.