Marisol lay curled in the hammock she'd brought for the journey. They had arrived at the neighboring village late in the afternoon, the sky already dimming by the time they set up camp. Even with the breaks they'd taken along the way, it had been a tough climb to reach the mountain village of Tepe.
The hunters made this trip every now and then on behalf of the smiths. Normally they carried iron tools for trade, but this time they came empty-handed. The people of Tepe were miners—excellent ones, according to the hunters. They joked the villagers were like topos, burrowing creatures with small eyes and big claws.
But from what Marisol had seen so far, none of the people here resembled the little animals at all.
Everyone in Tepe was tall and pale.
Their eyes—forest green, ocean blue—were a novelty to a girl who had mostly grown up surrounded by black and brown eyes. The only exceptions back home were the golden glows of divinity, the kind she'd seen in chosen like Jaime or Sol.
Her thoughts drifted, softening around the edges, and sleep pulled her under.
It was dark.
A deep, unnatural dark.
Strange thumping sounds reverberated through it, echoing like distant drums inside a cavern.
Marisol couldn't see her hands—couldn't even feel her body. Something else was there with her. A mind. A presence she didn't recognize. Its putrid, slithering thoughts brushed against her own, worming their way in.
Then—
A jolt.
Someone shaking her.
She gasped awake.
Sol stood at her side, watching as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The strange dream slipped away like water through her fingers.
"We're getting ready to leave soon," Sol said, handing her a few fruits and a hard piece of bread. "The hunters have a few last trades to finish. Eat something."
Marisol freshened up with her power—smoothing her hair, wiping her face—and ate while observing the activity around her. There wasn't much for her to do here besides learn: the route they traveled, how the hunters bargained, the different ways people in other villages lived.
When she felt full, she tucked the remaining hard bread into a small bag hidden beneath her huipil. No one seemed ready to leave yet, so she stood, folded her hammock, and decided to explore.
The villagers of Tepe glanced at her as she passed—tall, thin figures in torn clothing, likely worn down from days mining the mountain.
The huts here were made of red mud, lined in uneven rows along narrow, dusty paths.
Marisol let her thoughts wander as she strolled, taking in every detail.
Mort slowly opened his eyes.
A slimy film coated his skin, thick and foul-smelling. He tried wiping it off, but it clung stubbornly. Even scraping with his nails only smeared it, sticking to him like glue.
A sudden compulsion to clean himself seized him.
He rose—too easily. The familiar knives of pain in his spine were gone… mostly. An ache lingered, ready to flare if he moved too quickly, but the sharpness he'd lived with all his life had dulled.
Careful not to slip, Mort stepped over his mother's unconscious, faintly convulsing form. He opened the large clay jug where they kept their drinking water and washed himself with it—her water, the precious supply she never allowed him to touch.
The chill of it hit him like a revelation.
He felt freed, as if a suffocating weight had slipped off his shoulders. His thoughts were clear—sharper and quieter than they had ever been.
No one would ever hurt Mort again.
He could feel it.
The whispers at the back of his mind curled lovingly around his thoughts, promising power, promising safety. Mort trusted them. Trusted the being that had chosen him.
After he finished rinsing himself, he lifted his mother and laid her gently on her bed.
Then he watched.
The changes unfolding in her body were subtle but unmistakable. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, unfocused. Beneath her skin, the capillaries squirmed, as though something beneath was shifting.
Mort leaned closer, prying her eyelids open for a better look.
Small, tender roots slipped out from behind the eyeball—pale, searching tendrils that reached toward him with delicate hair-like filaments.
Mort smiled at the curious thing growing inside her.
It was beautiful, in its own way.
Her outer form remained the same, untouched by the transformation blooming within her—unlike him.
The large twisted lump on his back… the nerves that had never formed properly… the mangled, painful knot of muscle he'd carried every day of his life…
He turned to the water in the jug and froze.
The reflection staring back at him was not Mort.
Could not be Mort.
Mort was hideous. Mort was wrong inside and out.
His mother had taught him that well.
But she…
Was gone.
He didn't have to lie to himself anymore.
He didn't have to hurt anymore.
The thought cracked something open inside him. Mort began to cry—not from grief, not exactly, but from the overwhelming hunger that clawed up from his stomach, sharp and ravenous.
Mort wouldn't have to starve anymore.
He could eat as much as he wanted now.
Humming a cheerful, wavering tune, he rummaged through the storage pots and began to cook everything he could find.
Everything.
Marisol had walked for what felt like an hour. The hunters had already packed their things, though most weren't yet ready to leave, so she made another slow circle around the village.
The houses were spaced widely apart—some large, some small—but all built from the same red mud found everywhere in this region. Plants were scarce. Trees even more so, though the few that did grow stretched tall as if competing with the empty sky. Their trunks were the hardest Marisol had ever touched.
She found the vegetation here oddly fascinating. The resonance she felt when reaching for the trees was dull—muted, almost metallic. A strange exchange that reminded her of cold iron. Even the sacred water she offered had little effect, though the trees accepted the nourishment all the same.
As she passed a particularly broken-down hut—one she could have sworn she hadn't seen before—an incredibly thin man stumbled out of the doorway. He was taller than any villager she'd met, with a large lump on his right shoulder he rubbed tenderly after collapsing a few feet from her.
Faint mutters slipped from his lips—like whimpers. His stomach growled loudly as she approached, startling her with its sheer volume. It made her wonder how long he had been starving. His thin arms trembled, too weak to lift himself.
With a gentle tone, she called to him, crouching at his side as he slowly became aware of her presence.
His eyes—rolled back at first—snapped suddenly into focus. Dark, intense, fixed on her with an unsettling sharpness.
Marisol waved a hand in front of him, continuing to speak softly. His unresponsiveness worried her, but she didn't reach out to touch him. Her grandmother's lessons echoed through her mind. Her divinity ensured her safety, but caution was still wisdom.
Nothing she did seemed to bring him fully back. Only another loud growl from his stomach broke through. Marisol pulled a hard piece of bread from inside her huipil.
She had barely lifted it toward him when his hand shot forward—fast, impossibly fast—and snatched it from her fingers.
By the time she realized what had happened, the bread was gone. Crunched, swallowed, devoured. He looked at her like a starved animal—frightened, desperate, waiting for more.
All she had left was a half-eaten piece of fruit, a small snack gifted to her earlier. Bite marks already marred its surface. She felt guilty offering it, but she still extended her hand.
The man wept silently as he reached out—slowly, this time. His knuckles brushed her fingers as he accepted the fruit.
"We need to leave."
A cold voice behind her made her stiffen.
Sol stood with his arms crossed, golden eyes glowing as he glared at the frail figure crouched before Marisol. Disdain sharpened every line of his face.
"Now," he repeated, reaching to pull her away.
The gesture was absurd—insulting, even.
With a soft thrum of power, Marisol straightened and faced Sol head-on, meeting the taller chosen's glare with one of her own.