A week had passed in Bahía Oscura.
It was a cool, humid morning. Giant frogs—and their louder, angrier cousins—hid among the mangroves lining the shore. The beach remained calm despite the increasingly frequent odd sightings in the deeper waters.
The fishermen sat gathered around a fire beside one of the many beach huts, speaking animatedly about the abundant catch. There were always a few bragging about fish they had once caught, stretching their hands wide to show sizes no sane man believed.
Children chased after mean roosters with the help of energetic dogs. Chickens scattered, trailed by dozens of peeping chicks. Cats watched from rooftops or lurked in the shadows, uninterested spectators to the morning chaos.
Farmers tended to their crops—weeding, mulching, and watering—while others rested by the fire or took well-earned naps after beginning their day before sunrise.
Mothers and fathers ground maize, prepared cacao, and cooked the morning meals. The older children wrangled their rowdy younger siblings, forming a weary but well-practiced unit of their own.
The hunters had left at first light, slipping into the forest before the animals were fully awake and the night predators succumbed to sleep. It had taken time, but wildlife had begun to return to the area. The hunters had been busy the entire week, chasing off any creature too bold or curious about the village's borders.
Then there was the newly formed group of clay handlers—young people Jaime had personally taught the wonders of claywork. Even some of the younger children had joined, though mostly to play in the mud. Still, they were becoming a growing, lively part of the community.
Happiness was something the chosen had deliberately cultivated. It began with the roughly finished public baths—the first major project the entire village helped complete. Their work left odd bumps and uneven lines, but neither Jaime nor the villagers cared as they sank into the cool water after long days of labor.
Jimena would come now and then to heat one of the pools when the girls gathered together. The community settled into a fair rhythm: men taking their soaks at night, women and children using the baths in the mornings and afternoons before the hunters returned.
Slowly, life found its tempo.
-
In Chantico, the loud bangs of hammers rang through the morning air.
Children helped their fathers set up the forge, hauling coal and sorting tools with small but eager hands. Mothers prepared the morning meal, its rich aromas drifting through the village. Elder siblings worked or helped wherever they were needed. The countless chores of the day made for a lively, bustling scene every sunrise.
The blind elder and Sol spoke quietly of coming events—of trade, preparations, and of their ally, whose well-being was always on their minds. The brief disagreement between Marisol and Sol had long since faded, forgotten after the chosen had returned to their own village.
Yet both Chia and the elder carried many thoughts after what had been divined. They had chosen to leave the future to unfold as it would. Anything lurking in the shadows would eventually step into the light; they could only hope that when it happened, they would be ready.
The blind elder tilted his face toward the sound of his growing community. He listened to the happy laughter, the scolding fathers, the encouraging mothers. He felt the breeze on his skin and breathed in the scent of petrichor left by the recent light rain. Birds chirped from the trees, and frogs croaked from their hidden places.
It was the sound of a village alive.
-
Tepe had been in chaos ever since the day Mort vanished into the sky.
Many villagers had fallen ill—some whispered it was Mort's doing. The hunters spoke of insects they had never seen in such numbers, warned of sick animals wandering the forests with glassy eyes and rotting hides. Fear spread quickly, and fear always sought a source to blame.
The elder wasn't sure what to make of any of it. Everyone had been so emotional that day… and long after. Even he hadn't been able to think clearly following those events. It felt as though a piece of his soul had been torn from him.
Not that the villagers cared for his pain.
Their worry was fixed on the five men gutted during Mort's frenzy, and the many others left injured. In the brief moment Mort had lost control, he had inflicted more suffering on the village than the elder could feel at the loss of his own family.
The elder could only sigh.
The world had turned on its head far too quickly for him to react, leaving him adrift in a rising tide of fear and grief. Everything felt suffocating.
Seventy-two miners—nearly all in the village—had gathered to discuss revenge. A few swore they had seen the direction Mort had flown. The talk had grown sharp, fueled by anger, pride, and the need to reclaim some sense of power after witnessing something they could barely comprehend.
The elder wasn't sure what role he was expected to play anymore.
Did the villagers truly need his blessing to hunt down his grandson?
No…
Not his grandson.
That monster.