Sol guided his grandfather back toward their home, moving at a patient pace. Once inside, the old man needed no help—he would navigate the familiar walls and furniture with practiced ease. Still, the faint sighs he released whenever his hands brushed against cold metal or empty work surfaces had always reminded Sol of what had been lost. His grandfather could no longer forge as he once had.
It had been a very long time since Sol had seen him so cheerful. Even the smallest celebration seemed to breathe life into the old man's steps. Food stores were opened, shared, and enjoyed. The leftovers were distributed throughout the village so every household could taste the celebration, even if they hadn't attended the ceremony itself.
As soon as they reached a threshold the old man recognized near his home, the elder brought up Jimena again—her flame, her heat, how wonderful it had felt. Although Sol kept his expression steady, something twisted inside him. Why her? Why did his people place so much hope in someone who was not from their village?
But he understood. Which only made the feeling worse.
His people had been blessed—if one could call it that—with a heightened sensitivity to fire and its strength. Not from the goddess they had once served, nor from the brief deity who they had followed, but from Sol himself. His own blessing, born from countless offerings and sunlit rituals, had shaped the way the villagers perceived heat, flame, and light.
They forged tirelessly—through day and night—crafting jewelry and iron tools that neighboring tribes prized. Trade kept them fed. Labor kept them alive. Their village had endured era after era through skill, craft, and divine protection.
A protection that had died with their goddess, Chantico.
Her presence had been snuffed out in a sudden clash of gods, erased so abruptly that their world had stumbled into a brutal age. Many of the gods that descended afterward brought only cruelty. The years that followed were bitter ones, marked by loss.
Sol had dedicated himself to forging better iron, stronger tools—anything to keep his people safe. The craft itself had been granted by the fleeting deity who appeared after their goddess's fall, a power that taught them to survive in exchange for their submission. They bowed their heads and waited for that era to end.
Then came the rebellion—the collapse of the new godly empire, drowned by the uprising of mortals and suppressed gods alike. Gods of light and purity were overwhelmed, their divinity falling like shattered stars across the land. The world, once saturated with divine power, twisted and shifted as gods entered their slumber.
Chaos reigned for fifty-two years—an age his grandfather recited often. And then, miraculously, things began to mend. The last decade had been one of peace, even in the absence of their guardian deity.
Then Jimena arrived.
The moment she stepped into the village, something stirred in the hearts of the people—familiarity, recognition, longing. They forgot she was from another village entirely, so soothed were they by her presence.
That was what stung Sol the most.
He had worked harder than anyone. He had pushed himself to the edge of exhaustion, night after night, trying to master abilities his dormant god refused to guide him in. His tonalli, the soul flame that defined a chosen's future, eluded him. No matter how he pushed, how he trained, something remained closed off. It felt as though his destiny was being stripped away.
Was he not Sol?
The symbol of bright day, of unending illumination?
Then why—why—was he so lost?
Why was his fire incapable of burning? Why did his incandescent light falter even before something as simple as water?
His world felt like it was collapsing, especially after witnessing a young chosen from a small village surpass him with ease. Jimena's obsidian armor, the wave of divine power she commanded—everything he had dreamed of, she possessed.
And worse yet, her village boasted three chosen. Each one stronger than him.
Why had Jimena been given the power he needed? The strength he longed for to uplift his people?
The questions burned through him, scorching his chest from within. His gaze locked onto the sun as it rose higher, radiant and merciless.
At some point, his grandfather had gone inside. While Sol remained outside, unmoving, eyes swallowed by molten gold as he stared up into the blazing fire of the sky.
Lost in its light.
Lost in himself.
"Sol!"
A high-pitched voice pierced straight into his ear, snapping him out of his trance. He looked down just in time to catch a small body clambering up his side. Cal grinned up at him—gap-toothed, triumphant—while his soot-covered hands smeared fresh black streaks onto Sol's ceremonial white garments. Clothes he wore only on special occasions… now thoroughly conquered.
"What is it, Cal?" Sol sighed, though his tone lacked real annoyance. He carefully peeled the child off and tucked him under one arm as he began walking toward Cal's home.
"Mom invited you to dinner! And she wants to talk about the other village! And my sister's been asking about you a lot! And my dad wants to know if you're ever gonna get married!"
The boy unleashed the barrage without pause, words tumbling out as rapidly as his legs swung in Sol's grip. The chosen barely reacted, his expression steady as he walked. Cal's chatter washed over him, a contrast to the turbulent thoughts churning underneath.
Ever since the chosen from Bahía Oscura had revealed the true extent of their power—how effortlessly divine they were—something inside Sol had begun to unravel. He had always believed himself resolute. Steadfast. Certain. But now… doubt clouded every corner of his mind.
His tonalli still refused to open. His destiny—locked behind some unseen wall. Every attempt to understand his teyolia only left him more confused. And his god… the old deity's guidance had grown colder over the years. Unmoving. Repeating the same cryptic line, the same hollow reassurance.
How was he supposed to accept his own brightness
when it brought no heat to his people?
What good was light
that could not burn?
Sol ground his teeth, frustration tightening every muscle. It felt as if the world itself resisted him—placing obstacles between him and the future he was meant to grasp.
"Sol!" Cal wriggled free from under his arm and bolted toward his front door. "We're here!"
The adobe house welcomed them with cool shade and the earthy scent of its walls—soothing after the relentless heat outside. Sol stepped inside and found Cal tugging eagerly on his mother's huipil. She stood over the stove, flipping tortillas while pieces of seasoned meat sizzled on the clay surface beside them.
Dinner passed in a comfortable blur. Sol answered questions about the other village, about the celebration, about the journey. The family's concerns were practical, familiar, grounding.
But then Cal's older sister mentioned Jimena.
A simple comment—lighthearted, curious—was enough to send a spark through Sol's chest. His fire flared in irritation before he could stop it. He rose with a polite excuse about helping in the forges and stepped out, ignoring the disappointed glances that followed him.
By the time he reached the road, the anger had cooled into something heavier. Something like shame.
His people weren't at fault for feeling drawn to Jimena. He couldn't blame them for welcoming her warmth. Even he felt that strange tug—a connection both comforting and deeply unsettling.
Because deep down, Sol knew the truth.
She would have made a perfect chosen of his village.
Of the village that once belonged to goddess Chantico.
And that realization burned hotter than any flame he had ever managed to summon.
The forge he settled into was one always open to him. His father had built it—brick by brick—and Sol had helped in the small ways a child could. Hauling dirt. Fetching water. Watching with wide, admiring eyes.
He remembered every moment.
Every laugh, every instruction, every spark.
Those memories lived inside the very bricks—sturdy things that had endured a decade without cracking. His father's resolute soul lingered in their strength.
Sol shoveled coal into the furnace and lit it with a focused beam of light—one of the few techniques he had mastered through sheer stubborn effort. The flame roared to life, and he set to work pumping the bellows, coaxing heat into the heart of the firebox before placing the iron ore within.
Smelting ore into a bloom was a slow, patient process.
Perfect for thought.
Perfect for the kind of quiet he desperately needed.
He watched the flames shift and dance, felt the subtle tug they always directed toward him. He could sense how much hotter he could make them. How much more fiercely they wanted to burn for him.
These were sensations he had carried since becoming chosen—the whisper of fire, the glow in his eyes, the mark of golden flame that set him apart. His gifts had made him a natural fit for priesthood. The village had rejoiced the day he was chosen. He still remembered the celebration: villagers dancing under torchlight, the feast that lasted until dawn. It had been one of the happiest days of his life.
He also hadn't wasted it.
He trained relentlessly under his father's guidance.
Learned the old ways under his grandfather, when the old man could still see the full brilliance of flame.
Sol could feel it deep in his heart—this was where he belonged. Beside the forge. With hammer in hand. With fire bright enough to bend metal and shape the future of his people.
He longed for it.
For the brilliance of molten iron.
For the artistry of shaping flame-made tools.
For the divine calling of creation.
Yet… something else tugged at him. Something beyond the forge. Beyond his village. Beyond the destiny he had spent years convincing himself he wanted.
Jimena's arrival had only intensified that pull—like a sign. A reminder that his true path lay elsewhere.
Still, Sol stoked the fire and kept his hands moving.
Still, he rebelled against that calling.
Because accepting it meant admitting that everything he had worked for—everything his village hoped for—might not be the future waiting for him.
Sol wasn't ready to face that. Not yet.