Venemaris dragged itself the last few stretches toward its fetid nest. The insects that had once swarmed the place were gone—reduced to a foul, quivering ooze that coated the stone floor. The shrine of San Rafael was no more.
This was now the corrupted domain of Avisserpentis Salutaris—the evil god Venemaris worshiped… and feared.
Broken, defeated, thrashed, and mutilated, Venemaris shivered at the pain he knew awaited him. His new mind trembled with instinctive terror. Head bowed, he slithered through the black slime toward the shrine.
"So, you've come back to us."
The voice echoed from everywhere at once, drilling into Venemaris' mind like a spike. "Such… unfortunate circumstances."
The god coiled around him, invisible but crushing, strangling him with casual cruelty. Black water seeped from the walls, gathering into a loose, dripping shape—a crude body woven of corruption.
Venemaris had no strength to resist. He surrendered to the abuse, limp in the coils of his master. Struggling would only prolong the torment. Better to accept it. Better to break willingly.
Salutaris squeezed him tighter, wringing from him the final scrap of essence it required. Only then did the pressure release.
The god's focus shifted.
At last—at long, festering last—the ceremony to enter this world could begin.
With its body no longer sealed, Salutaris would bring endless torment. It would feast on fear, savoring every trembling soul. The thought sent ripples of anticipation through its rancid, half-formed shell.
No more would it linger in the depths while other gods gorged themselves. Those still trapped beneath the waves would writhe with envy.
Salutaris cackled from within the abyss as its watery avatar collapsed into a lifeless pool.
The forbidden ceremony began.
Corruption receded from the land like a tide drawn by divine command. Every drop gathered at the heart of the shrine, swirling and oscillating in frenzied devotion.
Venemaris lay on the cold stone, watching with dread and awe. Punishment forgotten. Rebellion silenced. His mind was too broken for anything but reverence.
He would welcome the pain. He would welcome the fear. All should share his suffering—just as he shared it now.
With a trembling, clawed hand curled into a fist, he gazed upon the miraculous formation of his master's emerging body.
The god who would grant him his wish.
---
Marisol woke to someone shaking her. Her vision swam, her mind still fogged from the earlier attack. It wasn't until a sharp, acrid smell hit her nose that her awareness finally snapped into place. Her grandmother hovered over her, worry etched deep into her face.
They were still at the forest's edge. Several people lay unconscious on the ground, breathing shallowly. Marisol's grandmother waved a hand in front of her eyes, but Marisol's thoughts lagged behind, tangled and sluggish.
"Marisol," her grandmother called softly. "Necesito que me ayudes."
She helped the girl sit up, then stand, calling for nearby villagers to assist.
Like a newborn fawn, Marisol struggled to stay upright. She stumbled toward the fallen hunters, supported on each side by one man. Her eyes widened as she saw the discoloration spreading beneath their skin—darkened veins, purpling faces, the unmistakable sign of a potent toxin.
She swayed and nearly toppled, giggling as the world tilted. The two hunters quickly steadied her, exchanging amused glances at her antics. They knew the chosen well—seeing her like this, dazed but unharmed, eased the terror that had gripped them moments earlier.
Their instincts proved right. Even in her impaired state, Marisol's healing ability awakened. Warm, steady divinity pulsed from her hands into each poisoned villager. The corruption recoiled, then surged outward—forced through their pores, eyes, nose, and finally their mouths in thick, foul streams.
One by one, the hunters gasped and began to breathe normally again, the poison driven from their bodies by the girl who could barely stay on her own feet.
---
Jaime felt the world spinning around him before it slowly settled. The familiar creaking of his wooden bed frame eased his nerves as he pushed himself upright.
It was already nighttime. From his open window he could see the glow of many fires, their shadows dancing strangely against the walls of nearby homes. Drawn by the uneasy atmosphere, he made his way to the kitchen.
A crowd had gathered there—villagers with anxious faces whispering urgently with his father. The moment Jaime entered, his father looked up. The deep frown he wore softened slightly.
"Come sit," his father offered, patting the empty space beside him.
But Jaime didn't move. His father's knowing expression tightened. Then, with a long exhale and a heavier frown, he said, "Jimena left with Marisol after they recovered. They took Xolo and went after the monster. That was over an hour ago, son."
Jaime's heart sank. Being left behind hurt—but he pushed the emotion down and sat beside his father anyway. The large man's hand came down firmly on his back, rubbing in slow, reassuring circles. His grip settled on Jaime's shoulder as the rest of the villagers quieted, turning to him, waiting for his thoughts. His mind still foggy, Jaime spoke as best he could. Easing the worries about Tomas.
From the back of the crowd, Lucas—a face Jaime hadn't noticed upon entering—stood and approached. The circle parted for him, and he sat down nearby.
"¿Cómo estás? Nos da gusto verte bien," Lucas began gently. Then he glanced around the room. "We all want to help you more. Watching you kids put your lives on the line… it doesn't sit right with any of us. Even if you are chosen."
His father cut in, voice low but firm. "We asked Chia to explain how all this power works. I've never relied on the gods before." His gaze softened. "But you're my son. And we're going to give you the best chance we can."
Lucas shot him an annoyed look for interrupting, then continued, "So—we've gathered our belongings. All of us. And we plan to offer them to you." He rested a hand on Jaime's shoulder as well. "If you're stronger, the village is stronger."
Approving grunts and nods filled the room.
The villagers had seen the children fight for them—again and again—in the single week since their return. They had earned the village's trust, pride, and now its fear. The fishermen and farmers were growing restless after the constant attacks on the chosen. Javier might be calm now, but many had seen his face when he first saw his unconscious son being brought in. The fearful thoughts.
No parent wanted to feel that kind of pain. And everyone understood the same truth:
the chosen were the only thing standing between the gods and the rest of them.
---
Jimena sprinted after Xolo, feeling the air shift the closer they drew to their quarry. The stench of death thickened around them, and the mark on her forehead flared to life—the skull mark with tongue lolling grotesquely, inhaled the rot with unending hunger. A wicked light ignited in its hollow eyes. Magenta fire seeped from Jimena's skin, burning through the humid night as they approached an open stretch of barren earth.
The crescent moon overhead cast just enough light to reveal the mouth of a cave—dark, jagged, and pulsing with the foul breath of decay. They kept their distance, watching, feeling something inside the cavern swell with an evil, familiar presence.
Marisol shot her a questioning look, uncertainty tightening her jaw. Jimena didn't slow. Xolo going back into the gem, giving her a good luck lick as he turned to energy.
They had finally pushed Tomas to this point. His newest transformation had shaken them both. She had only been able to ambush him because of the strange tether she felt—a connection she didn't understand, only sensed. But that advantage wouldn't last. Tomas was changing too quickly now, the corruption accelerating. Sooner or later, he would grow strong enough to do something none of them could take back.
She would hunt him down, no matter what.
Chia had warned her of the harsh truth: reversing Tomas's transformation might be impossible. Perhaps, if they poured their power together—hers, Jaime's, Marisol's, and Chia's—they could strip the creature from him. But only if Tomas cooperated.
And Jimena knew he wouldn't.
Her resolve hardened like stone. With grim determination, she stepped forward toward the open wound in the sand—the abyss that sheltered the monster Tomas had become.
---
Marisol followed Jimena into the yawning abyss. The stench hit her, sharp and rotting. She gagged before shaping an obsidian mask over her face. Tiny vents opened along its surface, filtering the miasma with her power.
Jimena, by contrast, walked on as though the foul air were nothing. Marisol couldn't help but envy it as she hurried after her.
The cave walls glistened with a thick, pulsing slime. It clung to their obsidian boots with each step, stretching like tar, trying to crawl higher. Only their divinity kept it from enveloping them. But the deeper they ventured, the higher the sickening goop rose, creeping past their ankles, then their shins. Their armor flared brighter, resisting the advance, but Marisol could already feel the drain. They wouldn't be able to sustain this much longer.
"Jimena," Marisol whispered, voice tight.
But Jimena didn't slow—already too far ahead to hear her, or refusing to.
The tunnel narrowed. The air thickened. And the farther they walked without finding Tomas, the more something cold and wrong began stirring at the edges of Marisol's mind.
Something was happening.
The moment she realized it, the ooze reacted. It surged upward with sudden purpose—undulating, twisting, drawing itself together as if animated by a will awakened. In seconds, the slime coalesced into a misshapen thing of rot and hunger, its form dripping and reforming in waves.
Fear dug its claws into their hearts. Still, they pushed their divinity outward, the gems embedded in their chests pulsing. Bursts of purifying light shot through the cavern, pushing back the dark for a heartbeat.
But the creature only quivered—and grew.