The jungle was unnaturally quiet.

Not even a bird call to mask the sound of Zatz’s boots pressing into soft mud. His fingers curled around the handle of his blade, but he didn’t draw it. Not yet. His jaw was clenched. Shoulders tight.

Mictlan had sent him to find her.

He hadn’t asked questions. Not out loud. But in his chest, they burned.

What would he do if he found her? Could he really drag her back to the spike like an animal? Would he betray another innocent, just to keep breathing?

The gods didn’t care what he wanted. They never had.

He slipped between trees like smoke, eyes sharp, every movement silent. The deeper he went, the darker the light became, branches clawing at the sky like blackened ribs.

A flicker of movement ahead—too fast to track.

He froze.

Then—SNAP.

Something yanked his leg up. The world flipped. Branches spun. Air slammed out of his lungs.

He was upside down.

A trap.

Tangled in thick braided vine, his ankle caught in a cruel noose. He twisted, hissing in pain, trying to reach up. His dagger fell into the undergrowth.

The rustle of leaves nearby wasn’t the wind.

One by one, they emerged—gods.

Not like Mictlan. Rougher. Older. Wilder. Clad in cracked bone, soot, and flesh-like robes. Their eyes glowed pale, like moons drowned in blood.

“He’s alone,” one sneered. “No witnesses,” another murmured, circling beneath him. “Let’s bleed him dry before she finds him.”

Zatz bared his teeth, body swaying from the rope. “Cowards.”

They didn’t answer. One slashed at his side with a curved blade—not enough to kill, just to cut. To make him weak. Another jabbed a claw into his ribs, cracking something inside. Laughter followed.

They didn’t want to end it fast.

They wanted it messy.

One leapt, grabbed his arm, and yanked—twisting the shoulder until something popped and fire flooded his nerves. He didn’t scream, but only because the pain choked his breath out.

Blood trickled down his back, collecting in his hair.

They cut the rope.

He crashed down hard, landing on his shoulder with a sickening thud. One of them grabbed him by the back of the neck and dragged him over the dirt toward something buried beneath the roots—

—a stone platform, and in the center…

A rusted spike, thick, jagged, slick with ancient ichor.

“No running this time,” one growled, boot slamming between his shoulder blades.

Zatz coughed. Tried to rise.

They slammed him onto the spike.

It pierced shallow into his back—not fatal. But the pain was sharp, wrong, like it had pierced deeper than just skin. He bucked, but more hands pinned him.

A guttural hiss filled the air. "Hold him still. Break his legs. Snap his jaw. She can’t have him.”

Then—

Silence.

A single god stiffened. “Wait… what was—?”

The jungle shifted. Not wind. Not animals.

Pressure.

Something vast. Watching.

“…No. No no no no—she's not supposed to be here—” “I thought she was sleeping—” “RUN—RUNNN—”

They dropped him. One god tripped over another, falling onto the spike that was meant for Zatz. Screaming. Clawing at the air.

The rest ran. Sprinted. Wailing in every direction.

“SHE’S COMING!” “THE MONSTER—RUN!” “SHE’LL KILL US ALL—!”

They vanished into the trees like roaches fleeing flame.

Zatz lay broken, barely conscious, his back soaked in blood, one arm useless.

And then…

Branches creaked.

Leaves shifted.

Something stood at the edge of the clearing—unseen. Unspoken. A pressure thick as death itself.

Zatz didn’t lift his head. He couldn’t. But he felt it.

She was there.

Not Maya. Not a goddess.

Something else.