The jungle was alive with pursuit.

Citlali tore through vines and roots, lungs burning, breath ragged. The shouts of the Sun-guards echoed behind her, growing louder. They would not stop. They could not. The priests had marked her—eclipse-born, born under blood and shadow. Her death would feed the sun. Her bare feet slipped in wet earth, her tunic torn, blood tracing down her thigh from a shallow cut. Still, she ran. No path, no direction—only instinct. Fear. Then—a whisper. "Little star..." It wasn’t a voice from the forest. It was inside her. Silken. Warm. Ancient. The kind of voice that once sang flowers into bloom and men into madness. "Turn left. Trust the scent of copal. Follow where petals do not fall." Citlali gasped and obeyed, stumbling through a curtain of vines. Ahead, the trees grew strange—twisted, smooth, dusted in golden pollen. A heavy perfume filled the air: copal and crushed orchids. She knew this scent. Xochiquetzal. Goddess of beauty, fertility, passion. Lady of laughter and sorrow. "There is one who is not mine, yet was born from me. Run to them."

A flicker of vision—a blurred face, gold eyes, a shadow crowned with feathers. "The child of jaguar blood. They will not kneel. Not to gods. Not to death."

Branches tore her skin. Still, she pressed on. And suddenly—light. She burst into a clearing unlike anything she had seen. The air was different here. Still. Heavy with power. The jungle bent around it.

A field of blue flowers stretched wide, their petals unmoving in the windless space. The trees stood back like servants before a throne. No birds sang. The world itself seemed to pause.

And there—at the far end—stood someone.

Citlali froze.

They stood tall, still, robed in jaguar hide and moonlight. She could not see their face clearly—but she felt their presence like heat from a fire. It was not divine. It was not holy.

It was undeniable.

She knew without knowing: this was the Jaguar’s Child. The one even the Emperor feared. The one born of Xochiquetzal and a warrior whose name had not been spoken aloud since his death had shaken the temples.

"This is as far as I may guide you," the goddess whispered. "The rest is yours."

Then the spell broke—shouts erupted behind her. Five Sun-guards charged into the sacred space, obsidian blades flashing. Citlali staggered back. They did not hesitate.

"By the glory of the Fifth Sun!" one shouted, raising his blade. “The sacrifice will not escape!”

She could not run anymore. But she did not have to. The warriors halted. One by one, they looked past her—eyes widening, bodies freezing. Their arrogance cracked. The bravest of them took a half-step forward—then stopped. Citlali turned. The Jaguar’s Child still had not moved. Still had not spoken. And yet… the warriors faltered. One dropped his blade. Another began to tremble. The jungle itself felt heavier, denser. A low sound rumbled beneath the ground—like breath. Like something old stirring beneath the roots of the world.