THE UNBROKEN

Aurora and Esperanza came nearly every day, if not several times a day.

They always brought warmth, laughter, something sweet or silly to remind Elena and Niegal of the life still waiting just beyond their tent flaps. But that first visit… it shattered something sacred.

Esperanza had bolted in through the curtain, breaking from Aurora's hand, her little legs carrying her with more speed than expected for someone her age. She stopped only when she saw her mother sitting upright, breathing, glowing faintly.

"Mami?" she whispered.

Elena's breath caught. "Mi tesoro…"

The child's eyes welled up instantly. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed onto the blanket, sobbing so hard she hiccupped.

Elena scooped her up before anyone could move. She kissed every inch of the crying child—her hands, her feet, her forehead, her cheeks. Each kiss whispered of love, of apology, of impossible joy.

"My baby, my baby- I'm here, I'm here, I'm home," she repeated like a prayer.

Esperanza's cries eventually turned into giggles, the kind that made grown men cry. The kind that melted a mother's weary, scarred heart. Elena rocked her back and forth, both of them crying and laughing as if their bodies couldn't choose one over the other.

Niegal watched them from the bed beside her, his bandaged arm curled protectively across his ribs. His throat ached with tears, but he didn't weep.

He only watched.

Proud. Hurt. Grateful.

And somewhere deep inside Elena's soul, the serpent stirred. She could feel her, the divine presence coiled within, rejoicing. Not for war. Not for vengeance. But at the love between mother and child. The laughter of a girl. The scent of skin kissed by the sun. The goddess was content.

And the people saw this.

By the end of the week, the legend of La Doña had risen to near-mythic heights.

They spoke her name in hushed tones when they passed her door. Offerings began to appear just outside the healer's tent: bundles of dried herbs, serpentine shells from the coastline, tiny etched candles with runes carved for protection and favor. Some left folded prayers.

At first, Elena was bewildered.

By day three, she simply nodded her thanks and lit the candles at sundown.

Niegal began to heal at a pace none of the healers could explain.

Within three days, his wounds had closed. The deep welts on his back no longer oozed. The bruises faded into pale gold. His hair had grown back to touch the tops of his ears, curling faintly at the temples. The pain lingered, but the infection, the rot they feared would take him, was gone.

By day five, he stood again. Staggering, cursing, half-limping on a cane, but upright.

During one such session with the physical healers, something impossible happened.

Niegal had just begun walking across the stones laid out in a healer's garden when the air around him shimmered.

The machete, the Blade of Marohu, appeared in a ripple of heat and stormlight, humming low and deep like thunder inside the chest.

Gasps broke around the circle. The air shifted.

The machete changed.

Right before their eyes, it warped- stretching, winding like a vine- into a tall, elegant walking stick, still etched with the lightning sigils of its divine origin. It pulsed once, then glowed steady.

No one spoke.

Not even Niegal.

Señora Behike stepped forward, tears already rising. "It has changed to suit your body," she said softly. "It still knows you. And it knows her."

Niegal didn't answer, but the awe in his eyes said everything. He reached out and took it. The handle felt like home. And from a nearby bench, Elena smiled faintly, because they both knew.

It was her power, her presence, that had called it back.

Elena began to train again, against every healer's protest.

Her eyesight would never fully recover. Bright light burned. Colors were dulled. Shapes blurred together like wet charcoal sketches. But her other senses had sharpened unnaturally.

She could smell fear on the wind. Hear the shift of air against a blade. Feel the vibrations in the earth beneath her feet.

The serpent within her moved when she fought. Its presence pushed her forward, lifted her from exhaustion, quickened her strikes.

In the training ring, with Alejandro and several new recruits watching nervously, she moved like a dancer, but one made of storm and fury. Her blade, the blessed machete of Boinayel, sparked with light at her command. It whistled through the air as she trained, striking with precision even without full vision.

Her scars pulsed with every blow. Power surged in each breath.

People stopped to watch.

First it was a few.

Then it was a crowd.

Then the courtyard was full. Warriors, cooks, children, nobles, and elders. Some knelt as she passed. Others laid hands over their hearts.

They didn't know what she was anymore.

Only that she was divine.

When the Behike from Marisiana arrived, the truth was confirmed.

She had journeyed on foot and ferry through war-torn regions just to see for herself.

Elena met her at the threshold of the sanctuary, Esperanza on her hip, Niegal by her side. Her serpent stirred with ancient recognition.

And when the Behike saw Elena, she dropped to her knees.

Instantly.

No hesitation.

No fanfare.

The serpent within Elena hissed softly. Not in warning, but acknowledgment.

"I see you, shaman," it said through Elena's lips, a sound not her own. "You've done well."

The Behike wept openly, crawling forward until she could wrap her arms around Elena's waist. The younger woman bent to meet her, embracing her as the sun shone behind them.

Elena's scars glowed like pearl.

And for a flickering moment, across the bridge of her nose, shimmering scales appeared beneath her skin. Violet and silver. Faint, but unmistakable.

The people gasped.

They saw.

That night, dozens gathered just outside the sanctuary gate. Silent, reverent. They lit candles. Sang softly in the old tongue.

They didn't call her saint.

They didn't call her queen.

They called her Mother of Storms.

And for the first time in many moons, Elena didn't correct them.

She held Esperanza on her hip, her serpent glowing beneath her skin, her machete at her side, and Niegal by her shoulder-

And she knew:

She was no longer simply a survivor.

She was becoming legend.