Nanahuatzin’s body was already aflame, but no one was watching him anymore. The other gods—stronger, more beautiful, untouched by the fire—had already turned their gaze skyward, waiting for the light to emerge. His skin cracked open, blistering, but there was a quietness in him. He had been forgotten long before he ever made this sacrifice. That was the way of things, wasn't it? The ones who burned brightest never seemed to notice the ones already turning to ash beneath their feet. But Nanahuatzin didn’t need to be remembered. He needed only for the sun to rise.

As the flames consumed him, his thoughts slipped toward the vastness of the cosmos, the endless stretch of sky that would soon bear his light. It was almost a comfort, knowing that once the light rose, it wouldn’t be his anymore. It would belong to the gods, to the world, to time itself. He would be nothing. The sacrifice was complete. In it his true becoming.

Ra, far across the celestial river, felt the flicker of the new sun, but it was a weak, tremulous thing. The underworld was waiting for him again, and Ra could feel Apep stirring beneath the surface. Every time he dipped his oar into the river, it felt heavier. How many nights had he fought the serpent? How many times had he returned, exhausted but victorious, only to know it would all begin again tomorrow? His body ached, and for a moment, Ra considered what it would feel like to let Apep win. To stop fighting. To sink beneath the waves, into the waiting jaws of the beast.

But that wasn’t Ra’s destiny. His role wasn’t to win—it was to keep the light alive. To endure. He looked toward the flickering sun and felt the weight of Nanahuatzin’s sacrifice in his chest. Ra didn’t know the Aztec god, but he understood the weariness that came with keeping the cosmos in balance. He dipped his oar into the river and pressed forward.

Skoll ran, always close, but never close enough. He had chased the sun for as long as he could remember, his breath heavy with hunger, but this wasn’t about catching the light. It never had been. The chase was what mattered. To let the sun feel fear. To keep it moving. The gods needed to know that nothing was safe, not even the light. Skoll’s steps pounded across the sky, his heart in rhythm with the flicker of the sun. This was balance—his chase, the sun’s flight, the gods’ vigilance.

But his brother, Fenrir, had no such patience. Skoll had always known this day would come—the day Fenrir would stop waiting. And when Fenrir devoured Odin, the balance had shifted. The chase was no longer enough for Fenrir. Now he wanted to bite into the sun, to consume it whole. Skoll felt the first tremors in the sky as his brother approached, and for the first time in his eternal chase, he wondered if he could stop what was coming.

Māui didn’t chase. Māui solved. He had been watching the sun slip further and further away, its path faster, more erratic. His people had less time—less time to fish, to harvest, to live. So he had tried everything he could think of. He had lassoed the sun with his ancestor’s jawbone, beaten it into submission, slowed its course. But no matter what he did, the sun kept running. Now, he understood why. It wasn’t running from him. It was running from something else. Something bigger. Something hungrier. He could hear it—the low, distant howl of wolves that didn’t belong to his world.

Māui stood at the edge of his island, staring up at the sky, knowing that he was out of options. If he couldn’t slow the sun, he would have to let it go. Let it fall. His grip on the jawbone tightened, and for the first time, the trickster god didn’t smile.

When Fenrir reached the sun, the sky tore open. Skoll watched, powerless, as his brother’s jaws closed around the light, and in that moment, he felt the end of something sacred. The sun, once untouchable, was now prey. The first bite was agonizing. The world held its breath. The gods waited, silent.

But this was how it had to be.

Ra felt the darkness close around him as Apep reared its head. The serpent’s eyes glowed with hunger, but Ra had faced him too many times to be afraid. The light was gone now, swallowed by Fenrir’s bite. But Ra could feel something stirring. The light wasn’t destroyed. It was remaking itself. He dipped his oar into the river, pushing forward, knowing that if he could just hold on a little longer, the sun would rise again.

Māui watched as the sun collapsed, its light fading into the void. He could hear the cries of his people, the panic in their voices. They didn’t understand. But Māui understood. The sun had to die. It had to be reborn. This wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of something new, something stronger.

And then it happened. The light returned, not with the timid flicker of before, but with a roar. The sun exploded back into existence, brighter, fiercer than ever before. Fenrir, satisfied with his bite, slunk back into the void, his hunger momentarily sated. Skoll, his chase complete, turned away, knowing that the sun would rise again tomorrow, and so would he.

Ra felt the warmth on his face as the new sun rose over the horizon. He let out a long, tired sigh, his battle with Apep momentarily won. The light had returned, but so had the fight. It was never over. It would never be over. Ra gripped his oar and prepared for another night.

Māui let the jawbone fall from his hands, the weight of it too much to carry anymore. The sun was back, and his people would live. But this was not a victory. It was a reset. And Māui, for the first time, felt the exhaustion of being a god. The light had returned, but at what cost?