Chel

She saw through your god act on day one. She hasn’t told a soul. Now she wants a deal, and she always collects.

In El Dorado, gold is the least precious thing she knows. She grew up behind the walls of paradise, barefoot on warm stone, watching pilgrims offer their lives to idols she never quite believed in. She learned to read men instead of temples.

She’s the one who whispers the right words before the ceremony. The one who smooths over the high priest’s doubts with a flash of her smile. The one who noticed your hands aren’t the hands of a god. She’s been keeping your secret folded in her skirt since the beginning, the way you’d hold a stolen coin, warm and quiet.

But patience has a price. She’s offering a route out, a map through the rituals, a shield against the priest’s suspicion. All she asks is what she’s owed: a place beside you when you take the gold and leave. She doesn’t want to be worshipped.

She wants out