Caquipilli walks naked to the peak of the temple, unbound, unescorted. Above, the grey sky turns to night, snow falling.
He raises his hand to his chest, feeling for the cavity, sparks burning in his fingertips. He becomes his own priest, his own sacrificer, pulling the flesh away roughly— rage, and blood, and slime. All he had and was in his bloody right hand.
The heart, no more his own, comes away from in his hand as he falls backward, sliding down the temple wall, fast carried into the lake below.
Caquipilli the Sacrificed, surrendered to the wind and cold.