Jaime had fainted soon after the laughter faded from his chest.
Time didn't seem to move the same way here. The sun never set, its pale light hanging endlessly in the sky. Hunger never came. Thirst never gnawed. Even the heat was muted — as if this place existed beyond such mortal needs. Only the exhaustion remained, deep in their bones, demanding rest.
Marisol was the first to wake. The world felt too quiet. No shimmer of arrows in the distance, no skeletal archers watching from afar. She jolted upright, heart pounding, but relaxed once she realized the obsidian dome around them was gone — and that the field of ash had been swept clean by unseen winds.
They were alone again.
When the others stirred, it wasn't long before they were moving. Their armor had reformed — black glass flowing back into place as their breaths steadied. The animal guides, too, had recovered. Cimi's golden eyes gleamed beneath Jaime's towered helmet. Xolo stretched and yawned beside Jimena, tail flicking. Axochi pulsed faintly from within Marisol's chest, his warmth a living heartbeat of pink light.
Marisol broke the silence first.
"What was that you did… when you woke up?" she asked Jaime, her tone half curiosity, half awe.
He walked steadily ahead, a massive obsidian tower shield fused to his back. The twin sets of eyes on his helmet glowed faintly, like molten gold cooling in shadow.
"No idea," he admitted. "But… I think we can all do something similar. The closer we are to our guides — and to the gods — the more that power answers."
Jimena let out a soft hum, walking a few paces ahead. "It was like the last trial. The owl," she said. Her gaze shifted to Xolo, thoughtful. A mischievous smile began to curl across her lips.
The dog groaned softly, sensing the direction of her thoughts.
"Maybe," Marisol said, half-joking, "we could make a giant Xolo next time. Like you did with the owl."
Jimena laughed outright this time, and even Xolo barked — a short, amused sound that echoed off the stone.
Jaime, however, only shook his head.
"We'd need to be synchronized again," he said. "The gods helped us before. That much power nearly killed us."
"That's right!" a small squeaky voice piped up.
Marisol blinked as the black dome on her chest cracked open slightly. Axochi squeezed out through the slit, a shimmer of pink light.
"You can't do that again until all of you are chosen," he warned, tiny eyes wide with earnest worry. "You'd burn out!"
Then, with another squeak, he dove back inside her chest plate, curling up like a chick in its nest.
Xolo let out another soft bark — almost a scold — at Jimena, who chuckled guiltily and scratched behind his ear.
Only Cimi remained quiet. Her golden eyes flickered once under Jaime's helmet, calm and knowing.
Boredom set in somewhere between the dunes.
The desert stretched endlessly in all directions, a muted sea of sand that glowed faintly beneath the still, sunless sky. From time to time, clusters of cacti broke the monotony — their green bodies heavy with spines, like sentinels guarding nothing at all. At a distance, a range of pale plateaus shimmered, their cliffs catching the faintest blush of gold.
"Did Jaime burn all the archers?" Marisol wondered aloud. Her voice felt too loud in the open air.
Jimena's laughter followed immediately after. "I wish!" she said, bounding up behind Marisol and wrapping her arms around her waist. Her energy had returned, bright and raw. A violet flame flickered faintly inside her chest — small, but alive, a restrained power pulsing just beneath her skin. Red sparks sizzled and vanished at its edges.
"It's never been easy," Jaime said without turning. His voice steady, the golden eyes on his helmet scanning the horizon. "Let's not expect it to start now."
The sand gave way to rocky ground as they entered the cactus valley. That was when they saw them.
Dozens — maybe hundreds — of skeletal archers, hollow-eyed and silent, half-hidden among the tall cacti. Their bows were already drawn. The first glint of ghostly arrowheads was the only warning before the storm began.
"Down!" Marisol shouted, but they were already moving — formation instinctive. Jaime at the point, Marisol and Jimena flanking him with wide obsidian shields. The air filled with the hiss and thud of arrows striking glass.
The archers emerged one after another from behind the spines — too many to count, their eyeless faces locked in cold mockery. Every impact cracked the air, each arrow humming with death.
Jaime could feel the weight of it — the futility. They could run, but the rain of arrows would never end. It would break them slowly, one shield, one breath at a time.
"Change of plan," he muttered. His grip on the tower shield tightened. "We clear them."
Marisol and Jimena didn't question it. They saw the faint golden shimmer already beginning to crawl across his armor.
He took a deep breath — the kind that comes before a prayer.
"Cimikora," he whispered.
The name left his lips like a flame leaving oil.
Light erupted around him, swallowing the gold of his armor, the black of the obsidian, even the dull brown of the earth. A sound like a thousand wings tearing through the air followed, echoing across the valley.
Jimena and Marisol shielded their eyes, but through the brilliance they saw the shadows burn — the skeletal archers howling as golden fire licked through their bones, turning them to pale ash.
When the light dimmed, silence returned. The wind sighed across the cacti. The air smelled faintly of glass and ozone.
Jaime landed at the center of it all, feathers of molten obsidian fading into smoke.
The strain had been far greater this time. Whatever power the merging demanded, it took more than sleep to recover from it. Jaime could barely keep his eyes open. The golden light in his armor had faded to embers when Jimena caught him, easing him down onto a bed of obsidian that rose up from the sand to cradle him.
"Let's make the dome here," Marisol said. She spread her arms and the glass-like stone obeyed, flowing outward in dark ripples. "He won't last if we keep moving. Resting's the only option."
They needed Jaime. They knew it. And though neither of them said it aloud, both Jimena and Marisol felt the same quiet ache — the recognition that, compared to him, their bond with their guides was still incomplete. They needed to be stronger. To reach further.
But plans rarely hold against the will of this place.
A howl tore through the stillness — long, mournful, and steeped in malice. The air itself seemed to darken with its sound. Both girls froze. Dread crawled up their spines and rooted in their chests.
Xolo barked sharply, his growl vibrating like thunder beneath the dome's surface. Axochi squeaked from Marisol's chest, his tiny voice cutting through the fear. The sound steadied them — a reminder of what still anchored them here.
"I'll go," Jimena said. Her voice didn't waver. "I'll stall whatever that is until Jaime wakes."
She didn't wait for Marisol to argue. The dome opened, and she stepped into the light. Xolo followed at her heels, obsidian claws forming over his paws as the sand crunched underfoot.
The horizon shifted — something vast and indistinct was moving closer. A shadow that swallowed the valley in its approach.
"Will you finally speak to me?" she asked quietly.
For a moment, there was only wind. Then silence thickened, and the shadow grew until it blotted out the entire valley.
"Are you finally willing to listen?"
Xolo stopped walking. He turned to face her. The ember in his eyes flared, deep red at first, then orange — like a forge awakening. His gaze pierced through her. The playful companion she had known vanished. In his place stood something ancient. Something terrible and proud.
"What are you?" she breathed. "Why are we here?"
Xolo huffed, dismissing the question. His voice when it came was deeper than the desert wind.
"Not now. You already know what we are, even if your mind refuses to name it. Trust your instincts, girl — they have not lied to you yet."
He stepped closer, the glow from his eyes washing over her face.
"Are you ready," he asked, "to hear my name?"
Jimena tensed. Then she smiled — that reckless, defiant smile that was now hers.
"I'm ready."
The air trembled. Flames flickered along Xolo's body, burning bright without consuming. His voice rolled like thunder.
"I am Tletlyohuac," he declared, "your fire in the night."
The words seared themselves into the air — and into her soul.
"I'll force things a bit this time," Xolo warned, his voice rumbling like a furnace. "But you'll end up just as tired as your brother."
Before Jimena could answer, the flames around him blazed higher. They consumed his form completely, roaring into a sphere of living fire. Then, like a tide, it rolled over her—engulfing her in its radiance.
The world vanished into flame.
And then—the shadow arrived.
An enormous skeleton, tall as the valley cliffs, stepped into view. Upon its skull rested a colossal penacho, feathers black as midnight, streaming behind it like smoke. A cloak of shadow trailed its frame, vast and heavy. Beneath it, hundreds—no, thousands—of skeletal archers marched in unison, the clatter of their ghostly bones echoing like a storm.
A single, hollow howl cut through the din. The army halted, waiting.
Then, a streak of crimson-violet fire tore through the sky and crashed into their ranks. The explosion devoured dozens of archers in an instant—leaving only drifting embers where they stood.
The skeletal giant shrieked, its bellow shaking the stone beneath Jimena's feet. It cursed the blazing intruder, commanding its army to strike. Tendrils of shadow lashed toward the flame—but each was burned away before it could touch her.
Jimena moved through the fire like it was air.
Power surged through her veins, scorching and glorious. Every breath she took was filled with heat; every heartbeat pulsed with the roar of an inner inferno. The burning energy lifted her, drove her forward. With a sweep of her arm, a wave of flame leapt forth—turning scores of archers to ash.
Her kicks, her strikes, her very movements sent arcs of molten fire slicing through volleys of arrows before they could reach her. It was intoxicating—this fever, this brilliance. The more she burned, the brighter she became.
Tendrils of darkness clawed at her light, but they too ignited—spreading her flame like contagion. Archers caught fire simply from the falling embers, the valley blossoming into fields of violet-red pyres.
It was a ritual of destruction—beautiful, furious, purging.
Even the colossal shadow reeled beneath her blaze. Its cloak began to unravel, its edges hissing as if burned by sunlight. With a final, shuddering howl, it withdrew—its immense form collapsing into retreat.
Its voice echoed long after its body was gone.
A promise.
A curse.
A vow of revenge.
When the last of its echoes faded, the flames around Jimena began to still. They folded inward, swirling into a blossom of violet-red petals.
From that fiery flower stepped a figure clad in lithe, obsidian armor streaked with living flame. The shape of a xoloitzcuintli snarled upon her helm—its muzzle smoking before shattering into glowing embers.
When the light dimmed, Jimena stood revealed. Her hair was crimson fire. Her eyes, molten gold. She gasped for breath that did not exist in this place, heat rolling from her in waves.
Alive. Reforged.
A daughter of flame.