Jimena winced as Marisol's cool hands pressed against her burning skin. The fever had hardly lessened—it was as if fire still lived beneath her flesh. The chill of Marisol's touch felt like mercy, like the embrace of shade after days beneath a merciless sun.
If only her body could bear the heat, she thought dreamily. Then she'd never need to stop burning. But as it was, the fever left her limp and light-headed—her limbs useless, her thoughts molten. From time to time, a lazy giggle escaped her lips. Her mind floated somewhere above her body, hazy and distant.
Marisol glared every time Jimena tried to squirm or laugh away from her hands. "Hold still," she'd mutter, though her voice trembled with worry. Beneath her frustration was something else—wonder.
She was grateful Jimena had survived that infernal fight alone. Awed, even. But the more she thought about it, the more the line between miracle and impossibility blurred. Gods. Guides. Fire and light. Perhaps this was all just because they were in Mictlan. Perhaps the rules of the living world no longer applied here.
Still, she couldn't help but envy her friend's newfound strength.
Jaime, sitting nearby, winced with every glance at Jimena's skin. The raw red reminded him too much of the sunburns they used to share—back when life was simple, and pain ended with laughter and cool ocean water.
Axochi and Marisol worked together, weaving pink mist between their hands. The healing energy shimmered as it spread over Jimena's body, soothing the angry heat.
"So…" Marisol said after a while, breaking the quiet hum of the healing mist. "Are you two going to share?"
Jimena gave a weak giggle. Jaime raised a brow.
Marisol sighed. "It would be great if I could do more than just heal you, you know."
Axochi poked his head from her chestplate, cheeks puffed in annoyance. He gave her a squeaky scolding before returning to his work. Focusing on guiding his energy to support the healing.
Marisol's smile faded. She still couldn't shake the feeling—envy, maybe, or fear—that she was being left behind. Her grandmother had been a healer too, but even that hadn't been enough to save everyone she loved. Healing wasn't enough. Not when power could change fate.
Before she could speak again, a soft hoot broke the silence.
Cimi who was perched on Jaime's head, her feathers glowing faintly gold. The sound that followed wasn't quite words, yet the meaning rang clear in their minds—musical, haunting, motherly.
"The chosen must be guided. The guided must be chosen."
The phrase sank into them like an echo from somewhere far beyond comprehension. They turned the words over and over, trying to find sense in the riddle, but its meaning slipped away each time—like smoke through fingers.
Jaime opened his mouth to ask, but before he could form a word, Cimi hooted again. A sharp, chastising sound. Then another, softer—almost like a lullaby. She nestled herself better in his head, closing her eyes. The message was clear: no more questions.
The group fell silent.
Axochi, who understood more than he ever said, crossed his tiny arms and looked away. Still a little miffed at Marisol, but thoughtful now. His eyes glimmered faintly, as if replaying the owl's words in his own language.
The chosen must be guided.
The guided must be chosen.
Somewhere deep inside, each of them knew what that meant.
They just weren't ready to face it yet.
It took time before Xolo and Axochi had rested enough—and longer still before Jimena could walk without swaying.
Marisol wanted to stay longer, to let them recover completely. But something deep inside her whispered move. A restless pulse that refused to let her sit still. It wasn't fear, not exactly—more like an ache. A need to finish. She had a feeling the twins felt it too, that gnawing urgency that made rest feel like failure.
So, as soon as they had strength enough to stand, they began the trek once more.
Jimena spoke as they walked, her voice animated despite the lingering heat in her veins. She told them of the shadow—of how it had towered over her, and how she'd driven it away in a storm of violet fire.
Jaime listened quietly. His golden gaze remained steady, unreadable beneath the helmet. When Jimena finished, wearing that half-smug, half-exhausted grin, he only gave a small nod.
"Good," he said. "But it's not gone."
Still, pride flickered in his tone, even if his face didn't show it.
The valley stretched endlessly before them. Cacti rose like silent sentinels, and the sand shifted beneath their steps. The cliffs cut sudden and sharp through the ground, as if the land itself had cracked open from the heat.
It took them a long time to cross. Too long. Boredom was their fiercest enemy—more oppressive than fear, heavier than the desert light that never went out.
To pass the time, Marisol tried again to bond with Axochi. The little creature insisted on teaching her how to shape water, to make it hover and spin in the air.
"Water isn't scary," she complained, her tone half playful, half frustrated. "How can that help when everything here burns?"
Axochi only blinked up at her. Then, with a splash of water across her face, he gave a smug chirp and vanished back into her chestplate.
Marisol sighed. Maybe he was right. Maybe she wasn't meant to destroy things. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was falling behind—that she was only good for mending what others broke.
At least she could still help. For now, that would have to be enough.
When the endless dunes finally gave way, they saw it.
A pyramid temple, rising from the sand like a memory of something sacred—and cursed. Even from a distance, they could see them: archers lining the steps, their hollow eyes gleaming beneath tattered veils.
Above them loomed a colossal figure, half-shadow, half-bone.
Temiminatecuhtli.
The Lord of the Archers.
The air grew heavier as they approached, the very sand trembling under the weight of its presence. The power rolling off the phantom was far greater than before—vast and ancient, a form made of centuries.
The three stopped. For a heartbeat, none of them could speak. The sheer scale of it—the impossible task before them—tightened their throats.
Xolo broke the silence first. He barked once, deep and commanding. Fire rippled across his obsidian form, ember eyes gleaming with fierce certainty.
Cimi hooted from Jaime's shoulder, her golden eyes glowing like tiny suns. Her voice echoed in their minds—clear the path, and the light will follow.
Only Axochi remained silent. His small form trembled slightly as he stared at the temple. Inside, he was at war with himself.
Everything had gone wrong before—before Marisol, before the others. He'd failed his last chosen, failed his purpose. Now, here he was again, curling inward when he should be guiding the way.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Not this time.
---
Temiminatecuhtli could feel the girl—the one who had burned him.
He could not truly be injured within Mictlan, yet the memory of sacred fire eating through his shadowed bones lingered like a wound. Pain, even if temporary, was humiliation. And humiliation… bred rage.
The anger burned cold within him, threatening to consume what little restraint he held. But the thought of their patron gods—those who watched the trials with ancient eyes—cooled his wrath, if only slightly.
Still, he commanded.
His vast army moved as one, skeletal hands drawing back shadow-wrapped bows. Their aim locked upon the faint warmth of Jimena's hearth-fire—the ember of pure flame that pulsed like a heartbeat in the endless desert. Even at this distance, the memory of that fire made his form tremble.
He had been wounded. He, Temiminatecuhtli, Lord of the Archers.
The shame stung deep, stirring the hunger that lived within his hollow chest. He could not kill the chosen—that was forbidden—but he could break them. Grind their wills into dust until even the gods turned away.
A hollow laugh rose from his ribcage, echoing through the desert. Shadows poured from his form, spilling like tar to cloak his army. Their translucent veils solidified into armor of black flame; their bows, now alive with consuming darkness, drank in the faintest glimmers of light.
In the far distance, he felt the children stiffen.
Satisfaction bloomed. The itch beneath his bones, the hunger to see despair in mortal eyes—it returned.
He spread his arms.
"Let the sky drown in arrows."
The command tore through the air. Instantly, the heavens blackened. A storm of shadowed arrows rained down, each one carrying a piece of his essence, each capable of devouring what it touched.
Then—light.
A violet comet streaked from the dunes, burning through the veil of night. It crashed into his ranks, sacred fire obliterating the front lines before they could even scream. His shadow recoiled, sizzling away like oil meeting dawn.
He hissed, extending tendrils to strangle the comet's heart. More archers rose from the sand, answering his call.
They too burned.
Every one of them—ashes scattering into the wind, spreading the divine flame like contagion.
For a brief, bitter instant, Temiminatecuhtli hesitated.
Perhaps… he had underestimated these new chosen.
But not anymore.
With a guttural roar, he drew upon the oldest parts of himself. Shadow thickened, swallowing the horizon. The sunless sky turned dark, until even the desert frost began to spread over the dunes.
His darkness pressed down upon them, swallowing the sacred flame. He could feel the girl's fire flicker—swaying, faltering. He smiled, monstrous and cruel.
His shadowy maw opened, closing around the dimming ember like a serpent around prey.
And then—pain.
Not heat, but light. A brilliance so pure, it scalded the very essence of his being. The agony was unbearable. His scream shattered the clouds.
He folded in on himself, curling into a cage of ribs, trying to hide from the light. But the light was relentless. It poured through him, burning not just shadow, but memory—purging centuries in a single breath.
And as he withered, his own roar echoed across the valley—defiant, furious, eternal.
The chosen had crossed a line.
They would come to understand why he was Temiminatecuhtli, Lord of Ten Thousand Arrows.
---
Marisol watched in awe as Jimena and Jaime tore through the endless ranks of archers. Every casual swipe from Jimena sent jets of violet flame surging forward, devouring the skeletal horde in waves. Jaime, shining like a second sun, raised his arms—and from the heavens fell a rain of golden light.
It was a parody of the archers' own assault: a divine inversion. Arrows of radiance showered down, burning through shadows, consuming the massive darkness that had begun to swallow Jimena whole.
A single, terrible howl ripped through the desert—raw, mournful, inhuman. Then, silence.
Ash filled the air, endless and luminous. It drifted like falling petals, each ember glowing violet before fading away. The temple, blackened and cracked beneath the storm of destruction, loomed over them like a scar.
Then—movement.
From the temple's shadow, a colossal skeleton rose. Its body charred and seething, hollow eyes glowing with hatred. It stretched out a massive hand and, with a single motion, swatted Jimena and Jaime away as if they were dust.
"NO!"
Marisol's cry tore through the still air. She ran before thought could catch up, her feet barely touching the sand. In seconds, she reached them—what was left of them.
Their armor was shattered, their forms broken, held together only by the desperate, flickering light of their guides.
Something inside her cracked. A scream clawed its way out of her throat, sharp and primal.
Axochi burst from her chest, landing beside the twins. He began to heal without hesitation, tears streaming from his golden eyes. Each tear that fell glowed bright pink, spreading a soft mist over their bodies. The energy rippled, but even as it worked, he trembled—overwhelmed by guilt.
He had failed before. He could not fail again.
"Don't you dare die," Marisol whispered, voice trembling. But the fear growing inside her became too heavy to hold.
Her tears began to fall—and then stopped midair. They hung weightless around her, shimmering spheres that pulsed with soft blue light. The droplets drifted toward her armor, staining the obsidian with streaks of azure, like paint on glass.
Marisol pulled Axochi close, clutching his small form against her heart. Her pulse thundered, the same rhythm she'd heard the day her goddess had called her. A distant bell tolled in her mind—deep and resonant—signaling not an end, but a beginning.
The connection between them deepened.
Axochi's weeping grew gentler, his glow dimming as his body began to dissolve. Every tear that left him joined hers, merging into the mist now wrapping around them both.
"Axochi…?"
He smiled weakly, voice echoing like a ripple through still water.
"We'll be as one, Marisol."
His final tear lifted into the air and vanished into her armor.
The mist brightened. Pink light spread through her armor, transmuting the obsidian into crystalline danburite that shimmered with every breath. Clouds began to gather overhead, churning purple as the air thickened with power.
The sky itself seemed to bend, drawn to her rising energy.
And at the center of the storm stood Marisol—tears of water and purple light spiraling around her, gaze steady, unbroken.
The third chosen had awakened.