They landed on their feet.
For a heartbeat, none of them moved—only the new world around them breathed. Woody, earthy scents filled their lungs, layered with the sweetness of vanilla and damp oak bark. If not for the eerie stillness—the silence without wind or sea—Marisol might have believed they were home again, in the forests near Bahía Oscura.
But the sky told her otherwise.
Through the breaks in the dense oak canopy, sunlight poured like liquid gold, revealing, far below, the gleam of desert sand. They were high—so high that the air itself seemed to hum. In the horizon she could make out Islands of mountains broken by desert.
Mictlan still held them. She could feel it in the quiet pulse of her chest, in the strange brightness of this world where no shadow ever quite stayed in place.
They had passed Temiminatecuhtli's trial, but the path here had led them near his ruined temple—its stone covered in vines, and other green growth only a memory now.
The gods rarely repeated themselves; each trial was its own world. Marisol wondered if these lands were reflections of the real world—or of dreams shaped by divine hands. She had never traveled beyond the coastal villages near Bahía Oscura. Now she had crossed deserts, mountains of obsidian, and valleys of the dead. Perhaps this place, had once been real.
Someday, she hoped, her goddess would tell her the truth.
For now, they climbed.
The trail wound through towering oaks whose roots clung to the rock with impossible strength. Every so often, the trees parted, revealing the world—an ocean of white clouds and distant plateaus bathed in sunlight.
Then the forest went still.
Xolo's low growl broke the silence first. His head turned, ember eyes fixed on the shadows between trees.
From behind a thick oak, a jaguar emerged—muscles rippling beneath its yellow coat. Its gaze was golden and cold.
A soft rustle to their right. Then to their left.
Another prowl. Then a third.
The hunters circled.
Jaime stepped forward, his armor heavy and gleaming like molten glass. With a thought, he called his weapon—a thick obsidian macuahuitl—into his hand, its serrated edge whispering with golden heat. His tower shield shimmered with light, and his helm's four eyes blazed like miniature suns.
Marisol steadied her breath. A pink glow pulsed faintly in her chest as she shaped her own armor—sleek and blue-tinted now, her round shield rippling like water, her spear an extension of her heartbeat. She took her place beside Jaime.
Jimena's grin flickered wickedly in the light. Her long obsidian rod burned faint violet, arcs of heat trailing from her fingertips.
Xolo crouched, the armor along his back flaring into spectral plates. Smoke curled from his paws; his claws burned violet-red.
The jaguars crept closer—shadows on shadows—muscles coiled, tails flicking.
The still air trembled.
"Guess we're fighting again," Jimena murmured, violet fire licking her lips.
Marisol's grip tightened on her spear. "Then let's make this quick."
Jaime's four golden eyes narrowed. "Stay close. We don't know what these are."
The first jaguar stepped into the light—and vanished, leaving only a blur of black and wind.
The second leapt.
And the forest erupted into motion.