After the battle, they rested—breathing, drinking in the stillness. The exhaustion was deep but clean; their bodies hummed with the afterglow of divinity.
When they resumed their journey, the mountain path faded behind them, and the forest gave way to a blazing expanse of gold and white. The desert stretched endlessly, heat waves rising in silent song.
Marisol unarmored herself first. The obsidian plates turning to black dust until only her cloth garments remained, light and thin, with the vital parts—still shielded in faint blue glass. The veil of mist around her shimmered, keeping her cool against the merciless sun.
Jimena did the opposite. She shed her armor completely and lifted her face to the sky, welcoming the heat. The light reflected off the dunes painted her in molten hues, her skin drinking in the sun like a prayer. "At last," she whispered, smiling, her voice trembling with reverence.
Jaime, practical as always, followed Marisol's example—keeping the armor where it mattered, leaving the rest to breathe.
Their guides moved as if unbothered. Cimi continued her nap atop Jaime's head, her small golden feathers ruffling softly with every breath. Xolo bounded around Jimena, tail wagging, embers scattering joyfully behind him. Axochi slept soundly within Marisol's chestplate, the faint pink glow of their bond pulsing with every heartbeat.
Then, the air began to hum.
A strange vibration rippled through the dunes, faint at first—then stronger, resonating within their bones. The heat shimmered in waves, and each breath tasted of metal and salt. The desert was alive, feeding them, purifying them.
Jaime felt his muscles tighten with renewed strength. Marisol's pulse synced with the rhythm of the sand beneath her feet. But Jimena…
Jimena blazed.
Flame licked from her fingertips as the desert's power rushed into her veins. The sand beneath her feet fused into glass, the glare nearly blinding. Her laughter echoed—wild, unrestrained, half-exultant, half-mad.
"Jimena!" Marisol shouted, running toward her. Jaime's voice followed, deep and commanding. But the desert swallowed their words, and the heat only grew fiercer.
Marisol's chest flared pink, the bond with Axochi pulsing frantically. She poured power into it, calling upon the sacred waters of her goddess. The pink light deepened to violet as her armor formed—the round helm with its axolotl gills, jade eyes spilling endless tears. Mist poured from her, blanketing the dunes in cool, trembling rain.
But even her sacred waters hissed and turned to steam as they met Jimena's fire.
Xolo howled. His ember eyes blazed brighter, the bond between him and Jimena fraying under the torrent of energy.
Steam engulfed them all. Marisol's skin burned. Jaime stepped forward, shield raised, but even his golden feathers blackened under the intensity.
"Jimena, stop!" he shouted again, but her violet eyes were lost to the fire.
Marisol tried to summon the storm—the one that had drowned Temiminatecuhtli—but it was distant, unreachable. Without her goddess's hand to guide her, the power slipped through her fingers like smoke.
The desert roared around them. Fire and water collided, sky and sand trembling under the clash.
As the air turned white with heat, Marisol realized this trial wasn't meant to be conquered—it was meant to be endured.
The fire kept surging—alive, feral, devouring Marisol's sacred water the moment it touched it. Each collision erupted into a storm of steam that hissed and screamed across the dunes. The whirlpool Marisol had formed trembled under the onslaught, struggling to shield her and Jaime from the inferno.
Still, she refused to retreat.
She remembered the burns that had scarred Jimena once before—the sight of her skin cracked and smoking after that first great blaze. She wouldn't let that happen again. Not while she could still stand. Power flooded her chest in answer, her heart pulsing like a drum of light.
Steam thickened the air until the desert seemed to vanish. In its place, tiny green shoots emerged—grass, then low shrubs, trembling under the boiling mist. The very earth sought to soothe the sky's fury.
Marisol's jade eyes shimmered with sorrow as she gazed at the heart of the blaze. She could barely make out Jimena's outline—only a silhouette wreathed in purple fire. The clouds above gathered and darkened, echoing her turmoil. She reached upward, willing them to answer her, to lend her the rain her goddess once guided her to summon. But the energy slipped through her fingers again, overflowing her control—like water draining through a vessel too small to contain it.
Jaime stepped beside her, the golden glow of Cimi's light steady and unyielding. Together they pressed forward. Marisol poured herself into the whirlpool, forcing it to expand, to swallow the storm. But each time it neared Jimena's fire, the heat exploded outward—jets of steam lashing against their defenses. The only barrier between them and death was the thin shimmer of Marisol's power and Jaime's tower shield of obsidian feathers.
Yet with every attempt, the world around them changed. The desert cracked open, green sprouting in the wake of steam. Saplings pierced the sand, growing faster than thought. The air sang with vitality—the clash of fire and water birthing life.
When the trees began to explode from the heat, Marisol did not falter. The splinters and sparks were her vanguard. Each time a tree shattered, another rose stronger, its bark thickened, its leaves darker and more resistant to flame.
Within what felt like an eternity, the saplings became oaks—tall, defiant, their roots burrowed deep into the scorched glass. The inferno howled, but the trees stood firm, their blackened bark gleaming like obsidian armor.
"Almost there," Jaime grunted, bracing his shield as shards of molten glass rained down. His body shuddered under the impact, but his stance didn't break.
Marisol's heart hammered in her chest, her strength flickering at the edges. She could feel the pulse of her bond with Axochi dimming, the pink glow fading to a pale lilac.
And still, within the storm's center, Xolo did not leave Jimena's side. Marisol could sense his resolve—his presence burning steady inside the chaos, refusing to abandon his chosen even as the flames consumed them both.
The ground trembled as molten glass pooled around the blaze. When it shattered, it did so with a sound like a thousand chimes, shards embedding themselves into the thick oak bark. For one brief instant, the violent roar of steam stopped. The world drew breath.
Marisol seized it.
She gathered everything—every drop of mist, every tear of her goddess, every spark of the bond that linked them all—and shaped it into one final surge.
"Now!" Jaime cried.
Marisol unleashed her power. The whirlpool roared forward, a column of violet and rose light, wrapping around the blaze, seeking to swallow it whole. Her body trembled with effort. The desert shook.
And for the first time, the sacred fire began to bend.
Steam burst outward in violent waves, glass exploding into showers of light. The obsidian oaks held firm—vast, immovable guardians. Their massive trunks drank in the heat, their humming vitality reverberating through the air each time the scalding mist struck them. They stood as the only barrier keeping the sacred blaze from spreading further.
Marisol pushed her whirlpool harder. Every ounce of her strength, every breath, every heartbeat poured into its violet current. The air shimmered. Her world became nothing but mist and motion—the silhouettes of towering oaks the only shapes clear within the blinding white.
Then, through the steam, Jaime moved. Golden light spilled from his eyes, steady and resolute.
"You did it," he said quietly, moving past the waning flow of the whirlpool. Into the swirling mist.
When he stepped out of the mist again, Jimena was in his arms—her hair charred and her skin scorched—and Xolo, limp and blackened, lay across his shoulder. Marisol's breath caught. The sight struck her like a spear through the chest.
Without thinking, she summoned the last remnants of her strength. Axochi's spirit flickered weakly inside her, his small form trembling as he lent her what little he still had. Together, they shaped healing mist over the burned bodies.
Her vision blurred. Her body screamed for rest. But before she could collapse, a hand steadied her.
Jaime knelt before her, his grip firm on her shoulders. His golden eyes shone—not with divine light, but with gratitude.
"Thank you," he said, voice hoarse and thick with emotion.
Marisol could see the strain in him too—the way he fought to keep his composure. For a heartbeat, they shared a silence heavy with exhaustion and relief. Then, in an unexpected gesture, he gave her a small shake, as if to keep her from fading away.
It startled her. Then she laughed—bright and unrestrained. The sound echoed strangely amid the mist and glass.
Jaime blinked at her, then, impossibly, smiled.
It was enough to ease the ache in her heart.
When her laughter faded, Marisol turned back to her work. Kneeling beside Jimena and Xolo, she let the mist flow freely from her hands, the soft pink glow mending Jimena's scorched skin and Xolo's charred body. Axochi drifted inside her, shedding small tears of light that flowed out and joined her healing.
Slowly, the haze began to clear.
Where the inferno had raged, a brilliant rainbow arched across the sky—its colors mirrored by the molten glass cooling on the ground. The shards embedded in the obsidian oaks shimmered like jewels, refracting the desert's sunlight into a thousand radiant hues. Small flowers sprouted among the cooling glass, their petals glistening with dew.
Marisol stared, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Awe filled her chest, pure and quiet.
This—this was her goddess's blessing. The water of life, gentle and powerful enough to turn ruin into beauty.