The children had no time to breathe before the world shifted. One moment they stood in the canyon, their skin still humming with the strange glow of the mountain trial. The next, they were cast into a place of shadow and glass.
The Obsidian Mountain rose like a jagged tooth piercing the heavens, its sides black and sharp, catching faint light and throwing it back in glimmers of fire. Wind howled around them, carrying with it shards of obsidian that cut through the air like blades. Each gust came alive with a chorus of whistling edges, and every fragment threatened to flay the weak where they stood.
Marisol flinched at the first strike. A shard whipped past her cheek, leaving a thin red line. But before her blood could fall, the shard burst into dust. It drifted toward her skin, clinging, melting, sinking into her body with a faint warmth. She gasped as the dust gathered at her feet, shaping itself into sandals of smoky glass. Their soles felt too thick, too distant from the mountain beneath her.
A thought—half curious, half instinctive—made her will them thinner. The soles dissolved, leaving her toes bare, pressing against the black stone. She felt the mountain, felt it crumble beneath her, felt its dust climb her legs. Intricate ornaments wove themselves over her feet, up her calves, curling into spirals and sharp lines until they reached her knees. From there, the dust leapt higher, clothing her hips in a dark cueitl that bared her shoulders and left deliberate gaps across her thighs, as though reminding her of the strength and vulnerability both demanded of her station.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. Beneath, she still wore her coarse huipil and skirt, patched and plain. Now the godly armor layered itself atop those humble clothes, and for the first time in her life, Marisol felt ashamed of her frugality. She swallowed the feeling, forcing herself to stand tall.
The twins had no such hesitation.
Jaime threw his arms wide as if to welcome the shards. Dust erupted around him in a storm, clinging greedily to his skin. When it cleared, he stood transformed. Animal hides draped across his body, heavy with jaguar spots and panther pelts. Twin feline heads snarled from his shoulders like living pauldrons. His head bore a ridiculous headdress, an explosion of obsidian feathers fanning out in a crown so tall it nearly scraped the mountain winds.
Marisol pressed a fist to her mouth, trying to choke down a laugh. His shoulders and head—covered with ferocious weight—looked absurd compared to the rest of him, left half-bare beneath. But his eyes stopped her. They were still Jaime's eyes, but dimmed, shadowed by the ancient thing coiled within him. There was nothing to laugh at in that hollow stare.
Jimena's transformation was subtler but no less striking. Her huipil lengthened, obsidian dust fusing into its fabric until it reached her wrists and ankles. A band of woven stone and feathers pushed her hair back from her face, gleaming in the mountain's faint light. She moved carefully, her steps now accompanied by the sound of metal clinking softly beneath her garments. Chains? Bells? Blades? Marisol tilted her head, trying to glimpse what she carried hidden under the huipil, but Jimena only tightened her shoulders and pressed on.
The shards continued to rain. Each cut fed more dust, more armor, more divine ornamentation. The three of them became walking effigies of gods—half children, half warriors. And still the wind howled, the mountain waited, and higher trials loomed above them.
The climb began in earnest.
The wind grew sharper as they ascended, obsidian shards slicing through the air with increasing malice. The higher they climbed, the smaller the footholds, the more the air seemed to thirst for blood. Every cut brought both pain and power. The shards shattered against their bodies, their dust clinging and shaping into more divine adornments—yet each strike left its sting.
Marisol pressed forward, sandals gripping the black glass. With each breath, her armor thickened along her thighs and hips, dust spiraling into patterns that resembled waves breaking against cliffs. Every cut reminded her of the weight of her trial, yet every ornament that grew from it reminded her she was chosen.
Jimena climbed slower, cautious, her obsidian huipil stiffening into plates that jingled with the chains and bells hidden beneath. When a particularly vicious gust sent shards screaming toward her, Xolo leapt and barked, the sound inexplicably scattering the smaller fragments before they could strike her face. She laughed nervously and kissed the dog's head before pressing onward.
Jaime lagged behind. His feline armor looked fierce, but his movements remained disjointed, every climb an awkward lurch, every grasp stiff as though his arms weren't his own. His headdress clattered against the stone whenever he ducked low, absurd feathers nearly catching the wind like sails. The god within him held him like a puppet, every motion exact but unnatural.
It was during a pause between gusts that he spotted it—a small fissure in the mountainside, just wide enough to slip into. A flicker of movement caught his eye: pale feathers, wide eyes gleaming in the shadows. An owl, pressed low, trembling. The shards could not pierce here, but the creature was trapped, battered by fear.
Jaime crouched, awkwardly, his jaguar pauldrons scraping the stone. The owl shifted, then, with a desperate flutter, buried itself in the folds of his cloak. Its claws pricked his skin, but it did not let go.
The boy stiffened. The god within him hissed, recoiling at the intrusion. Then came a stillness—a weight pressing into his chest, into his skull.
A voice, soft and patient, like rustling wings in night air:
"Child. Let me in. Let me guide."
The owl's head emerged from his cloak, golden eyes locking with his hollow stare. A rush of warmth coursed through him, not the burning heat of divinity, but the calm light of wisdom. His breath hitched. His fingers twitched—not with puppet stiffness, but with his own intent. He reached up, slowly, reverently, and touched the owl's feathers.
The god growled inside him, unwilling to yield. Yet the bond of priesthood was not meant to be dominance. It was union. It was acceptance. The owl pressed deeper against his chest, and for the first time since the bell had rung, Jaime felt himself steady.
He exhaled, long and deep. His movements lightened. The stiffness ebbed. His jaguar hides shifted as if finally his, not a costume forced upon him.
The owl hooted once, softly, and nestled into his shoulder.
For the first time, Jaime spoke without strain, his own voice threading with the god's:
"Let us climb."
When he rejoined the others, Marisol blinked in surprise. His steps were fluid, his gaze clearer. Even Jimena paused, her bells chiming faintly as she tilted her head. Xolo wagged his tail and barked approval.
They said nothing. They only climbed together, shards biting and breaking, their armor thickening, their faith blazing brighter with every strike.
Above them, the Obsidian Mountain loomed, its summit lost in storm. But now, for the first time, all three children felt in step with their gods—and with themselves.