Jaime's vision sharpened. The world of air revealed itself to him as though it were a vast ocean—streams of wind flowing like rivers, colliding, spiraling, carrying them ever closer to a single monstrous current.
On the horizon, the tornado loomed. A towering column of dust and force, its shape visible even from miles away. Its pull tugged at them already, a hunger that threatened to draw them in long before they were ready.
He leaned forward, trying to peer through the obsidian owl's jagged skull. But the black glass warped everything, obscuring the path ahead. Only by pushing more of that burning golden light into his eyes could he truly see.
The pygmy owl, once perched on Jaime's head, fluttered to Marisol instead. It settled on her hair, chattering in urgent bursts, wings flapping for emphasis. Its sounds were strange—half words, half hoots—but Axochi translated with gentle clarity, relaying Jaime's intent to her.
Behind them, Jimena sat cross-legged beside Xolo, who had shed the last remnants of his armor. The hound's ribs rose and fell heavily as he leaned against her, his warmth steadying her shaking form. Her focus was singular: keeping the owl construct together, anchoring its fragile heart.
The three children, bound by obsidian and faith, moved as one. Every twitch of thought, every strain of muscle seemed to ripple through the construct. And in those moments of harmony, their awkward, mismatched owl flew with elegance—dipping, weaving, cutting through violent gusts as if they had been born to the sky.
It was almost easy.
Almost.
But Jaime's glow began to dim. Exhaustion crept through him, and with it came a faltering of their unity. A sudden crosscurrent slammed into them, the owl construct lurching violently, one wing nearly snapping free.
Chaos broke out inside. Marisol cried out, bracing against the tilt. Jimena's obsidian chains strained, threatening to snap.
Then—Xolo barked. One sharp, commanding sound. The dog's tongue pressed to Jimena's pale cheek, dragging her back from the edge. She gasped, steadying the center once more.
"We should land," she whispered, voice thin but sure. "We're all spent."
Marisol glanced down. Axochi was curled tight against her chest, eyes shut, tiny gills fluttering weakly. For once, the axolotl was silent, its golden glow dimmed.
The pygmy owl, perched above, fared little better. Its feathers drooped, but still it fought to remain vigilant—one golden eye stubbornly open, scanning the streams ahead.
"Alright," Jaime murmured, shoulders slumping. His golden eyes flared one last time, carving a path downward.
The owl construct responded, wings folding as it caught a powerful gust. It dove, riding the current until it slammed into the red-brown dirt below, talons gouging deep trenches in the cracked earth. The obsidian body trembled, then collapsed inward, folding into a thick protective dome around them.
Inside the shelter, the children lay in a rough circle, their feet toward the center.
Marisol cradled Axochi against her breast, stroking his soft head as he slept. Jaime leaned back, the pygmy owl hooting softly on his brow, its song no more than a tired whisper. Jimena clung to Xolo, her face brushing up against his smooth skin, the dog sprawled protectively across her.
They were safe, at least for now.
And though none of them could close their eyes fully, though the world outside roared with invisible storms, within the obsidian dome they allowed themselves to breathe—together, alive, unbroken.
Marisol broke the silence first. Her voice was soft but steady, echoing slightly in the hollow dome.
"What's the owl's name? I don't think I've heard it."
She had made herself a pillow of obsidian, the smooth stone shaped perfectly to cradle her head. The sand beneath her was cool, sinking slightly as she pressed into it. Beyond the dome, the storm still clawed at their refuge—the hiss of sand and the scrape of wind like fingernails raking glass.
"Oh—yeah, it was hard to understand at first," Jaime said, straightening slightly. "It's Cimikora."
The name lingered in the air, strange and old.
He raised a hand, and an obsidian chair rose beneath him, molding to his shape until his body and the seat became one. The tension in his shoulders eased as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. For the first time since the flight began, the weight of his form seemed truly heavy again, gravity reclaiming him now that the wind had been held at bay.
"Her chattering," he continued, "comes from the time she spent trapped in the obsidian mountain. Too long alone, too long without flight. My bond lets me hear her clearly—through all the hoots and shrieks. But her name…" he hesitated, "…has power. So, just call her Cimi."
The little owl gave a drowsy hoot, perched on his head. A tiny obsidian throne supported her, glinting faintly in the dim light.
Jimena's voice came next, quiet but certain. "Are you sure of the way ahead?"
Her eyes were on the ceiling of the dome, tracing faint lines that shimmered like veins of light through the black glass. Xolo lay beside her, his body pressed against hers on a thin bed of obsidian shaped perfectly to fit them both. She felt the rhythm of his breathing, steady and sure, grounding her. For the first time in a long while, safety didn't feel like a memory.
"I'm sure," Jaime said after a pause, though his tone carried the weariness of faith, not fact.
The storm whispered outside, but inside the dome, a calm settled. They talked quietly, laughter spilling softly between words as Marisol teased Jaime about his serious tone and Jimena mimicked Axochi's chirps. Though Jaime avoided talk of his patron—Mictlantecuhtli—the girls filled the silence with their own comparisons. They spoke of what it felt like when their gods stirred within them: warmth, weight, or song. Each description built a fragile sense of togetherness.
Then, the air shifted.
Axochi stirred first, giving a shrill squeak. Cimi's feathers puffed, her golden eyes wide and alert. Xolo's ears flicked, and he gave a low, warning growl.
Outside, the wind roared to life. The sand struck the dome in furious bursts, each hit throwing sparks of violet light that danced across the walls. Beneath them, the earth began to hum—a deep vibration that thrummed through the obsidian and into their bones.
They exchanged looks, the moment of peace gone.
Jaime stood, and as if by instinct, the others mirrored him. Three obsidian chairs melted into a single smooth surface. They sat together, forming a triangular ring, readying themselves.
Cimi fluttered to the top of Marisol's head again, her chatter rapid and urgent now. Axochi peeped from a small obsidian cup Marisol had shaped, the golden glow of his eyes flickering like a candle's flame. Xolo barked sharply, tail sweeping once in command—as though confirming what the owl said.
"Time to go," Jaime murmured.
Cimi's voice filled Marisol's mind like a rush of cool air. Follow me. We rise together.
Marisol nodded and closed her eyes, her breath steadying. The obsidian beneath them began to stir.
Xolo bounded forward, grabbing the small cup holding Axochi and passing it carefully to Jaime. As soon as his fingers closed around it, warmth flooded his body—a pulse of energy that filled every hollow within him.
He inhaled sharply. "Let's finish this."
The dome around them began to split, light pouring through the cracks as the obsidian reshaped. Wings unfurled. A body formed. The great owl took shape around them once more, each child guiding a piece of its rebirth—Marisol crafting its left wing, Jaime the head and right, Jimena weaving their joints and seams together with living shadow.
Xolo pressed his forehead against Jimena's, and their breaths synced, their combined will smoothing the owl's form until it gleamed like black glass under lightning.
The world outside screamed. But within their creation, they found motion.
The owl burst skyward. Sparks scattered from its midnight wings, trailing like meteors. The wind seized them—violent, unrelenting—and hurled them forward.
Lightning arced ahead, splitting the sky. Thunder answered, deep and hungry.
And on the horizon, the tornado waited—an endless spiral of power and dread, drawing them closer with every beat of those obsidian wings.