The trio collapsed into a tangled heap upon the sand, breathless and trembling.
Soft grains cushioned their fall, but even the earth beneath them seemed to hum with exhaustion.
Most of what had happened—if it had happened at all—felt like a dream half-remembered.
Their guides lay still beside them, faint flickers of divine energy leaking like dying embers.
Marisol was the first to stir. She gasped and coughed, throat raw and lungs ablaze. Every inch of her body screamed. Her muscles twitched with the phantom pain of being torn apart and put back together again.
If not for the gods—whatever power had intervened—she knew they'd have been obliterated.
The thought sent a cold shiver crawling down her spine despite the searing desert heat.
A low groan escaped her lips—half pain, half disbelief. Jaime and Jimena were worse off, their faces pale, their breaths shallow. The air felt too thin, the heat too dry, the silence too complete.
None of them noticed the shift above.
High in the air, something shimmered—a sliver of metal glinting under the white sun.
An arrow. Perfectly still for a moment, then gone in a whisper.
It flew true.
Marisol barely saw it before her instincts screamed. Obsidian erupted from her hand—thin, fragile, rushed. The ancient arrow punched through it, the oxidized tip stopping just short of her eye.
She gasped, heart lurching, the burn of fear eclipsing the ache of exhaustion.
A second arrow hissed through the air.
She felt the change before she saw it—the faint displacement, the whisper of wind.
Another shield burst from her palm, this one wider, heavier.
Metal screeched against glass. Shards scattered like dark petals.
Again.
And again.
Each time, her obsidian shattered faster.
Her mind blurred. Muscles spasmed. She fought to keep breathing, to keep standing. The desert spun around her, the air growing thick and shimmering.
When she finally faltered, a hand caught her—steady, warm.
Jaime.
He looked taller somehow, his expression unreadable, his obsidian armor fractured but glowing faintly from within. He eased her to the ground and took her place before the onslaught.
Arrows struck his shields and rang like chimes in a storm. He held on longer than she had, his golden eyes narrowing with focus—until they, too, dimmed.
Then Jimena rose.
Her stance uncertain at first, then firm. With a cry, she joined her brother, obsidian surging around her like living flame. Together they layered defense over defense—two hearts beating in rhythm, two wills resisting the unseen enemy.
Marisol could do nothing now but watch. She sank deeper into the sand, the world swaying above her. Her last conscious thought before the next arrow struck the dome of their defense was clear and heavy as stone:
This would be no simple trial.
This would be a siege.
Back at the village.
Chia sat beside the low fire, a small clay cup cradled between her palms. The tea's herbal scent—rue, mint, and something older, sharper—rose in soft spirals that mingled with the lingering incense smoke. Her hands trembled slightly, but her breathing was steady.
Javier slept nearby, laid out on a woven mat, his chest rising and falling at last in peaceful rhythm. The foam that had once clung to his lips was gone; in its place, a faint whisper of calm.
The battle of wills had been fierce—body and spirit torn in equal measure—but Chia had endured.
She was old, yes. But she was also trained, born into the long, stubborn lineage of curanderas whose strength came from love as much as faith.
Even if the creature she faced had once been her friend.
Her gaze softened as she looked at Javier. She remembered the wars of faith that had come before—the endless centuries of gods and their chosen, clashing, rising, and falling in cycles that mortals paid for with blood.
Her people had already suffered through one such age: the burning of temples, the silencing of songs, the confusion when old prayers went unanswered and new ones demanded devotion.
Guidance turned to domination. Hope turned to fear.
They were a flock without a shepherd, wandering between heavens and hells that blurred together.
She sighed, heavy with memory.
Her thoughts broke when a shadow crossed the firelight. A small group of villagers approached, hesitant. Even from a distance, she could feel their unease—like a herd edging too close to a sleeping jaguar.
They'd always respected her, even feared her a little. She had healed many of them, after all. But old wounds ran deep. Suspicion still lurked behind gratitude.
When they finally reached her clearing, they did what all groups do when faced with discomfort—they pushed someone forward.
"Go on, Lucas," someone whispered.
The old fisherman stumbled forward, his sea-scarred hands fidgeting, his eyes darting from Chia to the people behind him.
"Chia," he began, his voice rasped but kind, "how are you?"
She didn't look up right away. She took another long sip of tea, letting the silence stretch until it almost broke. Then, without lifting her eyes:
"Lucas… ¿sigues igual de burro?"
The villagers blinked. Lucas froze. For a heartbeat, the tension evaporated. The familiarity in her tone, sharp and teasing, carried them all back to another time—when things were simpler, when their gods were quiet.
Lucas opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally let out a low chuckle. "Y tú… igual de grosera, ya veo."
That earned a few nervous smiles from the crowd. Even Chia's lips twitched.
The moment passed. She lifted her gaze, scanning the group—old faces, familiar faces. Her gaze softened but her voice did not.
"¿Qué quieren, Lucas?"
Silence answered her first. The villagers avoided her eyes, shifting their weight in the dust. She could name most of them—had held their children as newborns, buried their parents, treated their fevers.
None of that mattered now. Fear makes strangers out of kin.
At last, Lucas spoke, rubbing the back of his neck. "Queremos saber qué está pasando, Chia. Todos estamos asustados."
He turned, gesturing helplessly at the cluster of people behind him.
Chia's sharp eyes took them in—mothers clutching small children, boys pretending not to tremble, young men with clenched fists and frightened pride, girls whispering prayers to saints and gods alike.
The anger was there, yes—but beneath it, she saw something deeper.
Fear.
And the faint, dangerous spark of faith unmoored.
She took another sip of her tea. It had gone cold.
"Está bien," she said quietly. "Escuchen entonces."
The villagers leaned closer. Even the wind seemed to hush.
"The gods are stirring again," she began. "Old ones. New ones. They're testing their chosen."
Her eyes flicked toward Javier, then to the north—toward the unseen desert. "And our children are at the center of it."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Chia's tone deepened, carrying the authority of countless curanderas before her.
"This is not a curse. It is not the devil's work. It is faith itself, waking after a long sleep. But faith, when divided, brings war. So we must choose—fear, or trust."
Her eyes gleamed gold once more, faint but unmistakable. "And if you cannot trust the gods, then trust the children. They are our hope. Our bridge between old and new."
The wind outside the hut howled faintly—an omen, or a warning.
Chia placed the empty cup beside her, her wrinkled hand trembling. "Now go," she whispered. "Prepare. When the storm reaches us, you'll know."
Chia watched as the villagers dispersed. Their footsteps fading into the distance, leaving silence in their wake. Lucas glanced back once, then twice—his brow furrowed, mouth half open—but said nothing.
The wind began to stir, yet the sky remained a flawless, endless blue. Chia's heart tightened. She could feel something approaching. She prayed the gods would hold the line just a little longer.
"Take your brother home," she told Joaquín and Jorge, who sat hunched beside the doorway, shadows etched beneath their eyes. They looked hollow, as if sleep had been stolen from them.
They had spent the night guarding their brother from himself—from the choking fits that wracked his body, the foaming at the mouth, the clawing hands that sought to tear at his own skin. Whatever had tried to wear Javier's face had not given up easily.
Now they moved like ghosts, dragging their brother's limp body through the dirt. Each time his form struck a rock, they winced but did not stop. Their strength was gone, their spirits spent. Only duty remained—a thin thread keeping them upright.
When the three finally vanished down the trail, Chia let her breath slip out in a slow exhale. Her heart fluttered uneasily. There was something wrong with the air—something humid, cloyingly sweet.
"Toloache sagrado," she whispered. The sacred poison.
The scent thickened. It crawled into her lungs, wrapping around her senses like honey turned sour. Her pulse thundered. She reached for her incense, but her hand trembled too violently to light the flame.
Then—a flicker. A shadow leapt across the yard with the grace of a jaguar.
Blue-scaled. Feathered. Long tail coiled behind it like a serpent.
Chia barely had time to gasp. The creature's claws, glistening with clear venom, reached for her throat. Its scent was overwhelming now—sweet, narcotic, suffocating. Her thoughts tangled into a fog.
Then, another smell cut through it—brine, rot, and salt. The sea. But not the living sea. The scent of death dragged from the ocean floor.
A gust swept through the yard, heavy and cold.
From its heart stepped the drowned—its body pale, half-flesh and half-coral. Barnacles clung to its limbs; its eyes glowed like pearls in shadow. It seized the scaled creature mid-lunge and slammed it into a tree.
Wood splintered with a hollow crack.
The creature screeched, thrashing. It lashed its tail and the air split like thunder. The drowned staggered, but rose again, steady, deliberate—unstoppable.
It moved forward, each step slow as tidewater.
The feathered beast spat venom, its cries more desperate now, less rage than terror.
Chia pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, the air thick with decay and sweetness. Her stomach turned, but she could not look away.
She saw then—beneath the scales, the feathers, the monstrous shape—something heartbreakingly familiar.
The line of the jaw. The glint in its eyes. The faint, broken sound that escaped it, almost a sob.
Her breath hitched.
"Tomás…"
The name fell from her lips like a prayer, or a curse.
Her chest ached. For a moment, she wanted to run to him—to shield him, to pull him back from the abyss he'd fallen into. But she knew that mercy was gone. Whatever god or curse had taken root in him had remade him into this.
Venemaris. The forsaken child of the sea.
Then the bell tolled.
A clear, solemn note, like a blade of light through the air.
With a thunderous boom. The ground shook. The scaled creature was hurled backward again, screaming in agony. Dust rose like a stormcloud.
When the haze cleared, Venemaris lay broken—blood seeping between cracked scales, one arm bent at a cruel angle. He whimpered once, a sound too human to bear. Scrambling to his feet, he turned and fled into the forest.
Chia's heart clenched. Tears stung her tired eyes.
She forced herself to whisper, "No es Tomás."
The drowned lingered for a heartbeat, its barnacled face turning toward her. Then it dissolved into a cool ocean breeze. The air shifted—sweetness fading, replaced by salty wind and silence.
Chia stood there, trembling, then shuffled to her rocking chair. The wood groaned as she sank into it, every muscle aching. Her hands no longer shook.
This was their sanctuary.
She folded her palms together, whispering into the fading wind. "May the gods have mercy on you, Tomás… and on us all."
The wind brushed her cheeks like a blessing, and as the breeze rocked her gently, long-awaited rest found her at last.