The group had huddled close inside a small obsidian dome—far smaller than their previous constructs, but far more efficient. Every heartbeat, every breath inside it mattered. Energy conservation was everything now.
Xolo's heavy panting filled the cramped space, the sound echoing faintly against the dome's smooth inner walls. Axochi squeaked indignantly whenever someone shifted too close, his body squirming in protest. Cimi, however, seemed perfectly at ease, perched like a queen on whichever head was highest—currently Jaime's—her feathers fluffed with smug comfort.
Their guides had recovered enough to lend them strength again, faint ripples of power flowing between them like shallow waves. Yet still, they hadn't dared move from the spot they'd landed in. The unending rain of arrows kept them trapped—an invisible storm that whistled and cracked above their fragile shelter.
Marisol's nerves frayed with every impact. The dull, rhythmic thud-thud-thud was a constant reminder that this was the first challenge that didn't demand motion—but endurance.
Every other trial had pushed them forward. Always moving, always escaping, surviving by momentum. But now they were asked to endure. To stay still, under siege.
The thought gnawed at her, tightening her chest. Stillness felt like death.
She drew in a shaky breath, grounding herself on Axochi's cool, reassuring presence. The pink axolotl nestling against her, energy flowing into her from its tiny form.
"Don't worry," Jaime said, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, a quiet flame in the dark. Cimi hooted softly atop his head, a sound like a lullaby. "I'm sure the gods have this all planned."
Marisol turned toward him, brows raised in mild surprise. Faith wasn't what she expected from Jaime—not after everything.
"What's with the look?" he asked with a small laugh, rubbing Cimi's feathers with absent affection. "I understand what the gods want… even if I don't always agree with how they go about it."
His expression darkened for a moment, a shadow crossing his features. But with a gentle hoot-hoot from Cimi, it softened again, replaced by a faint, boyish smile.
"I see," Marisol murmured.
She stood and stepped out of the dome, her obsidian armor adjusting with a crystalline shimmer. Outside, the world was a storm of sand and glittering death. Arrows rained like metal rain, bouncing and splintering against the barrier's surface. Jimena waited there, pale but resolute, holding the barrier steady with a shimmering lattice of energy. She would only defend herself when needed. Keeping most of her energy for the dome.
It was Marisol's turn to relieve her.
The moment she took position beside her, she could feel it—the sheer pressure of the siege. Each arrow struck with the force of a hammer, vibrations crawling up her arms as she reinforced the dome's defenses. But she didn't flinch.
She could do this.
There was no freezing wind to numb them. No mountain to crush them. No storm to fling them across the sky.
This was simple. Brutal, but simple.
"This won't stop us," she muttered under her breath, her eyes narrowing as fire ignited in her chest.
The arrows kept falling.
And she held firm.
It happened in a heartbeat—right when the arrows stopped.
The silence had barely settled when it struck.
An apparition emerged through the haze, its form half-woven from shadow and dust. It held a bow of bone and smoke, the string drawn taut, an arrow already nocked. Its eyes—two hollow abysses—locked onto Marisol.
Cold. Empty. Endless.
By the time her mind caught up with what her eyes saw, the arrow was already whistling through the air.
Axochi squeaked sharply from her shoulder. Instinct took over—Marisol thrust up an obsidian wall just in time. The impact cracked through the air like thunder. But the sudden defense shattered her concentration, and the dome's integrity faltered.
The rain of arrows returned with renewed fury, hammering the barrier in a vicious rhythm.
Jaime and Jimena burst from the dome, obsidian energy flaring as they reinforced the defense.
So much for resting.
Marisol's jaw tightened. Frustration coiled in her chest, burning hotter with every strike. They had fought so hard, bled through so much—only to be trapped again like prey under a storm.
Then, she felt it. Axochi's cool touch on her cheek, his tiny appendages pressing firm and steady.
A reminder: Resilience of mind.
Marisol drew a deep breath. The obsidian beneath her feet rippled in response.
Her armor formed—layer by layer—rising up from her boots, climbing her limbs in smooth plates of black glass. It encased her torso, then her arms, until her body gleamed like a statue carved from volcanic night. On her chest, she shaped a small dome to shield Axochi, his faint pink glow pulsing from within.
For herself, she crafted a horizontal visor of clear obsidian—so she could see the enemy without exposing her eyes.
Once the armor sealed, the effort became weightless. The magic moved with her, a rhythm born from willpower. Her spirit carried the armor now, light and relentless. She would never feel helpless again.
Jimena and Jaime followed her lead, obsidian flowing over them like liquid armor. Together, they eased the defensive walls—enough to move without losing protection.
Xolo, now fully restored, took his panther form again. Obsidian plates shimmered over his sleek body as he growled, a low, resonant threat toward the ghostly archer waiting in the distance.
Cimi refused to leave Jaime's head despite his gentle tugging, so he shaped a tall, tower-like helm around them both. Two sets of glowing eyes—one human, one owl—shone through the translucent obsidian. Golden glow following with every swift movement.
"Let's move," Marisol said, stepping forward through the storm. "We won't get another chance to rest."
Jaime blinked. "Move? You mean run? Through that?" He gestured at the unending barrage. "You think we'll actually make it?"
Marisol shook her head. "No. But maybe we'll make it far enough to find out what's waiting for us."
The arrows struck like a thousand iron wasps, each impact ringing across their armor. But the obsidian held strong. They pressed forward, their bodies cutting through the storm—Jaime the fastest, golden faith trailing behind him like comet fire.
As they advanced, the ghostly archer merely watched. It did not move. Did not draw again.
Its hollow gaze followed them, silent and unnerving.
Marisol's pulse quickened. What was its purpose? Why just watch?
She forced herself not to think, focusing on her footing, on the rhythm of dodging and deflecting.
The storm was endless. The silence of that archer—far worse.