They chased the ghostly archer through the storm.
The barrage of arrows no longer mattered. The drain of energy, the ache in their limbs—none of it compared to the burning need to reach that spectral figure.
It moved like a mirage. Always just out of reach. Always watching.
Each time they drew near, its hollow eyes turned toward them, fathomless and cold. Then it would glide back, silent and deliberate, keeping the distance between them alive like a wound that refused to close.
Marisol's irritation boiled beneath her ribs, rising with every breath. She could hear Jaime and Jimena's ragged exhalations echoing in their obsidian helmets, their steps heavier with each stride.
Even Xolo, who had managed to lunge closest to the archer, gave a low, frustrated whine before slowing. His armor shimmered faintly, cracking at the edges.
"We can't keep this up," Jaime rasped, golden light dim around him. "We'll collapse before we reach it. I can barely stand as it is."
"He's doing it on purpose," Jimena said between breaths. "Keeping close enough to bait us—but never enough to strike. He's leading us somewhere."
"Or keeping us from something," Marisol murmured, slowing. Her pulse still pounded with anger and unease. "Either way, we need to rest."
The three drew in close, their obsidian armor melting together to form a small, tight dome. The sound of arrows resumed almost immediately—sharp, rhythmic, constant.
Marisol leaned against the cool glassy wall, closing her eyes for a moment. The vibrations hummed through her body, grounding her. As long as the sound continued, she knew where she was. The silence—that would be worse.
"This is going to be harder than I thought," she admitted quietly.
"So, what now?" Jaime asked, lowering his helm so his voice wasn't muffled. He took in long breaths even though they didn't require air. It was a habit—a way to feel human again.
"We keep going," Marisol said. "But slower. Like a turtle—steady, protected. Until that thing decides to make a move."
Jimena frowned. "I hate this. Every trial before pushed us forward. At least then we knew where we were going." She wrapped her arms around Xolo, who now sat unarmored, and warm. The dog licked her cheek, tail flicking lazily.
"The gods don't like us getting comfortable," Jaime muttered, his tone dry but his hands gentle as he scooped Cimi from his shoulder. For once, the owl didn't resist, letting herself be cradled in his palms. Her feathers brushed faintly with gold.
Marisol gave a tired smile. "Maybe that's the point. To see how far we'll go when there's no direction left."
No one replied. The sound of the arrows filled the silence instead—steady, unending.
The dome vibrated softly, almost like a heartbeat.
Inside, the three priests to be breathed in unison—trapped between stillness and motion, waiting for the next move in a game they could no longer see.
Marisol had rested just enough to feel her confidence return.
The ghostly archer hadn't moved again. Odd—but she had learned not to question the rhythm of the trials. You survived them one heartbeat at a time.
"Ready?" she asked, standing.
Obsidian dust stirred around her, marching in neat, flowing lines—like an army of shadows answering its general. She inhaled, then exhaled nonexistent air. Her heart beat steady, matching another's pulse. She could feel her goddess thrumming within her.
Axochi glimmered from within a small obsidian dome on her chest, his pink energy pulsing toward her heart—feeding the fire within.
Jaime merely grunted, his usual boyish ease buried beneath a mask of focus. Cimi puffed up indignantly but did not hoot, her golden eyes burning bright. Energy crackled from her claws into Jaime's head, flares of gold igniting in the tower helms two sets of eyes.
Jimena reached for Xolo. As her hands massaged his smooth skin, obsidian dust poured over his body like a living tide, forming his sleek panther armor once more. He barked sharply, determined. Jimena smiled—reassured, grounded.
She took a deep breath and held it, feeling her pulse sync with the earth and the goddess that watched over her. Then, as she exhaled, a wicked grin curved her lips. She hugged Xolo tight. The dog gave a startled whine but wagged his tail all the same.
Their dome retracted, the obsidian folding inward, thickening their armor until they gleamed like walking statues of black glass.
Then the world went still.
The arrows had stopped.
Three archers stood before them now—skeletal, hollow-eyed, each holding a bow strung with silence. They moved in eerie synchronization, their empty sockets trained on the trio.
Before Marisol could speak, Jimena bolted forward—sprinting faster than Marisol thought possible. Xolo matched her, his armor blazing with violet-red light, as if fire. It cloaked him in waves of violent energy.
Startled, the skeletal archers split apart, repositioning with inhuman speed. Three bows rose in perfect unison. Each glinting arrow tip aligned with a target: one for each of them.
Marisol sprinted after Jimena, Jaime close behind—his twin golden lights cutting through the haze.
The first arrows flew.
They sliced the air with a scream.
Marisol saw the glint of one—too late.
It slammed into her gut, the force lifting her from the ground. She hit the sand hard, obsidian cracking across her armor.
"Marisol!" Jaime's voice roared through the din. He barely ducked in time as another arrow streaked past his head.
When he looked back, she lay motionless, a faint pink glow radiating from her chest—Axochi's desperate protection cocooning her.
"Jimena!" he shouted, forming obsidian walls around Marisol's body. The dome came together hastily, too thin, too rushed—but it would have to hold.
Arrows rained against it instantly, the vibrations sharper, closer—like iron teeth biting through glass. Jaime grit his teeth, pouring more of his energy into the shield.
He heard Jimena scream somewhere beyond the barrage—a sound that tore through his chest. Then a thud.
She appeared seconds later, bursting into the dome through the storm. Her face was streaked with fury, her breathing ragged. She sealed the breach behind her with a sweep of her hand, obsidian melting shut against the hail of arrows.
A low growl rumbled from Xolo's throat, but it faltered under the weight of Cimi's and Jaime's glowing stares.
For a moment, all sound vanished except the relentless tapping of arrows against the dome.
Marisol still glowed faintly where she lay—her chest rising shallowly, pink light pulsing in rhythm with her heart.
She dreamt of water rushing all around her.
Rain fell without end, each drop heavy as glass, each gust of wind cutting through her bones. The world was nothing but gray and cold.
Somewhere in the downpour, she heard her mother's voice calling her name—soft, melodic, and distant. The scent of lavender and mint drifted through the storm, the same soap her mother always used. Tears welled in her eyes. No matter how she turned, there was no one in sight—only the endless curtain of rain.
Her foot slipped.
She fell, the rushing water pulling her under, dragging her deeper into its churning dark.
Then—warmth.
A firm hand seized hers, steadying her. A deep, familiar laugh echoed through the rain—boisterous, teasing, alive. The scent of coffee lingered in the air.
Ahead, she saw two pairs of arms outstretched—waiting for her. She fought against the current, straining to reach them, desperate for their warmth. But the water surged again, swallowing her whole.
She gasped awake.
Sweat soaked her skin—or so she thought, until she realized mist was gathering around her, rising from the floor. A soothing warmth spread from her chest, rhythmic and alive. Axochi pulsed there, sharing his energy—his faith—into her fading strength.
Jaime and Jimena were arguing in hushed, tense voices nearby, but the sound died the instant they noticed her stirring.
Jaime turned first, relief washing over his face as the fierce gold glow of his eyes dimmed to a gentle shimmer.
"We should avoid getting hit by those arrows," Marisol said weakly, pushing herself upright. Her body trembled, but her voice stayed steady. "They induce nightmares… besides the impact." She rubbed at her ribs. "How long was I out?"
"Not long," Jaime replied. His voice softened. He hesitated, then glanced pointedly at Jimena. "Maybe an apology would be appropriate."
Jimena's jaw clenched, but as Xolo whined softly beside her, her expression faltered. The armored hound padded forward, head low, licking Marisol's hand with remorseful insistence.
Marisol chuckled faintly, scratching behind his ear. "It's alright, Xolo. I'm fine."
Turning her gaze to Jimena, she asked, "What happened? You usually don't rush in like that."
Jimena's shoulders slumped. "I just thought we were going too slow," she admitted quietly. "Sorry. I let things get to me."
The wild, confident grin she'd worn earlier was gone. In its place was something smaller, rawer. She hesitated—then hugged Marisol tightly, uncertain but sincere.
Marisol smiled against her shoulder, weary but warm. "We're still alive," she murmured. "That's what matters."
But as she glanced past Jimena—through the translucent black dome of obsidian—she could still see the three archers waiting in the distance.
Silent. Unmoving.
And watching.