Jimena sat with her head resting against the obsidian dome, her breath fogging faintly against its dark, glassy surface.
They had agreed to wait until Marisol recovered. The bruise along her friend's side—deep purple fading into sickly green—was still tender, even after Axochi's careful work. Jimena could still picture it vividly. The guilt knotted inside her chest like a snake.
She thought back to her earlier rush—the way power had surged through her veins, pure and bright and unstoppable.
She had felt invincible.
The ghostly archer had been right there, so close she could almost touch him.
She had dodged his arrow effortlessly, and when Marisol failed to do the same, frustration had filled her lungs like smoke. Even now, it burned.
Her thoughts tried to wander deeper—toward the reason that fury came so easily—but she flinched away from the memory before it could take shape. Instead, anger took its place, easier to bear.
The archer's hollow eyes haunted her.
Mocking. Empty.
She clenched her fists until her knuckles ached, jaw tightening as a spark lit inside her chest. A faint violet ember flickered beneath her ribs—fragile but alive.
Then it twisted.
The ember burst into a blood-red flame, hot and suffocating, crawling up her throat until she could barely breathe.
Xolo whimpered and licked her face, his cool nose and warm tongue grounding her. The bloody flame faded to a dull violet glow, and she exhaled shakily. Still, her legs jittered with impatience. The urge to move—to hunt—was almost unbearable.
The dog barked softly, his tone more soothing than scolding. Jimena couldn't help but laugh—a small, hoarse sound. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close until his heartbeat steadied hers.
"Gracias, Xolo," she whispered into his ear. "At least you understand."
Across the dome, Jaime watched her. His expression was unreadable, eyes half-lit by the faint gold glow of Cimi perched above. She met his gaze and grimaced, then looked away. She wasn't ready to apologize—not yet.
Still, she could feel his disappointment like a shadow pressing against her back. It annoyed her.
And yet... She also knew he wasn't wrong.
Her fingers tightened around Xolo's neck. Whatever was happening to her—this newfound strength, this reckless confidence—it was better than before. Better than the fear, better than the helplessness that used to choke her whenever danger came too close. She could fight now. She could protect what she loved.
She smiled weakly, pressing her cheek to Xolo's head. He whined and licked her again, tail thumping against the ground. She chuckled softly, her tension easing for a moment.
Her gaze drifted toward Marisol. The girl lay sleeping, wrapped in a soft pink haze that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Axochi pulsed there, his gentle energy weaving through the air like threads of mist—healing, soothing, mending what Jimena might have caused, however indirectly.
Jimena's chest tightened. She didn't look away this time. If power was her gift, then control would have to be her offering in return.
It was some time before Marisol healed enough to stand again. She didn't say anything to Jimena—just followed quietly when the girl decided it was time to move. The silence between them said more than words could.
Axochi had spent most of his strength mending her body, and now rested deep within the small obsidian dome on her chest. His light pulsed faintly, a heartbeat slower than her own. She could still feel his exhaustion—an echo of hers. This time, she told herself, she couldn't afford a single lapse. One second too long, and it would be over.
Jimena jogged ahead, Xolo bounding beside her, muscles tense and gleaming beneath his armor. Jaime followed close behind, his eyes flicking from one companion to the next. Cimi above him, feathers puffed, golden eyes sharp and unwavering inside the helmet. Marisol suspected it was the owl's foresight keeping him so calm—so precise.
The skeletal archers still lingered at the far edge of the field, shadows made solid. Their eyes burned like dying embers, hollow and cruel. Each time the group faced them head-on, the arrow rain ceased—as if the act of meeting their gaze, a direct challenge to their power.
Maybe that was it, Marisol thought. Maybe the archers fed on fear—the strength of those who turned away. But she wasn't sure. The rules of the trials came to them in fragments—whispers, feelings, flashes of divine instinct planted by the gods or something older. Logic had little place here. Only faith and reaction.
Her thoughts sharpened as the distance between them closed.
The archers moved like wind—vanishing in blurs of gray mist, reappearing in new positions. Arrows already drawn, ready to strike. Their aim was merciless: throats, hearts, spines.
This time, they were ready.
Jaime sidestepped with fluid precision, his movements guided by Cimi's keen vision. The upper pair of eyes on his obsidian tower helmet flared gold, tracking the arrow before it even left the bowstring. It missed him by a hair's breadth, whistling past and vanishing into mist.
Jimena followed his lead, dropping low as the arrow sailed overhead. She spun with instinctive grace, landing light on her feet. Xolo barked sharply—a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated in her chest. He lunged ahead, violet-red light bursting around him like flame, trying to pin down the nearest archer. But the specter slipped away, dissolving and reappearing a safe distance beyond his reach.
Marisol, remembering the pain from before, refused to take chances. She channeled her obsidian dust into a large, gleaming tower shield. The glassy surface shimmered faintly with a pink aura as she raised it high. The arrow struck with a heavy thud, the shock of impact rippling through her arm. The shield held, though the vibration left her fingers numb.
"Come on!" Jaime's voice cut through the air. He was already moving, forcing her focus back to the fight. The archers were drawing again, three bows angled toward them with eerie precision.
Jimena had darted forward once more, her movements fast but restrained this time. She lunged, feinted, then retreated quickly when Xolo's attempt to stall the archer failed. Her eyes glowed faintly red as she turned, keeping close to the group.
Marisol sprinted after Jaime, shrinking her tower shield as she ran. The obsidian folded and compacted into a smaller, circular guard that shimmered against her arm. Her heartbeat pounded in rhythm with her footsteps. The rhythm of survival.
The trio closed formation, shadows shifting around them—three mortals bound by divine threads, testing the fragile line between instinct and control.
The three archers began to circle them—silent, skeletal shapes pacing the fog. Their bows stayed half-drawn, waiting, studying. Like predators testing the edges of a trap.
Jaime's breath came uneven beneath the weight of his armor. He could feel their gaze on him—cold, patient, merciless.
How do we pass this one? he thought. Every other trial had been a kind of rhythm—forward motion, faith in momentum. Now they were stalled. Surrounded. Every step forward invited death.
The lightness he'd felt before—the strange divine ease that carried him through the storm—was gone. All that remained was exhaustion. Since that dream of the great owl—Cimi's eyes in the dark, the sensation of wings encircling them—he'd felt hollowed out. Strength leeched from his bones, replaced by a deep, dragging lethargy.
Jimena's earlier outburst hadn't helped either. She'd been all fire since the last trial, running ahead, acting on instinct. They'd argued after—loud, sharp words that solved nothing. At least now she stayed closer, though her impatience radiated off her like heat.
Jaime tightened his grip on the obsidian tower shield, willing it to widen—overlapping slightly with Marisol's. Together, they formed a wall, each holding a line, each breath echoing the other's.
Jimena, however, did the opposite. He watched her armor retract in shards and slides of glassy dust until only key plates remained over her chest, throat, and thighs. She stood lighter, freer—exposed.
"What are you doing?" Jaime hissed, lowering his stance—
—but three cracks split the silence.
The archers released.
The air screamed. Three arrows tore toward them, each trailing dark light. Jaime and Jimena's sudden movement had triggered their strike.
Jaime didn't think. He stepped forward, raising his shield just in time. The impact hit like thunder. Pain flared white in his shoulder—his arm wrenching from its socket with a pop. The world tilted.
He staggered back, teeth gritted. The obsidian dome began to rise around him, a reflexive defense. But then he heard it—Jimena's scream. Not of pain, but of fury. Raw, ragged, ancient.
Something heavy slammed onto his half-formed dome, using it as a springboard. The obsidian cracked under the force, and a blur of violet fire shot past him.
Jimena.
Xolo followed close behind, his form exploding into a storm of bloody flame. The armor around him twisted, reshaped—his eyes blazing like embers in the dark. The skeletal archers faltered, even their ghostly stillness disturbed by the sight.
Jaime forced his dislocated arm back into place with a sharp, ugly sound. The pain roared through him—but he chased after her anyway. A single heartbeat's hesitation here could mean losing her.
Marisol came after them both, slower—her side still aching with every step. But she pushed through it, obsidian dust swirling around her legs like smoke. She wouldn't let them fight this alone.
Ahead, the archers shifted formation, gliding apart like shadows on wind. Jimena was already among them, violet fire licking the edges of her armor, her movements blindingly fast. Xolo's snarl cut through the storm as he lunged—
—and the trial's balance began to tilt.
Or so they thought.
Marisol saw it first — a flicker beyond the haze. A fourth archer. It stood behind Jaime, silent and still, bowstring drawn to its ghostly cheek.
Her mouth opened to shout, but the arrow was already loosed.
Jaime turned, reflex more than awareness — his shield caught the first arrow, the force skidding him sideways. He barely had time to register it when another shaft, darker, struck from behind. One of the original archers had slipped past Jimena's frenzy.
The arrow cracked against his backplate. The sound — low, and heavy— stole the breath from Marisol's chest. Jaime was flung forward, crashing hard against the obsidian ground. The golden light in his visor blinked out.
"Jaime!" Marisol screamed. Her voice lost in the clash between the archers and Jimena.
Jimena turned at the cry, and something inside her broke.
A violent surge of energy roared through her. The bloody-red flame erupted once more, coating her armor, licking up her arms and shoulders. Her hands twisted into obsidian claws, every swipe leaving arcs of heat and fury through the air. Each time her claws met bone, the archers' veils flared and burned, their hollow eyes dimming for the first time.
Xolo was a streak of violet flame beside her, harrying the other archers, his growl deeper, almost human.
Marisol ignored the ache in her ribs and sprinted toward Jaime. She could feel the air distort with every one of Jimena's strikes — heat, rage, raw divinity. The archers had repositioned, circling Jimena and Xolo, their empty gazes taunting, their movements deliberate. They wanted her to chase.
And she did. She burned for it. Every swing, every snarl pulled her closer to losing control entirely.
"Jimena! Help me!" Marisol's voice cracked, desperate.
Her plea seemed to pierce through the haze of blood and fury. Jimena's head whipped around, eyes glowing crimson. The archer before her was nearly destroyed — veil shredded, skeletal form scorched black. Its once-mocking stare had turned to something like fear.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield stilled.
Then Jimena tore her gaze away and ran — sprinting toward Marisol as the obsidian dome began to form. Xolo dashed after her, barking furiously at the archers, a final warning before retreat.
Inside the half-formed dome, Jaime lay motionless. Cimi hovered above him, wings spread wide, feathers glowing with golden warmth. The light coiled and pulsed, wrapping his body like a cocoon. It wasn't healing, but it was protection — a divine barrier.
Marisol exhaled shakily, shaping the dome fully around them. The obsidian sealed with a soft, shivering hum.
Jimena collapsed to her knees, the flame dying from her skin. Her face twisted — pain, anger, guilt all at once. Tears streamed down, leaving faint trails through the soot on her cheeks.
Marisol reached for her, but the sound stopped her — a deep, reverberating impact. Then another.
The dome shook violently. Arrows slammed into its surface like thunder, cracks spiderwebbing across the black glass.
This time, the archers weren't waiting.
They were done toying with them.