Jaime dreamt of his family — of laughter, warmth, fullness.
His mother always hugged him tight. She always smelled sweet, her scent a dance of fruits and sugar. The aroma of her sweets and juices drew neighbors and friends to their home, all eager for a taste. His friends used to tease him, jealous that he could have candy whenever he wanted.
His father had been large and serious — steady as a mountain, his laughter rare but deep. His mother, though, carried light. Her laughter burst through the house, ringing bright and sudden, even over the smallest of things. She was joy itself. She was what made them whole.
Jimena, always the crybaby, would only laugh with their mother. Even their father softened in her presence. And he — Jaime — the troublemaker, the restless one — he took it all for granted.
"Take care of your sister."
Her voice echoed through the dark, as clear as the day she said it. He could almost feel her arms again, the warmth of her embrace, the soft hum of her voice against his ear. Her sweet scent — mango, guava, something like heaven. Her smile, even when he'd done wrong. Her scolding laugh whenever he came home scraped or bruised.
"Mom," he whispered into the void.
For a long while, nothing answered. He floated weightless in the endless dark, carried by fragments of memory — Jimena clinging to his arm as a child, afraid to cross the street; his own grumpy face as he pretended not to care; their parents' patient scolding when they fought.
He remembered that one fight most of all — when they were five. She'd broken his toy, or maybe he'd said something cruel first. He couldn't recall. Only his father's firm hand on his shoulder, and his voice:
"As her brother, you must know when to stand down. It's your responsibility to protect her."
"Take care of your sister. Cuida a tu hermana, Jaime."
The words cut through the emptiness.
Tears burned behind his closed eyes, but he bit them back. A lump rose in his throat, bitter and sharp. Something in him trembled — a raw, buried feeling he'd refused to acknowledge for so long. He had locked it away, chained deep inside himself. Responsibility had always felt like a burden — heavy, unyielding. He had run from it. Pretended he could carry it without care.
But here, floating in the void, he couldn't run. He couldn't hide from it.
It was only his mother's voice that could reach him. That could remind him of what he was meant to be.
"Thanks, brother. I love you."
The echo was faint, but it rippled through him.
It was Jimena's voice — younger, innocent. Pure.
The sound pierced through the stillness, resonating within his soul. It struck something ancient, something unspoken, deep in the marrow of his being. The chains within him shook, then shattered.
Jaime gasped.
Light rushed in — blinding, raw, and warm.
He struggled, but the light didn't harm him. It held him. It wrapped around him like his mother's arms — fierce, loving, unrelenting.
Something within embraced him — and he finally, truly embraced it back.
"Cimikora."
Something whispered in his ear — soft as his mother's voice, yet not sweet. Knowing. Teasing.
"Cimikora."
He heard it again, the sound rippling through the air around him — playful, coaxing him to respond, to breathe life into it.
The embrace surrounding him grew warmer, tighter — burning and comforting all at once. Then, with a cry that tore through the silence of the void and the chaos beyond, he burst through the light.
"Cimikora!"
The world answered.
The cocoon of light merged into his armor, obsidian fusing with gold. Darkness and brilliance intertwined, locking the radiance within the black shell like a heart trapped in stone.
Feathers of gold — shaped from pure obsidian — unfurled from his back, forming an armor unlike any other. It was regal, avian, divine. An owl's face etched across his helm, its great golden eyes gleaming like twin suns. Through them, he saw the world anew — clear, sharp, alive.
The dome around them was half destroyed, the air thick with dust. Jimena struggled to hold the barrier together, blood streaming down her forehead. Marisol lay motionless beside her.
Beyond them, the swarm had gathered — not three, not four, but dozens of skeletal archers. Their veils flickered, their bows drawn. A cloud of arrows blackened the air.
Jimena grunted, obsidian cracking around her. The dome fractured.
As it shattered — so did something within him.
He launched forward like a predator freed from its cage. The air split around him, a thunderclap following in his wake. A ring of pressure and heat rippled outward as golden light surged through the cracks in his armor.
Energy flooded from his core — wild, unending, like a river set free. He spread his wings, obsidian feathers glowing from within, and the world seemed to slow.
The archers turned their hollow eyes upward. They raised their skeletal bows, trembling before his light. The things that had hurt his friend and sister. The lowly bones that dared to rise against life itself.
Golden fire burned in his eyes.
He flapped his wings once — a single, resounding motion — and the air exploded with shards of glowing obsidian. Each fragment carried a glimmer of divine flame, a piece of his soul, of Cimikora's wisdom and wrath.
The shards streaked through the air like meteors.
The skeletons tried to flee, their movements sluggish before the tide of light. One by one, the shards found their marks — piercing bone, splitting shadow — and in an instant, each archer was consumed.
No sound. No scream.
Only light.
And then — nothing but ash, falling like black snow beneath the wings of Cimikora's chosen.
When he landed, the world had gone still. The ash of the fallen archers drifted like black snow, scattering over the pale sand.
Marisol and Jimena walked to him through the fading light — limping, bloodied, exhausted. They sank beside him without a word.
The golden blaze that had wrapped his armor began to unravel, fading into a thousand flickering motes. Fireflies of light danced through the air, gentle and warm. They gathered above him, swirling before coalescing into the small, round shape of an owl.
Cimi.
She let out a single, weary hoot, before settling on Jaime's head and falling into a deep, rhythmic sleep.
"Thanks," Jimena murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She rested her head on his shoulder, her body finally giving in to exhaustion. Xolo lay beside her, his armor cracked and dim, his breathing slow but steady.
"Hey," Marisol said softly, turning toward him. "Are you alright?"
For a moment, Jaime couldn't answer. The tension that had wound itself inside him — all the fear, rage, and duty — suddenly unraveled. A laugh burst from his chest, raw and disbelieving.
Jimena stirred at the sound, grunted, then only pressed herself closer, not opening her eyes. Maybe embarrassed. Maybe not.
"Yeah," he said, finally breathing again. "Yeah, I'll be alright."
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. The sister he'd always tried to protect — no longer the frightened child hiding behind him, but someone strong, someone who had faced the same horrors and stood tall.
"I think we'll make it through," he said, smiling into the fading light.
The laughter came again, deep and full, echoing softly against the stone walls around them — breaking something hard and long buried within him.
"You sound like Mom," Jimena mumbled into his shoulder.
He didn't answer. Just laughed a little louder. And for the first time in what felt like forever, it didn't hurt.