Jimena's recovery took longer than anyone expected. Her sacred fire refused to rest—its embers still clinging to her scorched skin, pulsing faintly beneath the surface like a stubborn heartbeat. Even with her wounds closed and her breathing steady, she did not wake.
When Marisol had done all she could, she stepped back, drained and solemn. Jaime crouched, lifting his sister onto his back with quiet care. Her weight pressed against him, unnaturally warm. Marisol gathered the unconscious Xolo in her arms. The spirit hound's breath came shallow and uneven, his skin faintly glowing where divine energy still lingered.
They walked on.
The desert ahead shimmered with waves of heat. Marisol kept a gentle mist surrounding them—a cocoon of cool air that drifted as they moved. She dared not let it fade. The memory of Jimena's last blaze was still too raw.
As they walked, grass sprouted from the sand in their wake. Green blades unfurled like whispers of life, their vitality surging in rhythm with each of Marisol's steps. It was beautiful and eerie, as though the land itself followed their pulse.
From time to time, shapes stirred beneath the dunes. Jaguars—shadows with molten eyes—rose to strike. Their movements were fluid, their timing uncanny, as though they had been waiting for them.
Jaime met each attack with grim precision. Obsidian feathers unfurled as Cimikora's armor flared to life. The desert echoed with the clash of divine metal and claws. Marisol stayed close, replenishing his strength with gentle bursts of pink mist. The air shimmered with heat and light until the prowls finally scattered.
The frequency of the ambushes unnerved them. The jaguars seemed drawn to them, yet always too late, too scattered—like puppets reacting to something else entirely. But there was nothing to do except continue forward.
The next mountain loomed ahead—its face carved with ancient ridges like the bones of a sleeping god.
To their surprise, the attacks ceased once they began to climb. No sound followed them but the crunch of their boots on stone and the rhythmic whisper of Marisol's mist. Even as they descended into the next desert, the silence held.
Jimena and Xolo slept on.
Marisol felt the warmth of the desert seep into her bones. But unlike before, it didn't scorch. It refined—filtering through her body like a living current. Her energy grew denser, more focused, each breath feeding her core.
On Jaime's back, Jimena stirred. A faint movement, a twitch of her fingers, the soft flicker of light beneath her skin. Her struggle was inward, invisible, but palpable.
They pressed onward into the third mountain, and again into the next desert. Still no ambushes. No sound but the whisper of sand. The emptiness felt wrong.
Marisol's concern deepened. Her mist thickened around her, coalescing into droplets that began to spin in slow orbit. Each droplet vibrated faintly with her heartbeat.
She tried to control the surge—tightening her focus, forcing the energy to remain contained—but the strain clawed through her mind. Pain lanced behind her eyes. The energy refused to stay still. It pressed against her, restless, insistent.
At last she let go.
The mist burst outward into a wide, swirling whirlpool—soft violet and pink ribbons of divine water wrapping around them. The air cooled instantly. Jaime looked back but said nothing. He could see the tremor in her hands, the fatigue in her gaze.
Her power had kept them safe, but the cost was mounting. Each mile frayed her mind a little more, the connection between her and Axochi thinning to a fragile thread.
Still, she walked on.
Each desert crossed deepened her strain. Yet the farther they went, the stronger Marisol's body felt—her limbs thrumming with life, her steps light as air. The discrepancy between body and mind unsettled her. Her thoughts blurred, fraying under the flood of power.
Sensing her disorientation, Axochi reached out from within. Their bond pulsed once, twice—then, with a sudden twist, they switched places. The spirit took hold of her mind while she guided the energy that surged through her heart.
The world rippled.
Her armor responded to the shift, humming as it resonated with their merging souls. Axochi's memories bled into her consciousness—fragments of pain, of temples drowned and altars shattered. Faces lost to centuries.
A name burned into her mind like a brand.
Chalchaxochimalli.
Drums thundered. Flutes sang. Jade flowers danced in the air as a warrior moved in rhythm to the rain. Life bloomed wherever he stepped—rivers twisting into existence, the earth alive under his feet.
Then it was gone.
Marisol gasped. Her senses sharpened as the vision faded. Her armor had changed—renewed, reborn. Glimmering veins of jade threaded across its form, tiny droplets shining like frozen rain. The axolotl-helmed visage had vanished, replaced by a crown of carved jade, a misty veil obscuring her face and the luminous green eyes beneath.
She could feel everything.
The rhythmic pulse of Jaime's heart. The faint, uneven flutter of Jimena's. Even Xolo's slumbering breath echoed through her. She could sense their spirits, intertwined and growing stronger with each step, their energies resonating like a quiet hymn.
With every footfall, the desert answered her presence. Life sprouted where none should exist—tiny stems pushing through sand, fungi blooming into impossible forms that towered under the merciless light of day. Color and shadow wove together, creating strange, luminous groves that defied logic.
Jaime followed behind, eyes narrowed with a mix of caution and admiration. The new power radiating from Marisol was almost tangible—a living aura of creation and memory.
He could feel something stirring within himself as well. The heat in his chest grew unbearable at times, searing through his veins like molten gold. Only Marisol's sacred mist cooled him. He kept his composure through Cimikora's calm, but even that divine clarity trembled at the edge.
He glanced at his sister. Jimena's body twitched faintly on his back, her slumber rippling with unseen turmoil. Whatever she battled inside the dreamscape burned brighter than her fire ever had.
By the time they reached the seventh desert, the horizon quivered with a strange energy. The dunes gave way to a vast slope of stone and fur. The mountain ahead was alive—covered in jaguars of every hue, their rosettes flickering like stars in the sky. They sat, watched, breathed as one.
Jaime stopped and exhaled, half a laugh, half a curse.
"So this was why they stopped ambushing us," he said wryly.
The sound of his voice was swallowed by a thousand low growls—rolling, patient, and hungry.
Marisol merely glanced at the jaguars.
The cacophony of growls rolled like thunder across the mountain, but she remained unmoved—her radiant green eyes glowing behind the veil, cool and distant. Each of her steps drew forth life.
Where her feet met the sand, grass erupted—vibrant, impossible, singing with vitality. The first jaguars that leapt toward her found themselves ensnared. Blades of grass, taller than the beasts, twisted upward, wrapping around their limbs and throats. They thrashed and roared, but the living green dragged them back—swallowed into the ever-growing expanse that followed in her wake.
Trees bent in greeting as she ascended, their vast crowns sweeping through the air. Branches lashed out like whips, batting away snarling felines that dared draw near. The mountain itself seemed to shift, stone and soil breathing to accommodate her passage.
Jaime gaped at the sight. Yet he said nothing—only followed close behind, his focus sharp, Cimikora's golden light pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. His control strained at the edges, but he held fast.
Marisol moved like the eye of a storm. Around her, a whirlpool of water spiraled—cool mist thickening into tendrils that whipped outward, striking with precision. Jaguars pounced only to be flung aside, their roars fading as they tumbled down the mountain slopes.
The thousand-strong army faltered. Their once-mighty prowl became a scattered frenzy. Those that survived the first wave retreated, hissing and growling from the safety of the higher cliffs.
The mountain fell silent, save for the whisper of leaves bowing toward her, and the hum of water that shimmered around her like a crown.
Jaime exhaled, tension easing for the first time since they entered the deserts.
Marisol didn't answer. Her gaze was fixed ahead—at the next desert, where the jaguars no longer prowled.
A vast stone platform awaited them, carved from stone. Power pulsed faintly like a living heart. At its center, a cuauhxicalli