Jaime awoke with a start.
Cimi had been pecking insistently at his forehead, hooting in indignation at his stubborn ability to stay asleep. Once he stirred, she fluttered back up to her perch atop his head, muttering low hoots that sounded almost like complaints.
Marisol was already up and moving, scanning the area near the plunge pool.
"Hey," she called, waving him over. "Looks like Jimena got restless."
She pointed to the ground. "See? Human footprints—and dog paws. Headed that way."
Jaime rubbed the sleep from his eyes and crouched beside her. The tracks wound off into the mist, a faint trail cutting through the white haze.
"Let's catch up," he said, stretching his shoulders before stepping onto the path. His tone was calm, almost casual. After everything they had faced, this felt close to the end of their trial. There was no need for panic now.
Marisol fell into step beside him, their pace unhurried. The air was damp and cool, filled with the distant sound of running water.
"I can't wait to see Ma Chia again," Marisol murmured, rubbing Axochi's head as he peeked curiously from the obsidian dome on her chest.
"Yeah," Jaime replied absently, arms folded behind his head. "I just hope Dad's alright."
They walked in silence for a time—each lost in thought—until the trail split into three narrow paths.
Footprints and paw prints marked both the left and middle paths. Jaime frowned, scratching his head. "That's… confusing."
Before he could decide, Cimi gave a sharp hoot and darted down the middle path, feathers flashing in the mist.
"Hey! Wait—"
He barely got the word out before the owl disappeared from sight.
Marisol looked at him, shrugging. "I'll take the left one. Maybe we'll find her that way."
Axochi squeaked something unintelligible but determined, and the two vanished into the fog.
Jaime exhaled and rolled his shoulders, tension creeping in despite himself. "Alright, fine," he muttered, and jogged after Cimi.
The mist thickened as he went, swallowing sound. His own footsteps echoed strangely—soft at first, then faintly distorted, like whispers repeating his steps a heartbeat late.
No matter how fast he ran, Cimi remained just out of reach, a shifting shadow of wings ahead.
"Cimi!" he called.
But the name came back warped, a hollow echo whispering Cimi… mi… mi…
He slowed, unease prickling his skin. The air felt heavier now. He turned, thinking to retrace his steps—only to find the path behind him gone.
Mist. Nothing but mist.
His pulse spiked. He turned forward again.
"Cimi?"
Silence.
Then—nothing. No owl. No tracks. Only the soft hiss of fog closing in around him.
Jaime froze.
He could feel movement—something darting around him—never fully seen, just a flicker at the edge of sight. Shadows twisting through the mist.
A faint laugh echoed behind him. Soft. Mocking.
He spun. Nothing. Only fog.
Then—a tap on his shoulder.
Instinct took over. He swung hard.
His fist struck something soft—solid for a breath—then gone. He looked down. Only his shadow stared back, grinning up from the ground. Mocking him.
"Just… the mist," he muttered, forcing his pulse to slow. "Just the mist."
He shut his eyes, breathing deep, trying to center himself.
"What's the mist?" whispered a voice—right by his ear.
The breath on his skin sent a cold shiver crawling down his neck. He stayed still, jaw tight. Another breath. Then laughter—his laughter—arrogant, jeering, echoing through the haze.
He endured it. Until something shoved him—hard.
He stumbled back, opened his eyes—no one there. Just the mist, and his shadow, smirking up at him. The expression was his own, twisted and cruel.
He shook his head. "I'm just seeing things."
"I'm your personal Fantasma!" the voice shouted, right beside him.
Jaime flinched, then lunged—hands snapping forward, catching something unseen. His grip held. He yanked hard, dragging it down.
For a moment, he thought it might be Jimena, teasing him again. But what he pulled into the pale light wasn't her.
It was him.
A pale copy. Skin paper-white, eyes like pools of black glass. Its lips curled into a familiar, hateful grin.
It struck first. A sharp punch that he barely dodged. Another followed, then another—each blow faster, more precise. The thing laughed with every miss, with every retreat.
Jaime blocked, swung back—but his fists met only air. The creature moved like smoke, mocking his every effort.
"What are you?" he shouted.
The doppelgänger stopped mid-swing, head tilting. Its grin widened. Then, in his exact voice, it echoed back:
"What are you?"
The same rhythm. The same tone. Only full of scorn.
It laughed again—his laugh—but stretched thin, cracked, wrong.
---
Marisol walked for a while, the silence pressing in. At first she followed the footprints ahead of her, but soon they faded—swallowed by the mist until the path was nothing but pale dust.
She sighed. "What do you think, Axochi?"
No answer.
The familiar pulse in her chest was gone.
Marisol froze, pressing a hand to her heart. The bond—silent. The absence left her hollow. Panic clawed at the edge of her thoughts, but she forced herself still. She inhaled, exhaled. Slow. Measured.
The trial has begun, she told herself.
She turned, walking back the way she came. But the trail only led her in circles. Every direction ended at the same spot—the same patch of mist, the same silence.
Her heart began to pound again, this time with uncertainty.
"What am I supposed to do?" she said aloud, voice trembling, hoping the twins or Axochi might answer.
Nothing. Only fog.
She called again. Louder. The words vanished into the gray.
Then—eyes. Faint shadows shifting at the edge of sight. Watching her. Cold. Indifferent. Their stillness worse than hostility.
A whisper echoed, hollow and emotionless.
"What am I supposed to do?" it repeated—her own words, spoken with detached apathy.
Marisol spun toward the sound. "Who's there?"
No answer—only the faint shape of a figure. It stared, then shrugged, uncaring.
The sight ignited something in her chest. Rage flared where fear had been. "Why?" she shouted, voice breaking through the quiet.
"Why?" the figure echoed, bored.
Marisol charged. The mist swirled with her motion, but no matter how she ran, the distance never closed. The figure stood just out of reach, eyes dull, watching her struggle with quiet disdain.
When her legs finally gave out, she fell to her knees, chest heaving. The shadow remained unmoved.
Then, slowly—it approached.
Marisol's breath caught. She lifted her head and saw a familiar pair of sandals stop in front of her.
Her reflection stood above her.
Skin bone-white, eyes black as voids. A hollow version of herself stared down with glacial indifference.
The pale Marisol tilted her head slightly, the same movement she often did when lost in thought—but here, it felt wrong. Empty.
The silence between them pressed heavy.