Jimena ran after Xolo, calling out to him, but no matter how fast she chased, she could never catch up.
Her voice echoed hollowly in the mist. The dog only grew smaller ahead—until he vanished completely, swallowed by the gray.
She stopped, breathing hard, the silence pressing in. Confusion clawed at the edge of her thoughts, whispering doubts—but she forced herself to keep walking, following the faint path still visible beneath her feet.
Then, suddenly, there was no path at all.
The mist surrounded her fully now, a living thing that coiled and shifted, taunting her with darting shadows that fled whenever she turned. Somewhere in the distance, someone wept.
"Marisol?" she called, her voice trembling.
Only the weeping answered. Then shouting. Then silence again.
Her voice came back to her in echoes—angry, pleading. "Marisol! Marisol!"
The mist swallowed her words.
Her fire dimmed. The confidence she had found through all her trials began to fade. She sank to her knees, curling into herself as the cold crept in.
Xolo is gone… she thought. I'm alone again.
The thought hurt. It spread through her chest, heavy and suffocating. The flame in her heart flickered weakly. The mist hissed and snapped, pressing closer—sliding into the spaces where warmth used to be.
A shadow wrapped around her. Its whisper slid beside her ear, gentle and venomous.
You were never strong. You only burned because you were angry. Because you were afraid.
The fire in her chest sputtered. The mist coiled tighter, whispering lullabies of surrender.
Jimena growled through clenched teeth.
"No!" she shouted—and her voice cracked the air like thunder.
She clawed at the shadow, and when her hand tore through the fog, she saw her own face staring back.
A reflection of herself—tear-streaked, trembling, hollow.
"No!?" it echoed, voice rising. "No?" It screamed the word as if it could tear her resolve apart.
Jimena stood. Her hands trembled, but her fire rose with her. She looked into the shadow's pitch-black eyes—eyes filled with pain, anger, and something she recognized.
This was the part of herself that had wept alone. The child who had been left behind. The one who had no guide, no warmth—only grief.
The mist shifted, and she saw the image clearly now: herself before this journey, weak and lost, clutching at the dark for comfort.
Maybe she was still that girl in some ways.
But inside her—there was something new.
Something fierce.
Something that refused to die.
She touched her chest, where the flame pulsed again, steady and sure. The heat burned through her tears.
She met her shadow's eyes one last time. "You can cry," she whispered, "but I'll keep walking."
The shadow smiled faintly—then dissolved into smoke.
The mist parted around her, revealing a faint path ahead.
And Jimena walked, following the fire that burned in her chest—her light in the night.
---
Marisol could feel it—the weight of that deep indifference that had once lived inside her. The hollow form before her stood as a mirror of those repressed emotions, the cold shell she had built to survive. It was the indifference she had shown her grandmother, who had only ever cared for her, suffered beside her.
That burden no longer belonged to her.
She knew who she was—no, who she used to be. Because now, her goddess filled her with something different. Life. The sacred water that flowed through her veins, gentle yet unyielding. Axochi's essence stirred within her heart, a reminder of movement, of renewal.
She would be something else now.
She was something else.
The steady rhythm in her chest pulsed with warmth. She could feel the swirl of unseen rivers within her, the heartbeat of the world echoing through her. Axochi's presence brushed against her spirit, pulling her back from the edges of that cold, hollow place.
Marisol clenched her fist, feeling the sacred current course through her—soft yet powerful, calm yet endless.
She didn't rush forward. Instead, she stepped carefully toward the shadow and, without hesitation, embraced it. Her warmth met its emptiness.
"I'll keep going," Marisol whispered.
The shadow's form wavered, then dissolved into the mist. The oppressive gray parted before her, revealing a path ahead—clear and waiting.
She took a deep breath and stepped forward, following the sound of flowing water.
---
Jaime stared at the thing standing before him—recognizing, at once, the part of himself he had tried so hard to bury. The scorn he had shown Jimena when they were young. The laughter that followed her tears. The mockery he had thrown at her fear.
He saw it all reflected in that shadow. The boy he once was. The cruelty he once called strength.
He closed his eyes, tried to walk past it, to pretend it wasn't there. But the shadow would not allow it. It shoved him, mocked him with every step. Its jeers echoed in the mist, each word striking deeper than a blade.
It wanted him to look. To see. To acknowledge the reflection before him.
But Jaime refused—at first. He curled in on himself, silent, letting the shadow's blows rain down. Each strike a memory, each word a wound he had long tried to forget.
Then he heard it—the familiar cry. A shriek followed by the deep, rhythmic hoot-hoots that seemed to shake the mist itself.
Cimikora.
He felt his owl guide watching him. Reminding him.
He understood now. He had always known who he was. But it was time—past time—to change.
No.
He had changed.
He was the chosen of Cimikora.
Jaime stood, meeting the shadow's fury head-on. It struck him again and again, but he did not falter. He took every blow, every insult, and did not turn away.
"You can keep beating and mocking who I was," he said, voice steady. "I'll still keep going."
He stepped forward, through the shadow's fading form. It shuddered once, then scattered into the mist.
Before him, the fog parted—revealing a path bathed in faint, golden light.
He followed it without hesitation.
---
The three walked their separate, lonesome paths—mist their only companion. The shadows no longer taunted or darted around them. When they called out, only their own voices echoed back through the endless white.
So they kept walking.
The misty trail stretched on without end, until the ground softened beneath their steps. Water pooled in shallow puddles, rippling at their feet. The farther they went, the deeper it grew—until the puddles became a still, wide lagoon. Their footsteps splashed softly, each sound swallowed by the fog.
At the lagoon's center, the mist began to gather and condense. A soft glow shimmered in its depths, then swelled into brilliance. From the radiant haze, figures emerged.
They were mirror images—yet not quite.
Not shadows this time, but forms sculpted from divine light. Older. Stronger. Radiant with cruel grace. Their eyes held an ancient knowledge, a distant power. Their bodies adorned in ceremonial Aztec garb, bearing the weight of gods upon mortal forms.
The reflections said nothing.
Then, as if in a single divine breath—they attacked.
Each luminous twin moved in perfect unison, split in three separate locations. Three battles began at once, flowing like parts of a sacred dance, mirrored and merciless.
The divine reflections showed no hesitation, no compassion. Every strike demanded something more. Every blow forced Jaime, Jimena, and Marisol to reach beyond themselves—or fall.
Mist churned. Water splashed. The lagoon rippled with the fury of their struggle.
And then—silence.
The three crashed into the shallows, their bodies weary, power slipping from their grasp. The mist hung heavy, hiding them from one another.
Separated, yet bound by the same failure.
Each could feel it—the missing piece of their faith, the silence where their gods' voices had once been.
They were alone again.
---
Marisol pushed herself upright, gasping as she stumbled in the waist-deep water. Her arms flailed, desperate for balance, before a sudden kick to her torso sent her sprawling again. The impact burst through her body like a shockwave, scattering her breath into the mist.
She rose again, trembling, her footing unsteady in the shifting shallows. But the next strike came too fast—blinding light, divine precision. It sent her flying once more, crashing back into the cold water with a hollow splash.
Hopelessness coiled around her heart. Tears blurred her sight as she clutched at her chest, choking on the weight of her own despair. The blows didn't wound her flesh—they pierced something deeper. Each strike carved into the fragile layers of doubt and pride within her. Refining her. Reshaping her.
The divine clone stood tall above her, serene and merciless. Every movement was measured perfection—beauty without compassion. Marisol realized with dread that this reflection was not meant to kill her. It was meant to forge her.
But the thought filled her with horror.
Was this what it meant to be divine? To strike without hesitation? To look down on weakness, even her own?
The clone seemed to sense her hesitation. Its attacks grew harsher, faster, as though mocking her softness.
"Stop!" Marisol cried, her voice raw with grief and rage. "I'm not you!"
The light flared—answering not with words, but another strike.
Marisol screamed, every emotion breaking free. Anger. Shame. Love. The longing to prove herself. She felt the warmth of Axochi deep inside her chest—faint, but still there. A heartbeat echoing in the chaos.
Black obsidian armor shimmered to life around her, pieces forming from the water and mist. It weighed heavy on her small frame, her legs trembling beneath its strength.
Still—she ran.
Her cry tore through the mist as she charged the radiant figure. Her sprint turned clumsy, the weight dragging her down until her final step sent her stumbling forward—face full of tears, snot, and desperation.
The clone met her with another effortless strike.
Marisol fell, splashing back into the cold water, armor breaking apart like glass.
And yet, beneath the pain, a spark flickered.
It wasn't defiance. Not anymore. It was understanding—faint, but growing.
---
Jaime tried to stand, sputtering as water dripped down his face. But before he could even find his footing, another slap rang across his cheek. Then another. Each blow stung—not from the pain, but from the mockery behind it.
The figure before him was himself—a taller, sharper, more perfect version. Its expression was carved with divine cruelty, the kind of calm superiority that made Jaime's chest burn with shame.
He stumbled back, his reflection pursuing without hurry, each strike deliberate, almost elegant. Jaime's face showed no bruises, no blood—but tears began to gather in his eyes all the same.
The humiliation was unbearable. It wasn't just pain. It was judgment.
Every slap reminded him of his father's voice—stern, disappointed, cutting through even his strongest defenses. The same tone that once told him to "grow up," to "act like a man," to "stop being weak."
This divine double struck him with that same precision, as though every movement were the echo of those words.
Jaime's hands trembled. He clenched them into fists.
"Enough," he growled through gritted teeth. With a spark of defiance, he called his macuahuitl into being. The weapon rose in his hand, solid and heavy, its obsidian edge glinting faintly in the mist.
For a heartbeat, he found peace in its weight—the familiar hum of power that answered his call. His father's words faded. His goddess's presence steadied him.
He lifted the blade just in time to block a strike. The impact cracked through the air, divine light colliding with mortal will. For a moment, he held his ground.
But the next blow shattered that fragile defense.
Jaime was thrown backward, crashing into the shallows, the macuahuitl scattering into shards that vanished into mist.
He lay there for a moment, stunned, water rippling around him.
It wasn't weakness that filled him now—it was understanding. A dim, painful truth dawning in his heart.
He had always fought to prove something—to his father, to his sister, to himself. But perhaps that was never what this was about.
Perhaps his god was asking something else of him.
Not pride. Not perfection.
Acceptance.
He exhaled, the mist swirling with his breath, and slowly began to rise again.
---
Jimena floated motionless in the shallow lagoon, the cold water lapping softly against her face. She refused to stand after the last blow — she'd lost count of how many times she'd been thrown, slammed, and dragged through the mist-choked water.
But her divine double refused to leave her in peace. It waded closer, the surface rippling around its radiant form. With effortless strength, it caught her by the collar and flung her skyward once more. She landed with a hollow splash, the echo fading into the endless fog.
The clone approached again, slow and deliberate, eyes burning with an ancient, cruel amusement. Jimena could feel it — that silent, taunting glee, feeding off her struggle. The heat that had once been her strength was now turned against her, a fire that mocked rather than empowered.
She tried to call it back. Her violet flame — her birthright. But it would not come. Even her armor, once light as breath and alive with motion, weighed her down like stone. Every step she tried to take sent her stumbling, each movement clumsy and weak.
"I get it already!" she screamed up into the mist, her voice cracking, raw. "I get it!"
The words tore from her chest like a confession. Her throat burned; her tears mixed with the cold water beneath her. Pride, that fragile spark she had clung to for so long, crumbled in her chest. She had thought her strength, her control, made her chosen. That she had earned her goddess's flame.
But here, faced with the true reflection of divine might, she saw only how small she was.
"Jaime was right," she whispered, voice trembling as she met her clone's unblinking gaze. The radiant figure stood still now, watching her as though hearing every word she didn't speak.
"You don't want us to be complacent," she said softly, almost to herself. "You want us to burn brighter."
The divine reflection tilted its head, its expression unreadable. Then, slowly, it extended its hand toward her — not to strike, but to offer.
Jimena hesitated. Then she reached out, trembling fingers brushing against the clone's palm.
For the first time since the trial began, warmth — her warmth — returned. A violet spark flickered in her chest, soft but alive. The mist rippled around her as the clone's light merged with her own, fire and divinity entwining once more.
Her armor, once heavy, grew weightless. Her flame flowing, calm and steady.
Jimena stood, her reflection gone. Only the trail of shimmering mist remained ahead.