Jimena could feel it building inside her—rage, raw and molten, eating away at her rationality. The world blurred, edges glowing red.
Then Marisol's arms wrapped around her. Steam hissed where their skin met, surrounding them in a cloud of luminous vapor.
"We need to head back," Marisol whispered against her ear. Her voice was calm, grounding. Slowly, the haze began to thin. Jimena's muddled thoughts started to settle, though her chest still throbbed in time with Xolo's pain.
The bond between them pulsed faintly—alive, but twisted. Whatever Tomas had done wasn't physical. She could feel something slithering within that connection, unseen and venomous. A corruption like a snake coiling deep inside her soul.
"Jimena."
Jaime's voice broke through the fog. He gave her a small shake, worry creasing his brow. The golden light in his eyes flared as he scanned her face, searching for some sign she was still herself.
"I agree with Marisol. We should head back."
He placed his hands on either side of her head, thumbs pressing gently against her temples. The warmth from his palms eased some of the pressure behind her eyes, the same way sunlight melts frost. But Jimena barely felt it—barely felt anything at all.
The world seemed distant, unreal. Everyone moved around her in streaks of light and shadow, voices echoing through water.
She tried to breathe, tried to bury the boiling anger clawing at her insides. But the deeper she forced it down, the more it spread—
A poison seeping through her veins, sealing her inside her own mind.
Jaime's worry deepened with every sluggish step Jimena took. She could barely walk, her legs giving out beneath her unless he steadied her. Limp as a wet reed, she flopped in his arms, pawing weakly at his chest like a newborn pup.
Under different circumstances, maybe he would've found it funny.
Now, it only made his stomach twist.
They had responsibilities—people depending on them. And Jimena's state was a reminder of how fragile even the chosen could be. He didn't know if whatever was eating at her would kill her. The thought made his chest tighten with guilt.
With a grim expression, Jaime adjusted his grip and tossed Jimena over and across his shoulders. She protested, but could do little as Jaime hurried after the hunters. Many of them carried the wounded too—slung over shoulders, or hauled in pairs for those too weak to stand. The forest seemed to swallow the sounds of their march, leaving only labored breathing and the occasional cry of pain.
Once again, Tomas had shattered their confidence. The creature was too cunning, too unpredictable—even with all three of them working together. They'd underestimated him. And now, Jaime thought bitterly, they would pay the price.
They needed Chia. They needed her guidance—and her wisdom—more than ever.
The return journey dragged on until nightfall. When they finally broke through the last stretch of the green road, the glow of torches flickered ahead. Word had reached the village before them, and a mass of anxious faces waited in the dim light.
Mothers clutched their children. Elders whispered prayers. The air was thick with fear and worry.
Above them, the moon hid itself behind drifting clouds, as though ashamed to look upon them.
Marisol seemed the least shaken, at least outwardly. She walked straight to her grandmother, her expression set and calm. Behind her came Jaime, carrying Jimena over his shoulders, her limp body faintly steaming in the cool air.
The hunters were quickly surrounded by their families. Hands reached out to help, to pull the wounded away toward waiting fires and medicine. Quiet, broken voices began recounting the battle—their failure—while the village listened in uneasy silence.
---
Jimena floated in a pool of water. It was cool and reassuring—like a mother's embrace. She lay reclined, held up by something unseen, her face just above the surface like a newborn taking its first breaths.
Figures moved along the edge of her vision. People, perhaps—but their shapes blurred, their outlines bleeding into crimson shadows. No matter where she turned her gaze, the world was tinted red, as if she were trapped inside a dream soaked in blood.
The more she tried to think, the further her mind drifted. She could feel the water sinking deeper into her body, its cool waves washing away the red haze bit by bit. But the calm shattered when the water reached her bond.
Something inside her twisted.
She jerked—and suddenly she was elsewhere, in total darkness. Her hands struck against a smooth surface, echoing softly. A strange, wicked smile curled across her lips as she pounded against the unseen barrier. Like a chick trapped within its shell, she demanded to be born again.
But the shell did not yield.
Instead, water began to seep in—cold at first, then rising, threatening to drown her. The scent of herbs filled her lungs as she struggled, and she tried to ignite her flame, to burn away everything around her.
Yet the mixed scents calmed her instead.
The water boiled, then softened—warm now, familiar. It cradled her, not as an enemy but as a mother might cradle her child. Soothed, she curled into herself, small and still. The mist thickened around her, wrapping her in a glowing cocoon.
Slowly, it seeped into her aching bond—mending, stitching, healing what had been torn.
Inside her gem, an entire world of fire roared. Here, Jimena's flames ruled uncontested, and anything that was not fire was driven out. Wisps flitted through the air like vigilant sentinels, fiercely protective of their domain.
At the center of this fiery realm burned two shapes:
a violet flame in Jimena's likeness, curled protectively around a black flame shaped like a Xoloitzcuintli.
They fed on each other, their energies cycling in perfect balance.
The cold, dark flame exploded whenever it touched the violet one—
and Jimena's flame, warm and gentle at first, flared with each detonation.
From that flare blossomed violet flowers of fire, radiant and fragile, burning with exquisite beauty before wilting away.
Their fading embers released smoke that became more cold black flame.
Life and death, creation and dissolution—
all expressed through fire, feeding one another in a sacred rhythm.
But the cycle had been interrupted.
A bloody red flame had latched onto the cold black flame, corrupting it.
It slithered through the cycle like a parasite, adding a violent, metallic sting to the delicate balance.
It twisted death into something ravenous—
a living, writhing flame that coiled around the violet flame each cycle,
trying to devour Jimena entirely.
It would have succeeded—
if not for the mist.
The moment the first tendrils drifted into this realm, the space shifted.
The mist behaved with its own sentience, threading through the fire with deliberate grace.
It fed itself to death—
letting the cold black flame swallow it in sizzling, eager gulps.
Each swallow sent out a blast of energy, small but pure,
like a parched creature drinking after days without water.
It drank greedily, desperately, drawn by some deep instinct
to sate the endless hunger of death.
And with every gulp,
the corrupted cycle trembled.
---
Marisol and her grandmother watched with held breaths.
Across from them, Jaime struggled to restrain Jimena inside an obsidian shell—an egg-shaped dome that shuddered under each of her violent strikes. Cracks spider-webbed through the obsidian, only for a golden glow to stitch them back together in the next heartbeat. Cimi, missing for days, now perched atop Jaime's head, its golden eyes burning with focus. Guide and chosen pushed themselves to their limits, matching Jimena's rage with sheer will.
For now, it was enough.
"Again!" Marisol's grandmother barked, voice raspy yet commanding.
She tossed more herbs into the small opening Jaime forced into the shell. Marisol followed immediately, channeling sacred water into the obsidian egg the moment it cracked open. Steam burst out in scalding waves. The moment it kissed their skin, it blistered—yet Marisol healed each burn without hesitation, her hands glowing with soft pink light as she continued forcing more water inward.
The three worked in perfect rhythm, over and over:
Crack—
herbs thrown—
water surged—
steam erupted—
obsidian sealed.
Again and again.
They fought to purge whatever corruption coiled through Jimena's soul. Marisol's grandmother repeated her reassurance each time the obsidian dome shook, but it barely softened the ache that grew in Marisol's chest. Watching her friend slam herself against the shell, possessed by fury—
that hurt in a way no physical wound ever had.
Their desperate work stretched long into the night.
Power drained.
Muscles trembled.
Breath hitched in exhaustion.
Until—finally—
Jimena stepped out.
The obsidian egg collapsed into black dust as Jaime, utterly spent, dropped backward. He didn't even flinch as his head hit the floor; his consciousness slipped away the moment the spinning in his mind stopped.
Jimena stood before Marisol and her grandmother.
Her hair had turned blood-red, strands drifting like molten metal. Violet embers fell from her body like petals, dissolving into the air before reaching the ground. And in her eyes burned three distinct flames—
a black pupil,
a violet iris,
and a thin ring of searing crimson circling it all.
She stood there, breathing slowly.
Gentle.
Eternal.
Ancient—
like a fire that had existed since the first dawn.