Jimena woke to the elderly women tending to her once more. Her father was gone—hopefully not far. She trembled as the elders wiped her with damp cloths, her body lacking the natural heat she usually exuded.
She could feel two forces fighting for space within her soul.
Xolo, who had been irritated before, seemed to erupt. Flames flared along his back, surging upward as he released the hottest fire he could muster, trying to burn away the golden flame that sought to meld with him.
The magenta fire that represented herself and her goddess chased after Xolo, attempting to consume the golden flame as well. It showed no gentleness in its approach, scorching the poor dog whenever it drew too close with its intense heat.
Jimena tried to put a stop to the chaotic energies, but the more she resisted, the more they rebelled against her.
"Marisol…" she whispered.
A hand touched her forehead, replaced moments later by a damp cloth. A clay cup was pressed to her lips, and she drank.
Anxiety swelled within her. The longer she remained in this strange state, the more hopeless everything felt.
Her former strength seemed like an illusion in the face of such immense pain. She wanted to struggle—to surge with power—but every attempt fizzled out before it could take shape.
She was trapped in a fragile balance between overwhelming wills. They pulled at her endlessly—three separate beings, each yearning for control.
She felt herself screaming, yet it seemed distant, as though she were no longer the one lying in the bed of furs. Many hands held her down, chants and prayers in an unfamiliar language pressing against her mind.
They fed the golden flame within her.
Xolo's attempts to purify it only made it stronger, its color growing ever more resplendent.
With a howl, Xolo burst forth with his fiercest fire yet, desperate to free himself of the unwanted presence.
Jimena contorted, twisted, and kicked wildly. She felt her body burning from the inside out—her veins scorched, her heart aflame. The gem on her sternum flashed with uncontrolled bursts of fire.
Then, peace.
Everything slowed, and the golden flame detached from Xolo—blazing with power equal to her magenta fire, growing stronger as the voices around her rose louder and more fervent.
The tent had become a sweat lodge. Heat, smoke, and slick bodies pressed together within the cramped space, breath heavy and air thick with ritual.
As Jimena opened her eyes, everyone seemed to flee at once.
She stood.
Her skin was cloaked in golden, ethereal flame.
Her eyes—and the pictogram of death upon her forehead—burned with magenta fire.
Her hair flowed like liquid crimson.
Whispers filled her mind—voices that were not her goddess's. Yet the warmth surrounding her, the pure glow she now emanated, felt truer than anything she had ever known.
Her heart beat a few more times.
Then the balance collapsed.
An unstoppable force erupted from her forehead, trying to swallow her whole. The tent around her rotted and fell apart as the golden flame engulfing her turned inward, attempting to consume her entirely.
She screamed.
The agony was beyond anything she had ever endured.
She heard her father shouting her name.
Then something covered her body—shielding her, halting the flames before they could take her completely.
Xolo lay smoking within her gem, mirroring her pain, his form spent and still. Jimena collapsed into her father's open arms.
The chanting and whispers continued as her eyes closed once more.
Javier was distraught at the relentless trials his daughter faced. It hadn't been long since his child had become Chosen—so why had she brushed against death so many times already?
He had always believed the Chosen stood second only to the gods themselves. Yet here lay his daughter, smoke still curling from the burns her body had suffered. Such cruelty, inflicted upon his child. Anger exploded in Javier's chest, feral and sharp, leaving him feeling like a maddened beast ready to charge at anyone who dared come close.
He had left her for only a moment.
After spending most of the day at her side, watching her sleep peacefully—peaceful, at least, for a girl so rarely still—how had it come to this? What had these villagers done while he was gone?
Kauyumari had spoken to him, had warned him to respect the customs of these people. But how could the spirit expect restraint now, when whatever ritual they had performed had led to this?
Javier felt his face burn as he forced the fury down. Chía had taught him—had shown him—that he could be more than his unchecked emotions.
With wrathful tears in his eyes, Javier looked at the man who had covered Jimena's body. His face was painted in yellow pigment: a sun marked with what appeared to be corn at its center upon his forehead. Circular patterns dotted with stars ran along his cheeks, their lines connecting back to the sun-corn symbol.
The man smiled broadly at him, then placed a hand on Javier's shoulder, squeezing gently as he nodded—an unspoken reassurance that Jimena would be fine.
Slowly, carefully, the man removed the thick cloth covering her. He did so with deliberate gentleness, as if wary of startling Javier, as though he were some dangerous animal.
The thought eased his tension, even drawing a small, bitter chuckle from him.
These people had been helping his daughter through her strange affliction, and yet he had bared his horns at them all the same. The shame burned as brightly as the markings on the man's face when Javier followed his gaze.
Jimena lay in his arms, no longer emitting the horrific stench of burned flesh. Stranger still—her wounds were healing, knitting themselves together at a pace that bordered on miraculous.
Seeing this, the painted man simply nodded.
Then he shouted sharply to those gathered around them, sending the group into sudden motion.
Javier couldn't understand their language, but he caught the words they repeated again and again—voices filled with awe and urgency.
"Tatei Niwetsika. Tatewari."