Fated

few:
Do not leave the cave until it is time.
Do not venture past the white line for any reason whatsoever, until you are absolutely certain it is the right thing to do.
Use your supplies sparingly—they must last throughout the entirety of your vision quest.
Seek the truth.
Seek the light.
Release your attachment to old attitudes, as well as old beliefs and ideas, in order to make room for much-needed insight.
Go quiet, keep your activity to a minimum, and do what you can to connect to the mountain.
When the mountain has accepted you—approved of you—you will know.
Though please be aware that the mountain is tricky—it requires you to distinguish between the real and the false and see past the mirage.
Call upon Raven when you need him—he is always there to guide you.
Call upon your ancestors as well—a shake of the rattle will alert them.
But do not, under any circumstances, venture outside until you are absolutely certain it is time.
Godspeed.
Safe return.
Paloma
    I glance between the note and the border beyond. According to what I just read, along with the warnings Chay gave me, they’re not exactly joking about my staying put until it’s time to move on.
    And though I try to meditate again, it’s no use. I can’t silence my mind. Can’t silence my stomach from groaning in hunger. So I lean against the wall of my ancestors’ names, hoping it’ll make me feel less alone, remind me that I’m hardly the first to endure this ordeal. Making my way down the list, I call upon them for guidance—shaking the rattle as I do, which feels a bit weird, but then weird is all relative here—and when I reach the end, I call upon Raven as well.
    Then I wait.
    Stomach clenching so tightly, I reach for my soft buckskin pouch, squeeze it gently, and say, “Raven, please get me through this. Show me whatever I need to know. Put me to the test. And help me do whatever it takes to survive.” Barely reaching the end before my lids start to droop, becoming so heavy I can no longer lift them, and just a few seconds later, I’m swallowed by sleep.

twenty
    I’m tired.
    Hungry and thirsty.
    Cold and lonely too.
    Terrorized by a long stream of shadow dancers that swarm all around me—their lurid forms mocking—taunting—teasing—cajoling—tempting me to leave—to find my way out of the darkness—out of this cave—and it’s not long before I agree.
    I never asked to be a Seeker.
    Never asked for greatness or victory.
    I’m more Lyons than Santos—not cut out to be a hero.
    All I ever wanted was to be a normal girl with a normal life—living in a place of blissful ignorance where gruesome monstrosities—things born of darkness—no longer exist.
    I scrunch against the wall, one arm wrapped tightly around me in a vain attempt to slow the train of ache storming my belly—while the other hand clutches high at my throat—so itchy and dry my tongue feels too big—as though it no longer fits. Determined to ignore the gang of monsters—demonic, foul beasts—dancing circles around me—until I flounder to my feet, eager to flee.
    My movements so clumsy and quick, I reach for the wall to steady myself, as a constellation of bright, twinkling stars swirl before me. My fingers pressing into Mayra’s wildcat, slipping past Diego’s monkey—the vibration of their long-lingering energy proving I’m not fit to join them—unworthy of their legacy—of claiming their name.
    It’s better to cut my losses, apologize to Paloma, and be on my way.
    I slip my bag over my shoulder and bid good-bye to the demons. Just about to step over the line when my exit is blocked by a beautiful dark-haired boy standing before me, his icy-blue eyes meeting mine in a way that reflects my sad, sorry image thousands of times.
    “You know you can’t do that, right? You know you can’t leave before it’s time?” His tone is sharp, but his eyes flash in kindness, belying the words. “You have to see this thing through. You have to endure. They’re depending on you.”
    I roll my eyes. Huff under my breath, telling myself he’s not real—he’s a boy made solely of ether—the product of delusional reveries and outlandish imaginings.
    He has no sway over me.
    “You and I aren’t like the others,” he says, working hard to persuade. “We don’t get to choose. Our path has been chosen. It’s our job to follow it—to live up to the task.”
    I roll my gaze up the length of him—starting at his black shoes and skimming past the