They followed after the drowned, their footsteps echoing faintly against the white stucco walls. Black pictographs covered nearly every surface — scenes of gods, beasts, and mortals intertwined. Some were marked with flashes of color: vivid reds that told of sacrifice and war, greens and pinks that sang of life and rebirth.
The deeper they walked, the more the murals seemed to shift, as if the walls themselves breathed. The drowned guide moved with an uncanny grace, gliding far ahead, appearing and vanishing at the ends of corridors — or perhaps the hallways themselves warped around him.
At last, they reached another pair of vast doors. The texture and color chilled Marisol to the core; it looked too much like bone. The once-pure walls now bled with red vein-like patterns, pulsing faintly like living roots pressed against the surface.
When the doors opened, a heavy silence greeted them.
The great hall beyond was dim, lit only by low-burning fires along the edges. The air was thick with the scent of cempasúchil — sweet, heavy, alive. Jimena felt a pull deep within her chest, and without hesitation, she stepped forward. The marigold petals beneath her feet glowed faintly, a soft orange light that soothed her every breath.
Jaime followed close behind, uncertain but compelled. The darkness ahead seemed to devour light, bending it before it could reach the center of the chamber.
As they approached the heart of the hall, the shadows suddenly split apart — a violet flame burst to life, flickering atop a grand throne made entirely of bone. Its glow revealed the figure seated upon it.
Jimena stood before the throne, speaking in hushed tones to a woman of haunting beauty. Her skin was painted black and white, bones drawn across her flesh like sacred armor. Her face bore the likeness of a skull — white paint and shadow shaping death itself. Her jaw, however, gleamed red, as though painted in fresh blood where the bone should have been.
To Jaime, every movement of the goddess was mesmerizing — the way her serpent-hide garments shifted over painted skin, the subtle power in her stillness. Her headdress, woven of feathers and serpents, was magnificent enough to cover her entire body if turned upside down.
When she turned her gaze upon him, Jaime froze. The weight of her eyes struck him like a divine blow. His thoughts emptied, his limbs slackened — he stood there, jaw loose, a thin line of drool glinting in the violet light.
Marisol chuckled softly, though even she felt a shiver run down her spine. The air was thick with divinity and death. So she stood still, head bowed, waiting to be acknowledged by the Queen of Mictlan herself.
It was only a moment before Jimena stepped back, her face pale but calm. Then, the goddess's gaze fell upon Marisol.
"Come, child."
The voice did not come from the goddess's unmoving jaw. Instead, it echoed within Marisol's mind — resonant, divine, commanding. Her body moved before thought could stop it.
Standing before the throne, she felt the full weight of Mictecacihuatl's presence press against her spirit. When the goddess finally spoke aloud, her voice rasped through the hall like stone grinding over bone — a sharp contrast to the melodious whisper that had called her forward.
"Do you understand what Chalchiuhtlicue asks of you?"
Mictecacihuatl leaned back, her skin painted with bones gleaming faintly in the violet fire. Her eyes — deep, endless voids — made Marisol's own bones ache with their gaze.
Marisol hesitated only a moment before speaking. "To bring life after death?" she asked, unsure if she was right.
The goddess tilted her head and nodded once. A faint smile — or perhaps a shadow of one — flickered across her painted lips. Then, with a graceful motion of her hand, she dismissed Marisol back beside Jimena.
Relief rushed through her as she rejoined her companion. She let out a small breath, watching as Jaime finally stirred from his trance, blinking as if waking from a dream. Both women chuckled quietly, hiding their smiles as he stepped forward.
Jaime straightened his shoulders, determination replacing his awe. Yet when he stood before the goddess, a tremor still ran down his spine. He bowed deeply.
"Worry not, child," rasped the goddess. She reached out, pressing a single bone-painted finger to his forehead.
Jaime gasped. Something unseen — a fog, a heaviness — left him. His thoughts cleared, and the ache in his heart eased, though an insistent itch began to burn at his sternum, deep and sharp.
Mictecacihuatl smiled, faint but genuine, then motioned him back toward his companions.
As the three turned to leave, her voice rang again — not through the air, but within their very souls.
"We expect great things, priests."
The great bone doors shut behind them with a soft, resonant thud.
Outside, the drowned was waiting. "You may stay another day to enjoy the festivities," he gargled, his words struggling through waterlogged lungs. "Or you may return."
The three exchanged glances and nodded in unison.
"We'll stay," Jaime said, the decision sure and simple.
The drowned nodded and handed each of them a slab of polished obsidian. Strange pictographs covered the surface, glowing faintly in the dim light — and as their fingers brushed the carvings, their meanings unfolded within their minds like old memories reborn.
"The gods — and those who came before — expect much of you, chosen," the drowned said.
Then, kneeling, he scooped a handful of dirt from the ground and brought it to his mouth, consuming it in solemn reverence.
The three stood frozen, unsure whether to bow or speak. The drowned looked up at them with eyes full of adoration — and so, silently, they turned and continued forward out into the ever-shifting mists of Mictlan.
Along the way, they spoke of the obsidian tablets — of their weight, their meaning, and the strange sense of knowledge that pulsed from them. The conversation drifted to their encounters with the gods, voices carrying a mix of awe and hesitation.
Jaime, as usual, chose silence. The memory of divine hands and divine judgment still clung to him like damp cloth. His experiences had left marks unseen — deeper than the physical, harder to name.
Jimena and Marisol, however, spoke with open wonder. They recounted Mictecacihuatl's beauty, her calm power, her terrifying grace — how her presence had not crushed them, but instead filled them with quiet strength.
"She wasn't what I imagined," Jimena said, smiling faintly.
Marisol nodded. "Beautiful… and heavy. Like the air before a storm."
Jaime said nothing, though his eyes darkened. He thought otherwise, but kept his words buried.
Their talk turned to what the goddess had wanted of them. Jimena frowned, recalling what little had been said. "She told me to protect my fire," she murmured, tapping the black mark that had appeared on her forehead — a small skull, its tongue sticking out.
Jaime blinked, reaching up to find that he bore the same mark. It pulsed faintly beneath his skin, cold and alive.
Marisol spoke next, shrugging softly. "She said I was to bring life."
Jimena giggled, slinging an arm over her shoulder. "Sounds like she expects more from you than me."
Marisol laughed quietly, but didn't argue.
They walked together beneath the unchanging moon. The cempasúchil path glowed beneath their feet, petals drifting in the night air. The moon hung unmoving above — serene, suspended in eternity.
"I wonder if Xolo is alright," Jimena said aloud.
The mention of the black dog brought a hush between them. Each felt warmth bloom in their chest — the bond that linked them to their guides thrumming gently in reassurance. Still, their thoughts lingered on those companions who had led them this far.
The flower path eventually widened into an open plaza. Three massive stepped temples loomed in the moonlight, each carved from black and white stone, their summits crowned in flickering divine fire. From here, the air pulsed — heavy, strange.
The cempasúchil trail split three ways. Each path led to a different temple — one for each of their patron gods.
Marisol smiled at the twins and bowed her head. "Guess we part ways for tonight," she said, stifling a yawn.
Jimena yawned softly in response, and waved goodbye.
Marisol waving back, followed her path. The feeling of hunger, of fatigue, of a body's weight — all had returned. Since entering the town. Small meal she had with her parents still settling in her stomach. She didn't question it though.
A drowned waited by the temple's open entrance. He bowed silently and turned to lead her inward.
They walked through halls lined with living pictographs — painted figures that seemed to shift and move when she wasn't looking. Deeper still, the air grew fragrant. The sound of running water reached her ears, soft and steady.
The drowned opened a final door, bowing low before departing.
Inside, the room glowed with warmth and life. Water trickled through a small tunnel, flowing beneath a screen of flowering brush. Colorful fabrics lay spread across a raised bed. The air smelled of blossoms and cool stone.
Marisol sank into the soft fabrics, exhaustion catching her at last. The obsidian tablet glimmered faintly beside her, its surface alive with hidden light.
As she drifted into sleep, the tablet's glow deepened — its pictographs shifting, reshaping, whispering lessons older than words.
Divine, silent, eternal.