Jimena awoke to the sound of rough knocking at her door.
She lay surrounded by small fires — each one burning a different kind of tribute. Ceiba wood crackled in the nearest bowl, its smoke connecting her path between heaven and the underworld. Copal resin burned steadily beside it, thick and sweet, honoring her station. Sheets of amatl bark — painted with symbols and scenes — curled and flared in every color as the flames consumed them.
Each offering had been placed with care. Each fire breathed smoke of a different hue, dancing together in spirals that warmed her skin and filled her with quiet strength.
Then, as her eyes opened, it all faded.
Only the knocking remained — loud, insistent, as if someone were pounding directly on her skull.
Jimena groaned, rolling onto her side. "Alright! I'm up!" she mumbled.
She flipped over once more before finally forcing herself to sit. The motion felt heavier than it should, like the world itself pressed against her shoulders.
With a sigh, she swung her legs off the bed — and immediately slipped, crashing into one of the copper bowls still holding glowing embers.
A sharp sting of pain jolted her fully awake. She hissed and rubbed her forehead, realizing she'd hit it against the stone edge of the bed. A bump was already forming.
The door creaked open. A drowned stepped inside, unbothered by the chaos. His pearlescent eyes swept over her and the smoldering floor before he turned and beckoned to others outside.
A line of drowned entered, each carrying folded garments — Aztec ceremonial attire, though finer than any she'd seen before. The fabric shimmered like living fire, patterns shifting as it caught the light.
The dress stretched to the floor, its woven story beginning at her feet — a world engulfed in flame, reborn as the design rose toward her chest. Ash became fertile earth, green shoots curling upward until, across her shoulders, the canopy of a vast forest spread in threads of emerald and gold.
Jimena couldn't help but grin, delight flickering across her face.
When one of the drowned moved closer to help her dress, however, she frowned sharply — her hair flashing like kindled fire. The drowned froze mid-step, then wisely bowed and retreated.
The first of them lingered a moment longer. "The festivities are being prepared," he said in a voice like distant water. Then he, too, withdrew, leaving her to the echoing quiet of the temple.
---
Jaime finished fastening his ceremonial garb with the help of the drowned. The long garment was far too heavy and cumbersome to manage on his own, and he often found himself turning it the wrong way, unsure which direction the story woven into its threads was meant to face.
Now, he stood before a slab of polished obsidian, the surface gleaming like dark water. His reflection stared back at him — the story unraveling across his back and chest, an owl's golden eye on each side. Seeing it filled him with a quiet pride. He would bring light and wisdom to a darkened world, just as the garment foretold.
The golden owl eyes reminded him of Cimi — and of the room itself. Even his bed was adorned with the same shimmering symbols, the entire chamber radiant with reflected light. The brilliance hurt his eyes, yet he found comfort in the ache. The glow made him feel alive, chosen.
When the final clasp at his shoulder was secured, he nodded in thanks to the drowned and followed their lead. The cloak fluttered behind him as he adjusted his stride to match their slow, deliberate pace. He silently congratulated himself for refusing the headdress — it would have been too much weight for his neck to bear.
It wasn't long before they stepped once more into the grand plaza — the same place he had seen the night they arrived.
There stood Marisol, surrounded by a small group of drowned, speaking animatedly with one who seemed to be explaining the festivities.
Her clothing was layered and radiant. A flowing huipil of gauzy pink rested over another of blue and green, the two together telling a story Jaime couldn't quite make out from where he stood. A long dress embroidered with flowers swayed around her ankles.
For a moment, Jaime could only stare — the sight of her left him speechless.
He blinked, tearing his gaze away, and glanced around. "Where's Jimena?" he asked quietly, realizing she was nowhere to be seen.
---
After a few long moments, Marisol and Jaime each followed a drowned priest adorned in Aztec ceremonial garb, ascending the stone steps of their respective temples.
Every step seemed to grow heavier the higher they climbed — as if the weight of their newfound station pressed upon their shoulders, reminding them that divine favor came with its burden. Still, they reached the summit, breath steady but hearts thundering, and looked out over the town below.
At the peak, a large obsidian bowl rested upon a carved stone altar — a cuauhxicalli shaped in the likeness of their divine guides.
Marisol turned her gaze toward Jaime. He met her eyes, and the same surreal feeling she carried echoed in his expression — awe, disbelief, reverence. She smiled softly, grounding them both for a heartbeat before her eyes drifted toward the last temple.
There, at the base of the steps, several drowned stood waiting silently. Their pearl-white eyes were fixed on the shadowed hallway that led to Jimena's quarters. Marisol glanced at Jaime again. He only shrugged, uncertain.
Below them, the town had come alive with ghostly motion. Faint, luminous figures drifted into the plaza, surrounding the temples in quiet procession. Some began to set up tents and small market stalls; others strung colored paper banners with intricate pictographs cut through them. Trails of cempasúchil lined the main ceremonial paths leading up to each temple, glowing gold in the pale light.
At every intersection, shrines to the gods were being arranged — small altars bearing sweet offerings, clay figures, and burning incense. More spirits arrived, holding gifts close to their chests as they queued before each temple.
Those who gathered before Jimena's temple looked around expectantly, confusion slowly spreading among their ranks when no priestess appeared atop the stairs.
Music began to play — flutes, drums, rattles, and whistles filling the open air in a pulsing, sacred rhythm. The festival had begun.
Jaime and Marisol glanced at one another one final time before spreading their arms wide to receive the crowd below. Their storied garments shimmered under the sun, the living record of gods and mortals on full display.
The ghostly congregation erupted in applause, skeletal hands clacking together in eerie harmony, a strange, hollow tone that wove perfectly into the music's rising tempo.
Then, at the drum's highest beat — a sound that struck like thunder — Jimena burst from her temple. Her garments were in disarray, her hair flaring like a living flame. The drowned rushed to her, trying to steady and adjust the ceremonial fabric despite her loud protests, eventually managing to guide her up the steps.
Only when she lifted her eyes did she realize how many spirits were staring at her — faces aglow with awe and reverence. A fierce heat rose to her cheeks, burning hotter than her own fire.
At the top of her temple, she met Marisol's gaze — smiling softly, reassuringly. Jaime, on the other hand, raised a brow, giving her a where were you? look that nearly made her laugh.
She wanted to bury her face in her hands, but the drowned at her side urged her forward. With a deep breath, she mirrored Jaime and Marisol, opening her arms wide to the sky.
The sun above shone like molten gold, its sacred fire burning brighter as though answering their call. The drums pounded in rhythm with their hearts.
Below, the lines of spirits began to move — slow, deliberate steps up each temple's staircase. With every step, the ghosts seemed lighter, the burdens of life and death easing. Their skeletal forms shimmered under the sunlight, phantasmal flesh glowing gold as they ascended.
At the summit, they bowed deeply and placed their offerings into the fire-filled cuauhxicalli. Each gift made the flames roar higher, divine light rippling outward in waves that shimmered across the plaza.
Gold and sacred writings on amatl bark were offered to Jaime.
Precious woods and obsidian were offered to Jimena.
Flowers and pure water were offered to Marisol.
The three watched as the fires blazed in unison — the gold, the obsidian, and the waters of rebirth intertwining like threads of a single divine tapestry.