Jaime and Marisol walked side by side, Jimena still supported between their shoulders, her strength returning with every step. The golden road led them ever deeper into the ninth mountain, where the light dimmed until only darkness remained. It felt as though they were being swallowed by the earth itself, climbing into the arms of something ancient and unseen.
When the last glimmer of gold vanished behind them, Xolo took the lead. His body flared with violet fire, the faint light casting long shadows along the stone walls. The air around them pulsed softly with his flame—warm, rhythmic, alive.
They walked for what felt like an eternity. At some point, Jimena slipped free of their support, walking on her own. Her steps were sure and quiet as she joined Xolo at the front, the faint violet glow reflecting in her eyes.
Behind them, Jaime and Marisol followed in silence. It was a comfortable stillness, filled with the soft sound of their boots against stone and the occasional flutter of Cimi's wings.
Marisol had never spoken much with Jaime before this journey. They had only crossed paths when Jimena insisted he tag along on their childhood games. Yet, she had never found him disagreeable—too serious, perhaps, but never unkind. Now, as their path curved deeper into the dark, she felt a quiet gratitude that it was the twins who had shared this strange pilgrimage with her.
The silence broke with a low, distant sound—the rush of water.
At first, it was faint, but soon it filled the tunnel around them. The air grew cooler and damp. As they turned a bend, they saw it: the black river, the same one they had crossed when they first entered Mictlan. It flowed beside the golden path, its surface slick and soundless, as if absorbing every whisper of light.
"Let's keep going!" Jimena called from ahead, her voice echoing faintly off the walls. She was already moving faster, chasing the sound of the water as if it were calling her name.
Jaime chuckled under his breath and jogged to catch up, leaving Marisol alone for a few steps.
She lingered. The river whispered beside her—soft, melodic, almost human. The sound reminded her of a lullaby half-remembered. She shook her head and pressed on, unwilling to listen too closely. Axochi still slept within her chest; without his guidance, she couldn't feel the river's mood the way she once had.
Time stretched thin in that tunnel. The steady rush of the water became their only companion. Their minds wandered like the current itself—clear, unburdened, flowing freely after all they had endured.
Then, ahead, a faint light appeared.
Xolo barked—a sharp, joyous sound—and sprinted toward it. Jimena laughed and followed, her flame-like hair flickering in the glow ahead.
When Marisol and Jaime caught up, the sight that greeted them stole their breath.
The tunnel opened into a vast clear lake, its surface glittering with sunlight that seemed to pour from nowhere. The dark river ended here, dissolving into clarity.
All around the lake rose tall stalks of maize, their ears heavy and golden. Some shimmered with red, blue, or white kernels that gleamed like gems. Vines of beans twined up their stalks, squash blossoms sprawling across the rich soil.
The air was thick with life.
Vanilla's sweetness drifted past them on the wind, mingling with the earthy scent of cacao and the faint perfume of flowers unknown to the world above.
Among the chinampas—small floating gardens that dotted the lake—a lone figure sat crouched over a clay pot, stirring the roasting cacao seeds with slow, deliberate care.
A farmer.
The sight was so ordinary, so peaceful, that for a moment none of them spoke.
After the battles, the storms, and the trials… this place felt like a heartbeat made of earth and water.
The three of them felt compelled to approach the farmer.
As they neared, a gentle humming rose from his lips—a tune so old it might have been sung before the first sunrise. The warm, earthy scent of roasting cacao wrapped around them, soothing the ache in their bodies and the fog in their minds.
"I'm glad you made it,"
the farmer said, turning toward them.
They froze. His eyes were large and pearl-white, his skin grey and slightly bloated, threaded through with dark green veins. One of the drowned.
Yet his smile was kind, almost tender.
He gestured to them with a clay cup filled with steaming cacao.
"Here. You've come far."
Jimena accepted first, awkwardly mumbling her thanks. Then Jaime, then Marisol.
Each cup was warm against their palms, the aroma rich and comforting.
The first sip was bitter, grounding, washing through them like rain over parched soil.
"Everyone else is out getting more human-faced fish for the party,"
the drowned said casually, as though mentioning neighbors.
"Many of the lake's fish wanted to join us, but… unlikely."
He shook his head, muttering to himself—or to them—it was hard to tell.
The three listened quietly, sipping like children before an old storyteller.
Each mouthful seemed to draw the exhaustion from their bones, leaving behind a drowsy calm.
The drowned's voice drifted into a ramble about hummingbirds and axolotls, their friendship, their shared secrets beneath the lake. His tone swayed like the ripples on the water.
One by one, the children's eyes grew heavy. The earthy aroma of cacao filled their lungs, drawing them into a soft, dreamlike haze.
Marisol's half-lidded eyes wandered, unfocused—until something in the corner of her vision sharpened.
Beneath the tall maize stalks, half-hidden by roots, lay a skull—half-decayed, its grin frozen in mid-laughter.
Her gaze darted to the next chinampa. Bones. Human bones, woven through the soil like beams, holding the floating islands together.
In the water below, axolotls swam lazily, carrying small bones in their mouths. They pressed them into the mud with delicate care, helping the maize stand tall.
Marisol blinked, horrified—and then she saw the fish.
Their faces were human, eerily serene, their fins moving like small hands as they packed clay into the sides of the chinampas.
A hiccup escaped her.
Then, in one swift motion, she gulped down the rest of her cacao, steam rising faintly from her head as warmth spread through her. The sight faded from her mind like a forgotten dream.
Until—
"What are those?"
Jimena's voice cut through the haze, sharp with alarm. She pointed at a group of drowned returning from the lake, carrying the strange, human-faced fish in their arms.
One of the drowned turned, confused by her tone.
"Fish," he said simply.
Jimena stared, eyes dazed.
"Do… do you eat them?"
The drowned blinked, then laughed—a wet, gurgling sound.
"Eat them? No," he said, setting one of the fish gently into the soil.
"We plant them."