The fishermen were the first to spot them—three figures sprawled at the edge of the returning tide, where the bay's great scar was slowly closing.
They shouted, running down the sand as waves threatened to pull the bodies back out. Saltwater foamed around their ankles as they lifted the youths in pairs, heaving them away from the churning sea.
No one dared to question who—or what—they had found. Not yet.
Someone muttered, "If Javier sees this, he'll think they tried to drown themselves again."
Another chuckled, the weary humor of men who'd seen too much. The old joke carried through the group like a ghost of laughter.
A quick exchange of glances was all it took. Each man moved with practiced rhythm, wordless coordination born of years at sea. They carried the unconscious trio to the nearest fishing shacks, while one of them—barefoot and breathless—took off running up the dirt road toward town.
"Tell Javier," someone called after him. "Tell him they're back!"
It took Marisol a long while to truly awaken. Though her eyes had been open since the surf spat her out, her mind drifted elsewhere—half in dream, half in memory. The world around her wavered, sounds warping like distant waves.
Even standing was a task; walking, a test of will. The ground felt too heavy, the air too thin.
Jaime fared no better, his face pale beneath the salt and sand. Yet with Jimena on one side and their father on the other, he managed to move, half-stumbling, half-carried.
"Come, mija," her grandmother's voice croaked beside her, firm yet trembling with relief. The old woman took Marisol's arm, her grip deceptively strong. "You've wandered long enough."
Marisol didn't resist. Her feet found the familiar path on instinct, though her thoughts still lingered beneath the waves.
They walked slowly, guided more by memory than by sight. Ahead, on the far end of the road, a new hut rose above the others—its thatched roof gleaming gold under the dying light. The air around it pulsed with life.
Even from this distance, Marisol could smell the herbs—Grandmother's work, pungent and sharp, clinging to the evening air like incense. The scent of home. Of grounding. Of return.
She stumbled once, catching herself on the old woman's shoulder. Her grandmother chuckled softly.
"Easy now, child. You've come too far to fall."
And so, step by step, they made their way toward the hut—toward smoke, and warmth.
Jaime, Marisol, and Jimena lay within a circle of burning herbs, the air thick with resin and smoke. Their strength was returning, but slowly—too slowly.
Each of them felt it: a burning pain, deep in the chest, pulsing like a second heartbeat. Something beneath their ribs strained to break free.
They moaned as the pain sharpened, twisting their bodies against the packed earth. The smoke rose around them, blurring their faces until they vanished entirely from sight.
Outside the hut, the gathered crowd shifted uneasily, trying to peer through the thick, dark haze.
Javier stood near the doorway, foot tapping with restrained impatience. He said nothing to the old woman who worked within. After weeks of battling that thing in the forest, he had learned better than to interrupt her rites. Silence was survival.
Still, seeing his children writhing on the floor tested every nerve he had left. He wanted to rush in, to tear them free from whatever was happening—but he didn't. He couldn't. He had seen enough to know some pains could not be eased by mortal hands.
When the smoke thickened, hiding their faces completely, he let out a shuddering breath. At least he could no longer see them suffer.
Inside, the groans began to quiet. The rhythmic burning of herbs slowed. The symbols etched into the dirt, once faint outlines filled with colored powders, ignited with sudden brilliance. Their glow flared and faded, leaving behind a faint scent of copper and ash.
At the head of each youth rested a small altar—three clay figures representing their patron gods. The air around them shimmered, heavy with a stillness that pressed against the walls.
Divinity had settled in the house.
"El centro se ha hecho," Chia said, her voice weary but steady. She sank to her knees before the altars, sweat beading on her brow. "The center is made. The divine souls have been anchored."
Before the altars, the ground trembled. Small mounds of earth rose from the floor, shaping themselves slowly into cuauhxicalli—vessels for the divine within. Each one bore the faint, half-formed likeness of the chosen's guides.
The air pulsed once—then went utterly still.
The three coughed, smoke and ash spilling from their lungs. The sharp pain between their collarbones had vanished—but in its place, each felt a hard, smooth shape fused to their skin.
When Marisol pressed her fingers to it, she found a small gem molded into the flesh of her chest, cool to the touch yet pulsing faintly with warmth. Divine energy stirring inside it.
A call—soft but insistent—echoed in her mind. She rubbed the gem gently, and a pink mist drifted free, glowing with a faint inner light. It gathered before her, coalescing into the shape of a tiny axolotl.
The creature shimmered, translucent at first, then slowly solidified until its delicate gills fluttered and its golden eyes blinked open. The familiar hum of its energy filled the hut.
"Hi," Axochi said with a squeaky burp that turned into a tiny hiccup.
Marisol smiled, tears welling before she could stop them.
Jimena, watching with a mixture of awe and nervousness, hesitated only a moment before touching the gem at her own collarbone. The stone flared red-hot, scattering sparks and embers across the air.
A canine outline took shape within the flames—a body forming from pure fire before leaping forward in a flash of light. Xolo burst forth, barking joyfully as he tackled Jimena to the ground. His tongue was fire, yet his warmth didn't burn. He licked her face with unrestrained delight, tail wagging wildly as she laughed and hugged him close.
Jaime, still wearing the same unfocused, dreamy grin, chuckled at the sight. His head tilted slightly, the last haze of sleep still clouding his mind.
Jimena caught his look and sighed, half exasperated, half amused. She scooted closer, fingers brushing the golden gem at the base of his throat.
"Hold still," she said.
He squirmed, laughing from the tickling touch, until a faint glow began to form under her hand. Golden motes drifted upward, swirling together in a delicate spiral.
A tiny owl took shape, its feathers crystallizing from light. The bird blinked once—then let out a sharp, scolding chirp that made both twins laugh.
"Cimi…" Jaime whispered, his voice clearer now.
The little owl hooted again, unimpressed, before fluttering up to perch on Jaime's head. Her talons rested gently in his hair, and at once his eyes sharpened—focused, steady, awake.
Marisol, Jimena, and Jaime exchanged glances. For the first time since returning, the heaviness of the underworld felt far away.
Their hearts beat in rhythm with the faint pulse of the gems at their sternum—three lights, steady and divine.
Javier was the first to move. The moment his eyes registered the flaming dog pinning Jimena to the ground, panic surged through him. Instinct overrode reason.
With a shout, he lunged forward, grabbed the creature by its fiery skin, and hurled it out through the smoke-filled doorway. Xolo yelped, twisting midair in confusion before landing outside with a startled bark.
"Papá!" Jimena's voice cracked with fury. Heat surged through her veins—her very skin glowing red. She shoved him hard, a spark flashing where her hands met his chest.
Javier cried out as the fabric of his shirt blackened, smoke curling from the scorch. He stumbled backward, tripping over a stripped branch left near the herb circle.
"Jimena!" Jaime caught her before she could take another step, wrapping his arms around her. His tone was soft but firm. "Stop. He didn't know."
Chia, seated cross-legged by the altar, didn't so much as flinch. Her eyes stayed half-lidded, expression unreadable. "Let them sort it," she muttered to herself. She was far too tired to wrangle tempers—divine or mortal.
Marisol approached quietly, Axochi floating beside her in a faint haze of pink mist. She reached out to steady Javier, who was staring at Jimena in a mix of horror and awe.
The heat radiating from his daughter was enough to make him sweat; her hair seemed to shimmer with embers. Still, Marisol's presence—gentle, cool, blooming with life—eased the air between them.
Axochi drifted forward and pressed a glowing paw to Javier's chest. The burns healed instantly, leaving smooth, unblemished skin. His shirt, however, remained scorched through, revealing the mended flesh beneath.
For a long, uncomfortable moment, the hut filled only with the crackle of fading embers and the slow rhythm of their breaths.
Then, the door flap lifted.
Lucas, the old fisherman, stepped inside—grinning despite the tension. In his arms was Xolo, perfectly unharmed and panting happily, tongue lolling out. The dog's fiery coat glowed faintly, like coals cooling in twilight.
"I think this one belongs to you," Lucas said, amusement tugging at his weathered face.
Javier exhaled, running a trembling hand through his hair. "Ay, Dios…" he muttered under his breath, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
Jimena lowered her gaze, the glow fading from her skin. "He didn't mean harm," she said softly.
Xolo barked once in agreement, tail wagging.