The air around the three children thickened, their bodies no longer their own. One moment the beach was beneath their feet, the next it melted away into black water and endless night. They stood at the shore of a vast river, its surface gleaming like obsidian, its current slow but implacable.
Itzcuintlán.
The place where the dog lives.
From the shadows padding toward them came the low whine of a Xoloitzcuintli. Its skin was hairless, gray-black like volcanic rock, eyes wide and amber as firelight. It sniffed the air, then padded straight to Jimena. She dropped to her knees, trembling as the dog licked her face and pressed its warm body against her side.
A voice rose from nowhere and everywhere at once:
"Cross, if your souls are ready."
The great river Apanohuaia stretched endlessly before them. Jaime stepped first, his body entering the black water without hesitation, though his face betrayed nothing but the mask of something older wearing him like skin. Marisol followed, the name Chalchiuhtlicue still burning in her chest.
Jimena hesitated, clutching the Xoloitzcuintli tight. Then the dog barked once and leapt forward into the current, paddling steadily. She dove after it.
The water was colder than death, pulling at their limbs, but the dog guided them. It circled Jimena whenever she faltered, nipping gently at her sleeve, urging her onward. By the time they reached the far shore, the animal had pressed itself so firmly against her that it seemed unwilling to let go. Jimena smiled faintly, her fear softened. The dog had chosen her.
The first level was crossed.
---
Back in Bahia Oscura, the village roiled in chaos.
At the beach, the fissures still yawned open, exhaling the breath of the underworld. The butcher, face red with fury, screamed his children's names, trying to charge into the trench, into the sea, into anything that would take him closer. Fishermen held him back, their rough hands gripping his arms, their eyes wide with terror.
"They are gone," one hissed, "the gods have taken them!"
"They are mine!" the butcher bellowed, veins bulging in his neck.
Not far away, Marisol's grandmother walked into the forest, her shawl pulled tight, her steps steady. She did not look back at the village. In her hand she clutched a bundle wrapped in palm leaves—an offering, or a weapon, or both. Her face was grim, eyes hard with a determination the villagers had long forgotten she possessed.
---
The cauldron had cracked and died, but the magic had not. It had twisted him instead. His body glistened with green scales that rippled down his arms and chest. Feathers burst from his shoulders, bright as fire, green as jungle leaves, red as blood. His head bore a crest like some grotesque parody of a sacred bird. His eyes were slitted, snake-like, glowing with venomous light.
The visions tore through him—cities drowning, altars bleeding, gods rising. But each vision unraveled into a single refrain, hammering at his mind until nothing else remained.
Kill the girl.
"Argh!" His roar shook the cave, rattling loose dust and stone. His claws raked the floor, leaving gouges in the rock. He tried to hold on to something of himself, some echo of Father Tomás, priest of the village—but his humanity slid away like water through broken hands.
"What… am I?" His voice cracked, fractured between man and beast. "Who… was I?"
The answer came only in hunger, in rage, in the command branded into his skull. He could no longer smell her. Her presence had vanished, swept into some other realm.
He howled, a sound of serpent and bird and man all tangled into one, and tore apart everything within reach. Stones shattered. Feathers drifted. Blood stained his scales as he clawed at his own chest, fighting for lucidity and losing.
The cave walls trembled as his screams echoed into the jungle, carried on the wind like a warning.
The village, the gods, the underworld—everything was converging.
And the trials of Mictlan had only just begun.
---
The village had quieted, though no one slept.
Hours after the rift had opened, after the children had vanished into the black sands, the people of Bahía Oscura crowded into Javier's house. The butcher's shack was the largest in the village, with wide walls of rough-hewn planks and a ceiling high enough to fit his bulk without stooping. Tonight, it was stripped bare. The tables that once held cuts of meat and tools had been pushed aside to make room for benches, stools, and chairs dragged from neighbors' homes.
The air inside was heavy with sweat and smoke. Cups of cacao—dark, bitter, unsweetened—circulated from hand to hand, its earthy tang doing little to soften the knot in their stomachs. Children clung to their mothers' skirts, silent for once. The dogs outside barked once, twice, then fell into uneasy silence.
Javier sat in the center, the chair creaking under his weight. His face was pale but set, his thick hands clenched like stones on his knees. When he spoke, the sound carried like an order, though his voice cracked at the edges.
"We need to do something."
The murmur in the room stilled. A few eyes darted to the shuttered windows, as if the night itself might overhear.
"But what?" asked Lucas, the old fisherman. His hair was white as salt, his skin weathered like driftwood. He sipped his cacao as if it were medicine.
"Not much to do," muttered another, staring into his cup.
Javier growled low in his throat, like a bull pawing the ground. The sound silenced the room.
Lucas exhaled through his nose, weary. "La campana de los ahogados rung, Javier. There is nothing we can do. You know this."
"Bullshit!" Javier's fist slammed against the arm of his chair, making the wood groan. His face flushed red, sweat shining on his brow. "La campana hasn't rung for generations. It's a myth!"
The room shifted uncomfortably. Several men traded glances but said nothing. The women lowered their eyes. They all knew Javier's rage was only a mask for grief.
But they also knew Lucas was right.
The bell had rung before. Every few generations, the toll carried across the bay, felt in the bones more than heard with the ears. Each time, a chosen bloodline stepped forward, marked by visions and whispers. The curanderos had taught it was the gods' way of keeping the village tied to its ancient promises. A covenant.
But this time was different.
Never before had the gods taken anyone.
The silence in the room deepened, heavy with unspoken memory. Everyone remembered the fire, the screams, the night the sea itself had seemed to turn against them. Marisol's parents. The twins' mother. The curandera who should have guided them, exiled for a mistake that had cost too many lives.
So now, with the bell tolling once more and the bloodline stirring, who was left to guide them? Who could they ask about gods they barely dared to name?
Javier's jaw worked, grinding back words he could not spit. His eyes were wet but hard, burning with denial and fury. "If no one will act," he said at last, his voice low and shaking, "then I will. I'll drag my children back from whatever hell took them."
Lucas shut his eyes, muttering a prayer under his breath. A few crossed themselves, others traced the old circle with their hands.
But none contradicted Javier aloud.
The truth lay heavy in all their hearts: if the gods themselves had called, no man's strength would be enough to bring the children back.