The eyes of an owl observe a moment.
Vigilant yet uncaring, even in the midst of atonement.
The lack of sound has never been as loud.
His flight announces the one who shines like a cloud.
Adorned upon her head, shades of orange and brown.
His feathers a source of pride woven into her crown.
His eternal flight will always have a home to return to.
When the journey ends, even she doesn't have a clue.
The music did not stop. It was stolen.
Snatched mid-beat by something older than rhythm itself.
The sacred drums, the heartbeat of forgotten gods, had pulsed through the cave's hollow stone—until her presence cut it off mid-breath. Like a sharp wind extinguishing a sacred flame. No fade. No echo. Just… absence.
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was intentional.
The music was stolen by the flutter of her skirt.
A flutter that caused an absence of noise.
Cenotlatlacatl froze, half-crouched, the water still dripping from his gills. He felt it in his bones—this was no silence born of stillness, but one imposed by something so ancient even gods hushed before her.
A low rasping whisper slipped through the cave, like dry leaves dragged across stone.
The owl perched high above blinked slowly, its heart-shaped face catching the dim, bioluminescent glow from the waters of the cenote itself, like a funerary mask. Pale as bone, it turned its head to the side, then opened its beak.
In a ghastly whisper, that he felt like an itch in his jaw, transmitting the sound to his inner ear—
"Mictecacihuatl..."
The name fell like ash.
She stood at the crossroads coming from the back of the cave, veiled in shadow and sovereign stillness.
She stepped forward without walking, her dress blooming from a cempoalxochitl of every shade, a living mosaic of the dead. Each petal bore weight—not of color, but of memory. A breeze that didn't touch him carried their scent.
Her face was painted in the tradition of the dead—from the upper jaw upward, a sickly, ceremonial green. The lower half was exposed bone, jaw wide and ready. Her eyes burned like emberlight, without iris or mercy. Above her crown, marigolds and owl feathers fanned outward, a halo woven from death and sky.
A serpent coiled around one of her arms—its body patterned with faded green glyphs that crawled like forgotten prayers. Its obsidian-black eyes flicked toward Cenotlatlacatl, unblinking, a reflection of how hopeless he truly felt. It tasted the air slowly, as if reading the truth in his breath.
The owl said nothing more. Its head tilted once, then bowed slightly. A look of complete indifference, just as chilly as her presence in the cave. It would not speak again in her presence.
At her side crept forth a Xoloitzcuintli, silent and spectral, with eyes like cooled coals. It circled once before her, then sat between her and the Defiler, watching him with the patience of a death not yet due.
She wore a necklace of obsidian beads and bones, each piece clacking softly with her breath—if she even breathed.
"You carry many scents," she said at last. Her voice was surprisingly like a melody in the wind, blowing through exposed bones in the desert.
"Cenote. Blood. Guilt. Rain. And something curious... something that beckons forth my intrigue. Something that shouldn't belong to you."
She tilted her head. The serpent mirrored her motion.
"You have not earned your name yet. But they whisper it anyway."
A beat. The marigolds on her skirt stirred ever so slightly.
"Defiler." She stated. No sound coming forth, more like the wind being granted permission to carry out her thoughts as vibrations to be interpreted as sound.
The silence thickened.
She did not move. She did not need to.
The Xolo's gaze never wavered. The serpent coiled tighter around her arm, tasting the unease in the air.
Cenotlatlacatl opened his mouth, but the words stuck behind dry teeth and a flooded tongue. His feathered gills—those alien fronds curling from either side of his head—twitched violently, dancing like snakes trying to taste the air, pulling at the cave's damp atmosphere as if trying to breathe through panic.
But he held them.
Barely.
He clenched his jaw, forcing stillness onto them, swallowing the instinct to flee or lash out. Her presence commanded stillness—not through fear, but gravity.
Then—
"Are you… are you here to take me?"
The question escaped him like a wound. Thin. Sharp. Unhealed.
She tilted her head. The marigolds on her dress rustled faintly, though there was no wind.
And then, her smile—so subtle it could have been a shadow.
"You think you're free?"
His breath caught. The gills flared again, despite himself.
He had felt free. Briefly. Vibrations whispering through his skin. Shadows bending to new senses. Colors the old world never gave him.
But that was gone now. She had stolen it the moment she arrived.
"I..." he stammered. The webbing between his fingers trembled. "I didn't want this."
The serpent shifted—tightening its coils.
"Liar."
The word slithered into the cave like a second voice.
The Xolo growled low—not at him, but at the thought behind his words.
She raised a pale hand, not to silence them, but to emphasize:
"You didn't want the price."
Her voice was carved from stone.
"But the power? You reached for it like a drowning thing reaches for breath."
His head lowered. Not in shame. In anger.
Because she wasn't wrong.
But still—no apology stirred behind his eyes. Only that bitter, gnawing regret for a freedom that had never truly been his.
"So what now?" he asked, teeth bared. "You pass judgment?"
She paused.
And said simply—
"No."
She stepped closer, marigold petals brushing the stone like falling ash.
"I am not your judge."
A beat.
"I am your mirror."
He didn't respond.
The silence between them stretched, not cold—but weighty, like earth packed tight over a grave.
Her gaze softened, though her face remained unreadable beneath the bone and paint.
"Tell me, Defiler…"
She stepped closer, and her creatures did not follow.
"What is it you truly desire?"
The serpent uncoiled slowly, draping itself between her hands like a question mark made of flesh.
He hesitated. The gills flared again, instinct betraying his discipline.
What did he desire?
Not forgiveness.
Not even freedom.
Only… a way to feel like he existed in this monstrous form. A way to stop the pull toward madness, toward drowning in his own skin.
"I…" he said, voice gravel thick.
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
Her voice carried no judgment. Only certainty.
"You want to change. But you don't want to surrender. That is the paradox of the cursed."
She reached toward her skirt.
The marigolds trembled slightly at her touch. Some were pale, some gold, some blood-orange and nearly black at the edges.
She plucked one—deep ochre, petals edged in shadow. It did not wilt.
She held it out.
"This is not forgiveness."
"This is not absolution."
Her emberlight eyes burned brighter for a moment.
"This is a trial."
He looked at the flower—so small, so weightless—and yet it terrified him more than her creatures did.
"A trial?" he echoed.
"Not of strength," she said.
"But of truth. Your truth. If you still want the illusion of freedom, take it and go. But if you want to change your fate…"
She raised the marigold higher, between them.
"Then reach. Take it. And begin."
The serpent's head tilted. The owl did not move. The Xolo turned its gaze sideways, as if curious to see what he'd choose.
His feathered gills twitched—once, twice—and then froze.
His gaze locked onto the marigold between her fingers.
It pulsed in the dim light, the only thing in the cave that felt alive—too alive.
He lifted his hand slowly. Claws twitching. The webbing between his fingers trembled, and his bones ached from an emotion he didn't have a name for.
His feathered gills folded back, recoiling in fear like a dog's ears beneath a raised hand. Not from her. From what it might mean to take the flower.
He hesitated. His hand hovered. Then pulled slightly back.
What task have you for me?
What will I be able to achieve?
What is the price?
The questions clawed through his mind. None of them reached his lips.
He swallowed hard. Then, hoarsely:
"What task do you ask of me?"
"What will I become, if I take it?"
A beat.
Her head turned—slowly.
Her smile disappeared.
"Ah."
Her voice dropped into something ancient. Not angry—just... offended.
"You ask questions as though you are owed answers."
She let the marigold hover a moment longer. Then, casually, began to lower her hand.
"Take it, if you will."
Her eyes narrowed just slightly.
"I grow bored of your hesitance."
The Xolo growled—not at him, but at the moment. The serpent coiled once. The owl blinked.
Cenotlatlacatl's hand trembled again.
And this time, he reached.
The moment his fingers brushed the stem, the marigold ignited—not with fire, but with something colder.
A burst of dark flame—green-black and silent—consumed the flower in a heartbeat. It did not scorch. It did not burn. It reduced the bloom to ash in midair, its shape unraveling like memory being forgotten.
The ashes floated up, spiraling with impossible grace.
And then—
They touched his face.
One by one, they settled onto his skin like snow. But they didn't melt. They sank in—cold, tingling, alive.
The sickly green hue of the marigold etched itself into him, not as paint but as truth. Marking him.
Claiming him.
His feathered gills fluttered, once.
The Xolo watched in stillness. The serpent blinked. The owl remained bowed.
Mictecacihuatl stepped back, her voice trailing like the shadow of a funeral procession.
"
Your trial begins, now."