“You lost the bet,” she said. “But perhaps… you just won something else.” She leaned close, her breath smelling of cinnamon and marigolds. “I will oppose the Council’s merger. The Lands will remain separate. But you,” she added, her voice a velvet command, “will come to my palace every evening. We will share a glass of amnesia wine. And you will tell me one story of the Forgotten. A name. A life. A memory that no one else carries. You will make them real for me.”

Catrina walked to him and placed a delicate, bony finger under his chin, lifting his gaze to hers.

“I am La Catrina,” she said, offering her hand. “I teach the living that death is not to be feared. But you, Xibalba, teach that being forgotten is not a curse. It is a rest. Let us teach the universe together.”

“I do.” He slithered closer, the jewels on his shoulders winking like dying stars. “Because you cannot have light without shadow, my dear. You cannot have a party without an ending. If everyone is remembered, no one is truly honored. Your Land would become a crowded, noisy, meaningless ball.”

A long silence stretched between them, filled with the distant sound of laughter and music from the eternal fiesta above.

“What do you want, Xibalba?” she asked softly.

“You’re brooding again,” Catrina said without turning around. “It clouds the hall. I can feel the chill from here.”