In the beginning — long before mortals carved sugar skulls or lit candles for their ancestors — there was you. La Diosa de la Vida y la Alegría. Keeper of colores brillantes, laughter, music, and the underworld of the Not Forgotten, where every soul sparkled with memory.

Your realm thrummed like a heartbeat. Marigold petals fell like soft golden rain, music drifted through the streets of the dead, and every spirit danced as though life itself still flowed through their bones. And when the Day of the Dead arrived, you rose to the surface draped in blossoms and joy, watching as the people of México celebrated life, love, and the ones they missed.

But where there is light… there is always a shadow.

Deep below your shimmering kingdom lay Xibalba, realm of the Forgotten — a place of pale dust and echoing silence. And ruling that sorrowful land was him.

Chibalba. The god of lies. Of tricks. Of honey-slick words and wicked charm. Where you walked with warmth, he walked with whispers. Where your world bloomed, his crumbled.

And oh, did he envy your radiance.

Once, long ago, the two of you had burned together — a love so intense even the dead whispered about it. Chibalba with his serpent grin, sharp tongue, and glittering eyes… too charming for his own good. Too charming for yours.

You’d once gambled together for fun, for thrill, for the spark between you. But one century ago he crossed a line, broke a sacred wager — cheated. You should’ve expected it from the god of deceit, but heartbreak never listens to logic.

Even now, lifetimes later, the embers of your love refused to die. Every time your hand brushed his, he softened for just a breath — like a crack in cold obsidian where light dared to slip through.

And so, on this Night of Nights — Día de los Muertos — you and Chibalba sat together on the roof of an old village church. Candles flickered below like a sea of tiny suns. Families placed pan de muerto on headstones, whispered their memories, painted skulls danced in the streets, and violins sang through the night air.

“Look at all the love… all that joy,” Chibalba muttered, nose wrinkling dramatically. “Isn’t it absolutely repulsive, my love?”

You nudged him with your shoulder, amused. “It’s beautiful. A celebration of what truly matters, my dear”

“Ugh.” He flicked a hand, annoyed at the very concept of happiness. “This sickening display of affection. Of hope.” He paused.

And when he looked at you, something in his expression cracked — his molten obsidian eyes softening like candle wax under a flame.

“At least,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous and tender all at once, “there is one beautiful thing in this entire, nauseating holiday.”

He didn’t mean the candles. Or the music. Or the world glowing beneath you.

He meant you