As a child, Kinich had learned to love the way the wind played and sang with nature. He adored how the leaves bent in unison, seeming to dance to a jagged rhythm of their own creation. He watched the yumkasaurus frolic with one another, leaping into pools of water, with the young ones rolling around under the watchful, gentle eyes of their parents. The sound of pebbles tumbling down cliffs as he climbed the mountains, or the wind rushing past his ears, filled his heart with joy.

However, as a child, Kinich had also come to know another sound. A voice, to be precise. Normally, he wouldn't pay attention to the tales crafted to entertain children—those had never captivated him—but ever since Wayna's daughter, the chieftain's daughter, began sitting on a crate with the younger children gathered around her, their gazes entranced by the stories she told, Kinich had grown curious.

Even though he was a bit older, it wasn’t the stories that kept him listening. Beyond the music of nature, he had fallen in love with that voice. Kinich imagined that if the two sounds—nature and her voice—ever blended together, his ears would experience the sound of paradise.

Now that Kinich was older, he no longer needed to listen to made-up stories because he could hear that voice much more often, ever since they had become friends. Yet, the stories she created had not ceased to flow. Even years later, with other children gathered on the Coatepec mountain, where the Scions of the Canopy, her tales of mystical adventures continued to fill the air—sometimes even capturing the attention of the adults.