Lupe stood before the imposing ebony doors of the Chapel of Styx, watching as the Temple's custodians unlocked the ancient bronze padlocks that generally kept the shrine sealed from the curious and the devout alike. The locks were more symbolic than practical—a visible reminder that Styx's domain remained separate from the everyday spiritual life of the Convento. Unlike the Temple of Hil, with its ever-burning golden lamps and doors that stood open day and night, the Chapel of Styx opened only when death demanded acknowledgment.

  Today, death had come calling twice more.

  "Fourteen," Esperanza murmured beside her, voice hollow with disbelief. "Fourteen of our class, gone in just five years."

  They had entered the Convento as twenty bright-eyed initiates—though "entered" wasn't quite the right word. In truth, they had been delivered, some willingly, others less so. The Convento wasn't a destination one chose so much as a fate one accepted. When a child displayed signs of the Gift—when the divine touch of Hil, Styx, or one of the lesser gods manifested within them—the options were few.

  Now only six remained—Lupe, Esperanza, Moco, Concepción, Mariana, and Cristobol. The others had been lost to accidents that seemed to plague their particular cohort. Each death had brought them here, to stand before these ebony doors as the Convento fulfilled its obligation to remember those who would never complete their studies.

  "Just because it's required doesn't mean I have to like it," Esperanza whispered, her amber eyes fixed on the darkened entrance as the heavy doors swung inward on silent hinges. "We've spent enough time in this chapel."

  Attendance at a Remembrance was mandatory for all initiates. A rule enforced without exception—to honor the dead was to acknowledge one's own mortality, a lesson the Convento considered essential to those who would wield power not meant for mortal hands.

  Esperanza's fingers tightened around the sun medallion at her throat. "It isn't right," she murmured. "Sealing away the Hall as though Styx herself is to blame. If the Primeras trusted her—"

  "The Primeras aren't here," Voca Aguirre's stern voice interrupted as she approached from behind. "And I would remind you both that we stand in the presence of the Goddess of Death."

  The old woman's wrinkled face betrayed no emotion, though her sharp eyes missed nothing. Her simple yellow robes—the color chosen to reflect Hil's glory—seemed at odds with the somber occasion.

  "Forgive us, Voca," Esperanza bowed her head respectfully.

  Lupe mirrored the gesture without the contrition. Something about the Chapel called to her, a gravity she couldn't quite explain. Perhaps it was the dream still lingering at the edges of her consciousness—the same recurring nightmare that had driven off three roommates before Esperanza, their terror of her night terrors sending them fleeing to other quarters.

  The heavy wooden doors closed behind them with a soft thud that echoed through the chamber. Unlike the Temple of Hil, with its soaring ceilings and golden splendor, the Chapel of Styx was a small, intimate space. Windows of thick, smoked glass allowed only muted light to filter through, casting the room in perpetual twilight. The air inside hung heavy with the scent of aged wood and the faint metallic tang of cold stone.

  Near the entrance, Julio—"Moco"—stood apart from the others, arms carefully folded within the long sleeves of his robe. His frame seemed to curl inward, making himself smaller, less likely to accidentally brush against anyone or anything. Few understood the gifts of the Silba, but everyone had learned to respect his need for distance.

  Mariana and Concepción huddled together nearby. Mariana's eyes were red-rimmed from crying; she and Gilberta had been close, sharing quarters throughout their years at the Convento.

  Concepción maintained her customary poise, though her normally animated features were drawn with sorrow.

  A stir at the chapel entrance drew Lupe's attention as the last of the attendees filed in. Maestro Tomás Amando Bolivar, entered with measured steps. His simple black robes edged with gold thread that caught the dim light, set him apart from both the yellow-clad followers of Hil and the indigo-robed servants of Styx. As he had for every one of their fallen classmates, Tomás came to bear witness—his fourteenth such attendance, his expression as unreadable as it had been at the first.

  If the steady diminishment of his charges affected him, nothing in his demeanor betrayed it. His face remained a perfect mask of academic detachment, his posture rigid, his eyes revealing nothing of what might lie beneath.

  Whispers about Maestro Bolivar—or Padre Tomás, as some called him—followed wherever he went. His Gift remained a mystery despite years of speculation. Some claimed he could read minds, others that he could see through lies. A few even suggested his talents lay in darker arts best not discussed openly. Whatever the truth, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who knew precisely what others did not.

  At his side and slightly behind Tomas walked Cristobal Enrique Montoya. The handsome favorite of the class, his features were arranged in a practiced mask of solemnity that mirrored his mentor's impassivity but didn't quite reach his eyes.

  Cristobal's family were nobodies—minor merchants from a forgotten corner of the Imperium—but his exceptional aptitude for channeling Hil's voice had opened doors normally closed to those of his station. If he could secure a place in the Imperial Court as a Voco, his entire family's fortunes would change overnight. Every ceremony was an opportunity to impress, every tragedy a chance to display appropriate piety to those who might advance his cause.

  At the center of the circular room stood an obsidian altar, polished to mirror-like perfection. Carved into its sides were nine-tiered steps, each representing one of the challenges souls faced on their journey to the Place Beyond. Atop the altar rested a shallow bowl of dark volcanic stone filled with clear water that somehow caught no reflection. Above it all, suspended by a delicate silver chain, hung the sole illumination—a crystal vessel containing blue flame that cast strange, shifting shadows across the gathered faces.

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  Two biers had been prepared, but the bodies of Novitiate Vela and Novitiate Santos were absent. Their deaths on the mountainside had left nothing to recover, nothing to consecrate. In their place lay their robes and personal effects—modest possessions that somehow made their absence more profound.

  As the assembly arranged themselves in a circle around the altar, Lupe felt something shift within the room. The air seemed to thicken, becoming almost tangible against her skin. The burn scars on her face tingled with awareness.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of movement—a figure near one of the alcoves, adjusting a candle that had tilted in its holder. She blinked, and the figure became clearer: an elderly woman in a simple gray robe, her body emitting a faint silver-white luminescence. Near her, an older man similarly attired dusted the surfaces of a nearby shelf.

  Lupe's breath caught. She darted glances at the others in the circle—Esperanza, her classmates, the instructors—but no one showed any awareness of these spectral caretakers. She alone bore witness to these shades.

  "We gather in Styx's sight to mark the Nine Crossings," announced a clear, melodic voice, drawing Lupe's attention back to the ceremony.

  A tall woman in robes of deepest indigo stepped forward. Unlike the severe black worn by most of Styx's followers, her garments were adorned with intricate and colorful embroidery depicting skeletal figures in various poses of life—dancing, farming, fighting, loving. Her face was painted in the traditional way—the left half covered in bone-white pigment traced with black lines that mimicked a skull's features, while the right remained untouched, beautiful in its warm brown tones.

  This was Maestra Xiomara Suarez, the Keeper of Passages, Scholar of Styx. Temples and Shrines were typically attended to by Voca, those trained in the religious duties of their Gods. But the Corpse Wars had made the open worship of Styx taboo. There were no Voca for the Lady of Death. Nonetheless, She was still the guardian to the Place Beyond, and without due respect, Gilberta and Ramona’s spirits would wander without peace. Today would be one of the only times that Styx and Her domain would be acknowledged here.

  "Gilberta Vela, daughter of Eduardo and Maria Vela of Priego," the Maestra intoned. "Ramona Santos, daughter of Javier and Carmen Santos of Valle Espino. Both called to Hil's service, both claimed by Styx before their journey's completion."

  From within her robes, the Maestra produced two small objects—clay figurines, each shaped into the likeness of a young woman. These she placed gently beside the personal effects on the biers.

  "The body returns to earth, but the journey continues." Her voice carried a hypnotic cadence. "Nine rivers to cross. Nine challenges to overcome. Nine guardians to face before reaching the Place Beyond."

  In the shadowed alcove, the spectral caretakers paused in their work, heads bowed in respect.

  "We speak their names to guide them," the Maestra continued. "We remember their deeds to strengthen them. We release our grief that it might become the wind beneath their wings."

  With each statement, she added something to the bowl atop the altar—a pinch of earth, a drop of liquid that might have been water or oil, a curl of paper that dissolved instantly upon touching the surface.

  “We invite you to speak your truths now, that these innocents may pass unfettered to the Place Beyond.”

  It was ritual, but it was not magic.

  One by one, students and instructors approached, even a kitchen servant who spoke of Gilberta's kindness during a time of personal loss. Each memory added texture and dimension to the lives being honored. Maestro Bolivar remained silent throughout, his penetrating gaze missing nothing while he himself offered no tribute.

  When her turn came, Lupe stepped forward, acutely aware of the spectral woman now standing at the edge of the altar.

  "I sat beside Gilberta for three years," she began, her voice steady despite the tightness in her throat. "When my… ailments… kept me from classes, she offered her notes without comment or question."

  The words came easier than she had expected, each one a truth she had carried within herself.

  "And Ramona," she continued, "taught me patience when frustration threatened to overwhelm my studies. 'You fail not because your skill is lacking,' she told me once, 'but because you do not trust yourself to succeed.'"

  "May Styx guide them gently through the Nine Crossings," Maestra Xiomara intoned.

  "And may Hil's light warm their journey," Lupe replied.

  As she stepped back, Esperanza squeezed her hand briefly—a silent acknowledgment of the pain they shared.

  Moving back to her seat, Lupe noticed a man and a woman sitting near the back of the chapel. While not purposefully hiding, they made no motion to make their presence known. Unlike the faint specters, these were beings of flesh and blood. Dressed in simple charro suits with green ties, their eyes were focused on the ceremony. The woman’s eyes darted toward Lupe, and she gave a knowing smile.

  “Inquisitors,” Esperanza said with a hushed whisper as she and Lupe turned their attention back to the rites being performed.

  “Why?” Lupe asked quietly.

  Esperanza simply motioned forward and looked at the Maestra Suarez.

  There were more questions she wanted to ask, but now was not the time nor the place. The Holy Inquisitors of Hil were there to watch the Scholar. The Inquisition was always watching even though the woman possessed not a single drop of divine blood in her body.

  Maestra Suarez raised her hands, drawing all attention back to the altar.

  "We now commit their essence to the First Crossing," she announced. "The River of Forgetting, where earthly burdens are shed and the soul is made light for its journey."

  She waved her hand over the bowl, and the clear water within suddenly darkened, becoming as black as the obsidian that held it. The blue flame above pulsed once, its light dimming momentarily before growing stronger.

  The Maestra continued through each of the Nine Crossings, describing the challenges the souls would face—the Desert of Thirst, where they would learn the value of perseverance; the Mountain of Pride, where humility would guide their climb; the Forest of Fear, where courage would light their path; the Valley of Regret, where forgiveness would free their steps; the Cave of Secrets, where truth would illuminate their way; the Ocean of Tears, where compassion would bear them across; the Plain of Judgment, where justice would measure their deeds; and finally, the Gate of Truth, where only honesty would grant passage.

  "The Ninth Crossing cannot be witnessed by the living," the Maestra explained, her dual-painted face solemn. "But we send them with our blessings."

  She removed a silver knife from within her robes and pricked her own palm, allowing a single drop of blood to fall into the blackened water. The liquid began to ripple, though nothing had disturbed its surface.

  "By blood, we mark completion," she intoned. "By memory, we ensure continuation. By love, we grant permission for passage."

  The blue flame flared suddenly, expanding to encompass the entire altar in sapphire light. For an instant—so brief Lupe almost convinced herself she had imagined it—she saw Gilberta and Ramona standing between the spectral caretakers, their faces peaceful as they gazed upon the assembly one final time.

  Then the vision was gone, and the flame returned to its subdued state. The caretakers had vanished as well, their duties complete.

  "The First Path is complete," the Maestra announced. "Their journey to the Place Beyond has begun. May they find what awaits them at the journey's end."