Xibalba’s eyes, twin pools of shadow, widened. “You would listen?”

He took her hand. For the first time in a thousand years, a soft, warm glow flickered deep within his dark chest.

“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.”

Ever since their bet over Manolo, Joaquin, and Maria had ended—with Xibalba losing his realm of the Forgotten to the carefree, candle-loving memory of La Muerte—he had been restless. He was still a king, but a king without his cold, silent kingdom. He missed the echo of forgotten sighs. He missed the quiet dignity of oblivion.

“I want to stop being your enemy,” he said. “I want to be your balance. Not your opposite. Your partner.”