The air inside the war tent was thick with sweat, smoke, and silence. The kind of silence that wasn't calm—but loaded. Cortés sat at the head of the table, drinking watered wine like nothing was wrong. Outside, the shrieks of frightened Tlaxcalan boys and murmurs from uneasy Castilian sentries gave the night a brittle edge. But in here?
Everyone was done pretending.
Cristóbal de Olid leaned forward first. Arms folded. Jaw clenched.
"You've lost the priest, Hernán. You've lost Alonso's camp. You've lost your mind if you think we can still march like this."
The words landed like a slap, and even the loyalists flinched.
"Watch your mouth, Olid—"
"No. Watch yours."
Sandoval threw down a tin cup hard enough to dent it.
"We've been quiet too long. Supplies vanish. Horses found eviscerated with no tracks. Our Indio allies whisper about omens and ghosts. And now Olmedo's broken. Broken."
Alvarado chuckled dryly, but there was nothing funny behind his eyes.
"Olmedo was the sanest one here. Now he's ranting about devils and damnation and how you sold us out to them. Maybe he's right."
Cortés didn't blink. Just watched them. Calm. Cold. Silent.
"You boys done whining?"
"Whining?" Olid hissed, standing up. "We're bleeding men, Hernán. Alonso's camp was full of food and arms, but no bodies. No signs of a fight. Just gone. You know what that means."
Cortés's gaze flicked toward him. "It means they fled."
"No. It means he took them. Ehecatl. That fucking devil. He's plucking us apart and you're sitting here like it's all part of the plan."
Gonzalo de Sandoval rubbed his face, visibly aged in the last few days.
"Even the Tlaxcalans are spooked. They say Ehecatl walks with the night wind. They won't even leave this zone anymore. You see what you've turned this into?"
A long pause.
Then Olid dropped the line—low, careful, but cutting:
"Maybe it's time we consider… talking to him."
That got everyone's attention.
Alvarado spat.
"You want to negotiate with a savage? A demon? You've gone soft."
"He's not killing us," Olid shot back. "He's targeting. He's planning. Olmedo came back alive. Salazar's men disappeared, not butchered. He's sending messages."
"And what do you propose? We just hand him your sword and bend the knee?"
Olid's eyes narrowed.
"I propose we stop pretending Hernán has this under control."
Everyone went quiet again.
Then—
"You're all fools." Cortés stood, finally. "You let one mad priest shake your nerves. Ehecatl is no god. No demon. He bleeds. And we will find a way to kill him."
"With what army?" Sandoval muttered. "Half are dead. The rest are waiting for the next phantom raid."
Olid stared straight at Cortés now.
"You don't see it. You're not leading us anymore. You're dragging us toward your own grave. And if we follow, it's only because we're too afraid not to."
Another silence. Heavy. Bitter.
And somewhere outside, the wind howled—like a warning.
They wouldn't say it aloud. Not yet.
But the thought was planted.
Cortés had become the liability.
And every man in that tent knew:
Ehecatl wasn't their biggest problem anymore.
Cortés didn't sit. He slammed his cup onto the table, sloshing wine across the worn wood.
"You dare speak to me like this? Like children whispering in corners?"
His voice rose—not to shout, but to cut.
"Let me remind you who led you here. Who burned the ships. Who tamed Tlaxcala. Who broke Tenochtitlan. It was me. Not Olmedo. Not Sandoval. Not you."
He pointed at Olid first, then Sandoval, then Alvarado.
"Ehecatl is not a god. He's not the wind. He's a boy, barely a man. And men can be hunted. Just like we hunted Moctezuma's wretched lords. Just like we hunted the priests who gutted our brothers on that fucking altar of a pyramid."
A pause.
His eyes swept over them like daggers.
"I will handle him. And any man here who forgets who commands this expedition—will answer to me. Do you understand?"
The silence that followed wasn't fear—it was calculation.
He knew it.
They knew it.
So he leaned in one last time.
"Say another word like that again, Olid… and I'll show you how command is enforced. Friend or not."
Then he walked out of the tent, leaving them with his shadow—and the rising sound of unease outside.
The flap of the command tent still swayed when Olid scoffed.
"He threatens us now? After all we've done? That bastard's lost his grip."
Alvarado spat into the dirt near the table.
"He snapped, that's what. I've seen it before. He's clinging to control like a drunk grips his last bottle. Meanwhile, our men whisper Ehecatl's name like a curse."
Sandoval leaned forward, voice low but firm.
"We've lost too many patrols. Fray Olmedo's broken. And now Alonso's entire camp is gone. Supplies untouched. Horses still tethered. Not a soul in sight. If that's not witchcraft, what the hell do you call it?"
A beat of silence.
Then Olid:
"I say we parley. Go to him. Offer gold. Offer Cortés, if need be."
Alvarado shot him a look like he'd grown another head.
"You want to hand over the captain-general? Are you mad?"
"No. I want to live," Olid bit back. "You think this Ehecatl is bluffing? He's cleansing us one by one. You felt it. We all did. Something's wrong here. The air, the men, the dreams. He's not just killing soldiers—he's unraveling faith. And if Cortés won't adapt… maybe we should."
Alvarado shook his head slowly.
"So what, we betray him? We turn on our own commander because a few ghosts dance in the ruins?"
"Not ghosts," murmured Sandoval. "Something worse. A damn devil."
And then from the back, one of the older lieutenants muttered:
"If Ehecatl wanted to talk… he would've sent a message."
Olid:
"He did. He sent Olmedo back."
That silenced the tent.
The thought hung there, poisonous and heavy.
Then Alvarado exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair.
"Enough dancing around it. Either we act, or we wait to be picked off like Alonso's camp."
A final pause.
"And if Hernán won't face it… maybe it's time someone else did."
Alvarado leaned forward, eyes glinting with something sharper than steel.
"And I'll be the one to face him."
The others turned his way, silence slicing through the tent again.
"You all know me. I don't scare easy. Not of ghosts, not of demons, not of some Indio bastard hiding in shadows. Let me take a dozen men—no banners, no gold, no lies. I'll find him, and I'll see what the devil wants. If he's man enough to talk, we talk. If not…"
He smirked.
"Then we see if he bleeds."
Sandoval crossed his arms.
"You sure you're not just itching for glory, Pedro?"
"Glory died at the moment this bastard became a problem." Alvarado shot back. "Now it's just about who gets out alive. And I plan to."
Sandoval narrowed his eyes.
"Don't pretend you speak for us all. We've all got scars. We've all lost men. You want to go chasing shadows, fine—but don't expect to come back wearing Cortés's boots."
"Maybe I don't need them," Alvarado said flatly. "Maybe this whole campaign needs a new hand at the reins."
That got a reaction—chairs shifted, knuckles clenched, jaws tightened.
Olid jumped in, more nervous than bold.
"Enough of that. He's not wrong about Ehecatl, but if you start talking crowns and replacements, that's treason. Cortés may be slipping, but he still has teeth. And spies."
"Then we tread careful," Alvarado said. "But if no one moves, we all die quiet. I say we prepare both roads—one to talk, one to strike. And if Cortés keeps pretending this is just another jungle skirmish… well, then the road without him starts to look clearer."
Sandoval looked between them all.
"Just don't forget—every man in this tent wants to be the one holding the map when this ends. So if you go out there, Pedro… don't expect us to wait around with open arms."
Alvarado's smirk returned.
"I wouldn't dream of it."
…
…
…
The sun had barely risen when the two riders returned.
Or rather—one returned.
The one sent to Ehecatl rode in with an expression carved from stone, eyes forward, lips sealed until he dismounted and stepped into the tent.
"He listened."
That alone was enough to draw every man silent.
"Said we may leave the city alive. No blades, no skirmishes, no pursuit. His only demand: Cortés, his sword… and the native woman, Marina."
The silence fractured.
Velázquez stood up.
"He wants to what?"
Sandoval's brow furrowed deep.
"The sword I understand. A symbol. The man, of course. But Marina?"
Olid sat down hard, eyes flicking from face to face.
"He sees her worth. She can speak his tongue. She knows us. If I were him, I'd want her too."
"As a translator?" Alvarado asked, voice cold. "Or as a trophy?"
"You think someone like him gives a damn about bedding her?" Olid snapped. "No. She's a key. To us. To our plans. He wants leverage."
"You're a fool if you think he doesn't want both," Velázquez spat. "Even devils have needs."
The tent's canvas stirred with morning wind, but no one moved.
Then Sandoval spoke, voice even.
"And the other rider?"
The returned man shook his head.
"Gone. No body. No blood. Just gone."
No one spoke.
Olid rubbed his face with a shaking hand.
"So he made good on his threat."
Alvarado muttered,
"And he kept his word."
That landed like a weight in the center of the tent.
Velázquez crossed his arms.
"We give up Cortés, we're no longer conquistadors. We're deserters. Exiles."
"No," Sandoval said. "We're survivors."
A long beat passed.
Alvarado finally added,
"This is a knife to the gut no matter how you fall on it. We stay, we die. We run, disgraced—but breathing."
"And what do we tell the King?" Olid asked.
"That the city ate Cortés," Alvarado said flatly. "And we barely made it out with our lives."
The silence twisted again.
But beneath it all, none could shake the question that stuck like a splinter:
Why Marina?
Was it her tongue?
Her blood?
Or had Ehecatl seen something in her—something none of them could name?
They didn't know.
And that terrified them more than anything.
"We give her up," Sandoval muttered.
Olid nodded slowly.
"She's not one of us."
Velázquez scoffed.
"She never was."
"She'll tell him what she knows," Alvarado warned.
"Outdated," Sandoval countered. "Whatever she knows, he already outmaneuvered us."
"He wants her?" Velázquez said. "Then he can have her. Let her be his damned prize."
The mood turned ugly. No one defended her. She was useful once—no more.
Then the real planning began.
"We can't retreat back to Cuba," Olid said flatly. "Velázquez already declared us all traitors. He'll hang us the moment our boots hit harbor."
"We don't run to Cuba," Sandoval said. "We hold somewhere inland. Fortify. Regroup."
"With what?" Alvarado snapped. "Our food's gone, the locals hate us, and Ehecatl bleeds us dry week by week."
"The Tlaxcalans," Olid said again. "They're the only ones still standing by us."
Velázquez sneered.
"Not for long. You think they'll stay once they smell blood in the water?"
Pedro raised a hand.
"Then we give them a reason."
"And what would that be?" Alvarado snapped. "Gold? Titles? The Mexica ruins?"
Pedro shook his head.
"No. Guns. Powder. Horses."
That silenced the tent.
"They want arquebuses," Pedro continued. "Cannons. Saddles. Everything Cortés hoarded to keep them dependent. Ehecatl's got it. He made it work. Now they want it."
Olid leaned forward, intrigued.
"And you'd give it to them?"
Pedro didn't blink.
"We have no other choice."
"They'll turn on us the moment they get it," Sandoval said.
"Only if we don't help them use it," Pedro replied. "We teach them. Drill with them. Become indispensable."
Velázquez's voice was dry.
"We become weapons merchants."
"We become useful," Pedro said flatly. "Cortés kept them at arm's length. We give them the arms."
Another long pause.
"So we feed the fire," Alvarado muttered.
"Or get burned with Cortés," Olid added.
Then we need an in," Velázquez de León said. "Someone who can speak for us."
Pedro shifted slightly, as if the idea had been waiting in his chest.
"I can."
They all turned to him.
"Xicotencatl the Elder's daughter is mine. Not officially," he admitted, "but enough. He trusts me. I helped him keep his son in check during the early campaigns. If anyone can keep the Tlaxcalans from cutting our throats before we explain ourselves, it's me."
Sandoval raised an eyebrow.
"And you think he'll vouch for you after what we've done?"
Pedro didn't flinch.
"He hates Cortés more than any of us."
Silence fell again.
Because it was true.
"The old man never forgot how Hernando broke every deal he made with them," Pedro continued. "The promises. The slaves. The looting. The delay on arquebuses. The way he treated his son like a dog."
"So you'll speak to him?" Olid asked.
"I'll open the door. But we'd better walk through it with an offer they can't refuse."
Velázquez exhaled through his nose.
"Guns, then. Horses. Powder. Training."
"And no Cortés," Pedro added. "They'll never trust us if he's alive."
Another beat passed.
"And the girl?" Sandoval asked.
They all paused again.
"Marina won't matter to them. She's not loyal to us. She won't give away more than we already know. And if Ehecatl wants her…" Pedro shrugged. "Then let her be his prize."
No one argued.
Because none of them had anything else to give.
…
…
…
Catalina stood near the corner of the tent, her posture still and unobtrusive. She didn't speak. She never did unless spoken to.
Olid didn't look at her right away. He was sitting on the edge of the campaign table, staring at a tin cup half-full with wine he hadn't touched. His tone was flat when he finally broke the silence.
"Sit."
She obeyed without hesitation, folding herself onto the low bench opposite him. No resistance. No nervous glances. Just quiet acceptance.
"You've been with me a while," he said, voice low. "I've never struck you. Never forced you. Never made you do anything you couldn't stomach. That's fair, isn't it?"
"Yes, señor," she said.
He nodded, but his expression didn't change.
"Then I need you to listen. Because what I'm going to ask… isn't easy. You won't like it. But you'll do it. We're past the point of choosing."
She kept her eyes low. Nothing in her face shifted.
"We're offering you to Ehecatl," he said.
She blinked once. That was it. No cry. No protest. Just a slight pause before she answered.
"He asked for me?"
"No. But I'm sending you anyway. He likes leverage. You're quiet. You pray. You're not like Marina—he might see that as… pure, I guess."
Catalina was silent a moment. Then asked, calmly, "You think he'll keep me?"
"Maybe. If he does, you live. And maybe we do too."
"And if he doesn't?"
Olid let out a thin breath. "Then we're all dead anyway. At least you'll die quick."
She gave a small nod, like she understood her role and didn't need to hear any more.
"When do I go?"
"Soon," he said. "We're still arguing the terms. But I'll make sure you're sent with the next message. He needs to see what else we're willing to offer."
"Do I speak for you?" she asked.
"No. You stay quiet. Kneel if you have to. Let him think you're harmless. That's the point."
Another pause.
"Yes, señor."
He stared at her a while longer, jaw tight. Then, softer, almost like it caught him off guard:
"Good girl."
…
…
…
He stepped out into the open, the muggy night air clinging to his skin like guilt he no longer felt. The camp was quiet, uneasy. Too many eyes pretending to sleep. Too many whispers carried on the stale wind. He could smell sweat, rot, horse shit—and fear. It always had a smell.
Pedro de Alvarado talked about honor like it meant something. Sandoval clung to pride like it was armor. But Olid? Olid had stopped believing in all that the day he saw a boy get his throat cut for the sin of stealing half a tortilla. Since then, he learned the only truth that mattered: if the devil comes knocking, you give him what he wants—and then some.
He didn't hate Catalina. In fact, that was the problem. He had no reason to. She was obedient. Soft. Always whispered "yes, señor" when spoken to, like she'd been trained by life itself to break before anyone had to try. That sort of girl was supposed to be protected.
And yet here he was, preparing to send her into the hands of the one man that made everyone's bowels clench just by name alone.
Ehecatl.
The walking nightmare. The one who made Fray Olmedo piss himself with philosophy. The one who bled men dry and left their skin nailed to trees. The one who knew their language better than most of them. And worse—understood it.
If Catalina made it through that storm, maybe Ehecatl would remember the name Olid. Maybe he'd remember the gift. Maybe he'd spare him. Or better—see him as useful. Not dangerous. Not defiant. Just useful.
And if he didn't?
Then at least Olid could say he tried. Tried something the rest didn't have the stones to even think about. Tried to live.
He adjusted his belt, shifted his sword, and began walking toward the command tent where the others waited. Each step echoed with the same unspoken truth:
He was no hero. He was a survivor. And survivors make ugly decisions.
The sheep had been chosen. Now all that mattered was if the wolf took the bait.
…
…
…
The tent was stifling again. Not with heat this time, but with silence. Olid hadn't returned yet, and no one trusted the others enough to speak first. Men shifted in their seats. Fingers tapped on leather-wrapped hilts. Someone cleared their throat but said nothing.
Then Pedro de Alvarado entered—dust on his boots, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable.
Sandoval was the first to break. "Well?"
Pedro didn't sit. He just looked around the circle, made sure they were all listening. "The Tlaxcalans will side with us."
A few heads turned. Shocked. Some relieved.
"But," Pedro added, "only if we give them everything."
No one asked what he meant. They already knew.
"The arquebuses," he said flatly. "The powder. The shot. The cannon. The horses. Not shared. Given. Full control. Training rights. They want to own what we still have left."
Silence again—this time sharper, like a knife across old wounds.
"That's all we have," murmured Ávila. "They're asking for our future."
"They're offering one," Pedro snapped back. "It's either give it or die with Hernán."
Cristóbal de Olid's absence felt heavier now. No one trusted him. Not fully. But no one could deny the bastard was playing angles the rest of them weren't.
Sandoval scoffed. "So we walk out of here alive… as beggars?"
Pedro folded his arms. "Alive is better than skinned."
A few nodded. Others looked away.
"Besides," Pedro added, softer now, "we'll still have our names. We'll still have land—just not here. New Spain can be elsewhere. This is finished."
It wasn't ideal. Hell, it wasn't even a good deal. But it was the only one left.
And deep down, they all knew it.
The tent flap rustled.
Olid stepped inside—calm, but a little too calm.
Everyone looked up. Alvarado didn't say a word. Neither did Sandoval. Ávila narrowed his eyes.
"You're late," Pedro said finally, voice dry.
Olid glanced around, noted the way they were standing now—less like comrades, more like vultures circling a corpse.
"I figured the world wasn't ending in the hour," Olid replied coolly. "But from the looks on your faces, perhaps I was wrong."
"No," Sandoval cut in, "but you missed the most important message of the week. Tlaxcalans agreed. With terms."
"I assumed they would. I trust Pedro handled that well." Olid moved toward the table, slow and deliberate. "So then, we're all in agreement? The retreat goes forward?"
"For now," Ávila muttered, folding his arms. "Still want to know where you've been."
Olid smiled faintly. "I've been preparing an extra gift. A token… to show good faith toward Ehecatl."
That caught their attention. Pedro squinted. "What kind of token?"
Olid shrugged. "A Castilian woman. Young. Clean. Obedient. A face he won't forget."
Sandoval scoffed. "You think he wants that?"
"Maybe not," Olid said smoothly. "But if we show him we're willing to part with more than just our presence in this city, it sends a message. That we understand who's in control now."
Ávila tilted his head. "You didn't clear this with us."
"Didn't know I needed to," Olid countered. "We all want to live, don't we?"
Pedro watched him, expression unreadable. "Who is she?"
"Catalina Morales," Olid answered. "No one important. A girl I picked up back at the islands. Barely speaks. She'll serve."
No one said anything for a moment.
Finally, Sandoval muttered, "He's giving that devil a woman like it's a tithe to a god…"
Pedro didn't laugh. He just stared at Olid a second longer before finally nodding. "Fine. If it gets us out, I don't care if you offer him your own damn boots."
Olid let the jab pass without comment. He had what he wanted.
They didn't need to know it wasn't for them.
The mood in the war tent thickened again.
Olid's offer had landed. Pedro's Tlaxcalan alliance was secured. The whispers of survival were no longer desperate—but strategic.
Ávila tapped the table with one gloved finger. "So. What about the devil's real terms?"
Everyone knew what he meant. Nobody had to say it.
Cortés. Marina.
"We've got the weapons, the exit plan, the new alliance," Sandoval said. "But none of it matters if we don't deliver him."
"Agreed," Pedro added. "If Ehecatl doesn't get Cortés, he'll see it as betrayal. We'll be no better than the ones he's already killed."
"Same goes for the woman," Olid said.
That turned some heads.
"You really think he cares about her that much?" Sandoval asked, skeptical.
Olid gave a slow nod. "Maybe not for lust. Maybe not even for hate. But she was the tongue between two worlds. Ehecatl likely wants her silenced—or… bent."
Ávila grunted. "She's his interpreter, nothing more."
"No. She was his betrayal," Pedro corrected. "She gave him voice. Made the Mexica understand the snake's lies. If Ehecatl sees this war as spiritual, symbolic—then Marina is the woman who let Cortés speak. She matters."
The silence turned cold.
"So?" Sandoval asked, eyes dark. "What do we do?"
Pedro's voice didn't waver.
"We arrest them both."
Olid crossed his arms. "We'll need to be fast. Quiet. The fewer who know, the better. And we send a runner ahead to Ehecatl. Show him we're keeping our end."
"And Cortés?" Sandoval asked.
Ávila answered: "He dies in chains. Like the rest of us would've, if we let pride guide us."
No one disagreed.
The tent emptied without another word.
Boots met mud. Steel clinked low beneath cloaks. Each man knew where to go, how to move. For all their disagreements, they were still conquistadors—raised in war, hardened by it.
They moved with purpose through the still-darkened ruins of Tenochtitlan. No torches. No noise. Only hushed gestures and the tension of men preparing to cross a final line.
Cortés's tent was just ahead—modest compared to what it once was, but still the center of the camp. Two guards flanked the entrance. They stood at ease, unaware.
Pedro de Alvarado signaled to Sandoval, who approached them casually.
"Captain?" one guard asked, confused.
Sandoval didn't answer.
He drew his dagger and shoved it under the man's chin—quick, silent, efficient. Ávila knocked the other unconscious with the hilt of his sword.
Olid pulled back the flap. Inside, Cortés was seated, shirtless, poring over a map.
He looked up. "What in God's—?"
Pedro struck first.
A solid punch to the jaw sent Cortés tumbling backward. He hit the table, upending it, maps scattering. Before he could shout, Sandoval was on him, driving a knee into his gut.
Cortés gasped, clawing for air.
"Restrain him," Ávila barked.
They moved with brutal speed. Iron cuffs on his wrists. Rope around his legs. A gag shoved into his mouth.
He thrashed. Eyes wide with disbelief.
Olid leaned close.
"You did this to yourself."
Pedro stood over him. "Don't worry. You're not dying. Not yet."
Cortés's eyes flared.
"Someone get the woman," Sandoval growled.
Cut to Marina's Quarters
She had already heard the scuffle.
By the time they arrived, she was up—eyes alert, lips parted. No scream. No fight. Just understanding.
"You're here for me," she said softly.
Pedro nodded.
She glanced to Olid, who avoided her eyes.
They bound her wrists gently, more ceremonial than brutal.
"You'll be treated well," Sandoval said. "Until he says otherwise."
She didn't resist. She didn't cry.
As they led her out under the half-lit sky, she only muttered a phrase in Nahuatl—soft, steady, like a prayer.
None of them asked what it meant.
…
…
…
The sun rose slow and grey over the broken city.
Campfires were already lit by those still half-starved, half-asleep. Castilian soldiers rubbed aching joints. Native allies sharpened chipped blades or chewed stale maize. No one expected what came next.
The inner circle emerged from the command tent, grim and armored—not in parade form, but in gear meant for bad news. No sign of Cortés. No sign of Marina.
Pedro de Alvarado climbed atop a stone foundation and raised a fist.
"Everyone—shut your mouths and listen."
The murmurs faded.
He scanned the crowd. Then he said it:
"Cortés has been arrested."
Gasps. Shouts. One man even laughed, as if it were some grim jest.
Pedro didn't flinch. "You heard me right. He's in chains. So is Marina."
Stillness now. Like the breath had been knocked out of the world.
"Last night, we met. The captains. Those still sane. We talked about the raids, the vanishing patrols, the missing camp of Alonso Ruiz, the fact our allies are breaking away. We talked about Fray Olmedo losing his damn mind."
He gestured toward the cleric's quarters, where Olmedo still wailed about devils, blood, and doom.
"But above all—above everything—we talked about Ehecatl."
Now everyone was locked in.
"He's out there. You all know it. None of us have seen his face, but you've seen what he's done. Raided us. Killed our men. Vanished entire camps. Frightened our allies. Mocked our holy men. And worst of all…"
Pedro's voice dropped.
"…Cortés didn't stop him. Couldn't. Wouldn't."
A silence crept over the soldiers and Indios alike.
"Say what you will about honor, or loyalty to Castile. But honor doesn't keep you alive. Honor doesn't feed you. Honor doesn't stop a demon."
He let that hang. Then added:
"We spoke to Ehecatl."
Now chaos again—whispers, panic, disbelief. Olid stepped forward.
"He's made an offer," he said bluntly. "He will allow us to retreat. Freely. With our lives, with our gear—if we hand over two people."
Gasps again.
"Cortés. And Marina."
Murmurs turned angry. A few men shouted "Traitors!" Others looked toward the city around them, pale.
Sandoval cut through them all: "You think this is betrayal? Then stay here. Keep praying Cortés's ghosts will save you. But when Ehecatl comes for your tents at night, don't scream our names."
Avila raised a hand. "This is the only chance you'll ever get. You don't have to like it. But unless you want to die in this cursed valley, you'll take it."
Olid added, "The Tlaxcalans already agreed. We've promised them what Cortés never would—horses, guns, cannons. And they've promised us safe passage and provisions. This deal is real."
No one cheered.
But no one shouted either.
A long, heavy silence followed.
They all knew it. Even if they hated it.
Cortés led them into hell—and the only way out was through the very man who set it ablaze.
The camp didn't erupt into celebration. There were no cheers. Just the quiet sound of choices being made.
Among the Castilians, the split was almost instant.
Some—veterans of La Noche Triste, men who'd seen their friends gutted in canals and alleys—nodded solemnly. They had no more loyalty to Cortés than to a dying horse. If it meant surviving, they'd hand him over themselves.
Others weren't so quick. The younger ones, the zealous ones, the ones still clinging to titles and land grants promised by a man now in chains—they whispered in angry corners. They called it cowardice. Treason. "Castile doesn't abandon her sons," one muttered, even as he tucked a knife into his boot.
They wouldn't fight today. But they wouldn't forget.
Among the Indio allies, the mood was colder—emptier.
The men from Huexotzinco, Cholula, Tepeyacac… they said nothing. They listened to the terms. They heard Ehecatl's name.
Then they turned away, quiet as ghosts.
For them, the war was already lost. Maybe not in blood, but in spirit. They'd burned homes. Spilled kinblood. Defied the gods they once feared, and revered. And for what?
The Mexica still stood.
Stronger. Smarter. Angrier.
They would go along with the retreat. They weren't suicidal. But when they returned home—what was left of it—they would not march for Castile again.
Not after this.
And they would tell their sons what happened here. Who survived. Who lied. Who truly won.
Only the Tlaxcalans remained composed. And even then, it was a cold, calculating composure.
They already had what they came for.
The weapons. The power. The leverage.
The rest of the alliance? Dead weight.
…
…
…
The walls were made of mud and rot. She knew because she could smell both. There was no light in this room—just the flicker of passing footsteps through the slit beneath the door, and the heavy silence of people keeping secrets.
She hadn't seen Cortés in two days.
No food this morning. No water since yesterday. No one telling her anything.
That was the worst part.
Not the fear. Not the hunger. The not knowing.
She replayed the last conversation she had—Sandoval's voice tight, nervous. Olid avoiding her eyes. Alvarado, for once, didn't smirk when he saw her.
Something changed. She could feel it in the way the soldiers looked at her. Not with desire. Not with disgust. With… finality. Like they already knew what was going to happen to her. Like she was no longer theirs.
She wanted to think it was Cortés protecting her again. But that was a lie she used to sleep easier with. He had stopped protecting her the moment he realized the world was turning without him.
And now?
Now she didn't know if she was being handed over as payment. As punishment. As a message.
She leaned her head back against the wall and shut her eyes.
Is he going to kill me?
Will he use me first?
Will he ask me to speak again? Will he make me betray the Castilians? The others who betrayed the Mexica? Myself?
Her hands were shaking. She pressed them to her knees.
"I'll live," she whispered. "I always live."
Because that's what survivors do.
But this time? She didn't know what she was surviving for.
…
…
…
Cortés sat in chains. Not royal chains, not gilded cuffs like a king taken prisoner. No—rough hemp cord, cut from the same stock used to tie up pigs.
The bastards didn't even give him dignity.
His wrists ached from how tight they'd bound him, and still he pulled. Not to escape. Just to feel something other than rage.
He'd made these men. Raised them from nothing. Alvarado was a glorified thug when he found him. Sandoval barely had shoes. Olid? A coward from the start. And now they sat in his chair, plotted in his camp, and dared to think they could offer him as a sacrifice?
Madness.
He clenched his jaw.
Olmedo was the match. That's where it started. The priest had cracked, ranting like a drunkard about devils and doom, screaming that he—Cortés—was the one who'd doomed them all.
And the others believed him. Because their supplies were gone. Because Salazar's camp was emptied like a ghost town. Because Ehecatl was still alive. Because he—Cortés—hadn't stopped him.
That's all this was.
Not justice. Not God. Not strategy.
Blame.
They needed a scapegoat, and they picked the man who led them to victory. The man who built their future. The man who—
He paused. His lips twitched. Not a smile. Something sharper.
They hadn't killed him yet.
That meant they were still afraid.
Good.
Let them fear, and wonder. Let them think they've caged a lion.
Because if there was one thing Hernán Cortés had mastered in this world—it was the art of making men regret underestimating him.
…
…
…
Catalina hadn't slept.
Not out of fear. Not exactly.
She sat cross-legged near the corner of Olid's tent, wrapped in a plain wool cloak that still smelled faintly of wet horse and bitter sweat. The night air slipped in through the canvas flaps. Her toes had gone numb.
She kept turning his words over in her head. Not the way he said them, but the way he didn't.
"He might take you as a peace gesture."
"He's…different than the others. Smarter. Calculated."
"You'll be helping all of us."
Helping.
As if she had a choice.
She wasn't a fool. She hadn't survived the garrison, the sea, and the long march through this hell for nothing. She knew the way men spoke when they were asking for something but making it sound like a favor. Olid didn't care about her. He cared about surviving. And if throwing her into Ehecatl's hands bought him another day on this cursed land, he'd do it twice over.
She stared at her hands—small, dry, red from scrubbing pots the day before. She remembered once thinking she'd be a nun. Now she was going to be a gift. A bargaining chip.
Or a warning.
She didn't know what Ehecatl wanted. Her body? Her blood? Her silence?
But she did know men like him didn't forget who handed them the knife. And if Olid thought offering her would earn his mercy…
Catalina exhaled, slow and steady. She would not cry. Not now.
She would remember everything.
Every word Olid said.
Every face that avoided hers.
Every hand that led her to the edge of that storm.
Because if Ehecatl spared her, she'd make sure he knew exactly who threw her to the wolves.