The city didn't feel like it belonged to them anymore.
Not even the smoke smelled right.
Gone was the familiar stench of gunpowder and rot. Now it reeked of wet stone, and burnt cloth.
The Castilian zone had grown quieter by the hour. Men didn't speak unless they had to. Indio allies avoided eye contact. The Tlaxcalans packed with mechanical efficiency, refusing small talk, refusing orders. It wasn't a camp preparing for triumph, it was a funeral procession in denial.
And inside the command tent, they waited.
Pedro de Alvarado stood at the center, arms crossed, his jaw tense. Beside him, Olid, quiet for once. A heavy silence had settled after the messenger returned. Not the one they had sent to Cortés—he never came back.
The one from Ehecatl did.
"He agrees," the man had said, still pale.
"We leave in peace. He gets Cortés, the interpreter, and… the girl."
"Nothing else?" someone asked.
"He said that was enough."
No threats. No gloating. Just calm, measured clarity. It unsettled them more than any ultimatum would have.
"…We're giving him everything he wants," someone muttered now.
"No," Pedro finally said, lifting his chin. "We're giving him what he thinks he wants."
That's when Olid spoke up. "And a little more."
The men turned.
"I told you I had something to help sweeten the exchange," he said. "I've arranged for a girl to be delivered to him as well. Castilian. Soft. Young."
Someone scoffed. Another looked disgusted.
"He didn't ask for that," one said.
"He didn't have to," Olid replied. "It's goodwill. A reminder that we're not all beasts."
He smiled faintly.
"And maybe a way to stay remembered… fondly."
The others didn't press further, as they had no energy left for outrage.
Instead, they turned their attention to what would come next.
The Tlaxcalans, to their relief, had agreed to assist with the retreat, so long as every horse, arquebus, and cannon the Spaniards still possessed was handed over. Every. Single. One.
The men didn't like it. But they didn't argue. They knew the cost of refusal. Better to crawl away stripped and breathing than buried in Tenochtitlan's mud.
"We move before dusk," Pedro said. "We deliver the prisoners. We secure the withdrawal routes. And then… we get the fuck out of this nightmare."
"But not without leaving a present," someone added.
They all turned to the last cage in the shadowed corner of camp.
Inside, still breathing, Cuauhtémoc last heir of the Mexica line, and beside him, the remaining other nobles in silence.
They'd survived the war only because Cortés had planned to use them as puppets, but now?
Now they were just pawns left on a forgotten side of the board.
"No words," Pedro said. "No announcement. Just… leave the cages open."
"And if they figure it out?"
"Let them. It'll be too late."
No one disagreed.
They weren't doing this for Cortés.
They weren't doing it for God.
They were doing it to fuck with Ehecatl.
They wanted to watch him squint into the horizon after they were gone and realize—he'd been fucked with the same way they'd been fucked with. They wanted to give him at least some problems in the same way he gave them.
Because nothing said vengeance like planting a seed of civil war in the ashes of your own defeat.
…
…
…
Main Square, Tenochtitlan – Morning
The air was thick with smoke, stillness, and watching eyes. Clouds loomed overhead, casting long shadows across the broken plaza where stone met blood, and ambition met consequence. From the battered remnants of what was once a ceremonial space, Ehecatl stood calmly, surrounded by his own. Their silhouettes flanked the sacred platform, eyes sharp, weapons readied, but idle for now.
Across from him approached the Castilian inner circle, no longer dressed in grandeur but in the muted steel and leather of survival. The nobles of Castile walked like men who had tasted bitterness, weariness carved into their faces as deep as the scars on their skin. Between them, Catalina trailed slightly behind—head bowed, body tense. Cortés and Marina were marched between Alvarado and Ávila, wrists bound and stripped of dignity.
The air seemed to pause.
Ehecatl's voice cut cleanly through it.
"So you have held your end of the deal… I have to ask though, who's this extra girl you've brought to me?"
(He gestured to Catalina.)
Olid stepped forward, offering a performative, almost strained smile.
"She's… a gift. From us. A Castilian concubine. Consider it a gesture of goodwill."
"So a concubine, eh? Very well, I'll accept. My thanks to which of you who orchestrated it. Now onto the other two and the sword. Hand 'em over, and you have until nighttime to get out of this city."
Ávila motioned silently, handing over Cortés's famed sword first—a blade once seen as the edge of empire, now just a relic of failure. Marina was pushed forward next, eyes filled with a thousand unspoken fears. Cortés snarled but said nothing, silenced not by ropes, but humiliation.
"Don't worry 'gentlemen', I'll also honor my side of the deal. May we never have to see each other any longer than necessary."
Velázquez didn't look up. "From your mouth to God's ears."
Alvarado spit on the stone at Ehecatl's feet. "You're not the first savage to gloat. You won't be the last to fall."
Olid, jaw tight, waved a hand. "Let's go. We've lingered enough."
Sandoval, muttering as he turned his back, "If there's a hell, it looks like this place…"
Ávila, pausing only a moment as he stepped away: "Don't choke on your throne, 'lord.'"
They turned in unison, boots crunching against the dust and stone of a city they once believed would be theirs forever. Behind them, Ehecatl said nothing. His expression was unreadable, neither triumph nor fury. Just calculation.
None of the other Castilians noticed the quiet flicker of movement elsewhere in the city—the gates to a holding cell.
Cuauhtémoc and the remaining noble families were to be released. No one had told Ehecatl. No one needed to.
The Castilians had delivered their part of the deal.
And they had left behind one final fuck you.
…
…
…
He stood there, eyes fixed on the three prisoners now in his possession, the square around them silent save for the distant shuffle of boots and carts — the sound of the Castilians packing up to flee with their tails tucked between their legs.
Hernán Cortés.
The infamous conquistador didn't look like a monster. He was of average height, sturdy but no longer powerful. His once-regal cuirass was dented and dull, the red sash across his chest faded with grime and sweat. Greying hair, and his beard was patchy, as if the weeks had gnawed away both his strength and pride. His eyes — blue, bloodshot, exhausted still held a glint of fury, but they were the eyes of a man who had lost everything. Ehecatl had expected… more. A final battle. A speech. A bitter last stand. But there was nothing theatrical about betrayal.
His own men handed him over like rotten meat.
And Ehecatl, for all his drive and hatred, didn't feel triumphant. Just… hollow. Like a fire that burned too long and was left with nothing but heatless ash. Maybe that was fitting. This wasn't a story. It was war. And in war, power shifted without grandeur.
He turned his eyes to Malinalli.
She was smaller than he remembered. Her black hair was matted, pulled tight behind her head, skin dulled by fatigue and confinement. But her eyes still flickered with that intelligent light — sharp, cautious, calculating. The same gaze she must've used when first translating for Cortés, the same eyes she wore when helping him manipulate and destroy. And yet, he didn't hate her. He pitied her. This woman had been a tool, shaped and bent to serve an empire she never belonged to. Maybe he would've felt kinship with her once, back when he was new to this era and still believed in fairness.
But now? She didn't matter. Not anymore.
Then, finally, his gaze fell on her.
The Castilian concubine, Catalina.
She was… softer. Golden-brown curls framed a young face, her cheeks flushed not from embarrassment, but the tension of being paraded and handed off. Her eyes were hazel, darting between him and the ground, trying not to tremble. Her dress — once fine, had been hastily mended, but she carried herself like someone used to obeying. She smelled faintly of lavender and stale sea salt, like the ships they'd once crossed. A different kind of beauty than he was used to. Fragile. Foreign. Unexpected.
He wasn't sure how to feel about having a concubine. It felt… strange. Unnatural, even. But this was the world he's a part of now. And whether it was politics, war, or survival, people were given or taken. Still… he wouldn't be opposed to enjoying the benefits of having a concubine, but he would not abuse her. He would learn who she was, and she would live with him.
Then his eyes lowered to the final offering.
The sword.
Cortés's blade was magnificent, even now. Its hilt was carved with ornate patterns, and the steel caught the light like water in the sun. It had drawn blood from countless warriors, toppled altepetls, and ended kings.
Now it was in his hands.
Something primal stirred in him — not just pride, but power. This was no longer just a war between nations. It was inheritance. This sword was a symbol. The Castilians brought steel. Now, steel was Mexica.
He turned, silently, his people falling in behind him. The sun hung high above the square, and Ehecatl for once after awakening on the day the city fell, felt warmth.
…
…
…
The sun crested over the battered skyline of Tenochtitlan, painting the broken stone and smoke-stained ruins in a deceptive wash of gold. For a brief moment, it looked like salvation. But for the Castilians, there was no glory in this morning—only shame and resignation.
They moved in silence.
Armor clinked with none of the usual pomp. Packs were overburdened. Horses, gaunt and muddy, trudged alongside bloodied boots. A few of the younger soldiers muttered under their breath, complaining about the weight or the smell. But no one shouted. No one barked orders. Even the officers had lost their voices.
This wasn't a triumphant exit. It was a funeral march—slow, bitter, and filled with the hollow ache of failure.
They were used to breaking kings, not kneeling to boys. To receiving women, not surrendering them. Catalina's absence stung in ways few would admit. Cortés's shackled silence behind them was worse. They could feel his eyes burning holes in their backs, even if he hadn't spoken a word since the handoff.
Some whispered he'd make them pay one day. Others privately hoped he never would.
Pedro de Alvarado rode near the front, his lips pressed in a grim line. The sword Ehecatl now carried had once gleamed in Cortés's hand—now it was just another prize lost to the indios. Beside him, Olid said nothing. He hadn't since the exchange. None of them had, really. What was there left to say?
They had thrown the dice, and bet their lives on a retreat.
Behind them, a caravan of reluctant allies trailed.
Indio Allies POV:
For many of the allied altepetl warriors, the shame bit just as hard. They hadn't come this far, bled this much, only to leave with nothing but bruises and memories.
The Tlaxcalans, quiet and tight-lipped, walked with purpose. They at least had a future—cannons to study, horses to train, arquebuses to learn. But the rest? The Huexotzincas, the Cempoalans, the Tliliuhquenses and all the others were seething.
Seeing Cortés in chains broke something in them.
It wasn't loyalty to the man—it was the symbol. The illusion that the Castilians were superior, untouchable and ordained, had shattered like cheap pottery. And to see one of their own—Catalina, a Castilian woman—handed off like some tribute concubine to a Mexica youth? That wasn't war anymore. That was humiliation.
They most certainly didn't cry like some Castilians, and they didn't curse, but the silence said enough.
From now on they'd go back to their cities, their mountains, their lakes and valleys. They would rebuild, they would survive, and perhaps maybe claim whatever tributaries the Mexica once collected tribute from, but they would not fight again for the Castilians. Not under these terms. Not for these results.
And beneath the quiet bitterness, something else lingered.
Respect.
Even now, as the Mexica limped, starving, torn and broken, they still stood. Ehecatl had risen from the ashes of defeat and turned the tides by sheer rage, cunning, and refusal to die. There was no denying it now. The Mexica weren't finished.
And that scared them more than they could say.
…
…
…
The clang of a rusty cell bolt echoed faintly in the chamber. Cuauhtémoc's eyes snapped open, instinct sharpened from weeks of confinement. Across the narrow corridor, his wife stirred as well, rubbing sleep from her face as a dull beam of morning light crept in through the high vents.
A Castilian soldier stood at the door—one he didn't recognize. The man's face was blank, but his hands trembled as he worked the keys. With a final twist, the iron bars creaked open.
Not a word was spoken. No gesture. No command. The man turned, boots thudding hastily against stone as he sprinted back up the stairwell and out of view.
Cuauhtémoc stood slowly, eyes narrowed.
One by one, the other doors down the hall began to creak open. The other nobles—haggard, some barefoot, all confused—stepped out into the corridor. Their murmurs rose quickly.
"Why now?"
"Where are the guards?"
"I heard nothing of an escape."
Cuauhtémoc raised his hand, silencing them. His eyes locked on the open stairwell, where the light of dawn poured in.
Something had changed. The city—what little they could hear of it—was not in the frenzy of battle, but rather… motion. Movement. Chatter. Packing.
His wife touched his arm. "Do you think it's him? Ehecatl?"
Cuauhtémoc didn't answer. He motioned for everyone to follow.
Step by step, the freed nobles ascended, blinking against the sun as they emerged into the upper courtyard.
What they saw made no sense.
The Castilians were leaving.