The moment they stepped out of where they had been held, the city struck them with its noise not of war, but of rebirth.
Drums beat in arrhythmic bursts across the city, some ceremonial, others wild and celebratory. Smoke drifted from street bonfires and the discharged mouths of stolen arquebuses and cannons. Cheers and laughter echoed through once-silent plazas during the Castilian Occupation. Some men and women, naked and unashamed, made love in public shadows — others drank from casks of pulque and Castilian wine, stolen during the chaos. Skirts flared in frenzied dance. Children ran with sticks, pretending to chase off Castillians and their allies down the alleys.
"What…?" murmured one of the nobles behind Cuauhtémoc, his voice raw from days of silence.
"It is the sound of victory," another whispered. "Of our people celebrating the Caxtilteca retreating."
Yet for every cheer, there were tears. Women clutched bloody tokens of loved ones lost — hair braids, broken blades, clothing stained with mud and blood. Some wept openly while smiling, their grief entangled with pride. Old men lifted their hands to the sky, not in prayer, but in disbelief that they still breathed. Death and life intermingled in every face, every rooftop, every shattered wall.
As Cuauhtémoc and the nobles walked through the throng, the group began to murmur among themselves.
"They waste powder firing into the sky. The shot should be saved for defense we will need."
"And the pulque… it could've gone to trade or temples."
"Look at them! Like beasts in heat. This is madness."
"Should we… stop them?"
Cuauhtémoc said nothing for a moment. He paused and looked at the city laid bare before him. The stone of Tenochtitlan gleamed under the midday sun, scorched, shattered, broken but unbeaten.
He turned to the others.
"No. This day belongs to them. They can laugh, cry, drink, fuck, mourn, or scream — let them. Who among us can tell them not to, after all that's happened? Let them be alive."
The nobles fell silent.
"And tomorrow?" one asked softly.
"Tomorrow," Cuauhtémoc said, "we begin rebuilding. But today… we meet the boy who breathed life unto us when we and everyone else in Cemenahuac thought we were dead."
The nobles shared a look, some grumbling, others nodding in grim agreement. They pressed on, weaving through a street of weeping women and cheering veterans until they rounded a corner and stopped cold.
There, tied to a broken column and half-guarded by grinning macehualtin, were two figures.
Cortés. Bloodied, red-eyed, gagged.
Malinalli. Silent, watchful, bound but not gagged.
"What in the name of Tezcatlipoca…" one noble whispered, stepping back instinctively.
Cortés barked something guttural in Castilian, straining against his bindings, foam at the corners of his mouth. It was rabid, unfiltered. A man dragged from glory and thrown into dust.
Cuauhtémoc tilted his head. He understood a few words—puta, perro, salvaje, traición—but not enough. He looked to Malinalli.
She didn't flinch. "He says his men betrayed him. That they handed him over… for peace."
"For peace?" another noble scoffed. "This man burned temples and butchered priests."
Malinalli nodded, calm. "They gave him, me… and another woman. Catalina Morales. As a trade. Ehecatl made the deal with his inner circle."
Cuauhtémoc's eyes narrowed. "Where is Ehecatl?"
"Gone," she said. "He had taken Catalina to a house nearby."
The silence was long. The nobles exchanged uneasy glances.
"It was them," Totomihuatzin murmured, realization dawning. "The Castilians let us go. They released us…"
"To wound him," Cuauhtémoc finished, low. "To set the pieces."
Malinalli nodded once. "They hope you and the boy clash. Divide yourselves."
Cuauhtémoc's gaze lingered on her, then on Cortés—the pale husk of the man who had once razed their world.
"Find the house," he said. "We meet the boy now."
…
…
…
The sun hung over Tenochtitlan, casting warm across the shattered yet vibrant city. Somewhere deep in the central districts, tucked between crumbling homes and newly-liberated neighborhoods, Ehecatl finally rested inside a half-intact commoner's house. Mud-brick walls, warped but stable, shaded him from the glare of the day. A mat of woven reeds served as a seat. A clay jug of pulque, and wine — already half-drained. It wasn't lavish, but it was something.
Victory, real.
His tilmatli lay discarded in the corner. He wasn't wounded. Not a scratch. Not a bruise. Just dried sweat, a tight chest, and the afterglow of the impossible. He hadn't meant to sit still for this long, but once he did… his body refused to move. Not from exhaustion. From contentment.
He'd done it.
He had lived in a world where every textbook, every smug YouTube historian, every cynical academic spat the same lie:
"The Mexica could never win."
"They were doomed the moment Cortés landed."
"Resistance was noble, but futile."
Not anymore.
They were gone. The Castilians. The Tlaxcalans. The Otomí. The traitors.
Retreating with their tails between their legs, leaving behind their disgraced general, their interpreter, and one trembling girl in a fine linen shift.
Catalina Morales.
She stood by, unsure whether she should sit beside him or stay pressed against the wall. Her wrists still bore red impressions from the cord they had tied her with, though Ehecatl himself had cut her free an hour ago. Her posture was stiff, arms to her sides, lips trembling ever so slightly. She had been given to him. Just like that. Informed, but without request. Without protest.
Her gaze didn't dare meet his.
She didn't know what he'd do.
He glanced at her now. Slowly. Not entirely sizing her up like a lecher, but out of idle observation. Pale-skinned, not corpse-pale like some Castilians, but flushed with sun and fear. Brown curly hair tucked messily behind her ears. Her eyes were a hazel, wide with caution. She couldn't have been more than fifteen, maybe sixteen. A life spent in taverns and garrisons, from what little he had asked her.
She hadn't said a word since.
He tilted the jug of pulque to his lips, took a slow sip, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You don't need to stand like that," he said in Nahuatl, already knowing she wouldn't understand.
She flinched anyway — just from his tone.
He sighed through his nose. "Tch… yeah. Right."
He looked back at the ceiling. Then at the sword. Cortés's sword. It lay against the wall, resting on a folded tunic. The hilt was golden. Etched with lions. Regal. Used to cut the throats of warriors and kings. Now? Now it was his.
He should've felt some kind of dramatic catharsis. Like in the movies. Like that one final boss moment in games, and anime's.
But instead…
There was no music. No thunder. No glorious applause. No screaming Cortés cut down in battle.
Just silence.
The Castilian warlord didn't fall in a blaze of fire. He was given up like trash by his own men. Sold for safe passage. Not even a fight. No glory.
"Hmph," Ehecatl muttered to himself. "Kinda lame…"
The sword still looked cool, though.
He turned to Catalina again. She hadn't moved an inch. Her chest rose and fell quickly, quietly.
He stood up, stretched his arms back, and walked over not looming, just casual. She stiffened immediately. He saw the way her hands twitched like she was ready to drop to her knees or shield herself, unsure of what this new master would demand.
Instead, Ehecatl reached past her and grabbed a rough wool cloak draped near the entrance of the home.
"You cold?" he asked in Spanish.
Her head snapped up. She blinked, uncertain if she'd heard him correctly. Then, slowly, she nodded.
He tossed her the cloak.
"Wrap up. It'll get worse once the sun drops."
She caught it clumsily, then just stared at him again, blinking.
"…Gracias…" she whispered.
He sat back down, arms behind his head, letting the pulque warm his gut.
"You're safe. Nobody's gonna hurt you. You belong to me now, right? So that means you get to eat. You get a place to sleep. And no one touches you unless I say so. You get that?"
Catalina nodded again, almost too fast.
"Good."
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. The city roared in the distance — cannons echoing in joy, songs sung off-key, fireworks repurposed from stolen munitions. Somewhere, maybe only blocks away, lovers moaned drunk in alleyways while grieving mothers wept over the names of the dead.
It was messy. Loud. Raw.
But it was theirs.
"Victory Day," Ehecatl murmured to himself.
Yeah.
Let 'em scream, cry, laugh, love and fuck.
They earned it, just as he's earned it as well.
…
…
…
A narrow street just off the main square had quieted compared to the rest of the city, but two armed macehualtin stood guard in front of a modest, half-intact adobe home. They were both young, sun-darkened, and nervous, but proud—each gripping a Castilian sword looted from the Guerilla Warfare.
They stiffened as a ragged group approached.
"Stop!" one barked, raising his blade. "No one is to disturb Ehecatl, he gave strict orders!"
The second narrowed his eyes at the newcomers—four gaunt men in torn tilmatlis, dust-caked, their feet wrapped in fraying cloth. No jewelry. No feathers. Just tired, hungry faces.
The first guard scoffed. "Probably more people thinking they'll get a reward for bowing now."
They both held firm. One of them added, "He's with a Caxtilteca woman inside. Said no one is to come through, speak, or even walk past us until he says otherwise, and if you think we're bluffing, try it."
The group remained still.
Then Cuauhtémoc stepped forward.
He raised his head slowly, dignity shining through the exhaustion. In soft, lordly speech voice, he said, "I am Cuauhtémoctzin. Huey Tlahtoani of Tenochtitlan. These are your lords, your calpixque. Step aside."
Silence.
One of the guards blinked.
The other's jaw slowly unhinged, realizing.
"…By the gods."
They immediately bowed.
"Forgive us. We didn't—You weren't—Your clothing…"
Cuauhtémoc simply held up a hand. "Rise."
They did. Embarrassed. One gestured hesitantly toward the door. "He truly did say he's not to be disturbed…"
Cuauhtémoc nodded, a tired smirk forming. "We'll wait."
The sound of distant cheering, drums, and cannonfire rolled through the street. From inside the home there were whimpers and moans from the Castilian girl, and grunts, growls from Ehecatl.
The nobles settled into silence, resting against a nearby wall. None spoke.
And so they waited.
The pipiltin stood in silence.
Lined up outside a modest, half-intact adobe home tucked between the ruins of other homes, Cuauhtémoc and the last of his nobles—dressed in rags, barefoot, sunburnt, and half-starved—were stone-faced as they tried, desperately, to ignore the unmistakable sounds echoing from behind the walls of Ehecatl's new quarters.
It had been over 10 minutes.
The rhythm of flesh clapping was undeniable.
So were the voices. Catalina's voice, and Ehecatl's. Cuauhtemoc and the other nobles weren't fluent in Castilian, but they did know enough to understand what "quien es tu papi?" means, and as well as her responding with "ay si" or "tu papi".
Cuauhtémoc's eye twitched.
One of the nobles cleared his throat.
Another shifted uncomfortably, muttering under his breath in Nahuatl, something about this being "improper for men of stature."
"Should we… come back later?" one pipiltin whispered, though none moved.
A younger one, barely twenty, whispered back: "We're the fucking nobility. And we're waiting outside for a commoner?"
Another noble grunted, "A commoner who just made the Caxtilteca retreat, was given their war chief, and now lies with their women."
They all fell silent again. The rhythmic clapping continued.
"…This is absurd," one grumbled.
"No," Cuauhtémoc muttered, arms crossed. "This is victory."
And the waiting resumed.
…
…
…
The room still pulsed with the heat of their fucking.
Outside, the midday sun spilled harsh and golden across the ruined neighborhood, but within the battered walls of the half-intact commoner's home, the air was humid and thick—salted with sweat, musky with sex, and drowsy in the way only real victory could make it.
Ehecatl lay back against a flattened reed mat layered with blankets, legs stretched out like a king in his palace. Catalina rested beside him, her skin flushed and damp, her brown hair tangled and splayed across the rolled-up blankets she used as a pillow. Her breathing was soft, shallow, her body curled in loosely as if unsure whether she was meant to sleep or serve again.
She hadn't spoken a word since their intercourse. From fear, from awe—maybe terror. Maybe all three. Now here she was, naked and pinned beneath the weight of a war-won peace she didn't understand, surrendered to a man who carried death in his hands and hope in his eyes.
Ehecatl turned his head slightly, watching her profile. The slope of her nose, the sheen of sweat at her collarbone, the quiet rise and fall of her bare chest. She was beautiful, no question there. He'd noticed that from the start. But now, as he has her naked, he's seeing her bare in all its lustful glory. Breasts not too big or small, curvy, a nice ass he'd like to go another round with, but he's got visitors to go entertain. As he was getting ready he glanced down at Catalina.
Her eyes were open, but she wasn't looking at him. She stared off at the wall unmoving, quiet. Her chest rose with each breath, small and shallow.
He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. She flinched — barely — then relaxed again.
Right… she's scared of me. He remembered that now. The reputation. The stories that must've spread through the Castilians. The things whispered about him by both Castillians and their native allies. Catalina had every reason to fear him. He'll have to work on that, but for now duty calls.
…
…
…
He leaned back slightly, one arm resting behind his head, the other trailing down Catalina's bare hip as her breath still came in slow waves. The day's triumph hummed beneath his skin—an impossible victory achieved, a city reborn around him, and now, this: a soft body curled beside him, quiet and obedient, not out of love or lust, but reverence and fear.
He exhaled deeply, fingers brushing against her spine.
"You should get dressed," he murmured. "Some folks are here to see me."
Catalina blinked. Her lashes were still wet with the sweat and flush of afterglow, but she nodded instantly. No protest, no question. Just the silent scramble for her discarded garments. Ehecatl rose with her, going for his own clothes without urgency. He tied his sash, went to tie his tilmatli, glanced once more at the sword resting beside the mat—Cortés's symbol of conquest, now just another trophy in a city that refused to die.
He stepped outside.
Two young macehualtin snapped upright from their post beside the door.
"Who is it?" Ehecatl asked simply.
They looked at each other, then at him.
"Huey Tlahtoani Cuauhtémoctzin… and some of the pipiltin," the older of the two said, straightening his shoulders as though only now realizing how wild that sentence sounded. "They've come to see you, lord."
Ehecatl blinked, then let out a small scoff—half disbelief, half amusement.
He nodded once, then gestured toward the door behind him.
He said flatly. "Allow them into my house."
The two guards then gave a deep bow—the formal way of yielding space and protection to noble guests.
"Tlatoque," one of them called toward the path, voice clear and practiced, "Ehecatl welcomes you. Enter in peace, with fire and breath."
The curtain door opened as Ehecatl stepped aside to reveal the dim, hastily-cleaned commoner's house behind him. Catalina had withdrawn quietly into the shadows, the corner of a wall, dressed once again, her head bowed low.
The pipiltin entered in a tight cluster, led by Cuauhtémoc himself—tall despite his weariness, shoulders back, spine straight. They wore rags still, barely better than prisoner garb, but their eyes were sharp, unreadable, and full of pride they refused to shed.
Ehecatl offered a slight tilt of the head.
"Otiquihiyohuih," he said—"You have tired yourselves in coming here with me."
A common greeting, humble in tone but heavy with reverence. The kind where the hosts acknowledge the effort it takes for the guest to come out here.
Cuauhtémoc's expression shifted just slightly. He gave a shallow nod, neither smiling nor scowling.
"It was not far," he replied, voice steady but gravel-edged from thirst and sleep deprivation. "We simply followed the noise, and asked around."
Another noble—older, gaunt from weeks of captivity—glanced subtly toward the mat behind Ehecatl, eyes flicking across the floor for signs of who else had been inside besides the Castilian girl. He said nothing.
"We came," Cuauhtémoc continued, "because it is time… Time to understand what has happened, and who now stands at the center of this."
The unspoken message lingered in the air. They were not here to kneel. But neither could they pretend not to recognize what Ehecatl had done. They were noble by blood, but this boy had done the impossible. Without titles. Without a crown. Without them.
Their pride was intact, but brittle.
Ehecatl didn't gloat. He simply stepped aside.
"Then come," he said. "You've stood in the dark long enough. There's food and drink inside."
A long pause.
Then, one by one, they entered. Formal. Tense. Silent. But they entered.
Because no matter how bruised their pride, they knew what this day was.
Victory.
And they were guests in the home of its architect.
…
…
…
Inside the half intact modest home, Ehecatl sat down at the center of the home, as the embers of spent intimacy barely cooled in his bloodstream. Catalina, now redressed in a clean huipil, since her Castilian dress was ripped. Moved quietly between clay jars and trays, preparing dishes of tamales, and pulque without needing instruction. When Ehecatl motioned, she moved to serve.
Cuauhtémoc and the other nobles then sat around the floor, stiff with soreness but trying not to show it. Catalina poured pulque with a practiced hand, setting food between them. Ehecatl gestured to begin eating. The air between them held a strange weight—triumph, disbelief, and the uneasy silence between nobles and the boy who'd just saved everything.
Cuauhtémoc broke the silence first.
"We have questions, Ehecatl. We must understand what you've done… and how we move forward."
Ehecatl nodded, tearing a piece of rabbit with his fingers. "Ask."
A pipiltin leaned forward, voice cautious. "How do you know the Castilians won't return?"
"Cortés was lucky," Ehecatl said flatly. "Luckier than he deserved. He should've died ten times over. But his luck ended with me. The rest of them? They're eating themselves alive. My informants say what little they have left—horses, powder, weapons—they're giving to the Tlaxcalans. But those dogs don't know loyalty. The other altepetls won't help them again. Not after this morning. That buys us time."
Another noble chimed in, eyes sharp. "Do we have enough warriors left to wield what we've taken?"
"We'd need to count who's still alive," Ehecatl admitted. "But yes—we have men who can fire cannons. Ride horses. I know how the powder is made. What we don't have, we'll raid for."
The nobles murmured among themselves. Cuauhtémoc raised a hand, quieting them.
"You speak as though we must become Caxtilteca to defeat them."
"Not quite," Ehecatl said, wiping his hands clean. "Not their tongue. Not their god. Not their garb. Just their cruelty. Their ruthlessness. We need more of their weapons than they themselves have."
The silence after that was heavy, nods exchanged in grim agreement.
Cuauhtémoc finally asked, "Can you teach us what you've done to make them fear you?"
Ehecatl nodded. "I will. And you'll pass it on to the warriors we'll rebuild."
A long pause followed as the nobles processed the weight of that promise. Then came the practical concerns.
"What now? What first?"
Ehecatl leaned back. "Fix the city. Then the valley. Then Tlaxcalan."
A younger noble frowned. "They'll resist. The altepetls shift their loyalty like reeds in wind."
"They'll hear of today. Of us still standing," Ehecatl replied. "Some will try to buy our forgiveness. That's tribute and manpower. Enough for now. As for their rulers… if I had my way, I'd replace them all. But we're not strong enough yet. So instead, we tighten the leash. Force their pipiltin to live by our law. You've likely started that already. With horses, our reach only grows."
The nobles exchanged glances, some tense, others thoughtful. A long silence fell before Cuauhtémoc spoke, voice low.
"You speak of reforging an empire."
"That," Ehecatl said. "And of not falling again."
Cuauhtémoc sat in silence, eyes on Ehecatl, but mind already turning over every word the youth had spoken.
He didn't flinch. Not once. Every question, he answered like someone who'd thought it through — maybe not in full, but enough to know what mattered. He had expected some fire in Ehecatl, sure — the boy had become something of a legend already. But this… this was strategy. Cold, calm, and grounded in experience.
The part about Cortés — "his own men will eat each other alive" — that wasn't just sharp. That was insight. Only someone who had studied them, lived close enough to see how they worked, would think like that. Ehecatl spoke of geopolitics as if he'd been raised at the heart of the Calmecac, not among commoners. Spoke of valley altepetl like a man who had seen their councils play both sides. And the answer to the looted weapons question? Not boasting. Not bravado. He said they'd need to count first. That was discipline.
Cuauhtémoc's gaze shifted to the others. He could feel their unspoken agreement. Ehecatl wasn't just passing the questions — he was answering like a man already in command.
And he's not shutting us out either, Cuauhtémoc thought. No arrogance. He'll teach what he knows. He still sees himself as part of the whole, not above it. That makes him more dangerous, and more useful.
For a brief moment, the Huey Tlatoani felt something tighten in his chest. Not fear. But clarity.
This boy has everything a noble is supposed to have. More than some born into the role. When we leave this house… I'll need to speak to the others. See if they saw what I saw. Then…
He took in a slow breath.
Then we decide what place Ehecatl truly deserves.
Cuauhtémoc stood, as he offered Ehecatl a slow, respectful nod. "We've spoken enough for today," he said, voice calm, measured. His eyes slid briefly to Catalina, still silent by the far corner she retreated to after serving food and drinks, before returning to Ehecatl. "Enjoy what remains of your day. You've earned it."
With that, he turned. The nobles stood with him, as they exited the modest house one by one. Outside, beneath the dimming sky, the noblemen walked in silence for a moment.
Then Cuauhtémoc finally broke it.
"Well?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder. "Say what you will."
One of the elder pipiltin gave a low grunt. "I expected raw defiance. Arrogance. Instead, he answered every question thrown with clarity. The boy knows how the Castilians think. That alone makes him dangerous to our enemies."
Another younger noble, arms folded tightly, added, "He doesn't posture. He calculates. Even when asked about resources, he did not boast. He said we'd need to count our survivors. That's not bravado. That's someone who knows what's at stake."
Cuauhtémoc nodded slowly, but his mind was racing further. Ehecatl wasn't excluding them. He hadn't spoken like a rebel trying to seize power for himself. He offered to teach them what he knew. He showed awareness of the politics of the valley, of the indecisiveness of the altepetls. He knew what needed to be done—and more importantly, what couldn't yet be done.
The Huey Tlatoani exhaled through his nose.
"He is more than a fighter," Cuauhtémoc said aloud. "He may well have everything needed to be noble."
The silence that followed was not dissent.
He would still need to speak with the rest of the nobility. The lords of the other houses, the remnants of the old nobility, the war captains and the priests. But for now, one truth was dawning clearly:
The macehualli had defied death, shattered a myth, and walked into their halls with the bearing of someone born to rule.
And that could not be ignored.
…
…
…
Once inside a estate courtyard where several of their kin had gathered to receive them, Cuauhtémoc signaled for privacy. The nobles who had accompanied him to Ehecatl's house formed a quiet half-circle, eyes turning to their tlahtoani.
He spoke first.
"You've all seen and heard him now. Speak plainly."
A pause. Then one of the elder pipiltin—narrow-faced, with arms crossed in stiff formality—was the first to speak.
"He is clever… frighteningly so for someone of his station. He speaks of gunpowder and geopolitics as though it were flower war strategy. But let's not pretend—he is no noble. The gods did not choose him to rule, he chose himself. If we elevate him, what message does that send?"
Another, younger noble, leaned forward.
"That we reward merit, when our world is on fire. He teaches others to wield Caxtilteca thunder. He speaks to us as equals but defers when proper. I care little for his blood if it is victory he brings."
A third scoffed, eyes narrowing.
"And when he one day tires of deference? When his followers grow in number and spirit? We grant him status now, and soon his line rivals ours. Will your sons thank you for it?"
A murmur rippled through the group—some in agreement, others uneasy.
Finally, Cuauhtémoc raised a hand. The circle quieted.
"We no longer rule over a basin of strength and tribute. The city is broken. Our families thinned. We've lost what we built over centuries in less than three years. And yet he still builds. While we retreated and buried our dead, he made the Caxtilteca fear our name again. He made their allies afraid to side with them. That is the work of a noble, whether by birth or not."
Some heads dipped slightly. A few held firm.
"I will not force your mouths to praise him. But I will recognize the truth in front of us. Ehecatl is not of our blood—but he is what we need. He should be given a place among us."
The silence afterward held weight. Not agreement—but momentum.
One of the older nobles muttered after a beat:
"If you say so, Huey Tlahtoani. I will not object."
Another nodded, and the youngest among them added with quiet conviction:
"Then let it be known. Ehecatl shall rise."
…
…
…
She was born in Santo Domingo, beneath a roof patched with clay and thatch, in a house that always smelled of sweat and salt. Her father was a soldier once—now a tavernkeeper with one good eye, a cracked belt, and endless stories of slashing through the green hells of Jamaica and the Bahamas. Her mother had died when Catalina was six. Fever, they said, though Catalina remembered the coughing fits and the blood on the cloth. Since then, she'd been raised among soldiers and merchants and their appetites.
She used to pray. Used to dream of becoming a nun. The kind that wrote letters and touched the Virgin's statue with reverent fingers. That ended before she bled for the first time. Ended the day Captain Cristóbal de Olid came through town and decided to bring her along. She cried when he took her. Especially when her father offered her like a chicken he couldn't afford to feed.
Cuba was a blur—louder, more brutal. She saw less God and more blood. But the captain was pleased with her. She learned to undress when told, to keep her eyes lowered, to speak when asked. He taught her to keep a household, not because she would ever be a wife, but because the mainland would require a semblance of order. That's where they were going—New Spain they were calling it. A land of gold, heathens, and war.
She was there for all of it. Not on the frontlines, no. But in the homes, tents and beds of men who thought they were building an empire. And she saw that empire turn to ash. Heard the screams from afar. Heard whispers of Ehecatl—first in fear, then in horror. The name alone silenced conversation, tightened jaws, made even hardened soldiers sit straighter. She didn't know who he was, only that even captains watched the shadows differently when his name was uttered.
One morning, the captain summoned her without ceremony. His hair was tied. His beard trimmed. And his voice was oddly… calm.
"I'm giving you to him," he said. "It's not punishment. He made no threats. But if he wanted to, he could burn this city down with a look. Better we give him something he'll like."
That was basically the gist of how she understood it. No hug. No farewell. Just instructions to bathe and dress properly.
Ehecatl didn't look like a brute. That was what surprised her. She expected a wild-eyed native with bloodied feathers. But he was calm. Direct. His eyes stripped her bare before his hands ever did. He took her not long after that. Not cruelly, not gently. Just… took. Like someone reclaiming what had always belonged to him.
She then served food and drinks for strange Indios who sat like they owned the world. She didn't know their names or titles—except one. The Emperor. She recognized him from when the Capitán paraded him the day the city first fell to them. The man wore authority like a second skin. She saw the way he regarded Ehecatl, the way others did too. Her master wasn't just feared. He was respected. Even among nobles.
She understood little of what they said. But she caught one word. "Caxtilteca." Her people. It hung in the air like an accusation. Or maybe a reminder.
She doesn't know what her future holds now. She's no longer a captain's girl. She's his now. Ehecatl's. There's fear in that, but something else too. Possibility. Maybe in this new house, this new world—maybe she can become something else. Something more.
…
…
…
Since it's still her first day, she's tense, cautious, but observant. She watches the nobles leave, glancing at Ehecatl to read his body language. When the last of the guests are gone, and they're alone again, and fucked again. she then gathers the courage to speak. Her voice is soft, Castilian-accented, slightly nervous, but sincere:
"…Señor… may I ask something…?"
She draws the sheet lightly over herself, resting on one side, her hair still damp with sweat and her lips parted as if unsure how to phrase her question.
"…You speak like no Indio I've ever seen. They… all treat you with such fear and respect. Even the emperor came to see you."
Her fingers gently tap against her thigh, subtle and fidgeting.
"Who… are you really?"
She hesitates.
"Will you be like the others? Or… is there something different about you?"
He tilts his head and asks "how differently do I speak compared to other Indios you've seen? Who am I really? I'm… just a boy barely a man. What do you mean be like the others?"
"…You speak less like a brute. Like… you think before you speak. Not just with me. With them too. That emperor, the others. You don't bark orders or brag. It's strange… I've never seen one of your kind—of any kind—act like that. You're not cruel like Olid, but not weak either."
She pauses, brushing her fingers over across his collarbone.
"…So, why me? Why did you take me? What do you really want from me?"
"Hmm… I guess considering all that I've done to your fellow countrymen and their allies, I guess it makes sense why'd you'd view me as a brute." He had thought for a moment and then looked at her, her body and said "Why you? Olid offered you up, and… you're quite attractive. Pale skin, curly brown hair, hazel eyes. Breasts just the right size for me, you've got nice curves and a nice ass."
Catalina's lips parted slightly, as though she had a thought she wasn't sure she should give voice to. She ran a hand through her curls, pushing them back behind her ear before speaking, her tone lower now, more introspective.
"…You sound almost kind when you say it. I've heard Castilian men say those things too. But when they do, it's different. They mean to own you. To break you. You say it like it's just… something you noticed."
She paused, then let out a breathy laugh—quiet and bitter.
"Hazel eyes, curly hair. A nice body, all the things they've praised me for, used me for. I never thought it would be why I'd be handed off again."
Another pause. She looked over at him, this time letting her gaze linger. Not flirtatious—just studying.
"Do you treat all your captives this gently?"
Ehecatl blunt as always says "Well, to be fair I noticed because I wasn't told that you were to be given to me… I had originally demanded for Cortes, his sword, and Marina. I… never really have kept captives, but don't worry just keep being how you are, and satisfying me like you did earlier before my guests entered, and you'll be fine."
Catalina shifted beneath the woven blanket, the sweat still cooling on her bare skin. His words weren't cruel, not exactly, but they carried a kind of sharp indifference she hadn't yet grown used to. Still, it wasn't the worst she'd heard. Not by far.
Her voice was soft, testing, like stepping into a river to see if it would sweep her away.
"…So you never wanted me, not really. I was just… given." She hesitated, then added, "You speak like you're used to getting what you want. Men like that usually keep women to break them. Use them. Forget them."
She turned slightly, facing him more fully, her hair sticking to her cheek.
"But you're not like them. Are you?" A pause. "You didn't hurt me. You didn't even look angry when I tried to talk."
Her tone shifted, quiet curiosity threading her words. "Do you treat all your women like this?"
"I just don't get off by being crueler than necessary. You've been obedient, you've undressed and done what I ask, you've served food and drinks like I asked, so I have no reason to hurt you unnecessarily, not even look at you angry when you started asking me questions."
Catalina remained quiet for a moment, absorbing what he said.
She shifted beside him on the bed, drawing the sheet a little higher over her chest—not out of modesty, but habit. Her hazel eyes watched him closely, as though studying a strange new animal. "You say you don't get off on cruelty," she murmured in Castilian, voice low and thoughtful. "But that doesn't mean you're kind either."
She looked away briefly. "I didn't expect kindness. Not from any man with blood on his hands. But you speak to me more than most ever did. You haven't beaten me. You've let me ask things." Her voice lowered further. "That already makes you different. I don't know if it makes you better."
Then, cautiously, she turned back toward him. "You said you asked for Cortés, his sword… and Marina. Why her? Is she special to you?" A beat. "And if you don't usually keep captives… what will I become? A servant? A bedmate? A symbol? I'd rather know now."
"Perhaps, we've only known each other today, so I guess you'll come to learn if I'm kind or not. You're curious about me, just as I'm curious about you. It's why I don't mind you asking me things. Why do you ask about her? Already worried about your position?" Ehecatl says looking at her smugly. "I demanded her specifically after Cortes and his sword because I personally believe SHE was the real conquistador, and not your countrymen. As for what you will become? Perhaps all three."
Catalina blinked, her body still warm against his, but her mind alert and tangled with his words.
"…Marina?" she echoed, brows furrowing. "But… she's just a woman. An India, even. How could she be more dangerous than the men with guns and swords?"
She hesitated, chewing lightly on the inside of her cheek. "And when you say I might become all three… what does that mean for me in the long run? Will I only be… those things? Or could I be something else, if I stay useful to you?"
She looked up at him then, cautious but strangely earnest. "Do you believe any of us—even those taken in war—can become more than what we were brought in as?"
Ehecatl leaned back slightly, resting one arm behind his head while the other draped lazily across her stomach. His gaze slid toward her—not sharp, but steady, measuring. She was still watching him with wide eyes, curling her fingers against the sheet like she wasn't sure whether to bolt or beg.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"…It's understandable you'd see it that way," he said, his voice level, almost too calm. "After all, you and I both know the edge your people had."
He lifted a hand, lazily counting on his fingers without looking at her. "Arquebuses. Cannons. Steel armor. Horses. War dogs. Yeah. That gave your side a real advantage. No denying that."
A faint scoff slipped out of him.
"We had stone, wood, obsidian… and maybe some copper and bronze. Not exactly a fair fight."
His hand dropped to her chest, tapping idly.
"But Marina…" he said, pausing. His jaw worked slightly as if chewing on the word. "She gave you something weapons never could. She was your people's map and compass. Not just because she translated words—but because she understood how we breathe. How we think. How we bury our dead and how we honor our gods. She's one of us. She knows what makes us move."
His eyes slid back to Catalina now—sharper, but not cruel.
"Your captains? They could've had all the steel in the world, and they still would've gotten lost out there. They would've insulted the wrong council, turned the wrong village hostile, or walked right into a flower war thinking it was a feast."
He paused again, rubbing his knuckles along his jaw. A slow exhale. He wasn't heated, but he was deliberate.
"You think she didn't fight? That she wasn't dangerous? She was the gate. Cortés opened nothing without her."
A beat of silence stretched between them. His voice dropped a little lower, quieter.
"That woman was worth more than any sword."
He shifted his weight now, sitting up slightly, elbows resting on his knees. His tone turned flat, businesslike, but not indifferent.
"As for you? What you become depends on how things go. I didn't exactly ask for you. You were handed over—pretty, silent, and scared—and I figured… well, that's my prize now."
He gave her a half-smirk. Not mocking. Just honest.
"Maybe you give me children. Maybe you end up my favorite. Maybe I even marry you one day. I don't know yet."
He leaned forward slightly, the air between them taut with implication.
"Don't get it twisted, though. I don't have your whole life planned out like some merchant arranging livestock. You're the first woman they've given me as a concubine. I'm figuring this out as I go."
He gestured vaguely toward the blankets, toward her.
"Just keep doing what you've done. Serve. Obey. Don't lie. Don't scheme. Lay with me when I ask, feed me when I'm hungry, and act like you want to be here."
His voice softened, just slightly—enough to almost feel like a kindness, even if it wasn't meant as one.
"And if you do all that… maybe you won't just be a symbol."
His gaze lingered on her face a moment longer before he leaned back again, exhaling deeply, as if closing the subject for now.
Catalina blinked, unsure whether to feel offended or comforted. Her mind still reeled from his claim about Marina. The real conquistador? That didn't sit right with her. Marina was a native. A woman. An Indian. Not a soldier, not a noble, not even a Castilian. And yet… Ehecatl spoke of her with a strange mix of resentment and respect. That disturbed her more than she expected.
So much of what she thought she knew was being flipped upside down in this strange, sun-drenched land.
She shifted slightly beneath the cotton sheets, her voice softer now.
"…You truly believe she was the one who conquered you? Not the horses? The steel? The men?"
Her tone wasn't challenging—it was cautious. Curious. Maybe even a little insecure. Because if Marina's voice had done more damage than all the arquebuses and war dogs… what hope did she, Catalina, have?
"And me?" she asked again, turning her face toward him. "You say I might become your favorite, or your wife, or a mother to your children. But I wasn't trained to be any of those. Not for a man like you. I don't even know what you want. What kind of woman do you expect me to be?"
She paused, then added—quieter— "And… how will I know if I fail?"
She wasn't pleading. She wasn't groveling. But her voice held the weight of someone who'd seen women discarded for far less.
"Her," he said simply, eyes flicking to her face. "And that plague your people brought over."
He didn't elaborate right away. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, scratching a spot above his brow. When he continued, it was with the same calm cadence — almost instructional.
"Like I said. She gave Cortés insider knowledge, and that helped significantly more than the weapons your countrymen carried."
He paused, tilting his head slightly as if gauging whether she understood, or needed him to spell it out.
"And the plague…" he let that word linger for just a breath, "…I probably don't need to explain much. You've heard of the Black Death. Same story, different soil."
"My people were already adjusting to the weapons you had. Running zigzags. Dropping to the ground right before your cannons and arquebuses went off. Overwhelming cavalry. Bombarding the ones in steel armor."
His tone didn't rise. If anything, it cooled — not in anger, but with certainty.
"Had it not been for Marina and the plague, your people wouldn't have won as easily as they did."
Then he let that silence sit.
When he finally spoke again, his voice didn't shift in tone — but his eyes did narrow just slightly, not from threat, but from clarity. Honesty.
"Neither was I trained for having women handed to me. But here we are."
He sat upright now, back straight, gaze direct.
"Like I said earlier," he murmured, "keep being obedient. Keep laying down and opening your legs for me. Keep serving."
His words weren't cruel, just delivered without apology, as if they were facts.
"I don't have a reason to be hurtful if you're doing just that."
He didn't blink as he added:
"You also don't need to worry. I don't yell. I don't hit."
A pause. Short. Measured.
"If you fail, I'll speak. And you'll know."
Catalina's expression tightened, her hazel eyes narrowing not out of defiance, but something deeper—conflict. His blunt words about Marina, the plague, and her future stung in ways she hadn't expected.
"…That woman," she finally said, voice low, eyes cast downward. "You speak of her as if she were… greater than captains, greater than priests. But she's… she was a slave. A native woman. How could she have been the conquistador?"
Her breath caught. "And me? You think I might be all three? A bedmate, a servant, and… a symbol?" There was disbelief in her tone, but also a strange curiosity, almost as if she were testing him. "What kind of symbol, my lord? For who?"
She didn't sound accusatory—only wary, and just a touch intrigued. The word "wife" echoed in her mind, unspoken yet heavy.
He exhaled through his nose — not in amusement, not even in frustration. Just fact.
"Is it really that hard to accept," he said quietly, "that a woman like Marina could provide information worth its weight in gold?"
His tone wasn't harsh. If anything, it sounded almost like a teacher correcting a particularly dense student.
"Your people never took the time to learn anything about this land. Its language. Its customs. Its politics. You all came crashing in, thinking steel and gunpowder would do the talking."
"I'm pretty damn sure Cortés called the Tlaxcalan lords 'kings.' In his reports, in front of his men. Said he struck deals with kings."
His jaw tightened briefly.
"They weren't kings. Tlaxcala is a republic. But he either didn't care or didn't know, and no one corrected him. No one could… except her."
He let that sink in before continuing.
"If it weren't for Marina translating, smoothing out your blunders, Cortés and all of you might've died right there in the hills, cut down before you even reached Tenochtitlan. She wasn't just a woman. She was the difference between survival and extinction."
"That's what knowledge does when it's rare. It turns someone you'd dismiss into the most dangerous person in the room."
"And that's what you are now. A symbol. Of reversal."
"For everyone to see."
His tone didn't change, but there was a new weight in the room now, as if a cold current had swept through the walls.
"I'm sure it stings. I'm sure it was humiliating, demoralizing, to see your people be the ones surrendering. Giving up their captains. Offering up one of their own women."
He tilted his head slightly.
"A Castilian woman, no less."
Then his voice dropped lower, colder.
"For thirty years, your people have gotten used to being the ones in control. Native women given. Native leaders broken. Native cities handed over."
His words were deliberate now, precise, and unforgiving.
"But this morning… all that cracked."
He leaned in slightly, close enough that she could feel his breath on the words.
"And you are the symbol of that crack. The one they won't be able to ignore."
Catalina blinked, lips slightly parted. A woman… a native woman… the real conqueror? The thought twisted in her stomach—not from jealousy, but sheer disbelief. It was one thing to lose to Spanish men, to horses and cannon and steel. But to be told by a victorious enemy that it was her, that soft-spoken translator—a slave, a woman, an India—who was the deciding factor?
"…She was just… one of us," Catalina murmured, brow creased. "A woman. A native. She… she didn't fight. Didn't command. How could she be the conqueror, when it was men who led and died?"
She looked at him then—truly looked, eyes narrowing slightly as though trying to see deeper than the boyish face. "Is that what you see me as? A… a symbol of their fall? Not just a bedmate or servant, but proof that your people can take whatever they want now, even Castilian women?" Her voice lowered, quieter now. "What if I don't want to be that? What if I don't want to remind them they lost?"
She wasn't challenging him. Not really. But there was fear beneath her tone. And confusion. And the faintest spark of something else—maybe the beginning of understanding just how deep the humiliation ran… and how much weight Ehecatl was placing on her mere presence.
Ehecatl exhaled slowly through his nose, irritation flickering just barely across his face.
He shifted his weight, propped himself on one elbow so he could look down at her directly—close enough that she could feel the authority behind every word.
"Think," he said, voice low but edged. "You and your people only walked into half the cities you did because she opened the doors. She translated. She gave Cortés a map to who we are—how we trade, how we govern, how we fight, how we think."
His hand lifted briefly in emphasis—a small, sharp gesture, as though he were cutting the air between them.
"She didn't swing a sword. She didn't command armies. But she was worth more than gold because she had what none of you had—insight. Language. Context. You underestimate that because she's a woman. Because she's native. But that's exactly why she mattered."
His gaze held hers, unblinking.
"Without her, there would've been no conquest. There would've been confusion, mistranslations, open hostility. You might've won battles—sure. Looted a few villages. Maybe even taken a city. But you wouldn't have held it. And at worst? You all could've died the moment you marched into Tlaxcala blind."
He let that settle, gave her just long enough to feel it.
"It's not hard to understand," he added, voice steadier now, almost clinical. "It's not my view alone. It's what everyone will see when they look at you."
He leaned back against the bedding.
"You can continue doing what I ask. Be obedient. Be compliant. Be useful. And maybe you become my favorite. Maybe a wife. Maybe the mother of my children." His tone didn't romanticize—these were possibilities, not promises.
Then, clear steel underneath the calm:
"But make problems for me, force my hand, and I'll see you as an enemy. And you already know what that means."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
The threat lived in the plainness.
The honesty was the blade.
Catalina stiffened at his tone—something in his voice sharpened like a blade honed too many times. She lowered her gaze briefly, both to show deference and to give herself a moment to think. A part of her bristled at the idea of being spoken to like this. She was still Spanish, still a cristiana, not some frightened village girl offered up like a goat.
But she was also no fool.
"…I suppose," she said slowly, carefully, "it's not that I refuse to believe it, it's just… we weren't taught to think that way. No one ever told us she did anything other than translate. No one ever said she was needed. Just that she was… convenient. Replaceable."
She looked up at him again, eyes less defiant now—more cautious, more curious.
"So if you truly believe she was the key to all of it… then what does that make you now? Are you trying to be like her?" Her brow furrowed. "Or do you plan to do what she did… in reverse?" Her voice lowered slightly. "Are you here to end everything we began?"
She hesitated—then asked, "And if that's what I am now… a symbol, a reversal… what exactly do you expect from me when the others see me? How am I meant to act, or carry myself, when all I've ever known is how to serve their tables, not yours?"
He scoffed, not at her, but at the idea behind her words.
"Of course they wouldn't tell you that."
His voice was steady, but his brow twitched as he sat straighter, eyes locked on hers. The candlelight gave his face a deeper shadow.
"Your people treat women worse than we ever did. And you served under Olid—one of the worst of them. So don't act surprised. Cutthroat captains. Proud, loud-mouthed braggarts. You really think they'd admit their victories came from a native woman? That they needed her?"
He let the silence linger for just a second.
"No. They'd rather say she was convenient. Replaceable. As if any other 'India' could've done what she did. But that's either stupidity, or deliberate denial."
He leaned forward slightly, voice firm now.
"Because she wasn't replaceable. Even if they found another native girl fluent in Castilian, she still wouldn't be Marina. They'll never admit that, but I will."
His jaw set, then he added with clarity and intent:
"Maybe I do plan to become the reverse of her."
He let that statement hit.
"What she was to the Castilians… I will be to my people."
"She opened the way for your conquest. I'm going to close it. For good."
He glanced downward for a moment—less in thought, more as if visualizing a map in his head. His tone darkened as he continued:
"Everything your people started I'm going to undo. And it's not just the mainland. Every colony, every island they've taken. One by one, they'll be ripped out."
His eyes found hers again.
"And as for you?" His voice softened—no less serious, but more measured.
"Just keep doing what you've been doing. Quiet. Obedient. Willing. You'll be fine."
Then came the pause. A heavier silence.
"But you'll have to get used to the looks. The whispers. The stares. Some will hate you for what you are. For who you sleep beside. That won't change."
He raised a hand—not threatening, but final.
"But they won't touch you. Not as long as you belong to me."
Catalina sat with her head slightly bowed, absorbing everything. Her thoughts churned beneath a quiet exterior.
"…So," she said after a moment, her voice lower but steady, "you mean to become the reverse Marina." Her hazel eyes met his. "The one who opens the door… so yours may walk through it."
She sounded like she was speaking to herself more than to him. Then she blinked and shook her head. "You speak as if this future is certain. That we will all be cast out, driven into the sea like rats fleeing a sinking ship. But…" She hesitated, chewing on her lower lip before going on. "Do you truly believe you can rid the entire mainland of us? Of all Castilians? Even the ones born here? Even those who've mixed blood with your people?"
A strange look crossed her face—almost cautious, even wary. "What about those children? What place will they have in your world? What place would I have, if I bore one?"
Ehecatl leaned back slightly, the sheet draped across his hips, voice calm in a way that made the room feel smaller.
"Maybe it's worth spelling this out for you clearly."
His gaze never left her face.
"Without this city, your people are crippled. No more gold. No more silver. Nothing to ship back across the sea. Whatever Cortes started dies here, and it dies with me holding the knife."
He raised a hand and counted each point slowly, almost casually.
"I poisoned your men. I stole their weapons, their powder, their horses. I used them against you. We learned how to fire arquebuses, how to handle steel, how to break cavalry charges. We made your captains break. I made your friar lose his mind. Dressed your men in women's clothing while on crosses, and in the end… even your own countrymen gave Cortes up like spoiled meat."
There was no triumph in his tone, just fact.
"When Cuba hears that?" He exhaled once through his nose. "They'll have two choices."
A finger lifted.
"First — retaliation. They'll send more men. Green ones. Arrogant like the first wave. They'll die, same as the rest. And every expedition they lose drains more silver, more coin, more power from your crown."
Another finger.
"Or they try to negotiate. Trade. Step back. Either way, you lose the stream of wealth you stole from here. Either way, you grow weaker."
He didn't blink. Didn't look away.
"And I know your king, even from here."
A tap to his temple.
"There will be wars. Many. Soon. Without 'Nuevo España' filling his coffers, Castile doesn't grow. It starves."
His voice lowered again.
"I can't wipe you from the islands yet. We have no ships. But here, on the mainland?"
A slow shake of the head.
"Here you're done. And when you're gone, the mixed children stay. I don't see blood the way your people do."
One hand slid up her jaw, not tender, just ownership with a strangely steady warmth.
"I don't throw away children because of skin or father. If I make them, they're mine. I raise them. I protect them. I give them a place in this world even if you and I never marry."
His thumb brushed her cheek — soft, but final.
"So you keep obeying. You keep surviving. And every child you give me… lives well. Simple as that."
Catalina's brows knit together slowly, her lips parted in a silence that lingered too long.
"You… you want to destroy my kingdom not just with blades and fire, but by starving it from within," she whispered. "By robbing it of the very gold it used to buy armies, ships, alliances…" Her eyes dropped to the floor, the full picture dawning. "You want to make Castile hollow."
She looked up again, but not with rage just confusion.
"And then you speak of children," she added. "Of loving them, raising them, giving them names. Even those born out of wedlock…" She blinked, almost unsure if she'd heard correctly. "You'd claim them openly?"
There was an almost bitter smile on her face. "In Castile, that would ruin a woman… and shame the child forever. No matter the father. But you… you say it as if it's… honorable." Her head tilted slightly. "How can someone speak of flaying men in one breath and fatherhood in the next?"
She gave a soft, incredulous laugh—half stunned, half disarmed. "Are all your beliefs like this? Or are you just trying to confuse me so I don't know whether to fear you… or believe in you?"
"…Do you truly… mean what you said about the children?"
Her voice cracked, the last word falling from her like it weighed too much.
Tears slipped freely now, but she didn't sob. She didn't collapse. She just sat there with her chin quivering and her eyes pleading for clarity. For something kind in the storm.
"Even if I'm never… your wife… you'd still… love them?"
A pause.
"You wouldn't cast them aside? You wouldn't treat them as… as bastards?"
She inhaled shakily, folding her hands tightly together as if praying.
"I don't understand this world you speak of. I don't know what will happen to my people… to me… but if… if I were to bear your child, and he or she could be part of something — could live — could matter…"
She looked at him fully then, her brown eyes raw with emotion.
"…Then maybe this isn't all… just punishment."
She blinked rapidly and wiped at her face with the back of her sleeve, ashamed of how easily the tears had come — but too tired to pretend she wasn't afraid.
"…What would you name them?" she asked softly. "Your sons… your daughters?"
"I don't have many options left. The Mexica aren't what we were before the war, not yet. So this? You? This was the next best way to wound your people. And yes, I know how that sounds."
He sat upright, elbows resting loosely on his knees, gaze steady.
"I've heard the whispers. That it's dishonorable. That it's perverse. But it's really not complicated. I fuck you we have children, I protect them, I raise them, I provide. That's it."
He shrugged once, voice dry.
"Strange? Sure. One moment I'm flaying your captains, the next I'm talking about fatherhood. But you asked. So I answered."
A beat of silence. Then he added:
"These are my beliefs, and I stand by them. Whether you ever become a wife or not doesn't change anything. Any child you bear from me? I'll legitimize them. They'll live well."
Then, a faint smirk — the only shift in his otherwise flat tone.
"As for names? …We'll figure that out when the time comes."
She stared at him, silent and trembling. His words struck her deeper than she could've prepared for. That cold, unshakable certainty in his tone—the way he spoke of flayed men and fatherhood in the same breath made her stomach knot. There was no sarcasm, no jest, no madness. Just conviction.
Tears welled in her eyes for herself, not even fully out of grief for what her people had lost, but for the crushing realization of how little control she had. Her body, her womb, her future… all woven into a tapestry she never asked to be part of, one painted with blood and banners she didn't serve.
But even now, even broken by truth, she didn't defy him. Her voice came out soft, almost childlike.
"…And if I bear your child… will you keep me close? Or will I be just another woman you… used?"
She swallowed back a sob.
"Will I even be allowed to raise them? Or… will they be taken from me? Raised like warriors or sacrifices or whatever it is your people do with sons of conquerors…"
She looked up at him then—eyes rimmed with tears, but full of something deeper now. Not rebellion. Not resistance. Just raw, frightened vulnerability.
"…Am I to be forgotten once I've given you what you want?"
He then has her sit on his lap, and lifts her chin so her hazel eyes could meet his and says "I'll definitely keep you close, and you will be allowed to raise them. WE will raise them, and yes they will become warriors, it's what's expected of all Mexica. Relax, as far as I'm concerned your spot's secured."
Catalina's breath hitched the moment his fingers lifted her chin, his touch firm yet deliberate, pulling her gaze toward him. Her hazel eyes, still glassy with unshed tears, blinked as she tried to process not just his closeness, but the weight of his words—his certainty.
He had just told her without the slightest trace of doubt that their children would be warriors. That her role, as both mother and partner, was secure. That even if she were never his wife in name, she would still be allowed to raise them alongside him.
The very idea felt surreal. She was a prisoner, wasn't she? A spoil of war. A Castilian woman from humble beginnings, and yet here he was, telling her she had a place in his world something more than just survival. Something disturbingly close to… belonging.
Her voice came out hushed, a tremble catching in her throat.
"…And if I fail?" she asked, almost afraid of the answer. "If I raise them too soft? Or if they inherit my blood more than yours? What if they're not strong enough for your world… or too much like me?"
She blinked hard, breath shaky.
"I—I'm not like your women. I wasn't raised to fight or be fierce. I don't know how to teach them those things. I don't even know what it means to be Mexica, not truly. I've only ever seen it from the outside."
Her gaze dropped for a moment, but his grip on her chin reminded her to keep looking up.
"…Will you hate them, if they're not enough? Or me, for making them weak?"
Her voice cracked on the last word—barely above a whisper. The fear in her tone wasn't loud or hysterical. It was quiet. Deep. The kind that takes root in the soul.
"You worry too much."
His hand rested against her thigh, steady and warm.
"Even if you spoil them a little, that's not a bad thing. Just don't smother them."
He paused, letting his fingers trace slow, absent-minded circles before continuing.
"And if they end up looking more like you? So be it. That doesn't matter here. We don't split people by skin color only by class, and our children won't be born into weakness or shame."
A low exhale followed. No smile, just quiet certainty.
"Whatever world you knew before, whatever the Mexica were before… I intend to build something better than both."
Catalina couldn't help but stare at him in disbelief. Her mind swirled with the weight of everything he said—the brutality of war, the hatred for her people, the odd tenderness in his promises about their future children. It was all so much. Too much.
Her throat tightened, and despite herself, her eyes welled again. Not from fear this time, but from something more fragile. Conflicted. Confused.
"…You speak of building a better world," she said softly, her voice trembling just slightly, "but it's hard for me to picture it when everything I've known is… gone. I was raised to believe certain things—about loyalty, about family, about what a woman should be. And now you're here, turning all of it upside down."
Her hazel eyes met his. "I believe you when you say you'd protect your children, even if I don't fully understand you yet. But… what happens if I make a mistake? What if I disappoint you? Will I still be allowed to raise them then?"
She paused, cheeks flushed. "And… will I still matter to you, if I don't give you sons right away?"
"Sure, even if you do something that upsets me, I wouldn't go as far as not letting you see them. Yeah you do, if it happens right away or not. I'm feeling sleepy, so let's pick this up in the morning okay?"
She nodded again, slower this time, her fingers gently curling against the front of his shirt as she rested her head near the base of his neck.
"…Alright," she murmured softly. "I… I appreciate that. I do."
A pause, and then quieter:
"I don't want to mess this up. Even if this isn't how I ever imagined things… it's more than I thought I'd ever be allowed."
Her voice nearly trailed off into sleep at the end of that sentence, her warmth already sinking against his chest, lashes fluttering low.
"…I'll behave… just… don't go cold on me tomorrow. Please."
…
…
…
The pale orange of morning filtered through the covered blanket door. Catalina stirred beneath the blanket Ehecatl had thrown over them sometime during the night. His body still radiated heat beside her, breath steady in the deep sleep of a man who carried no doubt.
She slowly shifted out from under his arm.
Her bare feet touched the cold packed earth. She reached for her shift quietly, dressing with slow, deliberate motions, trying not to wake him. When she stepped outside, the city was still. Only a few early risers tended to themselves or walked with purpose across the dirt paths. No one paid her much mind.
She made her way to the edge of the home where a sparse row of trees stood. There, in the still quiet of morning, she sank to her knees in the brush.
She crossed herself with trembling fingers.
"Ave Maria, gratia plena…" she whispered, eyes closed.
The prayer didn't come easily. Her voice caught halfway through. It wasn't fear of death — she had already come to terms with the likelihood she'd never return home. It was the uncertainty. The terrifying realization that she was no longer praying to be rescued, but to survive within his world.
She folded her hands tighter.
"Forgive me," she murmured, voice low and raw. "I don't know if I still pray for deliverance… or for him to keep his word."
She swallowed hard.
"He says he'll keep me… that I'll raise our children… that they'll be warriors."
A pause. Her voice softened. "He spoke of love. Of claiming them. Of keeping me close. And I believe he meant it."
A shaky breath left her.
"But I've also seen how he fights. What he does to men. How he speaks of the Castilians like… like wolves speak of sheep." Her shoulders slumped. "And I'm his. There's no question now. No church. No witness. No vows. Only him."
Her fingers brushed her stomach.
"I don't know if you're in there yet," she whispered, "but if you are… I swear, I'll protect you. No matter what world you're born into."
She sat there for a moment longer, the wind tugging at her hair.
Then, steadying herself, she rose — and returned to home before anyone could notice the tears drying on her cheeks.