Ehecatl sat alone in the tecpan of Tenochtitlan, the palace's lime-plastered walls glowing faintly in the morning light. Thin reeds filtered the sun through the windows, casting woven patterns across the floor mats. The air hung heavy with the earthy scent of copal smoke drifting from a small brazier beside him.
Outside, the city stirred. Canoes splashed softly in the lake, vendors' voices echoed faintly like distant birdsong, and the metallic clatter of forges had already begun. Iron striking iron far off in the districts below.
Cuauhtemoc's absence left him in charge of the capital. And that responsibility sat heavier than expected. The palace itself was calm, too calm, save for the soft scratch of quills from scribes in the neighboring chamber. Yet Ehecatl's thoughts were louder than the city itself.
A scroll of bark paper lay open before him. Its rough surface caught slightly on his fingertips as he traced the edges, careful not to smudge the ink.
The picture-glyphs were painted in vibrant colors. Reds sharp as cut fruit, blues like deep lakewater, and blacks that reminded him of obsidian edges. At a glance they told stories of the eastern front: marching warriors, burning villages, bundles of tribute.
But interpreting them wasn't immediate.
Unlike the Latin alphabet, where letters locked meaning in place, these glyphs flowed with nuance. Meaning changed with angle, color, posture, or pairing. A painted eagle might speak of solar strength or martial prestige; a serpent could allude to ancestral divinity, water, or wind. It's intent not always obvious at a glance.
He leaned in. The faint pulp scent of the scroll rose to meet him. A warrior glyph stood with blade raised in triumph. Beside him, a temple burned with it's flames licking the roof in stylized plumes. It was conquest, almost certainly. But he wondered if the flames also meant something less clean. Retribution? Desecration? Or just the city's last breath?
It always took him a moment.
Another flaw in the system, he thought. Glyphs weren't precise. Not like letters. Not like numbers. If five different readers could walk away with five different meanings, it was less of a writing system , and more like shared guesswork.
He'd toyed with the idea of implementing the Latin script before. Or creating a new one from scratch. But that would take time. Years, maybe. Time he didn't have yet. First, the war. Then the rebuilding. Then… maybe.
Still, the information was starting to click.
The advance was going well. Efficient. At least on the surface.
But the scrolls didn't line up cleanly.
Two reports marked the same village conquered on different days. One listed forty captives. Another listed none. A request for powder arrived twice from the same unit, written in two different hands. One scribe had amended a glyph mid-stroke, painting over it instead of starting fresh.
Small things. The kind that meant nothing on their own. But together, they suggested confusion somewhere down the chain.
He shifted the scroll aside and reached for the next. This one tracking tribute flow.
Numbers were recorded the usual way: clusters of dots for single digits, stylized fingers or flags for twenties, and pouches or bundles for four hundreds. But even here, inconsistencies bled through.
One scribe stacked the dots in neat vertical lines. Another drew them in loose clusters. Some fingers were drawn curled, others extended. The symbol for 400 was a pouch, and it was smudged in one scroll and redrawn as a full bundle in another.
It was all legible. Eventually.
But never clean. Never instant.
And it wore him down.
Back then, a number was a number. Sharp. Clear. Unchanging. You didn't need ten years of ritual training to read a ledger. Now? Even tribute tallies required double-checking because every scribe had their own hand, every dot or bundle drawn just different enough to raise questions. It wasn't just priests or scribes who could read them, of course. Any calmecac-trained noble could, but the lack of standard made certainty feel slippery. And Ehecatl hated slippery.
He'd learned to live with it. For now. But he was already drafting ideas in his mind for scripts, marks, perhaps a new numeral system. Something cleaner. Something native.
Not today. But someday.
He kept a reed-bound codex tucked in his workroom, hidden behind more ceremonial scrolls. Not official. Not public. Just a tool.
Latin letters. Arabic numerals. English.
Not because he didn't respect the glyph system. He did. But his eyes moved faster through what he'd known since childhood. A single "12" told him more at a glance than twelve dots and or two bars and two dots if you were educated in Mayan mathematics. It wasn't about disrespect, It was about speed, Precision.
He'd transcribed the latest tribute tallies that morning. Burning a candle to copy bark scrolls into lined pages by hand. It made things feel… manageable.
He'd never show them, maybe never. But they helped him breathe.
I sat in the tecpan's command alcove as midday sun filtered through the reed curtains, casting shifting light over a low table littered with scrolls. The bark-paper rasped under my fingers as I unrolled the latest report from the east. The smoke from a brazier coiled upward, its scent sharp with copal. Outside, the city breathed. Canoes gliding across the lake, forges hammering away, vendors barking prices like it was any other day. But Cuauhtemoc was away, and that left the city's rhythm in my hands. Heavy hands. I could feel the weight in my chest every time the scribes paused their scratching.
The glyphs stared back. Blood-red ink, obsidian black lines. Same symbols. Never one meaning. A blade raised could mean triumph. Or warning. The context was always the problem. I had to sit with it, let it settle before it clicked: the grenades were running low. Again. Their blast had been vital for clearing Huastec defenses, but now our stocks were down to the last crate. I glanced at the scribes.
"Double the forges. Send more by horse relay. This week."
No pushback. They just scribbled faster. I liked that. I moved on.
The steel-edged macuahuitl weren't working. They looked impressive, it was heavier, flashier, new, modern, and advanced by Mexica standards but they didn't slice the way obsidian did. Steel tore. Obsidian sliced. Warriors complained of blades getting stuck in bone, failing to sever cleanly. What was meant to be an upgrade had become a liability. We weren't trying to bludgeon the enemy, we were trying to end fights fast. I made a note to halt production. A shame though, while it looked cool it was really impractical.
"Use the spare Castilian swords as a model to make more of," I said. "Prioritize them for Cuauhtemoc's front."
Again, no pushback. Just the scribes doing their job. Somewhere past the courtyard, I heard hammers hit steel in rhythm. Almost soothing.
Then came the gunpowder issue. Cannons, arquebuses. Victory from a distance, but our reserves were bleeding dry. I rubbed the side of my head. These weren't minor shortages. They were slow bleeds that could cost us momentum. Still, he understood that the army was either blasting at whatever moved, it's their first time using these weapons in war, or basically expect him to pull something else out of his ass to make sure they're good.
"Triple output. Get the powder teams moving." I added.
I couldn't hear shit from here. But they better not be slacking.
Then came the cotton shortage. I grimaced. Armor, bandages, uniforms and blankets. All of it relied on cotton and we were marching through the very fields that used to grow it. Trampled, looted, torched. The irony wasn't lost on me. I caught myself drifting and shook it off. A spinning jenny? Maybe. But we didn't have the time. That sort of innovation needed breathing room, and right now I was choking on war. I shelved it. Again.
Once I was done dictating, the runners took off. Barefoot, swift, out the doors like blood through veins. I stood, knees stiff, and stretched. The mats creaked beneath me. Outside, the city still moved. Slowly. But it moved.
And I needed to keep it moving.
…
…
…
Ehecatl set the bark-paper scrolls aside with a soft rustle, the weight of their inked glyphs lifting from his shoulders as he rose from the low table in the tecpan's command alcove. The midday sun pierced through the reed curtains in narrow beams that danced across the lime-plastered walls, warming the air with a faint earthy scent mingled with lingering copal smoke from the morning rites.
His muscles ached from hours bent over the documents, a dull throb in his back that urged him to stretch as he stepped into the corridor. The cool stone floor was smooth under his cactli sandals, each footfall echoing softly amid the distant hum of scribes' quills scratching and servants' murmured conversations.
He wandered the tecpan's winding halls in search of a cook to prepare a quick meal, the aroma of roasting maize from a nearby comal drawing him forward. Its smoky sweetness teased his hunger, mingling with the faint tang of chili spices wafting through the air. The palace bustled quietly around him, nobles' voices rising and falling in low discussions from adjacent chambers, the rustle of tilmatli fabric brushing past as attendants hurried with bundles of fresh herbs.
Turning a corner into a sunlit courtyard, the lake's breeze carried a fresh, watery coolness that prickled his skin. That's when he spotted Tecuichpo approaching, Cuauhtemoc's wife and Moctezuma's daughter. Her embroidered huipil flowed gracefully with each step, the vibrant threads catching the light like scattered jewels. Her long black hair was braided with gold, which glinted softly as she walked.
They had glimpsed each other before, passing glances in council halls or brief moments during court gatherings. Her presence had always stood out, a quiet elegance amid the warriors' gruff exchanges. But this was the first time she approached him directly.
Her dark eyes met his with poised curiosity. The faint scent of floral oils accompanied her as she drew near, and when she finally spoke, her voice was warm and melodic.
"Cihuacoatl, the halls seem quieter without the Huey Tlatoani's council. Might I join you in your walk?"
Ehecatl nodded, offering a slight tilt of his head. "You're always welcome, Tecuichpo."
They walked in silence for a few steps, the stone path warm underfoot, shaded by flowering trees overhead.
"It's strange," she murmured. "I remember this courtyard being noisier. Servants rushing between chambers. Cuauhtemoc barking orders. My father's voice echoing from a distance. Now it feels… different."
"Quieter is one way to put it," Ehecatl said. "Less chaotic, maybe. Or more contained. Either way, it's temporary. Once the war shifts west, this place will fill up again."
"I imagine so." She glanced sideways at him. "You look tired."
He gave a small grunt. "I feel it."
She smiled faintly. "Then maybe don't read all your scrolls in one sitting."
"They stack up," he said. "And these days, every symbol feels more like a riddle than a message."
"Ah. The picture-glyphs." She clasped her hands loosely in front of her as they walked. "I've heard you struggle with them sometimes."
He didn't take offense. "I manage. But yes. It's elegant, but… flexible. Sometimes too flexible."
She nodded. "That's how we were taught to read them. Through memory and practice, not structure."
"I know," he said. "And I don't fault the tradition. I just have to learn it more proficiently, and get used to how each scribe draws this and that."
They paused by a carved stone bench, and she sat first. He joined her.
"And the war?" she asked. "Cuauhtemoc hasn't sent a full report yet. I only hear pieces."
"It's moving fast," he replied. "Faster than I anticipated. The eastern front's stable, Xocotla's under control. Tlaxcala's looting everything that isn't poor, and our side's handing out Calpixque titles like they're going out of stock."
She raised an eyebrow. "Already?"
"We didn't declare war the old way, we attacked, and they had no clue or heads up. Add the arquebuses, cannons, grenades and horses it's no wonder this has been surpassing past wars."
She didn't argue. "And what do you hear from Cuetlachtli?"
"He's reliable. Brutal, efficient. I'll have to keep an eye on him if we win."
Her gaze lingered on his face a moment longer. Then:
"You haven't said anything about my sister."
He looked at her, brow faintly furrowed.
"Xochitl."
"I know who you mean." he said, voice even.
Tecuichpo didn't sound accusatory—just tired. "She doesn't complain. She wouldn't. But I see how she looks when your name comes up. She's too proud to ask why the marriage hasn't moved forward."
Ehecatl leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "Because she's eleven."
Tecuichpo's tone didn't change. "So was I."
He nodded. "I know."
"I'm not saying she's ready. But she's not naïve either. She's Moctezuma's blood. She knows what's expected."
"I do too," he said. "But that's not how I see her. Not yet. I don't avoid her, I just… wait. I'd rather let her grow. Make her own decisions when she's old enough to understand what they mean."
Tecuichpo didn't respond immediately. The breeze rustled the leaves above them.
"She'll never say it," she said softly, "but she wants to be worthy of you. You should at least let her know that she doesn't have to rush."
"I will," he said. "When the time's right."
She stood then, brushing the folds of her huipil smooth. "She's a good girl. Don't forget that."
"I won't."
Tecuichpo nodded once, then turned to leave, her steps quiet as she disappeared back into the corridor. Dignified, composed, and carrying more weight than she let anyone see.
Ehecatl was just about to return to getting something to eat when her voice called softly from the hallway.
"Cihuacoatl," she said, turning slightly, her silhouette framed in the doorway, half in shadow. "If you're overwhelmed with the reports… I can help."
He paused, watching her carefully.
"I was trained under my father in handling tribute accounts," she continued. "I can read most glyph styles, even know how which scribe writes and means which way. And if the writing feels too layered or contradictory sometimes… I could help clarify it."
A short silence passed between them, not awkward but measured.
"If that wouldn't be inappropriate," she added, her voice calm, her face unreadable.
Ehecatl gave a slow, approving nod and smile. "It wouldn't be."
He stepped forward just enough for his voice to carry.
"I'll have something sent your way."
Tecuichpo held his gaze for a second longer, then nodded once more before slipping away. Her figure vanishing back into the polished maze of the tecpan.
…
…
…
The air hung warm with the scent of blooming chinampas wafting in from the lake, and a cool breeze brushed his skin like a fleeting touch as he resumed his walk through the palace corridors. The stone floors were smooth beneath his cactli sandals, each step echoing softly, the distant hum of scribes' quills scratching on bark paper blending with the occasional cry of vendors from beyond the walls.
Hunger had begun to gnaw at his stomach, a dull ache sharpened by the mental grind of the day. He followed the scent of food toward the tecpan's kitchen alcove, drawn by the familiar aromas and promise of relief. Inside, the space bustled with quiet activity. The sharp sizzle of maize on the comal filled the air with a toasty warmth that made his mouth water, mingling with the earthy tang of ground chiles and the rich, nutty undertone of sesame seeds roasting in a clay pan.
A young macehualtin woman, her huipil dusted with cornmeal, looked up from her metate. Her hands paused mid-motion, the pestle's rhythmic thud falling silent as she noticed him. "Cihuacoatl," she said, bowing slightly, her voice soft beneath the crackle of flames. "What do you desire?"
"Something hearty." Ehecatl replied, his tone casual but firm.
She nodded and moved with fluid precision, her fingers deft as she mixed a thick sauce of chiles, spices, and chocolate. The mole bubbled in a clay pot with a deep, velvety simmer, its steam rising in waves that filled the air with bitter-sweet heat. When ready, she poured it over tender quail. The meat's juices hissed against the tlaxcalli beneath, the dish's dark, glossy surface steaming as she handed it over.
Ehecatl took his first bite, and the flavors burst across his tongue. Fiery chiles biting sharp at first, then mellowing into toasted nuts and the slow warmth of chocolate. The quail's flesh was perfectly cooked, tender enough to yield with a satisfying chew, each mouthful grounding him in the present as the day's burdens slowly ebbed.
After eating, he stepped into an open courtyard where the late afternoon sun slanted low. Long shadows stretched across the warm stone pavement, the air alive with the faint chirp of birds nesting in the eaves. Ehecatl raised his hands to gauge the time, fingers splayed against the sky as the sun's edge aligned with his thumb. The golden light filtered through his skin with a gentle tingle that traveled up his arm.
Around five in the evening, he estimated. The shadows were lengthening toward the lake, lazy fingers reaching across its glittering surface.
Satisfied, he turned toward the private quarters in the tecpan where his women awaited. The corridor's shade welcomed him as he walked, the distant splash of canoes on the lake echoing like a lullaby, easing the weight from his shoulders.
…
…
…
Ehecatl stepped into his quarters as the sun dipped low, casting slanted bands of light through the reed curtains. The golden warmth painted the lime walls in long streaks, and the air carried a soft blend of lake breeze, roasted maize, and fading copal. The noise of the palace softened behind him as the door closed. Inside, it was quiet comfort, controlled, and temporary.
Malinalli lay stretched on layered blankets with her swollen belly rising beneath her huipil, her eyes half-lidded as a servant worked oil into her shoulders. The scent of crushed lavender and bitter herbs hovered lightly. Another servant fanned her in slow rhythm, the palm fronds rustling softly with each pass. Her low sigh cut through the stillness.
Tecuelhuetzin sat nearby, feet resting in the lap of a younger maid whose fingers moved with practiced ease. Her toes flexed slightly with each press. Her striped tilmatli was loose, her bracelets clinked when she shifted, and her gaze flicked briefly toward Ehecatl. Watchful, but calm.
Blankets were strewn across the room in layers of cotton and embroidery. Eagles in dark blues, serpents woven in sharp reds. Every inch spoke of the wealth of the capital. Yet none of it was permanent. He knew it. So did they.
Across the chamber, Xochiquetzal and Catalina sat cross-legged on a reed mat, heads bent close over a scrap of bark-paper. Catalina slowly repeated Nahuatl words while Xochiquetzal corrected her with quiet confidence. Their voices were soft, almost a whisper. When Catalina paused to think, Xochiquetzal responded with a phrase in broken Castilian. They nodded at each other in rhythm, alternating languages.
The maid work had thinned for Xochiquetzal in the tecpan, they're just too many attendants already. She had turned to studying herbs again, her fingers still faintly dusted with pollen. Then when she wast studying herbs, she was helping Catalina learn Nahuatl, and vice versa. Catalina's pronunciation had improved since their first lesson. Their lessons passed time and kept the room from slipping into silence.
Ehecatl said nothing at first. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, letting the scene imprint in his mind. The quiet routine, the brief peace. His women weren't asking for anything. They weren't worried. But he still carried the weight of their futures in his chest like a stone that never quite warmed.
He exhaled through his nose and stepped forward, not as lord, not as ruler, but as someone just trying to hold everything together a little longer.
Ehecatl crossed the room, untied his tilmatli, and lowered himself slowly onto a cushion near the others with a tired grunt. Malinalli glanced sideways, smirking as she sipped cacao from a clay cup.
"Look at you, boy," she said, her voice thick with dry amusement. "All that paperwork got your back crooked?"
"Better my back than Cuauhtemoc's army starving," he muttered, leaning forward to pour himself a drink. The pulque was cool and sharp, cutting through the dryness in his throat. "You ever try reading the same glyph five times in five different contexts?"
Tecuelhuetzin raised an eyebrow. "So… the war's going well then?"
He nodded once. "We've secured all of Xocotla. The army's paused for a few days of resupply, reorganizing and planning, reassignment of tribute. Tlaxcala's looting like it's their last war. The Mexica are catching up now that the first wave of Tecuhtli Calpixque have been named."
Catalina glanced up from her seat beside Xochiquetzal. "And what happens now?"
"Now?" Ehecatl exhaled. "Now the army splits. Cuetlachtli pushes northeast toward Tohancapan. Cuauhtemoc cuts straight into Cuauhtochco. Maxixcatzin moves south to Cuetlaxtlan. All three hit different targets, fast and hard. Mission-based command. We've trained and studied for it... mostly Cuetlachtli at least."
"Sounds like a mess," Malinalli said. "I remember when war meant two armies standing across a field, screaming and throwing spears. Not this… what did you call it? Mission–"
"Ipan Tlahtolli Tlacatecah," Ehecatl repeated. "Smaller Tlacatlalli act independently, adapt fast. It's cleaner, more flexible. At least… it should."
Tecuelhuetzin leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. "You trust them to pull it off?"
Ehecatl paused, then shrugged. "Cuetlachtli, yes. Maxixcatzin… maybe. Cuauhtemoc will get there. He knows how to lead, but he's still trying to keep things steady as well over where the fighting is. Let's just hope they'll hold. They have to."
A silence settled for a moment. Only the distant echo of a conch horn broke it, faint through the courtyard windows. Xochiquetzal stood and moved quietly to pour water into Ehecatl's cup, then sat back down without a word. Catalina resumed her Nahuatl practicing, but her eyes flicked up now and then.
"Any new letters from the front?" Xochiquetzal asked softly.
"One." Ehecatl took a slow sip. "Cuetlachtli sent a glyph scroll. Quick symbols, straightforward. Requests more powder, lighter swords, better gauze. Same complaints about how steel-edged macuahuitl's are not as sharp as obsidian ones."
"You're not going to create anything new this week, are you?" Malinalli asked, half-joking.
He chuckled. "Not unless I want to take off time to speak with whoever I need to explain what I had in mind thoroughly and how to go about making it. But maybe when this war is over."
She reached over and swatted his thigh with the back of her hand. "Boy, your warriors already emptied all that powder the city made for those cannons.? Take a break before you empty yourself out as well."
Tecuelhuetzin laughed under her breath, tilting her head. "If it weren't for this war, this place would be too peaceful."
Ehecatl didn't respond right away. He leaned back, feeling the tension settle behind his ribs again.
"We'll have more to do soon," he said. "When the next phase of the war starts, we'll need more tribute sorters. More scribes. More schools for their kids. More bodies to build roads and mend bridges. Recovery is slower than I want… city's still only a little over halfway back to normal."
Catalina tilted her head. "And yet here we are. Blankets. Food. Quiet."
Ehecatl met her eyes. "And I don't plan on letting that slip."
Malinalli leaned back with a satisfied grunt. "Good. Because I'm not giving up foot massages for that reed mat life again."
He grinned, exhausted. "Seems like humility isn't your thing."
"Meh, pregnancy isn't easy." she said, and shrugged. "Sometimes my my lower back strains, sometimes my hips, then other times it could be my feet or shoulders. Even lying on that reed mat can feel uncomfortable."
Malinalli's smirk deepened as she eased back into the cushion, one hand absently tracing the edge of her cup. Her eyes flicked toward the high walls and reed-curtained windows, then slowly back to him.
"Tell me something, boy…" Her voice dipped, soft but loaded with honeyed intent. "Why do we live crammed in a macehualtin house when this"—she gestured around lazily, her fingers looping through the warm air—"this is the life I deserve?"
Ehecatl gave her a flat look.
She held his gaze, lips twitching. "We. I meant we."
He rolled his eyes. "Sure you did."
She then grinned. Slow, sly, unbothered. "So, don't tell me you're some stoic? Surely even you can see there's more than enough for us all and our children, and the views and service doesn't hurt."
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back on his elbows and stared up at the painted beams overhead.
"I'd like that too," he said. "A courtyard like this. Servants who don't need to be reminded twice. A place with quiet floors, real cotton blankets, and all that comes with tecpan life styles."
Malinalli tilted her head, pleased. "Then why don't we?"
"Because," he said, sitting up again, "you've been around the city. You've seen it. It's no small thing that just over a year ago this entire capital was in ruins. Streets flooded. Aqueducts shattered. Thousands dead or missing."
His voice didn't rise, but there was weight in it now, settling into the cushions with him.
"And yet… here we are. A little more than halfway back to what we had. Maybe more. The valley's subdued. Cholula and Huexotzinco annexed with no blood spilled. Tlaxcala's an ally—"
"A miracle in itself." Tecuelhuetzin murmured.
"—and we're finally pushing east. Again."
He turned to Malinalli, leaned in just enough to match her earlier energy, and gave her a light slap on the rear. She let out a mock gasp but didn't pull away.
"So yeah," he said with a crooked smile. "I could've wasted the year buying clothes, buying jewelry, making sure construction for a better tecpan than this one was being done for us to live in."
She pursed her lips in faux consideration. "Hmph. So instead of being spoiled, pampered, and massaged every morning… I get to share a house with noisy neighbors and watch you work until your back breaks."
"I'm quite the catch."
"That you are." she said, her tone softening for just a moment.
Ehecatl leaned back again. But then his thoughts began to drift. One year. It really had been a year since the banners fell. Since the city burned. Since the end of one life and the strange, violent start of this one.
He didn't say anything, but the weight of it pressed into his chest. A full year in this body.
And he still hadn't exhaled. Not fully.
…
…
…
The stone walls of the tecpan held the day's warmth well into the night. Ehecatl lay on his back, arms behind his head, a cotton blanket draped low across his waist. Malinalli shifted beside him with a faint sigh, her bare thigh brushing his. On his other side, Tecuelhuetzin was already asleep, her breathing steady and soft, her skin damp from the earlier heat. The air was thick with the scent of limewash, copal residue, and the lingering oil rubbed into his shoulders before the women had coaxed him to bed.
He didn't feel tired.
His body was relaxed, yet his mind refused to follow. His eyes remained open, staring at the ceiling beams. Somewhere in the tecpan courtyard, water trickled faintly from a carved stone basin. The soft flutter of palm fans being folded outside signaled the end of servant shifts. One bird chirped once, then fell silent.
It had been a full year.
A year since he had woken up choking on mud.
Since the broken altar. Since the screams.
His left hand flexed slowly under the blanket. He could still remember the way the blood had dried between his fingers that first night. When he couldn't even tell if it was his.
He hadn't expected this then.
He hadn't known who Ehecatl was supposed to be.
He hadn't even understood the difference between the lesser known allied altepetl's that helped the Spanish, or that Mexica blood meant nothing when the city had already fallen and everyone was starving.
Now? He's got a home life with women around him. Dictate reorganization plans while chewing roasted squash. Snap orders and have them obeyed without question.
Back then, he'd flinched when someone screamed.
Now, it barely registered.
His eyes moved to the far corner, where Catalina and Xochiquetzal had set aside their shared practice sheets. A few faint glyphs and letters he had helped write and draw were still visible in the moonlight, a half-finished name, a plant, a symbol of the rising sun.
He remembered the girl from the rubble.
The one who looked at him like a threat just for existing.
He hadn't known how to help her.
He barely knew how to help himself.
He'd stumbled, starved, begged, and bled in those early days. Watched men turn on each other for moldy tamales. Watched women get dragged behind walls and not come back. Tried to speak. Tried to be "better." And for his efforts, got kicked, slashed, laughed at.
And still, he'd gotten up.
He didn't know why. Maybe he was just too pissed off to die. Or maybe it was fear, the kind that hits when you realize you actually miss the 21st century, even when it sucked. Back then, at least life made sense. This era? Half romanticized, half a nightmare.
His gaze drifted down to Malinalli's hip, the curve of it catching a sliver of moonlight through the reed curtain. She mumbled something in her sleep, a half curse, half purr then turned toward him, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. One hand slid across his chest, possessive even in unconsciousness.
This was the life she said they deserved. He didn't disagree.
But he hadn't earned it by being good.
He earned it by surviving things good men wouldn't have.
He didn't flinch as much anymore when he thought about that woman tied up in that courtyard. He didn't shy from remembering what those two warriors did to her. Or how she looked when they finally dropped her like waste. There had been a moment, just one, when he almost cracked. Almost flinch again.
But he didn't.
He covered her and walked away.
Because he had finally understood.
When people say "No great civilization is built on clean hands."
Someone who really isn't too informed or already made a presumption. They'd assume you mean that they'd literally build and get their hands dirty, but while that may well be true and could be interpreted as such, it really means that said civilization had to do a lot of vile things.
Ehecatl exhaled slowly, eyes closing at last.
No dread gripped him now. No trembling guilt.
Just clarity.
The him who flinched behind a broken wall was dead.
The him now is lying between these women, the one who brought Cholula back into the fold without drawing a blade, who got Huexotzinco to willingly be part of us, who made Tlaxcalans march behind Mexica banners, that him survived because he stopped being soft. Stopped thinking in terms of 21st century morality and ideology.
And that him now had work to do.
Tomorrow, Cuauhtemoc would split the army into three. Maxixcatzin would march north. Cuetlachtli east. The reconquest would stretch thin. Logistics would strain. There would be cracks to fill.
He would fill them.
The reed curtain rustled gently in the breeze. He pulled the blanket higher over his waist, shifted just enough to let Malinalli curl into him more fully, and let the quiet settle.
He didn't sleep yet.
But he stopped remembering.
…
…
…
Ehecatl rose early.
The lake breeze still held a pre-dawn chill as he slipped on his tilmatli and stepped out into the quiet stone corridor. Servants were just beginning to stir; braziers had not yet been stoked. He passed them with a silent nod, hands behind his back, walking without destination. Until, instinctively, his feet took him east.
The quarter had once been ash and screams.
Now, the stone beneath his cactli was clean, even polished in places. A fresh canal had been cut nearby, lined with young reeds and newly planted willows. The morning light filtered through the mist rising off the water, casting the street in a hazy gold. Above him, on a wooden pole affixed to the corner of a merchant stall, the imperial flag fluttered that green, white, and red cloth with the eagle and serpent sharp against the light.
A boy darted past him barefoot, laughing, his younger sister chasing close behind with a doll made of dyed maize husks. Their footsteps echoed against rebuilt walls. The scent of roasted beans and tamales simmering in clay pots followed from nearby kitchens. Ehecatl's eyes wandered, settling on a small plaza ahead.
It was here.
He knew it without needing to look for landmarks.
This was the place where he'd first woken up, half-buried in mud and blood, with a corpse across his back and smoke in his lungs. Now, the stones were clean. Vendors had laid woven mats out for morning trade. A prayer post had been set up beside the canal, and three banners flew above it. One was the imperial flag. The other two were the war standard of the Yaoquizque and the white-bannered symbol of reconstruction teams.
He stood quietly at the edge of it all, just watching.
A voice broke the silence behind him. "They say this place was cursed."
He turned.
A woman stood nearby, one hand balancing a basket against her hip, the other gently resting on a toddler's shoulder. Three more children peeked out from behind her shawl. She wasn't dressed like a noble, just a clean huipil patched at the seams, her sandals worn flat, but her eyes held no fear when she looked at him.
"I didn't mean to interrupt, Cihuacoatl," she added quickly, bowing her head slightly.
"You didn't." He glanced at the plaza again. "Cursed, was it?"
"That's what people said," she replied, adjusting the basket. "Said no one should build here again. Too much blood. Too many ghosts." She gave a faint smile. "But ghosts don't plant maize."
The toddler tugged on her skirt, and she hushed him softly.
Ehecatl stepped forward, looking over the space again, his voice low. "A year ago, this was mud. Rot. Corpses stacked like stones." He nodded once to himself. "Now there's children playing. That's all that needs to be said."
The woman followed his gaze, then nodded. "We were living near Iztapalapa before. Lost our roof during the siege. Now I sweep for one of the bakeries here. They gave us a room they had to spare."
She paused. "The flag… it makes the children feel safe. And me too."
He said nothing, but his eyes lingered on the cloth waving gently in the wind. The green was vibrant in the light. The white clean. The eagle's beak pointed west.
"Thank you," she said after a moment. Not with awe. Not like he was a god or a savior. Just like a mother who meant it.
He turned back to her. "What's your name?"
"Citlali."
She hesitated. "I have four. All mine. Their father…" she didn't finish. Her voice didn't shake.
He nodded once.
"You're a strong mother," he said. "That matters more than people realize."
She blinked with gratitude, and a stillness that said she was listening.
"Every day's a step closer," he added. "Toward making lives like yours easier. That's the whole point of all this. Even if it doesn't feel like it yet."
She smiled faintly. "Well, if it's true, I hope you keep walking."
Ehecatl gave a quiet chuckle through his nose, then turned to go.
Only as he walked away did he let himself think. Pretty, nice hips, Clear eyes.
He gave her one final glance, then turned and walked on. Back toward the tecpan, where reports and tributes and decisions waited.
But as he moved, his steps were steadier. Firmer.
And behind him, the flag rippled once more in the wind.