The trees thinned by morning. Cuetlachtli slowed his pace and let the rest of the column push forward around him. The sound of sandals against damp earth softened as the brush opened ahead. They had followed the jungle road for hours—dirt packed firm by generations of traders, widened now by the boots of war. Humidity clung to the skin, making every breath feel steeped in steam. Mosquitoes flitted around the horses. He waved them off without looking.
The front scouts signaled with a curt whistle.
Tohancapan.
Not a city in the grand sense. More like a thick river town, half hidden in palms and crooked wooden bridges. A few scattered shrines jutted above the trees, their old red paint faded from the rains. Smoke rose from behind the thatched huts near the banks. His men tensed, but he didn't.
The air smelled like wet soil and chiltepin peppers. Not fear.
He raised one hand. Halt.
The Yaoquizque Tlapixque fanned out in disciplined silence. Their black-and-white uniforms marked them cleanly. No frills, no feathers. Just order. Their hats were cone-shaped and glinting in the dappled light. Their swirling black-and-white shields leaned against their thighs, unraised for now. No shouting. No premature drumbeats. No flair. Just pressure.
Cuetlachtli stepped off the main path and moved toward the ridge.
Tohancapan came into clearer view from above. Canoes sat tethered along the shallow banks, unmoved. No patrols. No runners. Just a few dogs weaving through the market stalls, unattended. A woman bent to scoop water from a clay jar. Two old men played some counting game with pebbles. They hadn't fled. That meant something.
He looked back toward the slope where his officers waited.
"Tight column. Standard wedge. Approach slow."
They relayed the order cleanly, and the formation began to shift. No banners yet. That would come after.
Cuetlachtli watched the process with a stillness that felt earned. In his chest, the familiar rhythm of command beat steady. This wasn't bloodlust. It wasn't even excitement. It was application. This is what they had drilled for. Every maneuver sharpened under Ehecatl's model. Every lesson distilled from his mouth into action. And here, unlike the capital. He wasn't anyone's second.
He was the man the front obeyed.
His men moved downhill in perfect lines. Not too fast, not too aggressive, and not lax. Shields up by the time they reached the road's edge. Spears held high but not leveled. Even the Tlaxcalan partially trained Yaoquizque Tlapixque followed the pattern, the idea of going out to take what you wanted even when allowed to given what their lords agreed on was muted by discipline.
That pleased him more than he expected.
By the time they reached the edge of the first huts, no one had screamed. No dogs barked. No runners bolted.
A child pointed at them with curiosity instead of fear.
The first elder to approach came barefoot, his hands raised in peace. Behind him, two others followed, carrying a reed mat and a simple folded cloth bundle. Cuetlachtli knew the gesture.
An offering before a blade.
He didn't smile.
"Bring them forward." he said.
As his men parted to let the three approach, Cuetlachtli removed his coned hat, tucking it beneath his arm. The breeze caught his damp hair, thick with sweat from the march. One of the elders stepped forward, bowed, and offered the mat.
"We welcome the warriors of Tenochtitlan," the man said. "We heard of the fall of Xocotla and do not wish to bleed as they did."
Cuetlachtli studied his face. The man spoke clean Nahuatl with only a trace of local bend. Not shaking. Not smug. Just tired.
"What's the name of your leader?" Cuetlachtli asked.
"Gone," the elder replied. "Tzompan escaped into the east with a few hundred. Those left behind… have no quarrel."
Cuetlachtli paused. "How many warriors do you have?"
The elder didn't lie. "Less than fifty. Most fled days ago."
Cuetlachtli nodded. "You'll take us to the plaza. And you'll summon every remaining man, woman, and youth who can work."
The elder didn't flinch. "Yes, Cihuacoatl."
Cuetlachtli's jaw tensed for a moment at the title. It wasn't his. But he let it go.
As the officers began to secure the main roads and cut off potential escape paths, Cuetlachtli stepped through the outskirts and into the bones of Tohancapan. He counted the houses by instinct. He noted the steepness of the banks. The angle of the sun. The flow of the breeze. Every movement calculated.
This wasn't slaughter. Not yet. This was the step before resistance. And if the town behaved, there would be no need for a lesson.
The reed bundle they offered him contained smoked fish, roasted squash, and a few small copper trinkets. Not enough to impress. But enough to admit submission.
He'd accept it.
Tohancapan would be Mexica by sundown.
But the east was wild country.
Dense brush. Narrow trails. And men who had fled without surrendering.
…
…
…
Cuetlachtli hadn't smiled at the gesture. Just nodded and had the tribute be passed over to the Tlaxcalans.
His men waited in formation behind him. The Yaoquizque Tlapixque in their swirl-shield black and white, coned helmets gleaming like polished obsidian. Behind them, a column of Tlaxcalan auxiliaries stood without fidgeting. Their looting rights had been stopped because of this scenario, but they had not complained. They'd received the tribute. And in that, Cuetlachtli honored the Pact.
No bloodshed meant no spoils. But honor could still pay.
He turned toward the elder again, who stood with quiet dignity beneath the overhang of a simple reed-thatched awning. "Your people surrendered without force. That was wise."
The elder bowed his head but did not kneel. "Tohancapan survives because it does not gamble."
Cuetlachtli liked that answer. "Then I expect that same sense in the days to come."
He nodded once toward the scribe at his flank. The man stepped forward, arms full of bark-paper scrolls, and unfurled the first with a practiced snap.
"I want a census," Cuetlachtli said without raising his voice. "Every name. Every age. Every able body and unfit one. Every craftsman, priest, and merchant. If they're old enough to walk, I want their height. If they're young enough to cry, I want their wet nurse's name recorded."
The elder nodded slowly. "That can be done."
"It will be done." Cuetlachtli didn't blink. "You'll find I have no desire to disrupt your way of life. You'll keep your customs. Your rites. Your seasons of planting and mourning, and all that it is that makes you Huasteca. But you'll do so under our banners. And the price of that is… collaboration."
He let the word hang.
It slid through the air like the edge of a calm blade. Harmless unless you were stupid.
The elder understood. "You'll have your list."
Cuetlachtli gave the barest nod. Then turned to his second-in-command.
"Start the mapping. I want to know every irrigation channel, every weaving hall, and every grain store. Anything grown, spun, or traded. I want a ledger by nightfall."
"Yes, sir."
"And deploy the Tequitiliztli."
The man hesitated only a second. "Openly?"
"No. Quietly. Set them up as new labor overseers. Tell the locals they'll ensure tribute flows better. Let them believe that. But make sure they establish permanent outposts. The kind that earn wealth, and not just respect."
The officer smirked and disappeared into the line.
Cuetlachtli turned again to study the town. The houses had walls plastered white. Of course that is if your house wasn't a wooden hut, even if the houses didn't have any of the gold or red of Mexica paint. The homes were plain, but practical. This place didn't bleed wealth, it bled utility.
He stepped forward. "What does your town make?" he asked the elder. "What's your worth?"
The old man hesitated, then motioned to a young boy nearby, who brought over a woven satchel. The elder untied the flap and unfolded a tight bundle of cloth. Inside was a square of fine cotton, dyed in deep reddish hues and patterned with looping river shapes. The colors weren't as bold as Mexica cochineal, but the fabric was clean, tight, and even.
"Textiles," the elder said. "We weave cotton. The dye comes from berries and tree bark. Sometimes we trade inland for stronger reds."
Cuetlachtli took the fabric between his fingers. The weave was firm. Precise. He nodded once.
"And what else?"
"We gather salt, from the flats near the coast. There's a marsh south of here. Fish too—catfish, eels. And fruit. The kind that grows close to water. Sour at first, but it keeps."
Cuetlachtli listened, eyes narrowing as his mind worked. Cotton. Salt. Fruit. Textiles. Not glamorous. But reliable. Useful.
"You'll keep doing what you've done," he said. "Nothing changes, unless you make it change."
The elder gave a slow nod. "We will… cooperate."
Cuetlachtli smiled thinly. "Good. Then the occupation will be generous."
Cuetlachtli raised a hand, and the man beside him gave a sharp whistle. A dozen Yaoquizque moved through the plaza with quick steps, gathering locals. Young men, older boys, a few lean-armed elders into three uneven groups.
He watched as the first group followed one of his officers south toward the tree line. The Huastecs led the way, pointing out which trunks were ripe and dry, which bled too much sap. One stepped forward, took the iron axe from the officer, and began chopping.
Cuetlachtli narrowed his eyes. The Yaoquizque flanking the worker didn't relax. Good.
The second group was already dragging logs back. Barefoot, sweating, but quiet. No yelling. No games. Another officer walked beside them, checking the path for stumbles or feigned exhaustion.
By the time the third group returned to the edge of the town, Tier 1 men were waiting with knives, files, and split-stone wedges. They stripped bark, shaved edges, and carved grooves without a word. By now, each man knew what beam size matched which layout. Cuetlachtli had made sure of it.
He paced slowly along the perimeter as the final stage began. Watching as shelters took shape in rows. Not fancy. Just dry. Four poles, woven siding, palm thatch. But better than rain.
He didn't know why, but the Cihuacoatl had told him: "If they surrender, don't overwork them. Let them go home by noon. You'll get more from them long term than if they drop dead of spite."
It felt soft. But it also worked.
…
…
…
Night pressed gently against the coast, warm and thick with the hum of insects and the faint crackle of fires. Inside a large hut assembled earlier that afternoon, a circle of black-and-white clad warriors sat low to the ground, their shields stacked at the corners, their spears resting by the reed walls. Cuetlachtli leaned over a map scratched into bark paper, candlelight throwing sharp angles across his face.
This was no noble's war room. No polished council chamber. Just wood, ash, and sweat. But it was theirs.
His captains each bearing the black cone-helm and swirling shield of the Yaoquizque Tlapixque—sat quietly as reports trickled in.
"The shelters are finished," said one, nodding toward the door. "Used Huastec techniques. Locals knew exactly how to bind the roofs tight against rain. We guided the work, but…" He shrugged. "They did most of it."
Cuetlachtli grunted approval. "Good. Let them keep doing what they know. Easier to track their rhythms that way."
Another captain spoke next. "We've compiled the names. Every family, every elder, every child tall enough to walk. Ages. Trades. Family trees. Nothing skipped. It's all been logged and branded to corresponding households."
"Then let their elder know," Cuetlachtli replied. "If they collaborate, this occupation becomes tolerable. If they don't…"
He didn't finish. He didn't have to.
A third captain, from the Yaoquizque Tequitiliztli, leaned forward now, his tone more casual, less formal. "We've started rotating the men off hut duty into night leisure. Slowly. They're allowed to gamble at familiar spots where locals linger. Just playing among themselves, for now."
Cuetlachtli glanced up. "And?"
The man gave a small smile. "All it takes is one curious Huastec to sit down. Curiosity's a quiet foot in the door."
Cuetlachtli gave a small nod. "Keep it subtle."
Another warrior adjusted his cone hat slightly, the candlelight glinting off his jawline. "On the matter of prostitution… the method hasn't changed from before. It's the… treatment that's different. Orders came down that armed men stand watch near those quarters. That the women aren't to be harmed. No roughness. No shaming."
There was a quiet beat.
Then Cuetlachtli spoke, arms folded. "Do you remember the story the Cihuacoatl told? About the land of the rising sun?"
One of the junior officers furrowed his brow. "The what?"
"The place far east, where the sun begins. Said there was once an empire there. Strong. Had good ideas. But they let their men treat the conquered women like nothing. Like animals. Didn't rein them in. And that's what helped contribute their downfall."
The Yaoquizque Tequitiliztli captain leaned back. "Is that true? I mean… I get that things like that happen in war. But that version he told sounded like a whole city went under because of it. A lot of soldiers, too. I've never heard of something like that."
Cuetlachtli gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Probably happened somewhere out east. Maybe where the Castilians came from. Doesn't matter."
He let the words hang for a moment, then added, quieter, "He didn't tell us that story just to scare us. He told it because we're his. His model. And if we shame ourselves, then everything we built dies with us."
The flame flickered between them.
"No sloppiness. No spectacle. The Huastecs here surrendered. They're not fools. Let's not make them regret handing us the keys."
"We don't need to be saints," he said, "but we do need to be smarter than the last bastards who thought they'd rule this land."
The candle flame danced slightly as Cuetlachtli leaned back into the woven mat, arms crossing over his chest. The others quieted, sensing the shift.
"Tohancapan gave us more than a foothold," he said. "It gave us time. Food. Shelter. Breathing room. We didn't waste blood here, so we get to choose where to spill it."
A few heads nodded.
"And that," he continued, "means we plan the next moves ourselves."
He reached for a bark-sheet map flattened by a polished stone. Dots and inked glyphs marked the coast and its spindly interior roads.
"There's a village three leagues north of here," he said, tapping once with a callused finger. "Ihcuatepec. Small. Shallow wells, no walls. We'll start there. No word if they're hostile, but don't expect banners waiting for us."
He scanned the room, then added, "Places like Tohancapan? If they surrender, we do what you saw today. Controlled integration. They give us what we ask, and we let them sleep in their own beds."
"But if they don't?" asked one of the Tlaxcalan captains.
Cuetlachtli met his gaze without blinking. "Then we remind them what it means to refuse."
"We keep the structure. If there's battle, the best warriors are noted. Named. Rewarded. Or if you're a Tlaxcalan then after the battle you know what you an do. If they surrender and only then Tlaxcalans get the tribute I take in. No scrambling. No chaos. It'll come to you in sacks, not blood."
Another nod, firmer this time. One of the older Tlaxcalans gave a satisfied grunt. "Fair enough."
Cuetlachtli pointed again on the map. "After Ihcuatepec, we move toward Tetzapan and Mazatepec. Sparse land. Thin resistance. But the closer we get to the hills, the more likely they'll run and regroup. That means we'll enter eventually end up over at Tziccoac."
The room shifted. Even those unfamiliar with the terrain had heard the name passed along the grapevine.
He didn't look up. "We're not ready for that yet. The brush is too thick, the paths too narrow. You want to fight ghosts? Go ahead. I want to build momentum first. Pressure. Squeeze everything around them. Then we talk about going in."
He sat back.
"So we get our battles. You get your loot. The Empire gets its land. But if someone offers it without a fight?" He gestured around the war hut. "We do this. Not out of kindness. Out of efficiency."
A beat of silence passed. Then:
"It works," said one of the Yaoquizque Tlapixque.
"Damn right it does." Cuetlachtli muttered.
The talk of conquest faded as Cuetlachtli rolled the bark map aside. The candle crackled. One of his captains an older, straight-backed, hair threaded with white spoke up next.
"Logistics are stable," he said. "Supplies from Tohancapan haven't thinned. Tribute's moving. Roads are holding."
He shifted his weight and tapped the small wooden tablet beside him.
"We've compiled a copy of the census. Everyone here's age, sex, profession, family ties. It's thorough."
Cuetlachtli raised a brow. "Already?"
The man nodded. "It's done. I need your approval to send a copy back to Tenochtitlan. A runner's already prepped. Verbal update included."
Cuetlachtli nodded once. "Approved. Let Tlazohtzin know. Keep it straight, don't dress it up."
The captain didn't flinch. "We won't. I'll have the runner leave at first light."
The younger officers exchanged glances. Cuetlachtli saw it, and before they could question it, he added:
"If we're at full strength, there's no excuse to stumble."
The old captain gave a thin smile. "Exactly what I was going to say."
Cuetlachtli stood.
"Tohancapan is our base now," he said plainly. "It's calm. We keep it that way."
He glanced once toward the flap of the war hut, where the torchlight flickered like a pulse against the reed walls.
"The Tequitiliztli say it's getting easier. Easier to police. To catalog. To plant what needs planting."
No one asked what that meant. They all knew.
"We move in four days."
He let the silence settle, then gave a short nod.
"Rest well. Dismissed."
…
…
…
Cuetlachtli lingered after the others had left, the war hut quiet save for the crackle of the low fire pit. Shadows danced across the woven walls. The night outside hummed with the distant sounds of lake frogs, creaking canoes, and the soft shuffle of guards changing posts.
He sat alone for a while, elbows on knees, watching the coals dim.
Had he followed the Cihuacoatl's vision well enough?
He wasn't sure.
Tohancapan had surrendered without a fight. That was good. Efficient. The census was underway. Tribute sorted. Vice systems discreetly seeded where they'd take root. No riots. No resistance. The Tlaxcalans were fed, and quiet.
It looked clean.
But he knew the real measure wasn't today.
It would be in the next four days.
Could he hold the peace, keep the machine oiled, and then turn swift and lethal when the fight began again?
That was the real test. Could the Yaoquizque Tlapixque stand beside the Eagles, Jaguars, and Shorn Ones in name and in deed?
He hoped so. He needed them to.
Not just because he wanted to be remembered and not just because he wanted Ehecatl's approval.
But because this, this army, this method, this order. It was Ehecatl's creation. And Cuetlachtli would see it sharpened, field-tested, and remembered.
Even if no one else gave them the spotlight… he would.
He rose from the low stool and stepped out into the night. The camp had quieted. Most fires burned low, flickering beneath makeshift awnings. Across the plaza, a few sentries nodded as he passed. He returned the gesture without stopping.
His hut was plain. A simple Huastec design, wood-framed and reed-walled. But inside, his cot was clean, his spare sandals set in line, his war gear oiled and ready.
He knelt once, as he'd been taught. Forehead to the floor, hands clasped.
Then lay back.
The mat creaked beneath his weight.
No stars above, just that ceiling of palm and clay.
Still, he saw them anyway.
Eagle. Jaguar. Shorn One.
Yaoquizque Tlapixque.