Three days passed, and the rhythms of Tohancapan settled into something close to manageable.
The war hut, built from Huastec timber and Mexica order, buzzed with low voices and candlelight. Cuetlachtli sat cross-legged at the head of the space, arms resting on his knees, posture loose but watching everything. His officers from the Yaoquizque Tlapixque and Tequitiliztli alike had gathered in a wide crescent, their shields stacked neatly, spears tucked behind them.
One of the Tequitiliztli stood first. He wasn't formal. Just clear.
"Policing's been easier," he began, nodding toward the door flap. "Xocotla gave most of the men a taste of what's to be expected of them. They've seen what happens when things aren't up to our standards, and they're applying that here."
Cuetlachtli said nothing. Just waited.
"Tohancapan being cooperative helps," the man continued. "Fewer outbursts. No need for public discipline. Locals started using our own language for things. It's small, but it's a sign."
He glanced around once, then continued. "On the matter of prostitution. The women have been recruited, as usual only those who came forward came willingly. And it was to our criteria, a mix of the most beautiful and the most desperate. It's set to begin tomorrow."
"They get forty-nine percent of the take," the man added. "We get fifty-one. Standard oversight. Armed men will be posted near the quarters, as ordered."
A mutter came from one of the younger Tlapixque near the edge. "Of course it starts the day we leave."
Someone beside him chuckled quietly, but the sound died quick.
Cuetlachtli didn't scold. He just shifted his gaze, and the line held its breath a moment longer before settling.
"Gambling's taken," the Tequitiliztli added, moving on. "Same with the drink. The locals finish their required work from sunrise to noon, and then do their own business. After that, some drift into the dens. We've got men already blending in. It's slow, but consistent."
He took a breath.
"The port's expanded thanks to the local's help. We kept the rhythm light, no floggings, or shouting were needed surprisingly. We're also making canoes now. Nothing grand, but enough for transport if it's needed."
Cuetlachtli raised a brow. " what about slaves?"
"Not yet," the man said. "We didn't need them. But we've sent word to Xocotla's Tequitiliztli to have some ready. Just in case."
Cuetlachtli gave a short nod. "Fine. Keep the locals moving. Don't break them if they're willing to work with us."
Then he looked to the other side of the room.
Two Tlapixque captains leaned forward.
"The scouts returned at dawn," one said. "They've mapped the nearest trails and marked soft spots in the terrain. Rivers to cross, brush to avoid, small hills to use for coverage. Nothing too steep. Good ground to move through if we time it."
Cuetlachtli extended a hand without a word, and the map was passed over. Thick parchment smeared in ink and grease, dotted with symbols.
"Get copies made for everyone in this hut," he said. "We study them tonight. We move tomorrow."
He leaned back slightly, letting the flicker of the torches throw shadows across the hut walls.
"Tohancapan gave us stability," he said. "We've used it well. That's the point."
"Tomorrow we stop managing, and start conquering again."
He dismissed them with a glance.
…
…
…
The sun hadn't fully risen, but Tier 1 was already in motion.
Lines moved with practiced silence. Packs cinched. Shields strapped. The morning mist rolled off the ground in low curls as Cuetlachtli rode ahead of the column, his eyes scanning the trail for ambush points. The jungle had thinned into broken woodland. Fewer palms now. More thorns. The earth was dry underfoot.
Tohancapan shrank behind them.
Ihcuatepec was ahead.
They didn't expect a welcome.
They got an army.
It began with a hawk's cry. Then the scouts came sprinting back. Low to the ground, heads down, not shouting. One of them motioned sharply, two fingers held close, and Cuetlachtli halted the column.
"Spread the forward line. Raise shields. Officers to me." he barked, calm and cold.
Within moments the brush ahead stirred, and didn't stop. It wasn't the undergrowth. It was men. Hundreds. No… thousands.
Huastecs.
Spears bristled above painted Cuextecatl uniforms. Feathered headdresses rippled in the breeze. They weren't a rabble. This was coordinated. Some bore obsidian-bladed clubs, others long atlatls with stone darts. War drums pounded in uneven rhythm from behind the trees.
They were arrayed wide, loose in formation, with ritual war paint streaked across their torsos. Cuetlachtli narrowed his eyes, the amount of warriors didn't add up to just Ihcuatepec. Not just one town.
Tzompan's warriors.
The ones who'd fled Tohancapan.
And more. From Tetzapan. From Mazatepec.
They had gathered.
Cuetlachtli did not flinch.
"Tier 1. Three-volley formation."
He turned to the artillery crew positioned at the rear left and right.
"Cannons at the flanks. Set for spread. Slow pan. Fire only once the main line charges."
He looked back to the center. "Hold until the command."
Arquebusiers moved fast. The first line knelt. The second stepped just behind. The third waited, crouched, fingers wrapped tight around powder horns.
Black-and-white shields rose in unison. Cone helmets glinted in the sun.
There was no banner raised. Not yet.
Then came the Huastec war cries. Shrill, layered, growing louder by the second as the mass surged forward. A great wall of movement as the painted warriors, bare-chested came howling.
Cuetlachtli waited.
Fifty paces.
Forty.
Thirty.
He didn't breathe.
"First line…!"
He raised one hand.
The sound of the rifles cracked across the land like the snap of a god's fingers.
A row of Huastecs dropped mid-stride. Some staggered. Some tumbled backwards. It didn't stop the charge, but it definitely slowed it.
"Second line!"
Another volley.
The front of the Huastec charge twisted. Momentum buckling in places as bodies crumpled into the dust. Still, they came. Still screaming.
"Third!"
A final blast. The air stank of gunpowder now. Smoke rolled low. Men choked on it.
"Cannons!"
The ground boomed.
Both flanks exploded in iron shrieks and earth-splitting cracks. Rifled artillery tore sideways into the Huastec wings, flinging men, dust, and wood into the air. Blood sprayed across banana leaves and tree trunks.
The Huastec line wavered.
Cuetlachtli gave the nod.
"Advance."
The Yaoquizque Tlapixque stepped forward, one formation at a time, methodical and calm. Arquebusiers reloaded behind them with the same precision. Shields moved like walls.
The Huastecs screamed, but not like before.
This wasn't a war dance.
This was panic.
Cuetlachtli smiled.
His formation was holding. His firepower had landed. The enemy had broken rhythm.
This was what Ehecatl built.
Now the world would learn its name.
…
…
…
The line broke.
Not all at once, but like a wall cracking under force. The frontmost Huastecs stumbled first, torn open by shot or scrambling over the bodies of those who had fallen. Some tried to rally. Others turned. The drums grew frantic. Orders screamed in Nahuatl and Huastec dialects blurred into chaos.
Cuetlachtli didn't hesitate.
"Collapse in. Encircle."
Signals snapped from the center. The two flanks curved inward like jaws closing around a soft throat.
The Yaoquizque Tlapixque didn't chase in wild packs. They pivoted with fluid motion, shield-men shifting wide while the arquebusiers reloaded and advanced behind them. Precision. Rhythm. Nothing wasted.
Arquebus blasts cracked again.
Targeting pockets of warriors still trying to hold the line. Huastecs threw darts and stones out of reflex more than strategy. Most sailed wide. Some struck shields and glanced off. A few Tier 1 men fell, but none cried out. Their comrades stepped over them, never breaking stride.
By now, the encirclement had closed three-quarters of the way around.
Some Huastecs fled south, toward the denser trees. A few made it. Most didn't. The back line of Tier 1 had curved to catch the escape route. Spears met backs. Bayonets were fixed and driven forward. No mercy. No shouting. Just execution.
One of the Huastec captains, a broad-shouldered, face streaked with black dye tried to rally a knot of men. He raised a shell-tipped club and bellowed something guttural.
A cannon fired.
His upper torso vanished in a red mist.
The men around him dropped their weapons.
The battle lasted maybe ten more minutes.
After that, it was a cull.
Cuetlachtli gave no order to spare. No quarter to be taken. This wasn't a city that had opened its gates. This was a warband that had gambled and lost.
And now they were fertilizer.
By the time the smoke cleared, the ground looked soaked in rust.
Yaoquizque moved between bodies checking for pulses, removing any weapons, stripping identifiers. The Tequitiliztli circled behind, already marking which warriors had stood out. Which Tlaxcalans had held formation. Names were being logged. Rewards would be assigned.
Cuetlachtli stood at the edge of it all, arms crossed, watching the last of the Huastec fighters bleed into the mud.
He didn't speak for a long time.
Then: "Burn their banners. Leave the bodies."
A nearby captain raised a brow. "Leave them, sir?"
Cuetlachtli nodded. "We're not burying them. Not here. Let the ones who come after see what we left."
The captain didn't argue.
There was no need.
This wasn't brutality.
It was a message.
The smoke hadn't cleared, but the killing was done.
Cuetlachtli stepped forward, breaking the line for the first time since the order to encircle. He passed through the corpses without flinching. Blood soaked the soil in patches, and a coppery tang clung to the humid air. A Yaoquizque crouched near a fallen Tlaxcalan, whispering a prayer while checking the man's pulse. Another stood over a Huastec boy no older than sixteen, who still clutched a broken spear. His eyes stared upward, unblinking.
"Call them in." Cuetlachtli said.
The nearest captain nodded and turned, cupping his hands around his mouth. A whistle split the field, sharp and deliberate.
Within minutes, the lines compressed.
He gave the rest order to rest where they stood.
Tier 1 cheered. They clapped their shields, and started boasting. A few sat down immediately. Others crouched to tighten straps or clean weapons. A few removed their helmets, sweat pouring down their brows. Faces were proud, not dazed. Alert, but spent.
Cuetlachtli turned to one of his officers. "Start the tally. Wounded first."
"Yes, sir."
They moved quickly. Three groups were marked: walking wounded, patched-up fighters, and those unfit to continue. Anyone with bleeding joints, cracked ribs, concussions, or high fevers was marked for transport back to Tohancapan. The rest were told to eat, drink, and sit. No more than thirty minutes.
Cuetlachtli walked the perimeter as it unfolded. Saw one man tightening a makeshift sling, his shoulder pierced but eyes focused. Another had his cheek sliced open, tied shut with cloth from a fallen Huastec. Neither complained.
"These two stay," he told a junior officer. "They're walking and talking."
"Understood."
He glanced toward the trees. "Pull three of the relays. Send word to the Tequitiliztli in Tohancapan. Injured are on the way."
The officer gave a quick nod and jogged off.
Cuetlachtli knelt beside a fallen rifleman who'd taken a jagged dart to the thigh. The man hissed through his teeth as another Yaoquizque poured saltwater into the wound.
"Can you fight again in two days?" Cuetlachtli asked flatly.
The man looked up, grimaced, and nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Don't lie about it."
"I'm not."
Cuetlachtli stood and nodded. "Then you stay."
By the time the second sunmark passed, the formations were rebuilt. Slower, tighter, accounting for fatigue. Rations were passed around. Canteens refilled. Rifles rechecked.
Cuetlachtli faced the front.
"Ihcuatepec is ahead."
He turned.
And they began to march again.
…
…
…
The sun hung low by the time they reached the ridge overlooking Ihcuatepec.
No drums. No horns. No ceremonial banners.
But they were waiting.
Smoke from a dozen fires curled upward from inside the town's crude palisade. Along the outer paths, wooden stakes had been hastily driven into the earth. Some bore fresh points. Others were stripped branches, sharpened at crude angles. Behind them, Huastec warriors stood in tight ranks of what remained of them. Maybe a hundred, maybe more. Not enough for a true stand. But enough to resist.
Cuetlachtli didn't blink.
He motioned for his officers. Within minutes, a cluster of black-and-white–clad captains and lieutenants circled him just off the path. No campfires. No shouting. Just the sound of strategy.
One of his junior officers spoke first, pointing to the tree line. "We can take the eastern slope. Flank from there. It's narrow, but it puts us behind their lines before dusk."
Another shook his head. "Too steep. The brush will slow us down. Better to hammer the front and break morale quick. They just lost a lot of men."
A third voice offered something quieter. "We could hold position. Wait. Let them sweat. Night's coming. They'll start imagining things."
More voices joined. Half a dozen strategies in under two minutes.
Cuetlachtli listened.
He didn't interrupt. He didn't scold.
When the last man finished, Cuetlachtli turned to the map one of them had unrolled across a shield.
"We'll do all of it," he said.
The captains went still.
He pointed to the ridgelines. "Ring the town. Make them think we're bigger than we are. Use every standard. Every drum. Show them Tier 1 came in full."
Then he tapped the distant roads snaking away from the town. "Split off the rest. Quietly. Each team takes a direction to Tetzapan, Mazatepec, and the hamlets in between."
He looked up. "Tell the locals the truth. That the Huastec warriors fell by noon. That their neighbors bent the knee. That Ihcuatepec is surrounded and will be burned."
His gaze swept the circle.
"Make them surrender with their mouths, not their blood."
"And if they don't?" one captain asked.
Cuetlachtli didn't pause. "Then they get what those boys got."
No one argued.
He pointed to three of his captains. "You're leading the split. You've got names. You've got terrain. You've got timing. Move when I say move. Until then, tighten the noose."
He rolled the map up himself.
"Ihcuatepec will break."
And with that, the circle dispersed.
The sun was down by the time Tier 1 finished setting camp. No bonfires. No idle songs. Just small cookfires low to the earth, shielded by dugout pits or behind rows of stacked packs. Light discipline. Sound discipline. Even the auxiliaries followed it without needing to be told twice.
The black-and-white swirl of the Yaoquizque Tlapixque uniforms seemed to blur into the dark, their cone-shaped helmets placed beside bedrolls, their weapons lined in reach. It wasn't comfort, it was function. They knew they wouldn't sleep long.
Cuetlachtli walked the perimeter once before turning in. He passed by rows of men already eating in silence, squads pairing off to share guard shifts, junior officers checking powder flasks and iron trigger pins. A few of the Huastec captives from earlier were lightly wounded, arms bound but not broken sat near a tethered post, guarded but fed. No screams. No cruelty.
He stopped near the central tent and motioned toward one of his aides.
"Two hours," he said. "Then wake them."
The aide nodded and disappeared into the shadows.
Cuetlachtli didn't say more. He stepped inside the command shelter, removed his sandals, and sank onto the mat beside his gear. He didn't sleep so much as shut his eyes and lower his heartbeat, the way Ehecatl had taught him.
He'd need clarity.
Tonight, deception was their weapon.
And if it worked… Ihcuatepec would fall without a single bullet more.
…
…
…
Night fell without fanfare.
There were no drums. No horns. Just the quiet hiss of torches being lit with flint and resin, arranged carefully across the camp's visible lines. Every flame positioned to flicker behind movement, real or imagined.
At the camp's front were actual Yaoquizque Tlapixque moved with deliberate rhythm. Eating. Pacing. Sharpening blades. Loading powder. All within view of Ihcuatepec's distant watchers.
Behind them, further into the back of the camp, the dummies stood.
Some bore helmets. Others simply wore the swirl-patterned uniform draped over crossbeams and packed bundles. A few were posed beside makeshift artillery frames, the cannon silhouettes outlined by firelight.
Cuetlachtli stood at the central ridge, arms crossed, watching the illusion breathe to life. From this distance, it looked real. His officers had outdone themselves. Even the spacing of footprints, the trick of passing shadows, all of it suggested numbers far beyond what remained behind.
And that was the point.
Because most of Tier 1 was already gone.
While the camp flickered and whispered, dozens of squads had already broken off in the early hours after midnight. Moving quiet and low through the coastal paths. They carried no banners. No drums. Only orders.
Deceive. Intimidate. Accept surrender.
But be ready to kill if they resist.
Cuetlachtli gave the signal to snuff the outermost fires before dawn. Only the forward torches stayed burning, flickering behind real men. If the Huastecs inside Ihcuatepec tried to count their numbers now, they'd get no clarity.
Just the haunting silhouette of a war camp that never seemed to shrink.
And by the time the sun cleared the canopy, it would already be too late.
…
…
…
Tetzapan didn't scream until the third house caught fire.
By then, the detachment had already split.
They'd entered the village without war cries, just sharp steps and cold eyes. Shields tight. Formation loose enough to shift inside narrow alleys. As expected, the Huastec warriors hadn't returned. And the locals were startled, angry, panicked, still fought.
A pot hurled from a rooftop shattered near the squad leader's feet. Another crash sounded from deeper down the lane as someone had thrown a bundle of burning reeds into a supply shed.
It didn't matter.
These weren't wide-eyed novices.
Every man in that detachment had bled in Tenochtitlan.
They had defended and attacked courtyards, tunneled under siege lines, stormed causeways with arrows raining down. What were clay pots and sharpened sticks to them?
One squad fanned out into the east alley. Another climbed the flat rooftops in pairs slitting throats, toppling makeshift barricades, dragging down screamers before they could alert the rest.
A third squad breached the central plaza with perfect timing. Two Tlaxcalans pinned the largest group of defenders near the communal storehouse with coordinated volleys. A Mexica officer hurled a grenade through a hut.
The Huastec villagers who were armed or not, broke.
By the time the sun rose fully overhead, half of Tetzapan's rooftops smoldered. The rest were silent. The detachment moved through with methodical precision, checking under baskets, through trapdoors, behind shrines.
It wasn't a massacre.
But it was a message.
The resistance here had delayed them. Not stopped them.
…
…
…
Mazatepec
They entered with weapons raised, expecting ambush.
There wasn't one.
No warriors. No traps. Just women pulling children inside doorways and old men standing still with their hands behind their backs.
The squad leader lowered his shield first. Others followed. They moved in with method, clearing alleys, scanning rooftops. Nothing. The town was full…just not with fighters.
One of the younger Tlaxcalans whistled low. "Looks like the warriors left their wives behind."
"Shut up," muttered his captain. But even he wasn't looking away.
They reached the plaza without resistance. A pair of elders came forward. No gifts. No speeches. Just a short nod and a quiet gesture toward the granaries.
No one had to say it.
The town was theirs.
Some men checked buildings. Others watched the rooftops. A few took longer glances than they needed. The women watched back. Some with fear, some with flat indifference, one or two with slow calculation.
Cuetlachtli's orders were clear. No chaos. No disrespect. But he hadn't said they couldn't look. Or think.
One man muttered, "They should've all surrendered like this."
Another grinned. "Would've saved a lot of limbs."
There was no resistance. No formal tribute yet. But no one stopped them from taking water or food. A few women stepped out with bowls. Some turned their backs and vanished inside.
By nightfall, the detachment had set up camp inside the town perimeter.
It wasn't what they'd trained for.
But no one complained.
…
…
…
Across the wider region, word traveled faster than messengers. The thunder of gunfire, the sight of smoke columns, and the stunned survivors fleeing back to their home towns had said enough.
At Tetzapan, those few who dared resist met warriors who understood how to fight in tight, winding alleys. Tier 1 had experience in the chaos of city fights. Most had bled through the rubble of Xochimilco or the siege of Tenochtitlan. They knew when to push and when to wait. They split into teams, used back passages, cleared rooftops, and rolled through the village in hours. Resistance snapped.
At Mazatepec, no resistance came. There were no warriors left. Just women, children, and old men too brittle to stand. The detachment advanced in disciplined steps, claimed the plaza, and marked it as theirs. The women kept their heads down, the men stayed silent. And the soldiers… well, they were men of their time. Some smiled. Others called it a gift from the gods. No blood spilled. No wounds taken. Just a town handed over.
The remaining villages were smaller, poorer, further from the river routes offered a mix of the two. Some put up a fight. Most didn't. By the second day, nearly every settlement between Tohancapan and the hills had fallen under Mexica control.
There was no fanfare. No parades. Just the quiet tightening of the net.
Only Ihcuatepec remained.
And now it stood alone.
…
…
…
Back in Tohancapan, Day Four
Cuetlachtli sat alone beneath the reed awning, the war hut quieter now that most of Tier 1 had scattered across the hills. A breeze stirred the edge of the table, rustling the topmost scroll. He pinned it down with a knuckle, eyes skimming the report again.
Tetzapan had resisted. Mazatepec hadn't. The other villages scattered between had been divided with some throwing rocks, others dropping spears. But by now, the map had shifted. Everything east of Tohancapan was under their grip.
Only Ihcuatepec remained. Still holding. Still watching.
He set the scroll aside and reached for the next. This one bore the seal of the Tequitiliztli.
Their operations were underway. Gambling houses running quietly. Drinking dens opened at dusk. Canoes being built on schedule. The locals worked from sunrise to noon, then returned to their own affairs. Tribute tallied, salt counted, fish sorted. And none of it needed outside slaves.
So far, so good.
Then came the footnote. One that caught his eye.
Mazatepec. No fighting. No men left. Just women and children. One of his captains had claimed the plaza without a single blade drawn.
Cuetlachtli exhaled once, slowly.
That kind of detail spread fast. Especially in a camp full of restless men.
He tapped his fingers along the rim of the scroll, then gave a small nod. A problem avoided before it could start. The kind Ehecatl would call "a reward with extra teeth."
"Send word," he told the runner at the edge of the hut. "Mazatepec's captain is to name a Tecuhtli Calpixque. Someone from the Tlapixque. Someone the men respect."
The runner nodded. "And the rest?"
Cuetlachtli stood, stretching out his back before answering.
"Once the Tequitiliztli are set up in every village, I want the men brought back here. Ihcuatepec is still the target. The others were… practice."
He didn't bother dressing it up. The runner bowed and left.
Cuetlachtli turned back to the table. Half the war wasn't fought in battle, it was kept alive through discipline. Timing. Morale.
And sometimes, just the right title handed to the right man.
He cracked his neck once, then stepped outside. The sun was climbing.
Tomorrow, Ihcuatepec would learn what was coming.
…
…
…
Early on the next day, just outside Ihcuatepec
A raised wooden platform had been hastily assembled at the edge of the encirclement, where the jungle thinned just enough for clear sound to travel downhill into the town. Cuetlachtli stood at the center, flanked by two Yaoquizque Tlapixque bearing drums and shields, not for ceremony, but to signal readiness.
Beneath the slope, Ihcuatepec's defenders lined the barricades, spears in hand, faces hard to read at this distance. No arrows. No cries. Just watching.
A drum rang once, loud and flat, echoing across the outer barricades of Ihcuatepec.
Cuetlachtli stood atop a slope with his war captains nearby. One of his heralds stepped forward and projected with trained lungs—the kind that made battlefield orders heard through storm and chaos.
"People of Ihcuatepec! Hear this from Cuetlachtli, Tlacatecatl of the Yaoquizque Tlapixque, commander of Command Army Left!"
Another drumbeat followed. Then silence.
"Tohancapan is under Mexica rule. So is Tetzapan. So is Mazatepec. Every road, every hamlet, every trail behind you now belongs to us. Your warriors are scattered or dead."
The herald's voice stayed firm. Loud. Not poetic.
"If you surrender and if you hand over your tribute, agree to work, then you'll live. No fire. No slaughter. No chains."
A long pause.
"But if you refuse…"
He gave a quick gesture. Shields raised behind him. Men stepped forward just enough to show how many were still standing after the last fight.
"Then you'll find out what happens to those who think retreat is the same as strength."
No cheering followed. No taunts.
Only the steady crackle of torches and the low murmur of orders as the Yaoquizque began shifting again into position.
They had until nightfall.
…
…
…
The surrender came before midday. No horns, no envoys. Just a man with a white-painted reed in hand, walking alone from the gates of Ihcuatepec. He bowed, gave his name, and offered the town.
Cuetlachtli didn't make a spectacle of it. No banners raised. No boasts carved into stone. He simply nodded, sent his captains in to confirm the withdrawal, and let the silence speak for itself.
By dusk, the banners of Tenochtitlan flew along the plaza walls.
The entire region was his.
Not through mercy. Not entirely through force. But through speed, message discipline, and the method the Cihuacoatl had drilled into him like scripture. Villages surrendered not because they feared blades, but because they saw what came after. The systems, the order, the precision of a force that didn't falter or hesitate.
He stood now at the edge of the encampment, arms folded, staring out toward the low hills in the east. The sky above them was streaked orange and fading, and behind him the fires of camp had begun to rise.
Tziccoac lay beyond those hills.
A harder place. A prouder place.
He didn't expect surrender there.
A runner approached from behind—one of the younger boys, quick-footed and lean. Cuetlachtli took the wax-sealed message without looking at it.
"Tlazohtzin received the update?" he asked.
"Yes, Tlacatecatl."
"Good. Go eat."
The boy hesitated, bowed, and jogged off.
Cuetlachtli turned back to the hills.
They had four days to rest, regroup, and let the horses arrive. Then came the next phase. Not integration. Not occupation.
War.
Real war.
The kind where loyalty breaks and blood clots in the dirt.
He breathed slow through his nose.
The Yaoquizque Tlapixque weren't just keeping up anymore.
They were leading.
He wanted the Empire to see that.
Wanted Ehecatl to see that.
He didn't need a title. Didn't need applause. But he'd earned the right to carry this standard, and he'd carry it until the men behind him were remembered in the same breath as Eagles, Jaguars, and Shorn Ones.
And when they reached Tziccoac?
They wouldn't ask for banners.
They'd take them.
He remained standing as the sky dimmed, torchlight rising behind him in soft clusters. The breeze rolled in from the coast. Salt, soil, smoke. Somewhere nearby, the men were laughing, low, and satisfied.
They'd earned it.
He tilted his head upward. No stars yet. But the hills still lay in view.
Tziccoac was next.
A fight that wouldn't come cheap.
He didn't flinch at the thought.
Cuetlachtli exhaled once through his nose, steady and quiet. And then… almost unbidden he saw the Cihuacoatl's face. That expression of constant calculation, of near boredom when speaking truths no one else could grasp until weeks or months later.
And the line returned.
"Give them bread and a circus."
At the time, he thought it was a joke. A sneer. A curse aimed at the soft-bellied conquered? Or did he actually mean for him to give the conquered an actual bread and a circus, but now?
Now he understood.
It wasn't about spoiling them. It was control.
Keep them fed. Keep them distracted. Make sure their days blur between work and vice. Take the edge off their hatred with full stomachs and somewhere to spill their desperation.
He looked back over the camp.
The horses had changed things. Supply lines moved faster. Packs got lighter. And because of that, his men ate better, carried less, complained less. They didn't need to lean on the local tribute for every scrap, and that meant locals weren't starving.
The Bread.
And then there was the rest.
The Yaoquizque Tequitiliztli had planted their dens cleanly. Brothels manned by the willing. Gambling run like clockwork. Pulque sold cheap. And that other drink… the sharper one the Cihuacoatl called "tequila" was already catching on in little doses.
It was order. Vice as structure. Controlled decay.
And the older warriors, the ones who remembered the wars and battles before the Castilians had noticed it too. Less screaming. Less mess. Fewer fires. No frenzied nights where towns burned and women vanished into smoke.
They marveled at how much cleaner, faster, and quieter the new way of war was.
Even when the blood still flowed, it flowed according to plan.
The Cihuacoatl hadn't just reformed the army.
He had rewritten the act of conquest.
Cuetlachtli bowed his head, not just out of worship, but because there was no greater strategist to emulate.
No better will to carry.
Tziccoac awaited.
And he would bring bread.
And a circus.