The march resumed once the relay system was in place. Horses moved faster than runners, and supply lines now stretched cleanly back to the coast. Cuetlachtli gave the order. Tier 1 advanced first, crossing the outer wetlands and following the ridge that overlooked the lowland forest.
The land felt different. Tighter. Denser. Hotter.
The first signs came early with vantage posts built from timber. Carved heads of jaguars and hummingbirds hung from long poles. Not fresh, not for them, but there.
And when they reached the region proper, Tziccoac gave them its answer.
Huastec warriors lined the path forward. Their helmets were narrow and sharp-edged. Their uniforms bore resemblance that weren't Yaoquizque Tlapixque, but close. Some wore the same cuextecatl outfit except in blue, green, red but none in the black-and-white they had claimed for the Yaoquizque.
Then came the first wave.
Tier 1 responded fast. Formations held. Shields out. Javelins flew. The Huastecs broke and ran.
The second wave came ten minutes later. Bigger. Bolder. Fire pits behind their line threw up smoke signals. Tier 1 adjusted. Reserves moved up. Still manageable.
But the Huastecs didn't stop.
The third wave came after twenty-five minutes. Then a fourth. Then a fifth. New faces, new weapons. Some used Copper blades, sharpened clubs, more javelins than they expected. The battlefield didn't shift much, but the noise grew louder. Shields cracked. Men stumbled. The heat began to drag.
By the first hour, Tier 1 hadn't pushed forward. They'd held the line, but nothing more.
A Mexica warrior ducked an incoming strike and yelled over the clash, "These bastards don't run."
Another spat blood and replied, "Good. I was getting bored."
The Huastecs circled and regrouped again.
No speeches followed. No banners rose.
Just more Huastecs coming from the tree line.
"They just keep coming," one of the juniors muttered, dragging his shield up to parry another blow. "What kind of village sends this many men?"
A captain down the line didn't look up as he struck. "I don't think it's just a village."
"Then what?"
He kicked the body aside. "All of them in this area."
Someone else laughed behind them. "Whatever it is, it's good for practice."
That got a few chuckles. The laughter faded when another volley of javelins hit the line. One thudded hard into the ground between two men. Another buried halfway through a shield.
"Eyes left!" barked a second captain. "They're trying to break our flank."
Tier 1 pivoted smoothly. The drills had worked. No one panicked. A dozen Mexica pushed forward in a wide curl, aiming to catch the advancing Huastecs between their main line and the far left wing.
"They're not disciplined," a veteran said, holding the center. "That's why it's waves. They're brave, but not trained."
"They're coordinated enough to stay on us for two hours," another replied, breath heavy. "Don't call that disorganized."
A younger one spoke as he wiped blood from his neck. "Are we pushing tonight or are we sleeping here?"
"Out in the open?" the reply came. "You can. I'm looking for a roof."
A few grunted at that. Most didn't answer. The advance had started again.
Not fast. But steady.
The Huastecs weren't retreating, not exactly, but their pace slowed. Fewer shouted. The waves were still coming, but there were more pauses between them now. The cadence broke. That rhythm… that pulsing, stubborn pressure had finally began to crack.
One of the juniors checked his provisions for a water gourd. Empty. He sighed and looked toward the forest.
"We're gonna have to clear the village ourselves, aren't we?"
Another just nodded.
The thunderclap didn't come from the clouds.
It came from the treeline behind them twice, then again, spaced in steady rhythm.
Grapeshot.
The sound didn't rattle Tier 1 anymore. It was too familiar. But the Huastecs on the other end weren't used to it. When the iron burst into their left ranks, it scattered bodies like shucked husks. The screaming started. Then came another round on the right.
By the time the third blast landed, the Yaoquizque Tlapixque were already shifting.
"Right flank, forward!"
They moved.
No cheering. Just motion. Legs, shields, weapons, step by step. Some ran ahead and were pulled back. The captains kept the line tight.
"Left, match pace!"
Another barked order.
"Center holds!"
That was the rhythm now. The center braced while the left and right pressed harder.
"I thought we were done with grapeshot for now," one of the juniors muttered.
"Must've been too close to us for our liking," a veteran replied, not taking his eyes off the retreating figures. "I'm just glad the Caxtilteca never used this type of variation on us."
Someone else muttered, "They're pulling back."
No horns sounded. No one waved a flag. But the Huastecs started falling back faster than they arrived. Their rhythm was gone. Some groups broke off in threes or fives. A few made wild swings just to keep the Mexica from pressing faster.
"They're trying to keep us off their heels."
"Too late."
The line didn't break formation. The flanks began to curve inward slightly, closer to a trap, not a rout.
One of the younger soldiers looked over to the left, where the trees swayed and smoke lingered.
"They'll make it to the hills, maybe."
Another shook his head. "Not all of them."
The battlefield steamed under the weight of sweat, blood, and sun.
Tier 1 didn't stand in silence. They stood in satisfaction.
…
…
…
The Huastecs had broken hours ago, their last formations folding under the pressure of grapeshot and steel. What remained was proof. The cracked drums. The uniforms smeared in mud. The copper-bladed weapons scattered like leaves. The wounded that still breathed were dragged clear, the dead stacked and counted.
They had earned this ground.
Cuetlachtli gave the order to hold position. No more marching today. The ridge they'd taken would be their camp. Not because they were tired, but because it was the right thing to do. Rest, reload, regroup. Even a hawk perches before the next strike.
The Yaoquizque Tlapixque moved with purpose. They weren't just fighters. They were builders. They cleaned the blood off their blades with rhythm. They formed squads to dig shallow trenches, mark latrines, ration supplies. A few men laughed while stacking helmets from fallen Huastecs. One even tied a feathered crest to his own cone hat, mockingly regal, before another swatted it off with a grin.
There was no mourning.
Why would there be?
This wasn't tragedy. This was confirmation.
The enemy had come in waves, and stayed standing longer than any other village, town, or resistance they'd faced so far. And still, Tier 1 held. The left and right flanks had cracked them, the center line never buckled, and the Huastec retreat left no doubt who controlled the field.
Men swapped stories as they worked. Who saw what, who struck where, who earned the first kill, the last. Some bravado others just looking forward to being named Tecuhtli Calpixque. They cleaned their arquebuses like priests washing sacred vessels. They boiled water, patched wounds, sharpened blades.
The Yaoquizque Tequitiliztli began drawing names already. Promotions. Honors. Those who'd held firm on the flanks. Those who carried injured comrades out without breaking formation. Already, whispers of Tecuhtli titles stirred among the junior officers.
Someone took a Huastec war banner and kept it near his stuff, says he'll have quite the stories to tell to his family back home.
Another man roasted tamales on a flat iron pan as he hummed a tune from Tenochtitlan.
They had bled, but this wasn't loss.
This was proof that the Empire's new arm had muscle.
That Tier 1 could take a blow and strike back twice as hard.
This wasn't some old man's tale of glory.
This was the real thing.
And they weren't done yet.
…
…
…
The next day, Tier 1 arrived by noon.
The land sloped slightly toward the gates of Tziccoac, giving them the advantage of elevation. No ambushes. No scouts circling the flanks. The Huastecs were there, inside, watching. Waiting.
Cuetlachtli's captains took position with practiced ease. Shield lines marked the front. Arquebusiers lined the rear rows. The rifled cannons were already being pulled into position on each side.
Then came the signal.
A horn. Three short bursts.
And then one of his men stepped forward.
He shouted loud enough to carry over the walls. Sharp enough to leave no confusion.
"People of Tziccoac! You know who we are."
He let the pause settle.
"We are the ones who took Tohancapan. Tetzapan. Mazatepec. Ihcuatepec. All of it. Mexica rule isn't just coming. It's already here."
He gestured back toward the soldiers behind him.
"These are the men who fought at Tenochtitlan. On both sides. Tlaxcalan. Huexotzinco. Cholulan. Mexica. Whether attacking or defending, we all know how to take a city. Burn it. Hold it. Break it. You do not."
Another pause.
"You have warriors. But you've never held walls against men like these."
Cuetlachtli stood behind the herald, arms folded, unreadable.
"Your leaders have two choices. You open the gates. You hand over tribute. You live."
A beat.
"Or… we take it anyway. We burn what stands. And when we rebuild it, Tziccoac will look like Tenochtitlan."
Just those words. And silence.
The Huastecs gave no answer.
They didn't give any signs.
They didn't send a messenger.
Instead, the gates remained shut.
And the war drums started to beat.
Cuetlachtli gave a short nod.
"So be it," he muttered. "We take it."
And just like that, Tier 1 got back into motion.
This would be no quick occupation.
This was a city to be tested, and broken.
…
…
…
The horns blew once. Not as a warning.
As confirmation.
Cuetlachtli's orders were clear. No waiting. No slow approach. Encircle. Deploy. Fire.
The cannons were set along four points of the city. North, south, east, and west. They weren't trying to level the walls outright. Not yet anyway… the goal was pressure.
The first blasts came before the sundown.
The north wall had two holes blown open. Not wide enough for a charge, but enough to rattle every lookout posted there.
West wall had splintered stone and dirt flung into the air. One of the corner walls shuddered, half of it's caved in.
South wall was just noise for now. A few warning shots.
East wall had each rifled shot punch straight through the outer barricade and slammed into a row of homes. The explosion echoed through the alleys.
Inside the city, the Huastecs scrambled.
Spotters watched from ridges as warriors repositioned. Running from breach to breach, shouting orders, dragging makeshift barricades toward the gaps. Their lines weren't falling yet. But they were already being stretched.
That's what Cuetlachtli wanted.
Keep them guessing and moving, never let them settle.
He gave the order for scattered volleys. No rhythm. No pattern. Let the Huastecs wait in silence, wondering when the next blast would come.
And when it did, it came from somewhere new.
…
…
…
By dusk, all four cannon teams had rotated twice.
The first sign came from the western arc. Not a shout, not a horn, just a ripple in the tree line and then the unmistakable stamp of feet against hardened dirt.
The Huastecs weren't waiting anymore.
They poured from the city gates in waves. Red-plumed, spear-wielding, fast. And they didn't rush toward the cannon positions. They'd learned. They avoided the north and east walls, swung wide around the south where the artillery had begun adjusting for tighter angles.
Instead, they struck where the cannons weren't.
It wasn't the weakest post, but it was thinned out. There was cover, sure. But it had no high ground, and the Huastecs had noticed.
The Yaoquizque on that line held at first. Fired once. Then twice. The first wave dropped hard, the arquebus shots ripping clean through bare chests and cotton armor. But the next wave didn't stop. Or the one after that.
Spears crashed against shields. Clubs cracked along ribs. The gap in the line started bending inward.
Cuetlachtli heard the whistle three short blasts from the signal runner, and pivoted instantly. "Turn the south cannon. Twenty degrees west. Grapeshot. Now."
By the time he reached the front, dust was rising thick in the distance, and that unit that the Huastecs were bombarded, had already begun to pull back. Fortunately it wasn't in panic, but a measured retreat.
"Form wedge! Hold the line!" one captain bellowed, his voice raw.
Arquebusiers scrambled to reload while the shield line shifted to cover. One broke formation. A Huastec club caught him in the back. He didn't rise.
But the rest stood their ground.
From the north, east, and southern arcs, fresh groups of Yaoquizque Tlapixque began to move. Fast. No flair. No war cries. Just a calculated collapse of formation into pressure.
The Huastecs noticed. They'd broken the siege circle, but now they were caught in a tighter noose.
And the cannon had finished rotating.
When it fired, the blast didn't target the front. It hit the rear of the Huastec push, where fresh warriors were still pouring in.
Grapeshot carved right into them, and that was enough.
The Huastecs didn't break all at once, but the forward momentum stalled. The middle wavered. One of their captains gave a hard gesture and the horn sounded.
A full retreat.
Yaoquizque lines reformed instantly, pushing forward now. Spearpoints jabbed low. Shields crushed throats. And then the Yaoquizque did what they did best, they blasted anyone who got in their way.
By the time the Huastecs cleared the field and fell back through the gates, the sun was dropping fast. Shadows stretched across the dirt. The cannon hissed from heat.
Tier 1 didn't give chase.
Not this time.
They had re-formed the circle.
The line was whole again.
And night was coming.
…
…
…
The smell of roasted squash and salted fish lingered on the night air. Somewhere behind the war hut, men were laughing low and loud. Someone was retelling the moment a Huastec tried to leap over the artillery barrel and ended up backflipping into his own spear. Another man claimed he'd shot three in a row with one bullet. He hadn't, but no one cared. The fires flickered. A clay jug passed hands. The rhythm of a camp that had earned a bruise and come out upright.
But inside the war hut, the tone was sharper.
Cuetlachtli sat near the bark-drawn map spread over packed dirt. His armor was stripped to the waist. Sweat still clung to his neck. Around him stood his captains, junior officers, and two Tequitiliztli observers no titles were awarded tonight, just men who had bled or barked orders hours ago.
The talk was clean, deliberate.
One officer proposed tightening the encirclement. Force the Huastecs to starve sooner. Another suggested night raids to harass them at random through their cracked walls. A third argued for bluff charges, horns and torches at false angles to force the enemy to split.
Cuetlachtli listened.
He didn't interrupt. Didn't give away what he favored. His eyes tracked the map. His ears tracked the weight behind each voice.
Then one of the younger Tlaxcalan lieutenants leaned forward. Not a new voice, but a sharper one tonight.
"They think they understand our rhythm now," he said. "They're bracing the gates. Counting the cannon shots. Ready to rush when they see the third volley hit."
A few others nodded.
He pointed at the map with a gloved finger. "So let them. We do this again tomorrow. And again the day after. They get tired. They bleed in every counter. They adjust to the pattern. Then, when they think it's another day of the same, we strike before sunrise. Break through when they're still thinking it's just another cycle."
He sat back.
Cuetlachtli looked up at him, then swept his gaze across the others. No arguments came. Even the more senior captains had that pause in their throat.
Cuetlachtli faintly smiled and nodded.
"Then that's the plan," he said. "We feed them the rhythm until they bite the wrong beat."
He looked back at the map. "Tomorrow we do it again. Same rotation. Same fire. Same pressure. Let them adjust and think they know us."
He glanced up.
"Then we remind them they don't."
No cheers. Just fists pressed to chests, heads bowed in quiet assent.
The plan was set.
Let the Huastecs feel the routine.
Then tear it out from under them.
…
…
…
The sun rose. The drums beat. The cannons fired.
Then the same thing happened the next day.
And the one after that.
Tier 1 didn't change the tempo. They didn't overextend or tighten the line. They rotated squads, rested men by schedule, and returned to formation without a word wasted. Cannons fired at the same hours, from the same spots, aiming for new corners each time.
From inside Tziccoac, the Huastecs braced.
Every morning they woke to the thud of distant war drums and knew the pressure was coming again. Every time the cannons opened up, they scrambled. Archers to the walls, runners to the wells, warriors to every direction except the one they were hit from last. It wore on them. Slowly. Quietly.
The Huastecs still had fighters. Still had courage. But the pattern was starting to dig under their skin.
One day, they'd rush the southern edge. They'd break a piece of the encirclement. But Tier 1 would adjust and close it again by dusk. The next, they'd try the east. Same result. Some of their dead didn't even get pulled back through the gates. Their bodies just baked under the sun, eyes pecked out by carrion birds.
Inside the Mexica lines, morale didn't crack.
If anything, it sharpened.
Younger Yaoquizque whispered bets about how long the Huastecs could last. Some cleaned their weapons twice a day just for something to do. Others carved tally marks into their cannons for each cannon blast or skirmish. They joked it was training. They joked it was fun.
But they stayed in formation. Slept in shifts. Ate rations like clockwork.
And each time the Huastecs struck out, Tier 1 made them pay with interest.
Cuetlachtli kept the routine cold and tight. He didn't allow mission creep. No sudden pushes. No surprise flanks. Just steady violence. Enough to keep the Huastecs anxious, never enough to tip his own force into fatigue. His captains rotated by quadrant. Tequitiliztli kept count of ammunition and injuries. If a man limped, he got swapped. If a squad lagged, it got replaced.
By the fourth day, the birds circled lower, and the smell of powder clung thicker in the air.
Inside Tziccoac, their defenders watched from behind crumbling parapets, bones sore from sleeping in armor, eyes red from false alarms. They waited for the same thing again.
Outside, the Yaoquizque watched them back.
Tomorrow wouldn't be the same.
Tomorrow was the break.
And they wouldn't wait for the sun.
…
…
…
The air was thick before the sun even stirred.
No drums. No torches. No signals.
Only breath.
The Yaoquizque Tlapixque had gathered in silence. Every man already positioned along the eastern wall, where the cannon fire had left deep fractures across four days of steady pounding. The brush had been cleared days earlier. The scouts had memorized every crevice. And tonight, no runner had been sent back.
No warning was coming.
The last cannon blast had struck yesterday afternoon. That was on purpose.
Now, beneath a moonlit haze, hundreds of Tier 1 soldiers crept into place. Their armor was fastened tight. Arquebuses were loaded but strapped. Blades were ready. The command had already passed:
"No shots until you're inside. Move fast. Move quiet. Don't stop once we breach."
Then came the signal. A gloved hand. No sound. Just motion.
They surged.
Dozens of Yaoquizque sprinted low across the exposed flat in front of the breach. What remained of the wall was jagged, brittle, and broken. They poured through the gaps in waves, vaulting rubble and collapsed timber, blades out. The few Huastecs on watch barely had time to scream before being overrun. Some weren't even awake. One was still relieving himself behind a broken parapet when the first blade opened his throat.
Within moments, the first ring of defenses had collapsed.
"Push in! Take the center areas!"
Cuetlachtli's voice was low but fierce as he entered with the second wave. Behind him, captains shouted orders, dividing the units by neighborhood.
"East sector! Push through the market!"
"Shut down the wells!"
"Cut them off from the temple quarter!"
Before the Huastecs could rally, Tier 1 split into coordinated teams, each targeting a different district: the northern merchant plaza, the temple grounds, the residential compounds near the water cisterns. Streets were sealed. Alleyways blocked. Anyone who resisted was put down. Anyone who bent the knee was given preferential treatment.
Arquebuses fired in short, staccato bursts. The cannons had stopped, but the rhythm was tighter now. Measured. Sliced through stone and bone both.
By the time the sun peeked over the horizon, a third of the city was under Mexica control.
Flags weren't raised yet.
But every Huastec inside knew what time it was.
They'd fought for four days.
Now the reckoning had begun.
…
…
…
By sunrise, the noise had changed.
It wasn't cannon fire anymore. No coordinated volleys. No distant drums.
A scream down the street. The crash of a items being kicked in. Sandals slamming over stone. The pop of gunpowder from an arquebus just one alley over, followed by the thud of something heavy hitting the ground.
Cuetlachtli moved through it all without pause.
The east side was already theirs. Squads were dragging barricades into intersections, reinforcing them with stolen furniture and market stalls. One team was stringing trip lines across a bottleneck corridor, just in case the Huastecs tried to push back.
Ahead, two Yaoquizque wrestled a shopkeeper to the ground while a third checked the cellar.
"Alive?" Cuetlachtli asked.
"Just frightened, Tlacatecatl. No weapons."
"Let him up. Keep him visible. The neighbors will see."
"Yes, sir."
He moved past them, stepping over a broken clay bowl still spinning from the scuffle.
A block over, fighting was still underway.
You could hear it.
Gunfire. Grunts. Then silence.
A runner appeared from the smoke, blood on his shoulder.
"Western quarter. Still contested," he reported breathlessly. "But one of our captains says the Huastecs are pulling toward the temple."
"How many streets between them and the wells?" Cuetlachtli asked.
"Four."
He thought for half a second. "Collapse every side alley between them. Use rubble or wood. Anything that buys time."
"Yes, Tlacatecatl."
The runner turned and vanished down a side lane.
Cuetlachtli climbed the steps of a half-collapsed granary and surveyed the city center. Smoke rose from two plazas. One was where the market once stood. The other, he wasn't sure yet.
But the Mexica banners were already rising on three rooftops.
That was enough.
A junior officer approached behind him. "Captain Tlilpochtli requests artillery support on the southwest street. Their formation is stalling."
"Tell him no."
The officer blinked. "Sir?"
"They have enough men. No cannon unless the Huastecs push out."
"Yes, Tlacatecatl."
He turned and ran.
Below, another squad dragged three Huastec spearmen into the plaza. Two were wounded. One was dead. None had dropped their weapons. A Tlapixque captain inspected them briefly, then gave a short nod.
Each plaza he crossed was tighter. Tidier. Gunfire gave way to muttered orders, barricade construction, and short calls between squad leaders.
"Three west!"
"Clear north alley!"
"Hold the line!"
By the second hour of daylight, Tier 1 controlled over half the city.
Resistance had collapsed in the east. The market quarter was sealed. The temple plaza was cornered. Only the western residential blocks and the upper temple hill remained contested.
But those would fall. Sooner rather than later.
Cuetlachtli stood at a rooftop edge now, overlooking the chaos. A Huastec dart zipped past him from the far side of the temple spire, missing by meters.
He didn't even duck.
He turned to his adjutant.
"Send word," he said. "Begin taking prisoners. Separate fighters from families. And tell the Tequitiliztli to start marking properties."
"For what, Tlacatecatl?"
Cuetlachtli's gaze didn't waver.
"Occupation."
By noon, it was over.
But not without cost.
The sun had risen hours ago over a city at war with itself. Block by block. Room by room. There were no wide open fields here, just narrow alleys, twisting corridors, stone steps slick with blood and dust. You couldn't fire a cannon at this range. You had to clear a path with your feet and your blade.
Tier 1 did exactly that.
They went through homes. Climbed up roofs. Threw firepots into courtyards. Used whatever items they found of value and passed it back along to their more secured areas. They shot through wooden slats. Killed men behind curtains. Tossed grenades through trap doors.
And still, the Huastecs kept coming.
They didn't win in skill. They didn't win in discipline. But gods, they had heart.
Three times Cuetlachtli received reports of entire squads being swarmed and forced back, until reinforcements swept in and turned the tide. Twice, the temple spire saw Huastec archers nearly retake a nearby plaza. Once, they nearly recaptured a well. Only nearly.
For every push, Tier 1 countered harder.
Grapeshot in the western streets.
Arquebuses ringing out from balconies.
Axes clearing homes like forests.
By the seventh hour of the siege, the Huastec defenders were down to their last pockets. Some barricaded themselves in their homes and refused to yield. Others fought with kitchen knives and farming tools, bleeding and screaming until cut down or dragged out. But the largest group? the ones with sense, ran.
They slipped through the northern breach in the chaos. Just a few hundred. Maybe less. Whatever remained in the city after that regardless if they were civilians, wounded, holdouts. They were Mexica now, whether they knew it or not.
The smoke had thinned.
The gunfire faded.
The banners rose.
From temple top to western quarters, from the shattered granary to the market square, the swirl emblem of the Yaoquizque Tlapixque fluttered above rooftops and plaza stones alike.
Tziccoac had fallen.
…
…
…
No horns sounded. But cheers did brake out. Long drinks, bloodied hands wrapping themselves in clean cloth. A soldier sat outside a bakery, shirt torn, helmet gone, but alive. He smiled faintly as another tossed him a small fruit looted from inside.
Inside the plaza, Cuetlachtli stood by a map table set up on the corpse-strewn altar steps.
"The main wells are under our control?"
"Yes, Tlacatecatl. All three."
"Quartermasters?"
"Already marking strongholds. Officers are inspecting key structures."
"Casualty reports?"
"Still incomplete."
Cuetlachtli nodded once.
"Then begin separation. Civilians from warriors. Property logs from residential claims. This city now serves us. Let's make it ready."
No fanfare. No slogans.
Just order. Just discipline.
Just the weight of conquest settling into stone and ash.
Tziccoac had resisted. Now it would serve.
…
…
…
The war hut had been assembled just east of the temple plaza, where the ground was clear and dry. Slabs of stone had been dragged into a wide ring, crates of supplies forming makeshift walls along the perimeter. It was dusk, and the flames from two large braziers lit the space in low orange.
Cuetlachtli sat at the head, with his senior captains and the Tequitiliztli representatives flanking him. Tier 1 officers filled in the ring. Most had dried blood on their cloaks. A few limped, a few leaned forward on cane-splinted legs, but all were present.
The first report came from logistics.
"Seventeen dead. Sixty-eight wounded, but only twelve are unfit to continue," the medic captain stated. "Everything else is superficial. Cuts, bruises, burns, mild infections. We've got pulque, salves, and herbs. No shortage."
"Horse relay?" Cuetlachtli asked.
"They'll arrive in four days. One team was delayed near Ihcuatepec due to a broken cart. But they're moving again. Once they set the rest post near the mouth of the river, the entire front will be linked back to Tohancapan."
"Good." Cuetlachtli's voice was flat. "Once it's in place, we move again."
He nodded to the Tequitiliztli, who stood next, eyes already scanning his notes.
"Prostitution sector is established. Local officers have been trained to handle discipline and protection. Standard share applies, with forty-nine percent to the women, fifty-one to the house. No complaints."
He flipped a page.
"Gambling has picked up. Mostly dice games and shell-bets. We've banned all debt over one day's wages to prevent unrest. Men spend what they have, and they get it back in food and drink."
He didn't need to mention where the drink came from.
Pulque flowed like water now. And even the strange spirit, the one Ehecatl had named tequila was gaining popularity among the older Yaoquizque. Rough stuff. But effective.
Cuetlachtli gave a short nod. "And discipline?"
"Holding. Tziccoac was hard, but it was clean. Officers are rotating patrols in every quarter. We've even seen a few locals approaching voluntarily to negotiate work or protection. That's a good sign."
He glanced around once before continuing.
"There's one more matter."
Cuetlachtli gestured. "Say it."
"We found something in the governor's quarters. Castilian swords. Four of them. Steel, not iron. Still sharp. Still cared for."
The murmur that followed wasn't surprise.
It was confirmation.
Another captain spoke up. "We questioned the elders. They said three years ago, a group of the Castilians came ashore. They tried to settle near the riverbank. Brought tools, armor, cattle. Claimed they were building a town."
Cuetlachtli's brow lifted. "And?"
"They didn't last a year. The Huastecs killed them. Took their supplies. Melted what they couldn't use. Split the rest."
Another voice chimed in,one of the Tlaxcalans.
"We found parchment too. Ink faded, but not gone. It's a map."
A junior officer stepped forward and unrolled the document on the stone between them. Several leaned forward.
The coastline was crude but recognizable. What caught attention was the label on the northern waterway.
"Río Pánuco."
Cuetlachtli stared at it a moment.
The map stretched beyond their known territory. It traced an entire curve of sea and coast. Landmasses unfamiliar. Names in a script only half understood. But it was no native work.
It was Castilian.
"And this island here," one of the Tequitiliztli pointed, "must be the one east of us. Cuba, they call it. That's where the Castilians said they came from."
"Why keep it?" asked another. "Why not burn it?"
Cuetlachtli didn't answer right away.
Instead, he looked around at the men gathered. The commanders. The scouts. The scribes. The killers. Men from Tenochtitlan, Cholula, Tlaxcala. Men with no love for one another before the Cihuacoatl bound them into a single rhythm.
"They say the Castilian who made this map was named Pineda," he finally said. "We don't know where he died. We don't know how many followed him."
He let the words hang.
"But now we have their eyes. And we can see further than they ever thought we would."
He stood.
"We're going north."
The captains didn't question it. The Tequitiliztli just began marking territory. A few of the junior officers leaned closer to the map and traced the faint outlines of new rivers, new villages.
"We'll verify this map," Cuetlachtli continued. "We'll conquer what we see. We'll take their names. Their fords. Their riverbanks. And we'll decide what matters before this ever reaches Tenochtitlan."
Only then did he signal the runner.
The runner nodded and vanished into the dark.
The war meeting didn't just end in cheers.
It ended with men picking up charcoal, blades, and ink.
Because now they had a map.
And a direction.
North.