[A/N: Please read the author's note at the end]
Year 10 of the SuaChie Calendar, East of Texcoco, Tlaxcala Lordship.
The midday sun hammered down like a spear of fire upon the dry hills of the Tlaxcalan border, where the air vibrated with the buzz of cicadas and the acrid smell of parched earth.
To the east of Texcoco territory, the Tlaxcala lordship stretched like an open wound on the map of the Triple Alliance: a people granted autonomy by Mexica decree, yet reduced to a constant state of martyrdom.
Their leaders, the four lords of the confederation—Xicotencatl, Acamapichtli, Maxixcatzin, and a fourth elder counselor named Yocoyani—were meeting in an adobe hut on the outskirts of Ocotelolco, their makeshift capital.
The interior was gloomy, lit only by pitch-pine torches that cast dancing shadows upon faded murals of eagles and jaguars. The smoke stung the eyes of Xicotencatl, the youngest of the four at 35, as he pounded the stone table with a calloused fist.
"The Mexica have crossed the line!" he roared, his voice hoarse with fury. "Now they are slaughtering our people. Even the old and the children."
The other lords nodded, their faces etched with scars from past battles. A little over a year ago, the arrival of Suaza merchants from the Southern Sea had been an unexpected balm.
Xicotencatl had initially been distrustful: "Another conqueror disguised as a friend," he had said, gripping his obsidian macana. But the Suaza offered fair trade—bronze tools, resilient seeds, even knowledge of herbal cures—with no demands for subjugation. Tlaxcala, suffocating from the Alliance's constant attacks, had breathed for the first time in decades. They repelled minor incursions with their new weapons.
Weeks ago, new emissaries arrived with even more generous terms. "Our Son of Heaven, Chuta, turns ten," they explained, their immaculate white robes contrasting sharply with the Tlaxcalan dust. "And we have decided to spread the benevolence of the Young Chuta everywhere."
Prices dropped, and the caravans multiplied. But the relief was short-lived: the Mexica attacked again, but with renewed ferocity. Maxixcatzin, the eldest at 50 and bearing a war-induced limp, unfurled a map onto the table.
"This eastern village," he pointed, his finger trembling over a spot stained with dried blood. "Forty Mexica warriors razed it. Women, children… all of them. Only one survivor, with this warning carved into his arm: 'Yield or perish.'"
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the torches.
Acamapichtli, stout and cold-eyed, spat onto the ground. "Tlaxcala does not yield… But we need help. We shall send messengers south, to the Suaza Kingdom."
The leaders discussed the plea for aid, but one of them seemed preoccupied. The memory of a personal request Xicotencatl had made to the Suaza months ago tormented him.
"They will not help," Xicotencatl said in a low voice.
He still recalled how two Suaza merchants, with gold necklaces and soft-accented Nahuatl, had listened to his plea for aid in a dusty marketplace.
"Our leader does not intervene in local disputes," one had said, his voice calm as a river. "But we offer asylum: relocate your people to our lands. They will be protected by the Kingdom, as many others are."
Yocoyani, the wise counselor, who had been with him then, had intervened: "Asylum? Flee like slaves? We demand vengeance!"
"If this does not appeal," the merchant continued. "We can offer you better deals on things you need. Bronze weapons, supplies... all at a reduced price."
"Is there no way for you to intervene?" Xicotencatl had asked at that meeting.
The Suaza shook their heads serenely. "We sell tools, not wars. Chuta unites peoples, he does not destroy them."
Xicotencatl felt a stab of frustration. He appreciated the low prices—bronze spears that pierced Mexica armor—but his faith in a destructive alliance against Tenochtitlán was fading.
"We are a slave camp," he muttered, returning to the present where the leaders continued to discuss Mexica brutality and the possibility of the Suaza fighting the Mexica on their behalf. His mind conjured images of burned villages, women dragged to bloody rituals.
The only good news was that Texcoco, under Nezahualpilli, remained aloof from the attacks, even avoiding sending soldiers—a bitter relief.
"If the Suaza will not fight," he thought, "we will use their weapons to die free."
Maxixcatzin rolled up the map. "Let us rally the warriors. We will not flee."
A few days ago, on the Tlaxcala border.
Miles away from the confederation's capital, on the crest of an arid hill overlooking the border, Cuitláhuac, brother of Moctezuma and nephew of the Tlatoani Ahuízotl, scrutinized the Tlaxcalan valley with a hawk's eyes.
At 26, his sun-hardened face and fresh scars exuded a contained ferocity. Dressed in quilted cotton armor dyed black, his obsidian macana hung from his waist, gleaming with Suaza bronze tips. Behind him, forty Mexica warriors—aged 15 to 30—crouched among the scrub, their chests rising and falling with anticipation.
The air smelled of sweat and hot earth; the wind carried distant echoes of Tlaxcalan drums. Cuitláhuac felt the pulse of war in his veins, a fire that had driven him since Moctezuma entrusted him with this command.
The Alliance advances… Tenochtitlan advances, he thought, remembering Ahuízotl's orders: no more mercy.
A young warrior, 18-year-old Tlacotl, crawled closer, his face painted red. "Lord," he whispered, his voice trembling with excitement, "shall we proceed as usual? Capture warriors for sacrifices, kill just a few?" His eyes shone, imagining hearts offered to Huitzilopochtli.
Cuitláhuac turned, a wolfish smile curving his lips. "No, Tlacotl. The Alliance is taking a new path." Cuitláhuac replied, his voice a low growl, laden with promises. "We no longer need the Tlaxcalans to manage this territory. We will sweep them away. Village by village, until their confederation is dust."
The nearby warriors murmured, a dull roar of approval. Tlacotl's eyes widened, his breath quickening. "So… we kill them all?"
"Yes," Cuitláhuac responded, exhilarated.
Another, a 28-year-old veteran named Xipilli, gripped his spear. "For Huitzilopochtli!"
Cuitláhuac rose to his feet, his silhouette framed against the setting sun. "Listen!" he proclaimed, his voice cutting through the wind. "In a couple of months, Tlaxcala will be ours. And after that… the Purepecha!"
The name invoked an outburst: the warriors roared, banging shields with macanas. They remembered the humiliations—bloody defeats on the plains of Michoacán, where the Purepecha copper shattered their lines.
"Vengeance!" shouted Xipilli, his face contorted with hatred.
A 15-year-old novice, trembling with excitement, raised his spear: "For the Tlatoani! For Ahuízotl! For Moctezuma! For Cuitláhuac!"
Cuitláhuac felt the fervor like an elixir. Some burned to venerate the gods with blood; others, for the thirst of violence; a few, simply followed orders. But all were his.
"Look at that village," he pointed, indicating distant smoke from Tlaxcalan campfires. "Today, we turn it to ashes. Tomorrow, Ocotelolco. Advance!"
The warriors rose like a wave, their shouts drowning out the wind. Cuitláhuac charged at the front, his heart beating to the rhythm of the imminent slaughter.
Moctezuma will be proud, he thought, visualizing Ahuízotl's throne and the Mexica glory. The Suaza and their bronzes had hardened the Tlaxcalan weapons, but not their spirit. Tlaxcala would fall, and with it, any hope of resistance.
10 minutes later.
The scorching sun beat down on the Tlaxcalan village like an exposed heart, its relentless light catching the gleam of the bronze knives hanging from the peasants' waists. Cuitláhuac, sweat streaming down his weathered face, crept forward through the dry scrub, flanked by his forty Mexica warriors.
His uncle Ahuízotl's new orders motivated him more than he realized: no more quick raids, no more prisoners for the Templo Mayor. Now it was total conquest.
In past campaigns, they would enter like shadows, fight only enough, steal maize, jewelry if they were lucky, and women, and retreat before dawn. But the last two years had changed everything.
The Suaza weapons—bronze spears that pierced cotton armor, macanas with hardened edges—had turned the Tlaxcalans into more than just easy prey. Their tools, axes and picks bought from the southern merchants, had reinforced walls and traps. Every "training" attack had become a mortal risk.
If we do not proceed with cunning, Cuitláhuac thought, his hand gripping the hilt of his macana. We will return in obsidian coffins.
The air smelled of hot earth and distant campfire smoke; the buzzing of the cicadas was a backdrop that muffled their steps.
They drew closer, concealed behind a low hill. The village stretched out before them: adobe huts with thatched roofs, a turkey pen, families tilling the parched land. Men and women, in dusty tunics, carried pots; children scampered between furrows.
But what chilled Cuitláhuac's blood was the gleam: every adult wore a bronze knife at their waist, its blade glinting like a challenge in the sun. On the edges, posted guards—eight, perhaps ten—patrolled with reinforced shaft spears, cured leather armor with metal plates, and oval shields that looked capable of stopping a jaguar charge.
This will not be easy, Cuitláhuac reflected, his pulse quickening with a mixture of anger and calculation. His men were elite: hardened veterans, eager novices. Motivation burned in their black- and red-painted eyes—vengeance for past defeats, glory for Huitzilopochtli.
We are more numerous, he told himself, signaling positions with silent gestures.
The warriors dispersed like wolves, encircling the village in a deadly arc.
[WARNING +18 SCENE, GORE]
The first target was a middle-aged man, separated from the group, kneeling beside an irrigation channel with a clay pot. Cuitláhuac, followed by Tlacotl and Xipilli, slithered like a snake. The Tlaxcalan was filling his pot, the water gently splashing, oblivious to the danger. A crunch of gravel alerted him; he turned his head, his eyes widening at the sight of the Mexica silhouettes.
Before he could shout, Tlacotl covered his mouth with a calloused hand, while Xipilli pinned his arms, preventing him from reaching the knife at his waist. The man struggled, his eyes bulging with horror and rage—a flash of recognition in his gaze, knowing his family was a hundred paces away. He writhed, a choked whimper escaping through Tlacotl's fingers.
"Quickly," Cuitláhuac murmured, his voice a tense hiss.
Tlacotl drew his obsidian knife and plunged it into the man's throat with a fluid motion. Blood spurted hot, splashing the pot which fell with a splash. The Tlaxcalan stared fixedly, pure desperation in his eyes as his body convulsed, his legs kicking in the mud. Cuitláhuac watched, a fierce pride swelling his chest.
"Clean. No alarm."
The body collapsed, the blood staining the channel red.
In the next ten minutes, his men replicated the pattern from all flanks. A Mexica warrior slit the throat of a woman gathering maize, her muffled scream turning into a gurgle as tears of rage streaked her face. Another stabbed a ten-year-old boy running toward his mother, the child kicking with tiny hands until life faded in a spasm.
Five men, two women, one child: the bodies lay in twisted postures, faces frozen in agony—dry tears mixed with blood that covered them like a crimson shroud. The metallic stench rose, attracting flies.
Cuitláhuac advanced to the center, his heart pounding with the euphoria of the hunt, but then a scream tore the air: the fifteen-year-old novice, a skinny boy named Cuauhtli, had been spotted. A burly Tlaxcalan warrior with a bronze spear leaped from a hut and stabbed him in the abdomen with blind fury.
"For my son!" the Tlaxcalan roared, his voice broken with anger.
Cuauhtli shrieked, an infantile sound that eclipsed the enemy's war cry, his hands gripping the soaked spear as he fell to his knees, blood bubbling from his mouth.
Chaos erupted.
The Tlaxcalans, alerted, ran from all directions. Cuitláhuac cursed silently—the circle was complete, the village surrounded. About forty against some thirty Tlaxcalan warriors, but with families caught in the middle.
The Mexica howled their battle cry, macanas raised, eyes gleaming with predatory savagery. The Tlaxcalans grouped in the center, next to the packed earth plaza: women embracing weeping children, elders wielding what they could. The children's cries pierced the air, a chorus of terror that made Cuitláhuac's chest vibrate with a dark excitement.
Cornered prey, he thought, savoring the fear on their faces.
The Tlaxcalan warriors formed a human wall in front of the families, bronze spears pointing outward, shields ready. They knew the truth: to flee meant being caught in the open field. Desperation covered them like fog, their eyes shifting from fury to bitter calculation.
The first clash came from Xipilli, the 28-year-old veteran, whose eyes burned fixedly on the Tlaxcalan who had killed Cuauhtli. The enemy's spear still dripped with the novice's blood.
"For the boy!" Xipilli growled, launching himself with ferocity, his macana whistling in a brutal arc toward the Tlaxcalan's neck.
The opponent, a 30-year-old man named Tlaloc—according to the shout he let out afterward—deflected the blow with his spear, the clash of bronze against obsidian ringing like thunder. Xipilli staggered, but Tlaloc seized the chance, plunging the spear shaft into his abdomen with a force that made him cough blood.
"Die, Mexica dog!" Tlaloc spat, his voice hoarse with hatred, advancing to finish him off.
Xipilli feigned kneeling, gasping, his face contorted in mock agony. Tlaloc approached, spear raised—and then Xipilli leaped diagonally, a serpentine movement that took the Tlaxcalan by surprise. The macana descended, connecting with Tlaloc's armed arm. A wet crunch, bone splitting; Tlaloc howled, a piercing scream that chilled the blood, his arm hanging uselessly, profuse blood soaking his clothes. Xipilli felt the impact to his teeth—the edge had grazed bone, an exquisite vibration of victory that flooded him like burning pulque.
Yes! he thought, intoxicated, yanking the macana back abruptly, splattering blood on his face. He prepared for the final strike, macana raised.
But Tlaloc, writhing in pain, drew his bronze knife with his good hand—a swift flash under the sun. He sprang like a wounded puma, stabbing directly into Xipilli's heart. The movement was lightning-fast: the blade sank to the hilt, blood gushing in a torrent.
Xipilli blinked, surprise turning his euphoria to shock, and he fell to his knees beside Tlaloc. Both bodies collapsed together, a bloody tangle in the dust.
The silence lasted a heartbeat; then, the Tlaxcalans erupted in cries of euphoria: "For Tlaxcala! For our children!" Women ran to Tlaloc, bandaging his wounded arm with clean cloths, pressing hard above the wound to stop the bleeding—a Suaza trick that Cuitláhuac noted with fleeting surprise.
Clever, he thought, but there was no time: his men, seeing Xipilli and the novice fall, roared with pure vengeance.
"Kill them! For Huitzilopochtli!" howled Tlacotl, jumping forward, macana raised.
The other Mexica, eyes bloodshot, beat their shields, a thunder of fury. Cuitláhuac felt his own anger boil—two fallen, but the circle intact. The Tlaxcalans retreated, fear returning like a wave, their faces pale at the sight of the advancing Mexica tide.
Both sides knew it: what was coming was a merciless slaughter. The children cried louder, clinging to skirts; the women whispered prayers to Camaxtli. Cuitláhuac raised his macana, his voice cutting through the chaos: "Now! For Mexica glory!"
His warriors charged like an avalanche, spears clashing against shields, shouts intermingling with the first clangor of metal. Tlacotl slammed into a guard, his macana cutting air; a Tlaxcalan responded with a spear, grazing his shoulder. Cuitláhuac surged to the front, his target the center where the families huddled, the dust rising in red clouds.
Crush them, he thought, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue.
The village became a whirlwind of death: bodies falling, blood splattering huts, choked cries drowned by roars. But the Tlaxcalans, with their Suaza bronzes, did not yield easily—each blow was a challenge, each guard a living wall. Cuitláhuac drove his macana into an enemy's shoulder, feeling bone give way, but a spear grazed his leg, searing fire.
"Keep going!" he yelled, ignoring the pain.
The battle roared, with no end in sight, the sun the unforgiving witness to the carnage.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
New chapter section. Were you expecting it?
This chapter, and the ones that follow in this section, will focus on conflicts in different locations. Each one will have a different title. This will help us all better locate the chapters.
By the way, the section title has to do with combat, strategy, and the aftermath, hence the "3 faces."
I've also thought about separating the regular chapters or perhaps adding some new sections to improve the order, make it more attractive, and because titles aren't my thing. Hahaha
Here are some ideas so far:
1. Routes of Destiny, for Adventure, Travel, and Discovery chapters
2. The Secrets of Tomorrow, for Technology and Innovation chapters
3. The Map and the Coin, for Transcontinental Trade and Diplomacy chapters
And I'd also like to add the Chuta chapters, from his perspective, but I can't think of any names.
UFD: One of the active fronts the Aztecs maintained was with the Purepecha, in the western part of the empire. The Purepecha, a militarily strong and well-organized state, were never conquered by the Triple Alliance. Battles on this frontier were frequent and fiercely contested, rivaling those over the dominion of Tlaxcala.
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Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future. (Chapter 85)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis. (Chapter 31) (INTERMITTENT)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 11) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]