A month had passed since the trial, as a blur of council meetings, labor oversight, and the quiet, insistent pull of power that Ehecatl had never imagined he'd crave. The sun rose over Tenochtitlan like it always had, but the city looked different now with the streets swept clean of rubble, temples patched with fresh stone, markets humming with cautious trade. Recovery wasn't fast, but it was visible each day with a little less ruin, and a little more life.
Ehecatl stood outside of his modest adobe home, now expanded with annexed rooms from neighboring houses. The air smelled of lime mortar and blooming chinampas, not just smoke and decay. It felt… good. Weirdly good.
Back in his old life in the 21st-century grind, he'd hated working. Why bust your ass in a game rigged by boomers? Minimal effort, coast through, flip off the system from the shadows. But here? Power changed everything. He was the one calling shots now, and seeing the city knit itself back together with workers hauling stone, canals dredged, the lake's edge reclaimed hit different. Tiring as hell, yeah, but satisfying. Like building something real, not just punching a clock for someone else's empire.
Inside, the home stirred with morning light. Malinalli and Catalina were both up—his "prizes," as the whispers called them. The booty from the war, now carrying his seed. Pregnancy had hit them early, confirmed by the healers' herbs and their own bodies: missed moons, nausea in the mornings, a subtle swell that promised complications he wasn't ready for. Malinalli lounged on a reed mat, her huipil loose over her changing form, smirking as she rubbed her belly. Catalina knelt nearby, folding blankets with quiet devotion, her pale skin flushed from the same symptoms, eyes downcast but stealing glances at Malinalli with a mix of fear and resentment.
Ehecatl stepped back in, his tilmatli still dusted from the labor sites. "Morning," he muttered, voice grounded in casualness, but laced with the weight of his new role.
Malinalli looked up, her eyes sharp as ever. "My lord returns from playing Cihuacoatl. How's the city? Still standing on the backs of your 'terrorists'?" She laughed, toxic and teasing, her hand circling her belly. "Or are you just avoiding us? Afraid of what you've planted?"
He shot her a look, but couldn't deny the pull of her fire still ignited that hate-lust, even pregnant.
"City's coming along. Cleaner every day. Feels… good, actually. It's starting to look good again." He sat between them, his hand brushing Catalina's arm first—she leaned into it submissively, whispering "My lord" in Spanish, her devotion unwavering despite the changes.
Catalina's eyes flicked to Malinalli again, jealousy simmering under her quiet facade. "The healers say… it's strong," she said softly, her hand on her own belly. "Like you."
Malinalli snorted. "Prizes, huh? That's what they call us now? The war prizes swelling with his seed. Fitting for a conqueror." She leaned closer to Ehecatl, her breath hot. "But tell me boy, does it scare you? Two women, two children, from the enemy's side? Or does it turn you on?"
Ehecatl grabbed her wrist, pulling her in rough, the old toxicity flaring.
"Scared? Nah. It's power. But yeah… it's satisfying."
He kissed her hard, then turned to Catalina, drawing her in too—the contrast electric, one defiant, one yielding. But before it escalated, a knock shattered the moment.
A scout burst in, breathless.
"Cihuacoatl, the altepetls… they've come crawling."
Ehecatl released the women, standing.
"All of them?"
The scout then said. "Azcapotzalco, Tlacopan, Coyoacan, Culhuacan, Tenayuca, Xochimilco. Envoys begging forgiveness. Not all of them from the valley but just those named. They say the Castilians' fall broke them. No more rebellion. They offer tribute, and manpower. Whatever it takes."
Ehecatl's jaw tightened. He didn't like it. The groveling, the tears. Back home, he'd hated bootlickers. Here? It felt too easy. "They think we'll just forget? After siding with the Caxtilteca?"
The scout shrugged.
"They're scared. Your… reputation precedes you."
He sighed, waving the scout out. Turning to the women, he said, "Looks like the valley's ours again. Tribute flowing, manpower for recovery. Resources to rebuild fast."
Malinalli smirked—"resources for the empire?" while Catalina nodded devotedly.
But as he headed to the council, the thought lingered: with the altepetls back under Mexica sway there would be tribute in cacao, cloth, feathers; manpower for labor crews.
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…
Ehecatl stepped into the council hall. The space was grander than his modest home, as it was a vast chamber in the palace complex, its walls adorned with fading murals of eagles and serpents, the air thick with the scent of copal incense and fresh rushes on the floor. Torchlight flickered, casting long shadows over the assembled figures. Cuauhtemoc sat at the head on a simple icpalli throne, flanked by Mexica nobles in designed tilmatli and jade ear plugs, their faces stern masks of authority.
Before them knelt the envoys from some of the altepetls that had betrayed the Mexica by siding with Cortés: Azcapotzalco, Tlacopan, Coyoacan, Culhuacan, Tenayuca, and Xochimilco. They bowed low, foreheads nearly touching the ground, their voices a chorus of pleas and excuses.
Ehecatl hung back near the entrance, his plain tilmatli feeling out of place amid the regalia. This was his first real taste of Mesoamerican politicking, and not the raw chaos of guerrilla fights or the intimate brutality of his home life, but the calculated dance of power, tribute, and submission.
He crossed his arms, observing silently, his 21st-century mind whirring. 'Back home, this would be a congressional hearing or some corporate merger—boomers rigging the game with handshakes and backroom deals. Here? Same game, different players. But damn, it feels… satisfying. They're crawling back, and we're the ones holding the whip.'
Cuauhtemoc raised a hand for silence, his voice steady and commanding.
"You come begging forgiveness," he said, eyes sweeping the envoys. "You sided with the Caxtilteca, brought fire to our city, and now, with their bearded leader broken, you kneel. Speak your case."
The envoy from Azcapotzalco, a Tepanec noble with trembling hands, spoke first. "Great Speaker, we were deceived by the Caxtilteca's promises. We offer our loyalty anew, same tribute as before: mantles, loincloths, warrior shields, bins of maize and beans. Forgive us, and we submit."
One by one, they pledged:
• Azcapotzalco: 400 multicolored loincloths and tunics, 2,000 white mantas, warrior costumes, foodstuffs in bins.
• Coyoacan: Gourd bowls by the thousands, mantas and skirts, shields and maize.
• Culhuacan: Red-bordered mantas, loincloths, coyote shields, amaranth and chia.
• Tenayuca: Henequén mantas, salt loaves, quetzal costumes.
• Xochimilco: Step-fret tunics, papalotl shields, gourd vessels, lake grains.
Tlacopan's envoy, from the former Triple Alliance partner, bowed deepest.
"We shared your glory once. We offer no goods, as before, but our warriors and laborers to rebuild."
Cuauhtemoc leaned forward, his expression unyielding. "Forgiveness is not given, it is earned. We'll accept your tributes, yes. But as punishment for your betrayal, each of you will send sons and daughters of noble blood, as hostages to Tenochtitlan. They will be kept safe, educated in our ways, but held until your loyalty is proven."
The envoys paled, but nodded.
Cuauhtemoc added: "You give manpower—200 warriors for our campaigns, 100 laborers for the temples, and 8 hostages from your houses."
Ehecatl stayed quiet, watching the envoys grovel, their tears and promises flowing like the tributes they pledged. 'They're building our empire back with tribute for resources, manpower for recovery.'
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…
As the envoys were dismissed, Cuauhtemoc glanced at Ehecatl with a nod. "Your silence speaks wisdom, Cihuacoatl. The valley is ours again."
Ehecatl shrugged inwardly. 'Yeah. And it feels good.'
The council chamber fell into a heavy silence after the envoys were dismissed, their footsteps echoing like retreating thunder. Cuauhtemoc leaned back on his icpalli throne, his eyes scanning the assembled nobles their faces a mix of triumph and caution. The air was thick with the scent of copal, the smoke curling upward as if carrying their words to the gods. The altepetls had begged for mercy, and the Mexica had granted it on terms that would bind them tighter than before. But forgiveness was one thing; trust was another.
One of the Mexica nobles, ever the strategist with his sharp gaze and measured tone, spoke first.
"We have their tributes resuming with mantles from Azcapotzalco, gourd vessels from Coyoacan, salt from Tenayuca. Resources to rebuild. But words are wind. They sided with the Caxtilteca once; what's to stop them again? We must garrison their borders, and station warriors in their temples, watch their councils. Let them feel our shadow."
Nobles murmured agreement, but the high priest of Huitzilopochtli, his robes adorned with eagle feathers, shook his head.
"Garrisons breed resentment. Remember Cholula—they rebelled under the weight of our altars. No, demand more sacrifices for the gods. Let their blood flow in our temples as atonement. Hostages alone aren't enough; their sons and daughters must witness the rites, learn fear of the divine wrath they invited by betraying us."
The discussion heated. A warrior-chief from the southern marches argued for economic chains: "Double the tribute in the first cycle—maize bins from Culhuacan, feathers from Xochimilco. Starve their pride. And for Tlacopan, who claims alliance without payment? Force their warriors into our front lines—let them bleed first in any future war."
Another noble, from the lake districts, countered with caution. "Too harsh, and they scatter like the Chichimeca—raiding our edges. Blend it: hostages to educate their youth in our ways, garrisons disguised as 'protectors,' tributes tied to shared rituals. Make them part of us again, not enemies waiting for the next Caxtilteca whisper."
Cuauhtemoc listened, his expression unchanging, until the circle fell quiet. All eyes turned to Ehecatl, the silent Cihuacoatl standing at the edge like a shadow. He felt the weight of their gaze, his mind drifting inward.
'Pledges… back where words bound nations, not blood. But this isn't that. Here, it's fire and loyalty, eternal and unbreaking. Using the U.S.'s pledge of allegiance could work, but this ain't a republic. Still… perhaps taking inspiration from the Fire Nation's pledge of allegiance, from Avatar The Last Airbender could work…'
"A pledge," he said simply.
"Not just tribute or hostages. Make them swear it before gods and men. And let it be bound to our banner, the flag that rose in rebellion and now flies over our empire. The eagle devouring the serpent on the cactus, colors of green, white, and red symbolizing our land, our faith, and our blood."
The nobles leaned in as he recited, his voice steady and commanding:
"My life I give to the Mexica Empire. With my hands I fight for the Huey Tlatoani and our ancestors before him. With my mind I seek ways to strengthen the Empire. And with my feet may our march of conquest continue eternally. I swear this before the flag of our people, the eagle on the cactus, devouring the serpent, symbol of our unbreakable will."
He paused, then added more details:
"Let every envoy and hostage place their left hand on their heart, to bind their spirit, and their right hand behind their back, to show submission and restraint. They swear upon return, under our gaze, or face the gods' wrath."
The chamber stirred. The words resonated, a binding oath that echoed the empire's unyielding spirit, now tied to Ehecatl's rebellious flag that had become their symbol of resurgence.
Cuauhtemoc nodded.
"Let it be so. Every envoy swears it upon return, their hostages as witness. Tribute resumes, garrisons placed, but this pledge seals their souls."
One of the nobles then spoke after Cuauhtemoc. His voice sharp as an obsidian blade, as he leaned forward.
"A moment Huey Tlatoani, a pledge is wind through the flowers, Cihuacoatl. Pretty, but gone with the next storm. These traitors groveled today, but tomorrow? Their envoys wept like children, but their warriors remember the Caxtilteca's promises of no more tributes and glory. How do we root this oath in their blood, not just their breath? Garrisons in their temples will watch, but eyes alone don't bind hearts—they breed vipers in the shadows."
The high priest of Huitzilopochtli, his robes crusted with dried blood from the morning rites, slammed his staff against the stone floor, the eagle skull at its top rattling like bones in a grave.
"Garrisons? Bah! The gods demand more than watchers, they thirst for atonement! These dogs sided with the greedy sons of bitches, burned our altars, mocked our sacrifices. Let their hostages witness the knife, and let their sons and daughters see hearts offered to the sun as penance. Words? Pledges? Without blood, it's empty as a dried gourd. What if they twist this mercy into mockery, whispering rebellion under our noses?"
From the lake districts, an elder noble with water-lily glyphs tattooed on his arms waved a hand dismissively, his voice rumbling like distant thunder over the chinampas.
"Blood blinds as much as it binds, priest. Remember the flower wars, too much sacrifice, and the fields empty of workers. Double the tributes first: maize bins from Culhuacan stacked higher than before, feathers from Xochimilco to choke the sky. Starve their bellies, and their pride follows. For Tlacopan, who hides behind alliance without payment? Chain their warriors to our front lines, and let them bleed for us in the next wars, prove their spines aren't as soft as their words."
A southern warrior-chief, named Yaotl who made his name from battles with the Mixtecs, grunted in agreement but added a growl.
"Tributes and troops are fine, but resentment festers like a bad wound. These altepetls saw the Caxtilteca's fire and bent the knee to them once. What stops them from rallying under some new banner when our backs turn? Blend the chains: hostages to twist their youth in our schools, garrisons cloaked as 'guardians,' tributes laced with shared feasts to make them taste our strength. Make them us, or they'll always be them—waiting for the next storm."
Cuauhtemoc listened, his expression a stone mask, until the voices ebbed. All eyes turned to Ehecatl, the silent Cihuacoatl at the edge, his plain tilmatli a quiet contrast to their splendor. He stepped forward, his voice calm amid the storm.
"Control of the mind starts with control of the eye."
The nobles leaned in, intrigued by the riddle. He continued.
"I agree with most of what Yaotl has said. It's not enough to make the hostages dress like us, speak our tongue, or bow to our gods. They need to feel and believe they are Mexica. They need to see themselves as part of something great, helping build an empire that eclipses the old. The horses we stole from the Caxtilteca? Let them ride alongside ours once they've earned that privilege. It shows proof that the Mexica now command the speed that once gave the Caxtilteca their edge, and that we'd reward those who remain loyal. The arquebuses, cannons, swords, and armor? Arm them with replicas in training, symbols that we hold the fire and steel that made the Caxtilteca 'special,' but now bent to our will. I don't agree on garrisoning our warriors to other altepetl's just yet. We've barely made some progress on recovery and we're just about to get tribute and man power for labor. We just don't have the means to project power and authority just yet."
Cuauhtemoc shifted the topic with a grave nod.
"The valley bends to us again," he said.
"but the world beyond stirs like a jaguar in the dark. Scouts bring tales of the Caxtilteca-Tlaxcalan alliance's end not in battle, but betrayal. The other altepetls raided them immediately after Victory Day, using Ehecatl's own methods: filth-laced blades, whispers of fear. They took loot which included arquebuses, cannons, and women as prizes. But now, even those traitors fracture. Their own people defect, stealing the spoils for themselves. Warlords rise, running amok under banners of madness."
The high priest leaned in, his eyes gleaming.
"Name them, Huey Tlatoani. Let us know the beasts we may hunt eventually."
Cuauhtemoc gestured to the scout once more.
"Speak of their deeds, and the horrors that shame even the gods."
The scout bowed, his voice steady but laced with revulsion.
"Cuetlachtli, a boy around the Cihuacoatl's age who began to idolize him, and has taken what the Cihuacoatl used against them as his own. He's a butcher from Huexotzingo who defected with twenty other like-minded people, raising a jackal-skull banner. He raids villages, crucifying refugees in women's dresses while his men laugh unhinged, whispering secrets they'd gain through torture to ripen their victims' fear. In one hamlet, he dragged a Tlaxcalan elder through the streets, forcing him to stutter pleas before slitting his throat and bathing in the spray, claiming it 'flavors the soul.' His prize is Isabel, a Caxtilteca woman, bound in his caves where he 'purifies' her with blood rites, renaming her in mockery of the Cihuacoatl's concubine Catalina. She screams through the nights as he carves symbols into her skin."
Yaotl grimaced.
"A twisted disciple, his horrors profane the war we fought."
"Tochtli, a sadist from the Totonacs,"
the scout continued.
"He broke off with fifteen sick and wicked men, no banner but his will. He ambushes caravans, stacking heads in pyramids of warning, guts spilled to draw vultures. In one raid, he forced captives to fight for their lives, then crucified the survivors upside down, letting animals gnaw their faces while they begged. His 'booty': four women, traded like currency and are bound, violated, and sold to his men for sport. The niece of a Tlaxcalan chief weeps in his camp, her body a map of bruises, as he laughs that 'fear makes them tighter.' He roams the coasts, leaving roads lined with rotting limbs."
An elder shuddered.
"No honor, only a animal's glee, Ehecatl's methods warped into abomination."
"Cuauhmecatl, a priest fanatic from Cholula,"
the scout said, his tone dropping.
"He gathers zealots under Quetzalcoatl's name, calling the Cihuacoatl as the avatar of Quetzalcoatl because of his name and his intelligence. He raids shrines, renaming captured women as 'goddesses' drenching them in blood, forcing them to drink from skulls in 'purification' rites. In one temple, he nailed a rival priest to a cross, mocking his cries with unhinged laughter while carving a serpent symbols into his chest, claiming it 'ends the Fifth Sun.' His followers wear bone masks, chanting as they burn villages alive."
The high priest slammed his staff.
"Heresy! He twists the divine into slaughter—gods weep at such perversion."
"Chimali, a merchant from the Valley markets," the scout went on.
"He seizes Petlalco's (warehouses), raising a pochteca symbol for a banner. No open blood, but his 'verdicts' are death by debt, as he auctions rivals' families, trading women as alliances in backrooms. In one deal, he bound a merchant's daughter, forcing her to 'seal' contracts with her body while his men watched, laughing as she broke. His networks spread like a disease, profiting from every scream."
Yaotl growled. "Greed cloaked in trade it's as dangerous as poison, twisting war into marketplace filth."
"Cihuatltecuhtli Atlauh, the noblewoman from the ravaged villages," the scout said.
"She gathers broken women amongst the survivors of rape and war, forming a matriarchy of vengeance. She strikes from swamps, rescuing captives and arming them, but her raids are merciless: enemy scouts castrated alive, left nailed to trees with their genitals stuffed in their mouths as warnings. In one outpost, she bound two Tlaxcalan men, forcing them to watch as her guard violated two others with spears, claiming 'justice for our sisters.' Her reed-and-blood banner vanishes into the mist, leaving horrors that whisper of female fury."
The nobles shifted uneasily. "A woman's war? Unnatural… yet her terror cuts deep."
"Don Sebastián del Hierro, the rogue Castilian," the scout finished.
"He defects from Tlaxcala with forges and deserters, raising crossed hammers. He raids patrols, claiming women as leverage they too are bound, they're branded with hot iron, and traded for alliances. In one strike, he hammered a deserter's hands to a tree, laughing as he screamed, before forcing the man's wife to watch the man bleed out. His horde nomads the wilds, forging crude weapons from whatever metal and steel. They could get their hands on."
Cuauhtemoc's face darkened. "These warlords, born from our victory now feed on the chaos. They twist Ehecatl's methods into madness. We must watch, and strengthen borders. The valley is almost ours once more, but the shadows grow."
The discussion swirled between vengeance versus patience, blood versus strategy until eyes turned once more to Ehecatl, the silent Cihuacoatl at the edge. He stepped forward, his plain tilmatli a quiet rebuke to their splendor.
"Most of these warlords are fools," he said, his voice even, cutting through the tension like obsidian. The nobles leaned in, intrigued by the rare words from their enigmatic advisor.
"What I did, the filth on blades, the mocks and whispers, the crucifixions was because it was all I had. Tenochtitlan lay in ruins, occupied by the Caxtilteca and their allies. If circumstances were different, I would never have resorted to such measures. Eventually, they will be dealt with, crushed under our heel when the time is right. But for now, focus on recovery. We have half the valley under control, the city rebuilding day by day. Their madness buys us time."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the room, a glint of opportunity in his eyes.
"But I see value in this chaos. They hunger for power, so let's give them a taste, regulated by us. I know the secret to black powder; they do not. Propose a trade, our powder for their resources. Women as prizes, food, cloth, jade, quetzal feathers, cacao, gold dust, turquoise beads, metal, even a Tlaxcalan or Caxtilteca captive would suffice. We control the flow, strengthen our stores, and turn their greed against them. Who agrees? Who does not?"
The chamber erupted once more, the nobles' voices overlapping in a cacophony of debate.
The high priest shook his head vehemently.
"Trade with these heretics? Their bloodlust mocks what you've done for all of us, powder for their filth? No, Cihuacoatl it taints us!"
Yaotl countered with a grin.
"I agree, let them pay in blood and treasure. The women they take as currency, their goods for our armies. Turn their chaos to our gain."
An elder stroked his chin.
"Risky… but wise. Control the powder, and we control them. I agree, let their greed be our leash."
One by one, they voiced their stances on agreements from the warriors hungry for resources, dissents from the priests wary of corruption. Cuauhtemoc listened, then raised his hand.
"The Cihuacoatl speaks truth. We trade carefully. Send envoys under guard. The seeds of their madness will choke them in time, and thus buy us time and wealth."