They weren't taken from far-off provinces. They came from the core.
From Tenayuca. From Azcapotzalco. From Tlacopan. From Coyoacan. From Culhuacan. From Xochimilco.
They weren't strangers to Tenochtitlan—they were its neighbors, its tributaries, and recently, its traitors.
Each altepetl sent its quota of noble-born youth, ages six to sixteen. Not because they volunteered. Not because they were chosen for talent. But because their cities had bowed in shame, paid again in tribute, and now surrendered blood as a sign of obedience. It wasn't mercy. It was consequence.
They all knew why.
Their parents had told them bluntly, sometimes cruelly, other times coldly before the parting.
"Keep your mouth shut if they curse your name."
"They're not going to forget what our warriors did."
"If they beat you, take it."
"Don't expect kindness."
"They lost sons too. They lost daughters. You're lucky you weren't killed."
Some fathers didn't speak at all. Some mothers cried but didn't hug them. Some siblings refused to say goodbye.
Each child departed with the same knowledge that their people helped rape the capital, loot its temples, spit on its gods, burn its homes, and enslave its families. This wasn't a diplomatic gesture. This was atonement.
And so the boys and girls marched quietly, each wearing the symbols of their noble class—embroidered clothes, headdresses, or jade, but none of them walked with pride. Some trembled. Some vomited. Some kept their eyes forward and tried not to think.
They weren't going to school.
They weren't going to be honored.
They were being sent because their names mattered enough to be held hostage.
No one said that out loud. But all of them understood.
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The canoes glided across the lake's glassy surface, the paddles dipping in rhythm with the guards' grunts. As Tenochtitlan loomed closer, the hostages sixty-three in total craned their necks, expecting the ruins their parents had described: charred temples, rubble-choked streets, a city still bleeding from the siege.
But what greeted them was different. The hum grew to a roar—the clatter of masons' chisels on stone, the sizzle of street vendors' comals, the laughter of children in the plazas.
The pyramids rose tall, patched with fresh lime, their steps gleaming under the sun. Canals sparkled, dredged clean, with chinampas blooming in greens and yellows.
And the flags were everywhere. Bright banners of green, white, and red fluttered from temple tops, market stalls, even humble adobe homes. On each, a golden-brown eagle perched on a cactus, devouring a serpent. The image was simple, bold and easy to make out even from the water.
"What is that?" a boy from Culhuacan whispered, but no one answered.
The guards said nothing, their spears steady as they herded the group ashore.
The escort led them through the streets, past markets where cacao beans changed hands and feathers were bartered for salt. Mexica commoners glanced at them with cold eyes, but no curses came, only whispers.
"Traitors' spawn," one muttered, but softly.
The hostages kept their heads down, but their status burned. They were prizes of war, living tributes to ensure their altepetls' submission, just as the Mexica had once demanded from others.
They reached the Templo Mayor precinct, the heart of the city, where the true spectacle waited. The square was packed with men in tilmatli, women in huipils, children in rows like little soldiers. All Mexica, from nobles to commoners, stood in ordered lines, facing a raised platform where the flag waved high. Drums beat in unison, a steady rhythm from boys in matching tilmatli of simple cotton, embroidered with the eagle symbol. The boys smiled, some laughing softly as they drummed, their left hands on their hearts, right fists clenched behind their backs.
Nearby, girls in Mayan blue garments moved in strange, graceful patterns—stretching arms overhead, flipping backward in arcs, landing with poise. No spears or shields, but their bodies twisted and leaped with a strength that made the hostages stare.
"What are they doing?" a girl from Xochimilco murmured, but a guard shushed her.
The envoys who had brought them bowed to Cuauhtemoc on the platform, then stepped aside. The emperor raised his hand, and the square fell silent.
"These are the children of our wayward brothers," he announced.
"They come not as enemies, but as kin. They will learn our ways, swear our oath, and become Mexica."
The Mexica cheered, the sound washing over the hostages like a wave. A boy from Azcapotzalco flinched as a Mexica child nearby turned, smiling not with malice, but curiosity.
"Watch the flag," the child whispered.
"That's how you learn."
The guards herded them to the front, where the pledge began. Left hand on heart, right behind back. The words rang out, the hostages mumbling along, their voices lost in the chorus. But as they spoke, they saw the artists at the edges—scribing the flag's design on bark paper, simple lines that even a child could copy.
The indoctrination had begun—not with chains, but with eyes on the eagle.
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Then, from the platform, Ehecatl stepped forward. The Cihuacoatl, the boy who had become legend. the Caxtilteca-killer, the city-saver. He looked down at the hostages and the assembled Mexica youth with a warm smile, his voice carrying like a gentle breeze, charming and kind, drawing them in like a father gathering his children.
"Hello, children. What a wonderful, well-built, healthy young generation is growing up in our empire today! One can be proud to see this new Mexica youth that carries within itself, and upon its faces, joy of life, zest for living, and vitality. A joyful and cheerful youth. You should not go about with strained faces, but instead look to the world with laughter. And you have reason to do so, for this world, your world, our people, our empire, have become more beautiful than ever before. We can be happy to know that the future belongs to us!"
His tone shifted as he extended his hand toward the hostages, still warm but now laced with a passionate fire, his eyes burning with anger as he turned to the topic of the Caxtilteca.
"We would also like to extend our hand to those around us. We want to work together with them, we have no animosity against them. We feel no hatred towards them, but the Mexica will never bow to the Caxtilteca or become Christians! The Caxtilteca are leeches and diseases who thrive on the conflicts our people have with others and use them to turn against us as you've seen in the war we briefly fell and risen up! You cannot blame the pipiltin of the other altepetl's for they are truly ignorant. Unlike us, they did not think about the future's of their children and their children's children. They only thought of themselves, of how they would be able to only enjoy a few years of no tribute and independence before the Caxtilteca would end that and take over the system we have in place and enforce it to a higher degree than we have! They would've forced their children to follow their god, change their names to Caxtilteca names,made them wear the same clothes the Caxtilteca do, and they'd also introduce a very ugly and dangerous system where the status of a person wouldn't depend on social status alone, but of skin color! Yes, you heard right! It wouldn't matter as much if you were a pipiltin, a macehualtin or a tlacotli! Our skin colors would put ALL OF US below them, to do with us as they wish as everyone here knows what that means from during the siege and occupation. May Huitzilopochtli give us the strength to preserve the freedom for our people, for our children's children. Not only for us Mexica, but also for the other people's of Cemenahuac. To preserve freedom for our people for it is not a war we are all fighting for our Mexica people alone, but also for all other people of Cemenahuac. It is a war for the whole of Cemenahuac, and thus really for all of humanity."
The square erupted in cheers, the Mexica's voices rising like a storm.
The hostages stood frozen, the words sinking in. The warm embrace for the youth, the passionate fury against the Caxtilteca. Leaving them torn between fear and a strange, unwelcome pull.
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The arrival in Tenochtitlan had already shaken the sixty-three hostages to their core, since the city they expected to find in ruins buzzed with life, its flags waving defiantly from every corner, and now this spectacle at the Templo Mayor, where Mexica youth drummed and leaped in ways that defied their understanding.
But it was Ehecatl's speech, delivered from the platform with a charisma that seemed to pull the very air toward him, that truly unraveled them.
As the Cihuacoatl spoke, the hostages clustered at the front under guard, felt the words land like stones in a still pond, rippling through their confusion, fear, and fragile pride. Their reactions were as varied as their origins, but all were marked by the same undercurrent. A dawning realization that this was no mere captivity, but a new understanding of their world.
From the perspective of a twelve year-old boy from Azcapotzalco, the speech began with a bewildering warmth. 'He's smiling at them, the Mexica kids as if they're his own.' the boy thought, his heart pounding as Ehecatl praised the "joyful and cheerful youth" with a voice that wrapped around the square like a father's embrace.
The boy had braced for hatred, for the Mexica to spit on him as a traitor's spawn, but this… this kindness toward their own made him envious. They're proud. Strong. And he's proud of them.
When Ehecatl extended a hand to "those around us," the boy felt a flicker of hope, maybe this wasn't punishment, but it shattered as the tone shifted to fury against the Caxtilteca. The boy's family had sided with the Caxtilteca; hearing them called "leeches and diseases" stung like a slap.
'My father said they were saviors', he thought,
tears welling as Ehecatl's passionate anger built, warning of a system based on skin color that would demean all. The boy glanced at his skin, confused and afraid. 'Would they really do that? Put us all below them?'
By the end, calling for freedom for all Cemenahuac, the boy felt torn and resentful of the blame on his people, yet stirred by the call to a greater fight.
A girl from Xochimilco, ten and sharp-eyed, clutched her cloak tighter as Ehecatl's charming words flowed.
'He's kind to them all. The drummers, and the leapers like they're special.' she observed, watching the Mexica girls in blue twist and flip with grace.
Her own body ached from the march, but the warmth in his voice made her wonder if she could learn that strength too. Joy of life… zest for living… It sounded like a dream compared to her parents cold farewell.
But when the speech turned angry, her stomach knotted. The Caxtilteca as parasites, thriving on conflicts. Her altepetl had joined them out of fear, not greed.
'Ignorant, he calls our pipiltin, our parents. But they promised no more tribute…' The warning of a skin-color hierarchy chilled her. 'All of us below them?Even nobles?'
And the passionate call for Huitzilopochtli's strength to preserve freedom for Cemenahuac left her angry, yet strangely included.
'A war for all humanity… does that mean us too?'
She felt a pull, resentment mixing with a forbidden curiosity.
An older boy from Tlacopan, fifteen and defiant, crossed his arms as Ehecatl spoke warmly of the Mexica youth.
'Look at them. Drumming like it's a game, laughing while it's now us standing in chains.' he thought bitterly, envy burning in his chest.
His altepetl had been allies once, but the punishment felt the same. The charismatic praise for vitality and pride made him resent his own weakness, as the march had left him tired and weary.
But the shift to anger against the Caxtilteca ignited something fierce.
'Leeches? They used us too! promised equality, gave nothing.' The passionate rant about skin-color systems horrified him. 'Status by color? Not blood or deeds?'
The call to preserve freedom for all Cemenahuac stirred a reluctant fire. 'If it's a war for humanity… am I on the wrong side?' His anger at the Mexica softened, replaced by confusion, as Ehecatl's charisma made the words feel like truth.
The group as a whole shifted uneasily. The speech's warmth drew them in, making the Mexica seem unbreakable, while the passionate fury against the Caxtilteca validated their parents' folly without absolving it. Some hostages wept quietly, others stood taller, a few whispered rebellions under their breath. But all felt the weight as all had a similar thought. this was no broken city; it was one ready to swallow them whole.
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Cuauhtemoc stood on the platform's edge, his icpalli throne momentarily forgotten as Ehecatl's words washed over the square. The emperor's face, usually a mask of stoic command, softened at first, his eyes crinkling with a rare, genuine warmth as the Cihuacoatl praised the children's vitality and joy.
A faint smile tugged at his lips, his quetzal-feathered cloak shifting as he nodded subtly, pride swelling in his chest for this new generation that embodied the empire's resilience.
But as the speech turned to the Caxtilteca, Cuauhtemoc's expression hardened, his jaw clenching, eyes blazing with shared passion and fury. He leaned forward, fists tightening on the throne's arms, his voice joining the crowd's roar at the end. Charismatic fire in his gaze, a leader inspired yet enraged, ready to channel that anger into the conquest ahead.
"The Cihuacoatl speaks truth," he muttered to a noble nearby, his tone resolute. "We rise as one."
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Malinalli kneeled at the edge of the platform, her huipil loose over her swelling belly, one hand absentmindedly resting on the curve as she translated Ehecatl's words into Spanish for Catalina.
The Castilian girl knelt beside her, her own pregnancy showing in the gentle roundness under her shift, eyes fixed on Ehecatl with that unwavering devotion, her Stockholm loyalty a shield against the world. As Ehecatl's voice filled the square with a charming and warm at first, praising the children's vitality with a father's tenderness.
Malinalli's lips moved in a low murmur, her tone flat but accurate.
"Hello children. What a wonderful, well-built, healthy young generation is growing up in our empire today! One can be proud to see this new Mexica youth…"
Catalina's face softened, a small smile tugging at her lips, her pale hands clasped in her lap as she listened. The warmth in Ehecatl's words, even through translation, stirred something maternal in her.
'He speaks of joy, of life… our child will grow in this.' she thought, her devotion deepening, a quiet glow in her eyes.
But Malinalli felt a bitter twist in her gut; the praise for the "joyful youth" rang hollow to her, a reminder of her own lost childhood, sold and broken.
'He speaks of laughter for them… but for us, it's chains and heirs.' she mused, her smirk fading into a scowl as she translated, her voice edging with sarcasm on "zest for living."
As the speech shifted, Ehecatl's tone igniting with passion and anger against the Caxtilteca, Malinalli's translation quickened, her eyes narrowing.
"The Caxtilteca are leeches and diseases who thrive on the conflicts our people have with others… They would've forced their children to follow their god, change their names to Caxtilteca names, made them wear the same clothes the Caxtilteca do…"
Catalina's breath caught, her face paling as the words hit home. '
'Leeches? My people?' fear flickering in her eyes, her hand instinctively protecting her belly. The passionate fury in Ehecatl's voice, even muted through Malinalli, made her tremble; she idolized him, but this condemnation of her kin twisted like a knife, her devotion warring with a deep-seated shame.
'He hates them… hates me? No, he chose me. Our child…' Tears welled, but she bowed her head lower, whispering a prayer in Spanish.
Malinalli, however, felt a surge of vindictive satisfaction, her translation laced with venom on "ugly and dangerous system… skin color would put ALL OF US below them."
'Yes, say it, boy. Expose their rot.' she thought, her bitterness flaring, remembering her own enslavement and betrayal.
The anger in Ehecatl's words mirrored her own rage, turning her smirk into a fierce grin, her free hand clenching as she finished: "It is a war for the whole of Cemenahuac, and thus really for all of humanity."
Catalina shuddered at the end, her pregnancy making the words feel personal. 'A war against my blood… but our children are his.' Malinalli glanced at her, a toxic gleam in her eye, leaning close. "He speaks truth, Catalina. Your kind are the disease. But we… we carry the cure." Catalina nodded meekly, devotion winning out, but the fear lingered, her hands trembling on her belly. Malinalli laughed softly, her own pregnancy a badge of twisted triumph, as the square erupted in cheers.
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The reactions rippled across the square like waves from a dropped stone, each social class absorbing the speech in their own way, their faces and voices a tapestry of emotion that bound the crowd tighter to the empire's vision.
Among the pipiltin, the nobles clustered near the platform, their feathered cloaks and jade ornaments glinting. The response was a swell of pride and calculated approval. A warrior-noble from the eagle order clenched his fist, his eyes shining with the speech's warmth toward the youth. 'He speaks of our children as the empire's heart—joyful, vital. My son will grow under this flag, stronger than I.'
But as the tone turned to fury against the Caxtilteca, his jaw tightened, a passionate growl escaping. "Leeches! They sought to chain us with their god! May Huitzilopochtli guide our blades!"
The nobles cheered loudest, their voices a roar of unity, seeing in Ehecatl's anger a call to reclaim Cemenahuac's glory for all, not just the Mexica.
The macehualtin packed in the square's heart, their tilmatli simple and dust-worn from labor felt the words like a balm on old wounds.
A market woman with callused hands wiped a tear at the charming praise for the children's vitality. 'He sees them, our little ones as the future, full of laughter. My daughter will not know the rape I had to endure just so she may live.' Her voice joined the cheers, warm and loving, but when the speech ignited against the Caxtilteca, her face hardened, anger flashing. "They would have made us slaves by color??fuck them and their two faced god!"
The commoners' shouts were the loudest, passionate and raw, their fists pumping as they embraced the call for freedom for all Cemenahuac, feeling included in the empire's fight.
The tlacotli and laborers at the edges, their tunics ragged from the day's toil stood in quiet awe, their reactions a mix of hope and simmering rage.
A young slave boy, no older than ten, beamed at the kind words for the youth. 'He calls us joyful… vital. Me?!part of the future?!' His small voice piped up in the cheer, loving and pure. But as the speech condemned the Caxtilteca's system, his eyes widened in anger. "What kind of animal enslaved others based on skin color??"
The tlacotli's responses were passionate whispers turning to furious shouts, their cheers a defiant wave, seeing in the speech a promise of equality in the fight for humanity.
The pipiltin ladies in embroidered huipils, macehualtin mothers with babies on hips, tlacotli servants with baskets—felt the warmth deepest, their cheers laced with tears. A noblewoman clutched her child, smiling at the charismatic praise. 'He speaks of zest, of laughter, our sons and daughters will thrive even after everything we've endured.'
The anger against the Caxtilteca ignited her. "They would change our names, our ways?? May Huitzilopochtli strike them down!"
Their voices rose high and passionate, a chorus of maternal fury for Cemenahuac's freedom.
The children, the Mexica youth in their rows reacted with wide-eyed wonder, their cheers the purest.
A girl in Mayan blue flipped higher at the loving words. 'Our Cihuacoatl sees us with love. Sees us healthy, joyful!'
Her laugh joined the roar. But the passionate rant stirred them: "The Caxtilteca are leeches!! we'll never bow!" Their small fists pumped, angry yet inspired, the pledge's echo fueling their cries for all of humanity.
The square thundered, the speech binding them in shared warmth and fury. The hostages watched, overwhelmed, as the Mexica became one unbreakable voice.
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Hours later, as the sun dipped low over the lake, casting golden ripples across the water, Ehecatl returned to his expanded adobe home. The day's spectacle at the Templo Mayor lingered in the air like incense. The cheers, the unity, the subtle awe in the hostages' eyes. He slide open the curtain door, the cool interior a welcome contrast to the precinct's heat. Malinalli lounged on a reed mat in the courtyard, her huipil draped loosely over her swelling belly, fanning herself with a palm leaf while smirking at some private thought. Catalina sat nearby, folding fresh mantas from the tribute deliveries, her own pregnancy evident in the gentle curve under her shift. She looked up as he entered, her pale face flushing with that quiet devotion, but her eyes held a shadow of hesitation.
The women exchanged glances as he sat between them, Malinalli's smirk fading into curiosity. "The speech was… stirring," she said in Nahuatl, her tone teasing but laced with approval. "You had them eating from your hand, boy. Even the little traitors looked half-convinced."
Catalina, catching the gist through Malinalli's earlier translation during the event, nodded slowly, her voice soft in Spanish. "My lord… I loved the first part. The hope for the children… it gives me strength for ours." Her hand rested on her belly, a small smile touching her lips. But then her expression faltered, her eyes dropping to the floor.
"But the second half… it hurts to hear my people spoken ill of. Leeches, diseases… and I'm worried. If the Mexica hate the Castilians so much, will they take it out on me? On our children?"
Malinalli rolled her eyes, but Ehecatl raised a hand, his voice calm and reassuring as he switched to Spanish for her.
"You don't need to worry. When people think of a Castilian, they don't think of the women. The image in their heads is the metal armor clanking like chains, the foreign clothing stiff and strange, the lighter skin under beards, the cross wielded like a weapon, the sword dripping blood, the arquebuses belching smoke, the cannons thundering destruction, the horses charging like beasts from hell. That's the enemy they remember, the men who burned and conquered."
He paused, his tone turning thoughtful, a hint of his old-world disdain creeping in.
"And their racial caste system… it's an evil, ugly concept. Ranking people by skin, blood, birth. Turning humanity into a ladder where some are always below. We won't let that poison take root here. The Mexica won't view you or our kids negatively. Yes, you're a reminder of the Castilians, but no one was personally affected by the Castilian women. You weren't the ones wielding the swords or firing the cannons. You're part of us now. Our family, our future."
Catalina's shoulders relaxed, her eyes softening with relief and devotion as she leaned into him.
"Thank you, my lord. I… I believe you."
Malinalli watched with a wry smile, her hand on her own belly, whispering in Nahuatl. "Soft on her as always, aren't you? But he's right, their hate is for the men, not their women."
The evening deepened, the family bound tighter amid the empire's growing shadows.