The council chamber in Tenochtitlan had become a second home to Ehecatl, its walls now repainted with fresh murals of eagles and serpents, the air scented with copal incense and the faint tang of lime from ongoing repairs. Weeks had passed since the hostages' arrival, their indoctrination proceeding smoothly.
The pledge recited daily, the flag's symbol etched into their minds like a brand. The valley was half-reclaimed, tribute flowing in steady streams with mantles from Azcapotzalco clothing the warriors, gourd bowls from Coyoacan filling the markets, salt from Tenayuca seasoning the feasts. Manpower too in the form of the punished warriors from Tlacopan labored alongside Mexica crews, their sweat mixing in the rebuilding efforts. But Ehecatl knew it wasn't enough. The empire's heart beat strong, but its limbs were still weak, scattered altepetls like Texcoco lingering as thorns in the side.
He sat silently at the edge of the icpalli circle, his plain tilmatli a deliberate contrast to the nobles' feathered cloaks, as Cuauhtemoc addressed the assembled pipiltin.
"The hostages swear the oath daily," the emperor said, his voice steady.
"Their altepetls bend, their tributes resume. But Texcoco remains a shadow—Ixtlilxochitl II, the traitor who allied with the Caxtilteca, still breathes free. He hides in the eastern hills, plotting with remnants. We cannot leave the valley half-ours."
The high priest nodded gravely, his eagle-skull staff thumping the floor.
"He desecrated our temples, spilled our blood for the bearded invaders. The gods demand his heart on the altar—let us march now, reclaim the east!"
Yaotl, the southern warrior-chief, grunted. "The valley's wounds still bleed—we rebuild with tribute from Culhuacan and Xochimilco, but our armies are thin. Ixtlilxochitl has Castilian deserters, stolen guns. A direct assault risks too much."
The elder from the lake districts stroked his chin.
"Diplomacy first, send envoys with the pledge, offer mercy like the others. If he refuses, then strike. His people tire of his treachery; turn them against him."
The debate swirled between vengeance versus caution, blood versus cunning. All eyes eventually turned to Ehecatl, the silent architect of their victories. He leaned forward, his voice calm but laced with calculated fire.
"We target Ixtlilxochitl not with open war, but a casus belli. A fabricated cause accuse him of harboring 'terrorists,' raiding our tributes. Use the new powder from the grenades in a false flag raid on our own border post, blame his men. The valley's altepetls are watching; show them betrayal's price. Reclaim Texcoco, then the rest of the altepetls such as Huexotla, Coatlichan, Chalco etc. The empire whole again."
The nobles murmured approval,
Cuauhtemoc's eyes gleaming. "The snake-woman strikes wisely. Prepare the envoys and the powder."
Ehecatl nodded inwardly. 'Half the valley's ours… the other half falls next. No more half-measures.'
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A week had passed since the council's decision to reclaim the eastern valley, the air in Tenochtitlan thick with the scent of blooming chinampas and fresh mortar as recovery pushed forward. The fabricated raid unfolded under cover of night, a small Mexica force of handpicked warriors loyal to Ehecatl were sent slipping to a border post near Texcoco's territory. The post was one of their own, a simple watchtower of reed and stone, manned by a skeleton crew who had been quietly pulled back hours earlier.
The warriors worked swiftly with grenades lobbed into the empty structure, the explosions roaring like thunder, splintering wood and scattering debris in a cloud of smoke and dust. Arquebus shots cracked from the shadows, aimed at nothing but the night, while shouts echoed "For Ixtlilxochitl! Burn the Mexica dogs!"
By dawn, the post lay in smoldering ruins, "evidence" planted. Texcoco bows and arrows from captured stocks, a scrap of cloak with their glyphs. Scouts "discovered" the scene, their reports racing back to the palace.
"Texcoco strikes again! envoys must come, or war follows." Cuauhtemoc, briefed in the pre-dawn hours, nodded grimly, his feathered cloak rustling.
"The traitor Ixtlilxochitl shows his hand. Send the call to all remaining altepetls not under our banner. Texcoco, Huexotla, Coatlichan, Chalco, and the rest. Demand envoys within three days. Swear loyalty, send tribute and hostages, or face our wrath."
The nobles gathered swiftly, their voices a storm of approval. The high priest thumped his staff "The gods demand atonement! their 'envoys' will kneel or bleed!"
Yaotl grinned "Let them see our powder and they'll submit like the others."
The elder from the lake districts cautioned "Ixtlilxochitl is cunning—expect deceit."
But all agreed the valley would be whole.
Messengers fanned out on swift canoes and foot, the demands were made clear, submission or destruction. The Mexica waited, the flag waving high over the Templo Mayor, as the envoys' shadows loomed on the horizon.
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The envoys from the remaining altepetls not yet under Mexica control such as Texcoco, Huexotla, Coatlichan, Chalco, and a handful of lesser holdouts like Tepexpan and Mixquic approached Tenochtitlan by canoe across the lake's shimmering expanse, their paddles cutting through the water with reluctant strokes.
The journey had been tense, word of the "raid" on the Mexica border post spreading like wildfire along the trade routes, a brazen attack blamed on Ixtlilxochitl II of Texcoco, though whispers hinted at something staged.
The summons had been made clear as they were to come, or punishment. As the canoes neared the causeways, the envoys' eyes widened, their stomachs twisting with a mix of awe and dread. This was no ruined shell of a city; Tenochtitlan thrummed with life, its recovery a defiant roar against the siege's scars.
The flags were the first thing they noticed. Everywhere, like a sea of living symbols blanketing the horizon. Bright banners of green, white, and red fluttered from the towering pyramids' summits, draped over market awnings, and hung from the reed roofs of commoner homes. On each, a golden-brown eagle perched on a cactus, its talons sunk deep as it devoured a writhing serpent. The image was simple, stark, repeated so relentlessly that it seemed to pulse with the city's heartbeat.
"What sorcery is this?" muttered an envoy from Coatlichan, his voice lost in the wind. A Texcoco noble, his feathered cloak wilted from the humidity, gripped the canoe's edge tighter. Our spies said the city was broken… but this? This is a declaration.
As they docked and were escorted through the streets, the Mexica people came into view. United, in high spirits, a far cry from the starving wraiths the envoys had imagined. Commoners in simple tilmatli laughed as they bartered cacao for salt from Tenayuca, their faces alight with pride. Nobles in jade-plugged ears nodded to warriors returning from patrols, sharing tales over pulque. Children darted through the crowds, mimicking pledges with left hands on hearts, right fists behind backs, their giggles mingling with the sizzle of tlaxcalli on comals. Women in embroidered huipils balanced baskets of amaranth, chatting animatedly about the latest tribute shipments from Culhuacan.
The envoys felt the weight of eyes upon them as the Mexica people were curious, not hostile, but the unity was palpable, a people bound by shared triumph, their spirits buoyant as if the siege had been a bad dream washed away by the lake's waters.
The escort led them to the Templo Mayor precinct, where the true show of force unfolded like a ritual unfolding. The square was a sea of ordered ranks of Mexica warriors in full regalia, their cotton ichcahuipilli armor padded thick, swords at their hips from looted Castilian blades. Horses neighed from a cordoned pen, the stolen beasts now saddled with Mexica harnesses, their manes braided with quetzal feathers, prancing under the watchful eyes of young riders practicing charges. Iron arrows glinted in quivers, their tips forged from the lake's bog iron, distributed among archers who drew bows in unison, the strings twanging like a war chant. And the new primitive grenades made from clay pots bulging with mysterious powder were stacked in neat pyramids, fuses trailing like serpents' tails, guarded by scribes sketching their design on bark paper.
The envoys' statuses burned hotter here, as Mexica nobles glanced at them with cold calculation, whispering of the hostages already sworn to the flag.
A Cholulan envoy swallowed hard, his face paling at the sight of the grenades "What devils have they conjured?"
A Texcoco representative, sweat beading on his brow, muttered, "This is no rally, it's a warning."
Cuauhtemoc ascended the platform, the flag snapping above him like a living entity. The square fell silent, the drums rolling to a stop. His voice boomed, passionate and unyielding.
"Brothers of the valley, hear me! The traitors who sided with the Caxtilteca crawl back, but we stand whole! Our tributes flow with mantles from Azcapotzalco clothing our warriors, gourd bowls from Coyoacan filling our markets, salt from Tenayuca seasoning our feasts. Their hostages learn our ways, their manpower rebuilds our glory. But Ixtlilxochitl's raid shows the shadows linger. We demand submission, or face the eagle's talons! Join us in freedom, or perish as terrorists. For Cemenahuac, for humanity—we rise as one!"
The crowd roared, the envoys frozen in the storm of unity and force.
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Cuauhtemoc's voice cut through the crowd's roars and cheers, steady and commanding.
"The fire of our words burns bright, but the serpent's wisdom must speak. Hear now the Cihuacoatl—Ehecatl, guardian of our empire."
The crowd murmured approval, a low rumble like distant rain, as Ehecatl stepped forward. His heart pounded in his chest, a steady thrum against his ribs, but his face remained calm, his plain tilmatli rustling softly as he moved to the platform's edge. He drew a deep breath, his shoulders rolling back, chin lifting slightly as he scanned the sea of faces then the envoys' wide eyes, the Mexica's expectant gazes. A faint smile tugged at his lips, his fingers flexing at his sides before he raised one hand in a gesture of inclusion, the other resting casually on his waist, exuding quiet confidence.
"Mexica men, women and children," he began, his voice resonant and clear, carrying across the precinct without strain, his eyes sweeping the crowd with a charismatic intensity that drew them in.
"Today it's come to our attention to inform you all of events outside the city. It is about the Tlatoani of our once ally, Texcoco. His name is Ixtilxochitl II, and he was another traitor who had allied with the Caxtilteca to bring ruin to us, and for what? The true reason for his actions is a heinous act, back when Huey Tlatoani Motecuhzoma was alive, and before the war he had supported Ixtilxochitl's younger brother, Cacamatzin as Tlatoani. Huey Tlatoani Motecuhzoma had viewed Cacamatzin as the more capable man and because of this, Ixtilxochitl has bore a great hate and grudge. He hates us Mexica! What have we done to him for the destruction, pillage, rape, massacre and enslavement he's helped orchestrate against us? Nothing at all. Have we threatened him since we regained our city? Not in a single instance, despite us being in our right to persecute him as we've done with Hernan Cortes. Were we not ready to conclude an agreement with Texcoco? Yes, we were, and even did so. Did we not restrict ourselves in our efforts to only rebuild and not instantly go to war and bring others down with us? Alas, all this was of no interest to Ixtilxochitl, as the man is paranoid and fearful of facing the consequences of his actions. What he hates is the Mexica that sets a dangerous example to his rule, it is a Mexica reborn. A Mexica which he already hated before the war and which he still hates today. He hates this Mexica which in the course of regaining our city has labored to afford our people a recovery and standard of living that all didn't think we'd ever get back, he hates this Mexica which has eliminated their immediate threats, and is on the rise to achieving greater success than any other era before us, even with the wealth and status of Texcoco to which he still can't do. He hates us because he fears we'll "infect" his own people if they prefer to live under our rule once more and not his. He hates that he had to ally with the Caxtilteca who were at that point the strongest in the land, before we beat them, took what made them special and started making weapons of our own! To him, our only crime is that we are Mexica and wish to remain Mexica, and not allow him to be the sole ruler of this valley of ours! We tried sincerely and modestly to reach an understanding with Texcoco, but these efforts were met with Ixtilxochitl threatening and coercing neighboring altepetls under his control in an attempt to gather people to fight us on his own. His plan is to cause terror amongst our people, and has already terrorized those who wish to come back to our empire. What terrible crimes could women and children commit to be tortured and enslaved by this mad man? Our great empire cannot stand by while its people are harassed, attacked or killed. So I hereby give one last warning to the Texcoco envoy's and by extension, Ixtilxochitl. Lay down your aggressions towards our people or face the consequences of your actions."
Ehecatl paused, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, his fingers uncurling from the tight fists he'd made during the passionate denouncement, the veins in his neck subsiding as the anger ebbed from his eyes. He rolled his shoulders slightly, the plain fabric of his tilmatli shifting with the motion, a subtle release of the fire that had built in his voice, his stance relaxing as he scanned the crowd once more, the charisma returning like a calm after the storm.
The square exploded in roars, the Mexica surging with renewed fury. The envoys from Texcoco paled, their faces draining of color as the weight of the accusation settled, knowing their fate was sealed.
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The square's roar faded like receding thunder after Ehecatl's speech, the crowd's energy lingering in the air like smoke from a sacrifice. The envoys from the remaining independent altepetls such as Texcoco, Huexotla, Coatlichan, Chalco, Tepexpan, and Mixquic, and all others stood frozen under guard at the front, their faces a mosaic of shock, fear, and calculation. The words had landed like obsidian arrows, condemning Ixtilxochitl II as a paranoid traitor and issuing a final warning to lay down arms. As the Mexica dispersed, the envoys were left to process the ultimatum, their thoughts churning in the shadow of the flag.
The Texcoco envoy, a loyal aide to Ixtilxochitl II with a feathered cloak now wilted from sweat, felt his stomach drop like a stone into the lake. His hands trembled slightly at his sides, his face paling as the Cihuacoatl's voice echoed in his mind: 'He hates us Mexica… our only crime is that we are Mexica.' The accusation of the grudge over Cacamatzin's favoritism stung—'that's not even the whole truth! Motecuhzuma chose Cacamatzin over Ixtilxochitl because he was Motecuhzuma's nephew!! The boy twists words!! our Tlatoani seeks justice, not ruin!' and the warning to lay down arms left him breathless, his heart pounding with dread. 'They know our plans… this 'reborn Mexica' is no bluff. If we don't submit, they'll crush us like the Caxtilteca.' He glanced at the new grenades stacked nearby, his thoughts racing 'We must warn Ixtilxochitl—peace, or perish.'
The Huexotla envoy, a grizzled warrior with scars from old flower wars, clenched his jaw, his fists balling at his sides as the speech's condemnation washed over him. 'Paranoid? Fearful? That's our ally they slander—Texcoco's grudge is ours too, after years of Mexica tribute demands!'
The call for no rebellion left him seething, his breath coming in short bursts, 'Hypocrisy!' His thoughts turned dark 'Submit now, or rally the others—let Ixtilxochitl lead the fight.'
The Coatlichan envoy, a noblewoman with a jade necklace glinting in the sun, felt her knees weaken, her hands pressing to her chest as if to steady her racing heart. 'He exposes the grudge like a wound—our Tlatoani's hate is known, but to call it heinous? We sought independence, not destruction!'
The warning to lay down arms chilled her, her breath catching 'No more coercion, he says… but this is extortion!' Her thoughts swirled 'Return with the message—peace, or the Mexica's 'consequences' will swallow us whole.'
The Chalco envoy, a priest with bone ornaments rattling in the breeze, bowed his head, his face ashen as the speech's fury hit home. 'Traitor? Heinous? Our alliance with Texcoco was survival, not hate!' The accusation of terrorizing those wishing to return stung, his stomach twisting: 'We followed Ixtilxochitl's lead—now he's painted as paranoid?'
The ultimatum left him trembling, his hands clasped in prayer 'Lay down arms… or face ruin. The Mexica reborn, unbreakable—even with our wealth, they rise.'
His thoughts darkened 'The gods favor the strong—perhaps submission is the path, not defiance.'
The Tepexpan envoy, a young scout felt his pulse quicken, his fingers twitching as the words landed. 'He twists the grudge into crime—we raided for freedom, not massacre!'
The passionate condemnation of Ixtilxochitl's paranoia left him angry, his breath hot 'Fearful? Our Tlatoani fights for the valley's true rule!' The warning chilled him 'No more threats… but this is war's call. His thoughts raced 'Rally or kneel—Texcoco won't submit alone.'
The Mixquic envoy, an elder with water-lily glyphs on his arms, stood stoic, but his eyes widened, his wrinkled hands clasping his staff tighter. 'He exposes the hate like a serpent's strike—our support for Texcoco was alliance, not betrayal!'
The speech's modesty in peace efforts confused him: 'They offered agreement… but now condemn?'
The ultimatum left him resigned, his shoulders sagging 'Lay down aggressions… or consequences. The Mexica's mercy is a blade in disguise. Truly such hypocrites these Mexica.'
His thoughts turned to survival 'Submit, and live—defy, and drown in their 'freedom for Cemenahuac.'
The envoys dispersed under guard, the weight of the speech pressing on them like the midday sun, their fates hanging on Ixtilxochitl's response.
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Word of the rally spread like wildfire across the lake's shores and valleys, carried by runners, canoes, and the wind itself. Within days, the envoys from the remaining independent altepetls of Tizapan, Chapultepec, Ixhuatepec, Ecatepec, Iztapalapa, Mexicalzingo, Aztahuacan, Ixtapaluca, Chimalhuacan-Atenco, Coatlichan, Huexotla, Chalco, Alcoman, Teotihuacan, Chiconautla, Xaltocan, Cuauhtitlan, Zumpango, Cuitlahuac, Mixquic, Xico, and Otumba arrived in Tenochtitlan, their delegations smaller and more subdued than before.
The rally's spectacle of the united Mexica, the show of force with horses prancing under feather-braided manes, swords glinting in the sun, iron arrows stacked in quivers, and the mysterious clay pots that whispered of thunder had done its work. The envoys knew this was no bluff. The Mexica were reborn, their flag waving from every corner like a conqueror's claim.
They gathered in the Templo Mayor precinct once more, the square now cleared of the rally's crowds but still echoing with the memory of cheers. Cuauhtemoc sat on his icpalli throne, flanked by nobles and Ehecatl at his side, the Cihuacoatl silent as a shadow. The envoys knelt, foreheads touching the stone, their voices a chorus of submission.
The Tizapan envoy spoke first, his voice trembling "Great Huey Tlatoani, we submit. Tribute as before with maize from our fields, mantas from our looms. And… our women, to aid in repopulation. Ten from our altepetl, fertile and willing. Noble children too, five sons and daughters as hostages, to bind our loyalty."
One by one, they pledged, the list a litany of surrender:
• Chapultepec: Water rights renewed, tribute in fish and reeds, five women, three noble hostages.
• Ixhuatepec: Stone from quarries, mantas and jade, eight women, four hostages.
• Ecatepec: Maize bins and feathers, six women, five hostages.
• Iztapalapa: Gourd vessels and textiles, ten women, six hostages.
• Mexicalzingo: Salt and amaranth, seven women, four hostages.
• Aztahuacan: Copper tools from mines, five women, three hostages.
• Ixtapaluca: Obsidian blades and cloth, eight women, five hostages.
• Chimalhuacan-Atenco: Warrior shields and cacao, nine women, six hostages.
• Coatlichan: Red-bordered mantas and beans, seven women, four hostages.
• Huexotla: Coyote costumes and chia, six women, five hostages.
• Chalco: Maize surplus and tunics, twelve women, seven hostages.
• Alcoman: Minor tribute in herbs and pottery, four women, two hostages.
• Teotihuacan: Stoneworkers and glyphs, ten women, six hostages.
• Chiconautla: Feathers and amaranth, five women, three hostages.
• Xaltocan: Reeds and fish, seven women, four hostages.
• Cuauhtitlan: Loincloths and maize, nine women, five hostages.
• Zumpango: Twimg and media, six women, four hostages.
• Cuitlahuac: Salt and lake grains, eight women, five hostages.
• Mixquic: Flower cultivators and ritual goods, seven women, four hostages.
• Xico: Minor lakeside specialists, five women, three hostages.
• Otumba: Runners and low-tier warriors, six women, four hostages.
Cuauhtemoc's expression remained unyielding. "Your tributes resume, goods to our warehouses, manpower to our labors. The women will aid in repopulating our city, placed in homes to bear Mexica children. The noble hostages of your sons and daughters will be educated here, under our flag, to forget their old ways and embrace ours. Betray us again, and they pay the price."
The envoys paled, but bowed lower, their submission complete. The valley was Mexica once more with tribute flowing, resources surging, the empire whole. But as the envoys departed, Ehecatl watched silently, his mind whirring 'The valley's ours… but the shadows beyond hunger. Time to turn the blade outward.'
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Word of the Mexica's demands spread swiftly from the Templo Mayor rally, carried by runners and canoes across the lake's shimmering expanse, reaching Texcoco's halls within days. The city-state, nestled on the eastern shore, was a shadow of its former glory. Its scribes' codices scorched from the war, its temples patched but haunted by the ghosts of alliances gone sour. Ixtlilxochitl II, the self-proclaimed Tlatoani, sat in his council chamber, his turquoise diadem casting long shadows on the walls as envoys from the Mexica delivered the ultimatum. Submission, tribute, hostages, or consequences. The room fell silent, the nobles' faces a mix of defiance and fear.
The Texcoco council convened in secret that night, the air thick with incense and whispered plots. A veteran warrior from the eagle order spoke first, his voice gravelly with rage. "Surrender our Tlatoani? To those Mexica dogs? Ixtlilxochitl led us to victory over Tenochtitlan! his grudge against Motecuhzoma was just! To hand him over now would shatter our legitimacy. The people would rise against us, seeing weakness."
A scribe-noble, his hands stained with ink from drafting desperate letters, nodded. "And war? Suicide. The Mexica crushed Cortés, reclaimed the valley, and now wave flags of eagles and serpents while forging thunder from clay. Their horses thunder under their banners, their iron arrows fly true. We can't win militarily, not alone."
The elder from the lake clans leaned forward, his voice measured. "Then stall. We are proud, too proud to kneel without leverage. Claim victimhood 'We too suffered under the Caxtilteca, forced into alliance.' Say Ixtlilxochitl is ill, stepped down, a council of elders leads now. Offer tribute and hostages, but not him. Buy time and see if Tlaxcala stirs or the hill towns rally. The Mexica's 'war crimes' and 'terrorists' words are new; perhaps they bluff mercy to avoid blood."
Ixtlilxochitl listened, his face a mask of paranoia, his fingers drumming on his jade armrest. "They hate us for existing," he muttered. "Ehecatl's speech condemns me as paranoid! me! When it's they who rig the valley with their conniving trades."
The council agreed on to stall, negotiate, delay.
The response was sent through diplomatic envoys bearing gifts of feathers and codices, pleading illness and offering alternatives. But Ehecatl, in the Mexica council, didn't bite.
"Words," he said flatly. "They stall. Send the warning again. Submit, or we come."
When the ultimatum returned, unyielding, Ixtlilxochitl refused to step down. "I am Tlatoani!" he roared to his nobles. "I will not kneel to that commoner serpent." Under cover of night, he fled north, his small retinue vanishing into the hills of Otumba, raising a banner of defiance. The council in Texcoco splintered, some submitting, others rallying to his call.
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Word of the rally's ultimatum raced across the lake like a storm wind, reaching Texcoco's fractured halls within days. Ixtlilxochitl II, the self-proclaimed Tlatoani, heard the condemnation of being branded a paranoid traitor, his grudge exposed like a festering wound, and refused to yield.
"I am the rightful ruler!" he roared to his splintering council, his turquoise diadem trembling with rage. But as Mexica canoes massed on the horizon and whispers of "consequences" spread, he fled north under cover of night, his small retinue vanishing into Otumba's hills, raising a tattered banner of defiance. The city he left behind splintered with some nobles submitting in fear, others rallying to his call, but most simply waited, the weight of the Mexica's reborn strength pressing down like the sun at midday.
Back in Tenochtitlan, Ehecatl barely spared a thought for the fugitive. As Cihuacoatl, his mind was a whirlwind of calculations and recovery rates, tribute flows, the pregnancies of Malinalli and Catalina swelling like promises of a new dynasty.
'Ixtlilxochitl? A flea on a jaguar's back' he mused, dismissing the man with a mental shrug. Instead, he put word out to the warlords through discreet envoys, a bounty on Ixtlilxochitl's head, payable in gold dust or jade, and double for any who aided him. "Let the warlords hunt the piece of shit down themselves." he told the messengers. The offer spread like smoke, drawing the greedy and the vengeful of Cuetlachtli's zealots, Tochtli's sadists, even Don Sebastián's rogues turning the fugitive's flight into a deadly game.
With the traitor on the run, Ehecatl's focus shifted to Texcoco itself, as the city that had harbored the betrayal, its wealth and scribes a prize too valuable to waste in flames. Rather than lay it to waste and inherit another ruin to fix, he enacted harsher punishments than any other in the valley, designed to bleed it dry without a single arrow loosed. Every able-bodied Texcoco resident—man, woman, elder was put to work in restoring Tenochtitlan, marched in chains across the lake to haul stone, dredge canals, and mix mortar under Mexica overseers. Any Mexica male was free to choose as many Texcoco women as he pleased, regardless of class arranged as "tribute marriages" to repopulate the capital, their unions sealed with economic incentives like land grants or tax relief for the husbands, turning conquest into demographic dominance. (In reality any Mexica man dragged whoever they found attractive regardless if the women were married or young.)
And every noble child from Texcoco was sent to Tenochtitlan as they were ripped from their homes, the young heirs paraded as living symbols of submission, indoctrinated in the calmecac and telpochcalli alongside Mexica youth. Indeed, unlike the other altepetl where agreements were doable and ensured both sides could thrive with balanced tributes, limited hostages, shared rituals, but Texcoco's situation wasn't. It was set to decline, its people drained, its nobility hollowed, its wealth funneled west like water from a broken dam.