It was almost night when I found her.
I had been drifting again, like a ghost through the shattered bones of Tenochtitlan. My feet carried me without direction, my stomach too empty to feel, my body too numb to shake. The sun bled gold through the haze, and everything looked like it was dipped in ash.
I turned a corner and froze.
In the open space before me — a courtyard between crumbling houses — a woman knelt in the dust.
She was beautiful, but not in a way I'd ever learned to appreciate before. She wasn't dressed like a commoner. Her huipilli was torn and dirty, but it had once been fine — the kind worn only by noblewomen or the daughters of priests. Her hair was long, braided with broken beads. Her face… her face was proud even as it trembled. Dirt streaked her cheeks. Her lips were cracked. Her eyes glassy from thirst.
She was speaking to two men.
Both Mexica. Former warriors — you could tell by the hairstyle with a red band on top, it's called temillotl, the way they stood like they used to carry status, and still believed they deserved it. One had a broken obsidian-tipped spear. The other a club, slick with blood that wasn't his.
The woman held out her hands. Trembling. Empty palms up.
"Please," she whispered. "I'll do anything. Just some food. A little water."
One of the men laughed.
"Anything?"
She nodded.
He looked her over like she was meat at the tianquitztli.
"Then show me."
I stepped forward before I could think.
"Enough!" I shouted.
They turned. She did too.
I don't know what I looked like — filthy, cut, starved, no weapon. But I walked forward anyway, chest tight, heart pounding.
"She's Mexica. She's one of us."
No response.
"She's nobility. Someone's daughter. A priest's sister, maybe. If we find her family, they might still have something. Jade, cacao, textiles—"
The one with the club snorted.
"Cacao?" he said, spitting on the ground. "What the fuck am I going to do with cacao, boy? Eat it?"
"You don't understand," I said. "We need to stick together. If we tear each other apart now, we've already lost. We're not like the dogs from Tlaxcala. We're Mexica. We don't rape our own."
They looked at each other. Then back at me.
Then they laughed.
Not a chuckle. Not even cruel. Just… hopeless.
The one with the spear stepped forward and backhanded me so hard I saw stars.
I hit the dirt hard, face in the dust. I didn't get up fast enough.
A kick slammed into my ribs. Then another. I curled up instinctively. My side screamed with pain. One of them grabbed my hair and yanked me up just enough to punch me across the mouth.
Blood filled my throat.
"You think she's your sister?" the man hissed in my ear. "You think she'd do the same for you? You think she'd share her food if she had any?"
He dropped me.
The other man grabbed the woman by the hair. She cried out but didn't fight. I watched, still coughing, as they dragged her toward the stone platform in the courtyard.
"Since you care so much, boy," one of them called back, "you get to watch."
I tried to stand. I couldn't.
The pain in my side was white-hot. My arms shook. My legs wouldn't move.
I should've shut up.
Should've walked away.
But I didn't. I believed in something.
That had to count for something.
Didn't it?
⸻
They didn't rape her. Not yet.
Instead, they interrogated her.
They accused her of lying. Of hiding food. Of being connected to some still-living family of priests or merchants. Of being part of the cults who'd hoarded supplies.
They slapped her. Yelled. Asked about gold, about jade, about old caches hidden in temples. Asked who her father was. If she still knew where her family buried their tribute.
"Where's your brother, noble girl?"
"Where's your husband?"
"You smell like someone who's had a soft life."
They tied her hands behind her back.
She screamed. They gagged her.
"You made the boy bleed for you. Now you'll pay double."
And they beat her.
Harder than they beat me.
Because I had made her into a symbol. And symbols are easy to break.
⸻
When they were done, they left her tied up beside me, like trash. I crawled to her.
She wouldn't look at me.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I thought—"
"Don't," she said. Her voice was hoarse. Dry. Hollow.
She didn't speak again. Not even when they came back for her.
I tried to reach for her. They kicked me in the stomach and dragged her off.
I heard her scream once, from somewhere behind the broken courtyard. Then it went quiet.
⸻
I stayed there for a long time.
Long after they were gone.
Long after the shadows turned long and the sun started to fall.
I stared at the blood she'd left behind.
Stared at the spot where I had stood, chest puffed, full of stupid hope.
I remembered saying, "She's our sister."
And I laughed. Just once.
Because she wasn't. Not anymore.
Here, people weren't sisters. Or brothers. Or fellow Mexica.
Here, people were meat.