The storm outside had passed, but a heavier one lingered in the shelter—the weight of a new plan.
Ehecatl stood before the group, arms crossed, jaw clenched, watching them one by one. The faces before him were hardened now—scarred, bruised, tired, but no longer afraid of shadows. They were the shadows now.
He gestured to the map carved in soot and clay on the floor: a crude layout of the Caxtilteca's foothold in the city. A red streak marked the border they rarely dared cross.
"We've done what no one thought possible," Ehecatl began. "We turned their allies into frightened children. We made even the Castilian believe their souls were sold to their devil. That alone buys us something more precious than quetzal feathers: doubt."
He paused.
"But now? Now we go deeper. I'm going to linger inside that quarter. Not to fight. Not to ambush. But to speak."
That caught them off-guard.
Teyalli tilted her head. Others exchanged confused glances.
Cihuatzin scoffed aloud.
"Speak?" she said. "To who, Ehecatl? The gods?"
"No," he said plainly. "To the captives."
"And you think… they'll listen?"
He didn't respond. Not at first.
Cihuatzin stepped forward, voice rising with her usual sharpness.
"No disrespect, but your past speeches barely worked on the thirteen of us when you first found us. You think now you're going to move hundreds? Thousands? These people are broken, starved, crushed."
Ehecatl's voice came low and sharp.
"Exactly."
He stepped forward.
"I'm not here to give hope, Cihuatzin. That's what the priests and rulers gave. And where did that get us?"
"No—" he growled. "I'm not preaching dreams. I'm speaking to something real—hatred, pain, vengeance."
He jabbed a finger against his own chest.
"They raped our women. Made slaves of our children. Beat our men. Burned our gods. You think the Mexica forgot that? No. They buried it—deep. And I'm going to dig it up. Set it loose."
"I'm not telling them to pray."
"I'm telling them to kill."
Silence filled the shelter.
Even Cihuatzin backed up slightly—not out of fear, but because she saw now… this wasn't the same boy who once asked her to help tend to wounds.
He was becoming colder. Sharper. Focused.
"If just one of them snaps, it spreads like fire," Ehecatl continued. "One turns into three. Then a dozen. Then fifty. And before they know it, their slaves are stabbing them in their sleep."
Teyalli stepped forward, her expression unreadable.
"You want to start a riot."
"No," he said. "I want to start a war. One they can't contain."
Ehecatl ties his tilmatli tight, leans down to Teyalli, and murmurs:
"While I speak, you watch. You'll know when it's time to move. The rest of them? Just be ready."
Because soon, the enemy wouldn't be afraid of the dark anymore.
They'd be afraid of what the darkness awakened.
Two days later…
The man who stepped into the quarter didn't look like a ghost or a devil this time.
He looked like them.
Face smudged with soot, loincloth worn at the hip, tilmatli dirty and fraying. His back bore fake welts, his hair was matted with ash. Even his eyes carried the dullness of one who had seen too much.
He blended in easily, walking with the tired limp of one beaten by days and nights of labor. He stumbled near a cracked temple base where a group of Mexica prisoners were finishing repairs under the barked orders of a Tlaxcalan overseer.
But that overseer had already wandered off to relieve himself.
That's when Ehecatl stood straight.
And spoke.
"You all feel it, don't you?"
No one answered. Some froze mid-hammer. Others kept working but slower now.
"The weight in your chests. The anger. The shame. The silence you're forced to swallow every day."
No one moved, but a woman looked up. Another man paused in mid-swing.
"You think we don't remember what happened? The war? The betrayals? The way the allies laughed as they burned your homes and dragged your daughters away? How you watched them gut warriors and priests alike—and couldn't do a thing?"
He wasn't raising his voice. If anything, his whisper struck harder.
"And yet here you are. Shackled. Beaten. Called dogs, called Indios, called animals. And worse…"
He took a slow breath.
"…you tell yourselves to accept it."
A young man glared at him, trying to mask his trembling.
"We're still alive," the man muttered bitterly.
"Alive?" Ehecatl barked. "Is this living? Working in silence while our gods are mocked? While they parade your wives like livestock? While they use your children like beasts of burden?"
No one could meet his eyes now.
"You bury your pain deep," Ehecatl hissed. "But I see it. I feel it. And so do they."
He pointed up toward the smoky dusk where the shattered top of the temple stood silhouetted in the failing light.
"Why do you think their allies are frightened now? Why do you think the Caxtilteca are so afraid they barely leave their camps?"
A murmur rippled.
"It's because the gods are punishing them."
He paused—let the weight of the claim settle.
"You've heard the rumors," he said. "The dogs torn apart. The warriors vanished. The shadows whispering death. Tezcatlipoca walks. Huitzilopochtli screams in the night. Even their own devil has come for them. You think that's coincidence?"
Eyes widened now. Some covered their mouths. Others crossed themselves.
"No…" Ehecatl said. "That is our land rejecting them. The blood of Tenochtitlan is rising from the ground itself. Even the evil spirit of their own faith is turning on them because they came here. Because they desecrated Mexica land."
He raised a fist.
"And you—we—are Mexica."
He let it echo.
"Huitzilopochtli has not abandoned his chosen. Victory has always demanded sacrifice. You all know this. You lived by it."
Now he stepped forward, drawing closer to the cluster of laborers. He didn't yell. He just spoke—like one of them.
"We fell, yes. But only so we could rise again. The eagle doesn't fly forever. Sometimes it dives low… only to strike."
He looked each of them in the eye, one by one.
"I come from among the macehualtin. I've seen the hunger. I've seen the rape. I've seen the bones used as stakes. I have lived what you live. And like the gods before me, I am sick of it."
Several hands clenched.
One man blinked back tears.
"That is why," Ehecatl said, "I will go to the zone they fear. The one they call haunted."
Another ripple of unease.
"And nothing will happen to me. Why?"
He smiled—cold and defiant.
"Because that land belongs to us. Not to the Caxtilteca. Not to their dogs. It is Mexica land, and the land itself is rising to reject them."
Someone fell to their knees.
Another dropped their tool and ran off—whether from fear or purpose, it didn't matter.
The seed had been planted.
"So now I ask you not to pray," he said. "I ask you to remember. Remember what you were. Remember what they took. And when the time comes…"
He turned and walked away, unchallenged.
"Take it back."
Three key locations over the next five days
• The slave quarters of the Mexica
• The native ally encampments
• Spanish barracks within Tenochtitlan
I. The Broken Begin to Stir
Location: Mexica slave quarter, dusk to dawn
It started with silence. No one talked about the speech, not right away. But things changed.
An elder woman, whose granddaughter had been taken months prior, began whispering to younger captives about the zone where the gods speak. She said the gods were restless because the Mexica were too quiet. That the gods waited for their own children to wake up.
Then a boy—nine or ten—asked his father why they were forbidden to go near the haunted zone if they were Mexica. The father said nothing. But that same night, he spat on the Tlaxcalan food rations and told his son not to eat unless it was maize taken by their own.
The next morning, three laborers refused to sing the work songs imposed by their captors. By midday, two women refused to dance when demanded to by bored Totonac warriors. They were whipped—but said nothing. Just stared back with blood in their mouths and fire in their eyes.
II. The Allies Smell Smoke
Location: Tlaxcalan-Totonac encampments, outskirts of ruined districts
The native allies were the first to feel the change.
They noticed how the Mexica slaves no longer looked down. How their prayers were whispered in old ways they hadn't heard since before the war. How some even laughed—laughed—when punished.
A Totonac scout, drunken and angry, struck a Mexica girl and dragged her toward the trees. He was found dead by morning. No signs of a fight. No animal bites. Just… no eyes.
The allies whispered of curses. Of ghost eagles in the sky. Of something rising in the ruins. One even claimed he saw Huitzilopochtli himself on a bloodied rooftop—chanting, waiting.
Others scoffed, but patrol sizes increased.
III. The Spanish Begin to Sweat
Location: Spanish command barracks, inside former Mexica noble estate
Captain Diego relayed the report with tension in his voice.
"Sir… more signs on the walls. Carvings, sometimes blood. No one's ever seen who does it."
"And our allies?" Cortés asked.
"Nervous. They patrol only in pairs now, and avoid the temple ruins entirely."
Cortés slammed his fist on the table. "I told you this haunted talk is bullshit. Just superstitions."
"But it's catching on, captain," said another soldier. "Even our Mexica translators are spooked. One swore he heard the ground chanting at night."
Another officer entered moments later, pale and clutching a piece of charcoal-scratched parchment.
On it was a crude but unnerving image: a Caxtilteca soldier with a shadow—horned, smiling.
Spanish Words underneath:
"You gave your soul for glory. Now he comes to collect."
The room went cold.
Marina, standing off to the side, swallowed and said in a hushed tone:
"You mocked their gods. But something's mocking you now."
Final Note: Cortés's Reaction
He orders tighter discipline. No more patrols go alone. All native allies are to be "reminded" who is in charge. Captive Mexica are isolated, interrogated. Drums are banned. Temples watched.
But the fear? Already there.
And the words Ehecatl planted? Already spreading like fungus on wet stone.
Nightfall. The ruins of the once-sacred district of Tenochtitlan—the "haunted zone".
The First to Move
It wasn't a planned revolt. No banners, no chants. Just movement—quiet, uncertain, but determined.
A woman in her mid-thirties—her body still bearing scars from Totonac whips—was the first to cross the line. She slipped out while the guards were busy having their way with a girl.
Then a limping elder, one eye half-blind, whispered to the others:
"He said the gods will not punish us if we walk our own land. Let's see if they punish us—or them."
A group of four followed.
Then seven.
Then nine.
Most barefoot. Many starving. One woman carried her infant under a frayed rebozo, whispering Huitzilopochtli's name over and over.
By dawn, thirty-four Mexica—men, women, two children—had fled to the ruins. Some stayed just inside the haunted zone's edges. Others went deeper, toward the old temples.
They waited. Waited to die.
But death did not come.
And Then… Nothing
The haunted zone was still. A few crows cawed. Ash blew gently across broken staircases. Someone swore they saw a shadow dart across a rooftop. Someone else said the ruins were watching them.
But no dogs came.
No soldiers.
No screams.
No punishment.
One man cried—not out of fear, but relief. Another fell to his knees in prayer.
They slept on dirt and stone, but no one dragged them back.
By the second night, they began to gather materials for shelter. Someone made a crude fire. A woman began repainting a jaguar glyph on the wall with ashes and crushed brick.
Word Spreads
When the Tlaxcalan guards checked their counts that morning and saw three dozen Mexica gone, they panicked.
"Raid? Escape? Sabotage?"
"No… they went into the haunted zone."
"Then they're dead!"
"…No screams. No signs of fighting. They just vanished."
A Totonac scout refused to go check.
"If they are alive in there, they are protected by their gods. Or by something worse."
Cortés was informed. He ordered a full headcount and interrogation of any remaining Mexica slaves. All denied knowing anything.
One of them said bluntly: "They went home."
Thirty-four Mexica—escaped, barefoot, half-starved—now stood in the sacred shadows of the haunted zone, unsure what to expect.
Some huddled near broken altars. Others gathered ash and dry leaves to make warmth. A few sharpened sticks as crude weapons—not to fight the Caxtilteca, but for rats or snakes.
Then, before dawn's light could reach the temples, he appeared.
A figure stepped out from the darkness of a collapsed wall, barefoot, face shadowed, a tattered tilmatli tied around his chest like the peasants used to wear. He moved slowly. No weapon in hand. But his presence silenced them.
They stared.
"I'm the one who made that speech," Ehecatl said plainly. "The one about our gods. About the Caxtilteca. That was me."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"I am also the reason your enemies fear this part of the city."
Some flinched. Others exchanged glances. One woman whispered:
"The Devil that the Caxtilteca fear… it was you?"
Ehecatl nodded. "Sometimes. Other times I was Tezcatlipoca. Once or twice, Huitzilopochtli. Just enough to keep them confused."
He looked around.
"I don't expect worship. I expect logic. If they think the gods haunt this zone… then let them keep believing it."
A few of the thirty-four stepped forward. Mostly men. One older woman. One boy of ten.
Ehecatl continued.
"I have thirteen people under me. I've kept them alive since the city fell. I provide. I protect. But I don't do it for free. I have rules. Strict ones."
He paused.
"If you want to stay on your own in the haunted zone, I won't stop you. If you want to join me, you follow my rules. No stealing. No betraying. Everyone trains. Everyone pulls their weight. You get food, protection, and purpose. That's the deal."
Someone from the crowd asked quietly:
"Why help us?"
Ehecatl didn't flinch.
"Because if we don't help each other, we die."
Another voice—a younger man, gaunt from hunger—asked:
"And if we join… what happens next?"
A smile tugged at the edge of Ehecatl's mouth. Not out of joy, but calculation.
"We stop surviving… and start planning on how to take out everyone who's wronged us."
The haunted zone wasn't haunted anymore.
At least, not to them.
The old ruins where no one dared to go now had life again — faint, flickering, and cautious. Smoke rose from small fires built inside broken homes. Makeshift shelters of stone and salvaged planks ringed the old canals. There were voices again — quiet ones. The sounds of tools scraping, of water being poured, of people breathing without fear for once.
Ehecatl had split them into groups.
The first thing he made clear:
"We're not playing tribe. We're rebuilding."
I. The Work
The men went first — scavenging the surrounding ruins for pots, stones, beams, anything that could still be used. Ehecatl showed them how to build the water filters again, simple clay layers with sand and charcoal stacked in pots. It wasn't pretty, but it worked. The water didn't taste like blood anymore.
He had them clear the canal, too. The water had turned thick with corpses months ago, and even now, bones clung to the mud. It was disgusting work — but Ehecatl didn't care.
"You want to farm again? Then you clean it. You don't wait for gods or miracles."
The smell made some gag. He didn't blame them. He gagged too.
But they didn't stop.
By the third day, they had one small section of canal clear enough to see a reflection. Ehecatl ran his hand through it and watched the water drip clear between his fingers.
It wasn't purity. But it was progress.
II. The Rules
When they rested, Ehecatl made his rules official.
1. Everyone eats only what they earn.
2. No stealing. No hiding supplies.
3. The sick are cared for, the lazy are not.
4. No one harms another without reason.
5. Every man trains. Every woman learns to survive.
There was no argument. Not this time. The thirty‑four had seen enough of what chaos led to.
Still, some muttered that women shouldn't be trained. Ehecatl didn't argue — he demonstrated.
He grabbed one of the doubters, a big‑shouldered man, and pressed a stick against his throat before the man even blinked.
"You think the enemy will care if she's a woman?"
"No…"
"Then shut up and let her learn."
He didn't want soldiers. He wanted survivors that could kill if cornered.
III. The Division of Labor
He kept the women and children near the center of the ruins. They handled cooking, cleaning, watching the young, and making the filters. The older women helped crush herbs, patch wounds, and treat infections.
Cihuatzin oversaw them with her usual sharp tongue, but even she couldn't argue when Ehecatl started showing her that her pipiltin hands could also tie splints and sharpen stones.
"You said I looked down on the people," she told him one night.
"You did."
"And now I'm one of them."
"Now you're useful."
She didn't answer. But she didn't stop working either.
The men learned to move quietly. Ehecatl split them into smaller groups to scavenge different sectors. They'd go out before dawn, come back by dusk. Each carried crude weapons — spears, clubs, sharpened shards. Ehecatl led two groups personally, partly to teach, partly to remind them he wasn't just barking orders from behind.
IV. The First Green
By the end of the first moon, something unbelievable happened: a sprout.
Small, thin, but alive.
The water they cleared had reached one of the old chinampas — the floating gardens that had fed Tenochtitlan. Ehecatl's cheat had given him diagrams, half‑remembered schematics from documentaries and agricultural books. He showed them how to stack mud and reeds, layer it right, guide the flow of water.
When the first green shoot broke the surface, everyone stared.
It wasn't triumph. It was disbelief.
A child touched it, and one of the older men muttered,
"Maybe the gods really haven't left."
Ehecatl didn't answer.
He knew better.
It wasn't gods. It was sweat, dirt, and desperation.
But if they needed to believe otherwise to keep working — he'd let them.
V. Reflection
That night, Ehecatl sat at the edge of the canal, staring at the faint moonlight reflecting off the water.
Thirteen had become forty‑seven.
From scavengers to something close to a people again.
He knew it wasn't enough. Not yet.
But he could feel the rhythm forming — structure, order, purpose.
And in that rhythm, he finally understood what the old world had always hidden from him: people don't follow speeches. They follow results.
He dipped his hand into the cold water, then looked at his reflection — still young, still scarred, still haunted.
"Now we start building for real."