Later that night Cortes had Cuauhtemoc give a speech to the remaining Mexica under Spanish control.
Cuauhtémoc's Speech (in Nahuatl)
"Cuix tlahtoa inin noxochitl, no cuicatl."
(Let me speak my flower, my song.)
"In atl quimotlalilia, in ehecatl quixochipoloa."
(The waters have been stirred, the winds have scattered the flowers.)
"Tlen motenehua in altepetl, quimocuepa in itlanesi."
(What was once called a city, now changes its face.)
"Amo titlacatl cecec. Titlacatl ocelotl, titlacatl cuauhtli."
(We are not cold men. We are men of jaguar, men of eagle.)
"Ca miak in ayauhcalli, ca miak in teotl iitztli."
(Many are the mist-houses, many the gods with stone-eyes.)
"Axcan tlaneci. Axcan onquetza in tonatiuh."
(Now it dawns. Now rises the sun.)
"In cuetlachtli itechpa, in yohualli tlayohua."
(On the back of the boar, through the night that devours itself.)
"Amotlanezqueh. Amochikauas. Amomiquis."
(Do not surrender. Do not break. Do not die.)
"In xochitl cueponi, in cuicatl chochopoloa, zazen."
(The flower shall bloom again. The song will scatter. That is all.")
Marina's Translation (to Cortés and the Spanish)
"He says the people must accept the new times. That war has passed, and now it is time for them to submit. He is telling them not to resist, not to fight. That their gods are gone, and the sun now belongs to Spain."
Cortés, tense and still furious, allows it.
…
…
…
(Ehecatl's POV)
He sat at the back of the crowd, hands crossed, staring up at the so‑called Tlatoani. Cuauhtémoc stood on a wooden platform surrounded by Caxtilteca soldiers, their iron helmets shining under the gray light. Marina was right beside him, that smug calm expression on her face as if she was the only person who mattered.
Then the speech started.
Ehecatl tried to follow. The words were elegant, poetic—like someone reading from a songbook.
"Flowers this, sun that, the jaguar and eagle blah blah blah."
Beautiful, sure. Motivational? Not a damn bit.
He kept waiting for something real—orders, a plan, a call to arms, anything. Instead he got what sounded like a mix between a riddle and a bedtime story.
By the end of it, Cuauhtémoc just said, "That is all."
Ehecatl's jaw clenched. That's it?
He looked around. The crowd was silent, some crying, some whispering "the sun rises again." To him, it all looked like false hope. The kind people cling to when they're too scared to face reality.
'So that's our great leader,' he thought bitterly. 'All talk, no bite. Just another politician in fancy clothes.'
He'd seen this before—back home, in the world he came from. The kind of speech that says everything without saying a single useful thing. All fluff, no direction. If Cuauhtémoc really wanted to rally his people, he'd tell them to grab a damn weapon and start fighting, not recite poetry like he's auditioning for a play.
Ehecatl kicked a stone aside, disgusted.
'He's already broken. Playing the Spaniard's game. Trying to sound wise so he doesn't end up hanging from a tree.'
He stood up and turned away from the crowd before the guards started shoving people off. 'Fine. Let him give his pretty speeches. I'll be the one who actually does something.'
He walked back toward the haunted zone, muttering under his breath.
'The sun rises again, huh? Yeah, sure. If I have to, I'll make it rise again myself.'
And with that, Ehecatl left behind the last piece of faith he had in anyone else's leadership.
From now on, it wasn't about prophecies, gods, or noble speeches.
It was about results.
About survival.
And if the Tlatoani was going to just stand there and sing poems, then Ehecatl would be the one to start a new song—one made of blood, steel, and fear.
…
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…
A day later, after Cuauhtemoc's speech.
A crowd of enslaved, beaten, hollow-eyed Mexica laborers pause their work.
Rumors had spread like a virus that the boy with the thunder-stick had returned.
That he'd defied death in the haunted zone.
That the Caxtilteca feared him.
And then, he appeared again—face uncovered, eyes lit with fury.
Ehecatl stood tall on the broken steps of a once-sacred shrine.
Arquebus slung on his back. Tilmatli flapping in the breeze.
And then—his voice cut through the air like obsidian:
EHECATL'S SPEECH:
"WHERE WERE YOU?! HUH?! ALL OF YOU?! WHEN THEY CAME FOR OUR GODS, WHERE WERE YOU?!"
"YOU! You Tlaxcalteca bastards—YOU opened the gates! YOU danced while the Caxtilteca spat on Huitzilopochtli! While they dragged our women! While they hanged our children!"
He pointed violently across the canal to another sector of the city.
"AND YOU—TEPANECAS! You sat in silence, fed like dogs under Caxtilteca tables while your brothers died screaming in the temples!"
"AND YOU!!—YES YOU, OUR OWN TLATOQUE—our kings, our nobles, our priests!"
"YOU LET IT HAPPEN! You let them tell you to 'calm your people'—like we're dogs!"
"YOU LET THEM USE YOUR TONGUE, YOUR BLOOD, YOUR GODS—AS TOOLS!"
"AND NOW YOU WONDER WHY THE SMOKE OF WAR RETURNS TO TENOCHTITLAN?!"
"I'LL TELL YOU WHY."
"Because I'M STILL HERE."
"I CAME BACK FROM THE LAND OF DEATH, AND I RETURNED WITH THE WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY."
"I TOOK THEIR THUNDER AND TURNED IT AGAINST THEM."
"THEIR DOGS FLED FROM ME. THEIR CAPTAIN FEARS ME. THEIR PRIESTS CALL ME DEMON."
"BUT I AM NOT A DEMON."
"I. AM. MEXICA."
"And I will say this ONCE—
Stand with me, or rot under Caxtilteca boots.
I have no gold. I offer no feasts. Only blood. Only freedom."
"But if you stand now—if you take up the stone, the spear, or even bare hands—*
I WILL MAKE SURE OUR ENEMIES BLEED FOR EVERY BRICK THEY STOLE."
"So CHOOSE! LIVE AS SLAVES—or RISE AS MEXICA!"
A silence followed. Then Ehecatl raised his arm high—and shouted:
"TENOCHTITLAN DID NOT DIE."
"HE WAS BETRAYED."
"BUT I—I AM HIS VENGEANCE."
"MY NAME IS EHECATL."
"AND I'VE COME TO BRING THE SAME WRATH AS HUITZILOPOCHTLI DID AGAINST ALL 400 OF HIS SIBLINGS!"
The air shook.
Men dropped tools.
Women wept.
Even the Caxtilteca guards backed away, unsure if they were witnessing a speech—or a curse being cast.
…
…
…
Just hours after Ehecatl's speech.
The Commoners Move
The slaves didn't say a word as Ehecatl left. They didn't cheer. They didn't cry. But as the Caxtilteca barked orders, many stopped obeying.
That very night, things began shifting.
• A group of four Mexica youths — emaciated, shirtless, armed with nothing but sharpened obsidian tools — slipped into a nearby Spanish food cache and slashed the sacks of grain open, watching it spill into the mud. They didn't even run afterward. They disappeared into the crowd.
• In another barrio, a group of women who had been taught to fight by Ehecatl's fugitives ambushed a Tlaxcalan patrol. Two were killed. One survivor returned — jaw broken — whispering that "the ones from the haunted zone" are not afraid to kill.
• Hidden from the patrols, an old chinampa was cleared that night under moonlight. By dawn, new maize sprouts had been buried. The Mexica had begun to farm again.
Younger Men Begin to Slip Away
It starts as one or two.
Then five.
Then dozens vanish from the Caxtilteca camps, slipping into the maze of canals and alleyways — heading toward the haunted zone with only what they could carry.
Some don't make it.
But some do.
And by the next day, Ehecatl's forces swell by another 29 men and 12 women, many of whom come with raw hate in their hearts, and whispers of vengeance in their mouths.
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The Spanish Crisis Meeting
Inside Cortés's War Chamber
Cortés was furious. His hand slammed the table. Velázquez de León ducked his head. Alvarado stared at the floor. Marina stood silent, arms crossed.
"I told you all," Cortés growled. "This is no ghost story. This is insurgency."
Reports streamed in:
• "A woman stabbed a Tlaxcalan in the throat."
• "Half the labor force didn't show up this morning."
• "The canal barricade near the eastern causeway was sabotaged overnight."
• "One of our men heard someone call that devil a redeemer."
One captain muttered, "They're not even afraid of the arquebus anymore."
Cortés stared long and hard.
Then he spat.
"Bring Cuauhtémoc. Tonight. He gives another speech tonight."
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Tlaxcalteca High Chief's Camp
Word spreads.
They already hate patrolling near the haunted zone. Now they're hearing that other city-states are defecting, some even returning to their home altepetl with tales of a god-touched boy wielding Spanish thunder.
Some among the Tlaxcalteca begin whispering:
"Did we back the wrong side?"
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Among the Priests & Surviving Nobles
Confusion. Panic. Internal schisms.
Some believe Ehecatl is a divine punishment. Others call him a mad dog who will ruin the last of the Mexica.
The worst fear?
"He's more popular now than any priest, any tlatoani… maybe even Cuauhtémoc himself."
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Cuauhtémoc in Captivity — Just Before Dawn
The flicker of a torch in the corridor outside his cell cast long shadows against the stone. Cuauhtémoc sat still. He did not sleep.
He hadn't since the boy spoke.
Not the first time. Not the second. And now, apparently, not the last.
The Spaniards didn't say his name. They didn't have to. It was clear from their clenched jaws, their frantic pacing, the anger they tried to hide behind Marina's dry translations.
But the name had reached him anyway, whispered from the others. And when he heard it, it stopped him cold:
Ehecatl.
The name of wind. Of divine movement. Of the breath of creation.
And it belonged now to a boy — a macehualtin — who had gone into the forbidden ruins, returned with the Caxtilteca's thunder weapon… and claimed the loyalty of more Mexica than Cuauhtémoc could in his time of captivity.
He closed his eyes and replayed the Spanish demands. Another speech. To calm the people. To dissuade them.
But what could he say that hadn't already lost its meaning?
A Misunderstanding of Worlds
In truth, Cuauhtémoc never expected the boy to understand the meaning behind his earlier words.
The Mexica tongue was one of rhythm, metaphor, layered meaning. When a tlatoani spoke, he was expected to say one thing and mean three others — to thread fear, hope, and control in a single breath.
Ehecatl wasn't trained in that.
Ehecatl didn't speak. He shouted.
And the people listened.
Not because of wisdom.
Not because of poetry.
But because he made them feel again.
The Paradox of Chains
Cuauhtémoc clenched his fists.
He had thrown stones at his uncle, Motecuhzoma, for doing what he now did himself — giving words under Caxtilteca control. Telling his people to wait. To be calm.
And now a child — a commoner no less — shouted things he himself once believed.
"Do not wait."
"Do not obey."
"Only we can save ourselves."
And the terrifying thing?
He believed Ehecatl meant every word.
No Hate, Only Warning
He did not hate the boy.
No… he almost understood him.
He just feared what the boy would become.
"He does not yet know that fire can burn even those who wield it."
"He has seen the blade of the Caxtilteca… but not their grip behind it."
"He has rallied the people, yes… but what happens when the people demand more than rage?"
The Performance to Come
And now he was to speak again.
Another performance. Another danced lie before the Caxtilteca. A layer of nothing draped in honeyed words.
He would do it.
He would speak.
But this time — he would speak knowing the winds have changed.
And the wind's name… is Ehecatl.
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The next morning: A cleared plaza near the slave quarter, southern half of the ruined city. Cortés is present. Marina stands beside him. Caxtilteca and Tlaxcaltec guards line the perimeter.
Cuauhtémoc Steps Forward
His posture was calm.
Too calm.
He wore no armor. No feathers. No diadem. Only the faint turquoise threads of what once marked him as tlatoani — now dulled by ash and weeks of captivity.
Marina stood nearby, arms folded. Silent, but watching every syllable.
Cortés narrowed his eyes.
A crowd of enslaved Mexica gathered in front of the former ruler. Some were chained. Most were not. All were tired, hungry, and quiet.
But not docile.
Whispers of Ehecatl's name were still hot on their lips.
And now the tlatoani had come to speak.
The Speech
Cuauhtémoc raised his hand and let it hang in the air, open-palmed.
"We live in strange times."
"The sun rises… but its light does not warm us."
"The rains fall… but they do not cleanse us."
"The wind blows… but it carries whispers of death."
He let the silence linger.
Then, slowly:
"In the house of darkness, it is easy to mistake a torch for a star."
"It is easy to hear a scream and think it a war cry."
"It is easy to believe that a child's anger is the voice of a god."
His tone never shifted. His voice stayed soft — flowing like a calm stream over river stone.
Marina, frowning, translated with some difficulty.
The Crowd's Reaction
Muted.
Still.
No applause. No tears. No visible anger.
The silence was political.
Even Cortés looked confused — unsure if the tlatoani had just calmed or agitated the masses.
Marina nodded slowly, but her eyes narrowed.
Something in that speech hadn't translated right.
Something was buried in those metaphors.
And she would find out what.
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…
Ehecatl sat on the edge of a broken roof, legs dangling, half-eaten maize in one hand, the stolen arquebus resting against his shoulder.
Down below, a few of the newer recruits huddled by a small fire.
One of them had come back from the southern side of the city. Still panting.
"He gave another speech," the man said.
Ehecatl didn't turn his head. Just raised an eyebrow.
"The tlatoani. Cuauhtémoc. They forced him again."
A pause.
"He said some stuff about stars and torches. Screams and war cries. Called you a child."
Now Ehecatl turned.
"Called me what?"
Ehecatl's Internal Reflection — Blunt, Raw, Unfiltered
He stood up.
Walked over.
Spat the last of the maize into the dirt.
'I was right.'
'He doesn't get it. He doesn't fuckin' get it.'
He looked at the others.
"Lemme guess — poetic, soft, full of metaphors? Like we're in some fuckin' flower market listening to a flute player?"
Silence.
Ehecatl snarled.
"I don't want metaphors. I want war."
"I don't need riddles from a man who let himself get caught."
He paced.
"You know what his problem is? Same as all the ones up high. They think just 'cause they wore feathers, turquoise, jade and think that their words still matter."
He pointed to his own chest.
"But it's me. Me. A nobody. A macehualtin."
"I made them scared. I took their weapon and showed the people we could fight. I built this. Not him."
The Message Lands
The dozens listened. Some nodded.
A few had tears in their eyes — not from anger, but relief.
"He says we're mistaking a torch for a star?" Ehecatl said, eyes burning.
"Then fuck it. I'll be the torch."
"Let the old ones rot in chains, their fucking poets cry. We got mouths to feed, weapons to steal, and names to avenge."
Final Line
He picked up the arquebus, slung it over his back, and climbed down.
The firelight flickered against the chipped murals.
"Let him speak in riddles. I speak in bullets."
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Nightfall, the rebel sanctuary in the "haunted" zone, later that night
The firelight flickered against the clay walls of the hidden quarters. Warriors murmured beyond the curtains — sharpening obsidian blades, cleaning stolen arquebuses and Spanish swords, whispering of future raids.
Ehecatl was standing, his maxtlatl soaked in sweat and ash. He had just finished drilling twenty new recruits. His voice was hoarse from shouting.
That's when Cihuatzin stepped into the light.
She hadn't aged much — her skin bore the same authority as it did when she once recited prayers at Templo Mayor. But her eyes had shifted. They carried grief, and something deeper: concern.
"We need to speak,"
she said plainly.
Ehecatl looked up, exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Say what you need to say."
"I've heard what the recruits are saying.
They speak of cleansing—not of balance.
Of obliteration—not of justice.
They say the gods sent you, not the Huey Tlatoani.
You know what that sounds like, boy?"
She stared at him. Ehecatl didn't answer.
"It sounds like the beginning of something… dangerous."
"So?" he muttered. "Maybe it is."
"I was informed of what Cuauhtémoc spoke,"
she pressed.
"He was not giving up. He was speaking in the way of our people. Our ancestors never declared rebellion with screams and curses — they wove it into poetry. Into metaphor. So the enemy would think we were submissive. So we would know what to do."
"I'm not a poet," Ehecatl said. "And I'm not here to hint at rebellion. I am telling them to start a rebellion."
She didn't flinch. Instead, she sat down on a reed mat across from him.
"Then you misunderstood the Huey Tlatoani,"
she said with surprising calm.
"You think he's doing nothing because he speaks soft?
He's being watched day and night. Do you think he could speak like you without getting a bullet in his head? We, the nobility, we are shackled in place. But not because we are cowards. Because we are visible."
Ehecatl squinted, his voice lowering.
"So what do you want me to do? Cry softly into my tilmatli and ask for forgiveness? Because last I checked, your words don't feed the hungry. They don't kill Caxtilteca. And they damn sure don't keep the patrols out of this zone."
Cihuatzin stayed composed.
"No. I'm not asking you to stop. I'm asking you to understand."
"Understand what?"
"That if you lose the soul of the Mexica…
If your rebellion becomes rage without honor,
then it will devour us all."
A heavy silence fell between them. Only the soft drumming of a distant water jar and a few shouts from laughing recruits pierced the tension.
He sat down. His hand flexed over his knee.
"…Maybe I did misunderstand Cuauhtémoc,"
he admitted at last, surprising her.
"But what do you want me to do with that truth?
He can't act.
The tlatoque can't act.
They're gagged. Leashed. Chained."
"If you have a way to make them useful — then I'm listening. But if not?"
He jabbed a calloused finger toward the curtain.
"Then I'll keep training those boys to kill.
I'll keep looting Caxtilteca caravans.
I'll keep planting fear."
He leaned forward, voice sharpening.
"Because I'd rather be feared than pitied."
Cihuatzin looked into his eyes. Not as a noble to a commoner — but as a survivor to another.
"And I'd rather be alive than silent."
The two sat in mutual silence. Different generations, same war.