Seven Days Before The Present
The streets of Tenochtitlan thrummed with the distant roar of celebration—drums pounding like hearts reclaimed, flutes wailing triumph, voices rising in chants that echoed off the half-ruined temples. The Mexica had won. Victory Day, they called it, a name that would etch itself into stone and song. But as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the retreating columns of Castilians and their native allies, the air carried a different note: the bitter tang of defeat, laced with fear and calculation. The Tlaxcalans led the way, their warriors grim-faced, clutching spears and macuahuitls, while the remaining Castilians—bearded, battered, their armor dented and horses stolen—trailed like ghosts. Other allies, from Huexotzinco to the Totonacs, mingled in the exodus, their eyes darting to the horizon where Tlaxcala waited like a fragile sanctuary.
The sounds of Mexica joy pursued them—laughter, whoops, the crack of fireworks fashioned from looted gunpowder. And in that cacophony, one name repeated like a curse: Ehecatl. The boy who had made their lives miserable.
Pedro de Alvarado's POV
The drums haven't stopped. They pound behind my eyes, mocking us as we crawl out of the valley like dogs too beaten to whimper. That fucking Indio boy, Ehecatl knew what he was doing. Hit us at night. Laced the blades with filth. Let the wounds rot. Even the dogs didn't bark—just bled out, guts steaming on the stones. I glance at Olid, walking beside me, white as a corpse. He gave the boy Catalina. Like a bribe. He says it "worked." But I saw his hands afterward. Shaking.
That bastard knew things he shouldn't. He whispered them like gossip. My bastard son in Cuba—how the fuck did he know?
And then he laughed. High, cracked, like something in him was broken just for fun. "Souls taste better afraid," I heard someone say. We believed it. I believe it now.
We're headed back to Tlaxcala with what's left—arquebuses, gunpowder, empty promises. They'll rob us. We all know it. The Tlaxcalans watched us bleed and did nothing. Now they eye the cannons like hungry dogs. Once we're inside their walls, they'll strip us clean.
Gonzalo de Sandoval's POV
You can hear the laughter from the hills. Victory songs. The Mexica celebrating like wolves after a kill. WE HAD THE CITY!—HAD. And then Ehecatl pulled the earth out from under us.
We gave Cortés up, his sword, our translator and some girl, Olid had brought with him. All that for a safe retreat, and what did we get? Crucified bodies in dresses, our countrymen and allies used as target practices, our weapons, armor, and horses stolen, the city we had just conquered is back in Mexica hands, Fray Olmedo screaming about hellfire and demons. He said that kid grabbed his cross and pretend it hurt—then toss it into the mud and smile.
And still, he took prisoners. Made sport of them.
We're marching back to Tlaxcala now, arms full of weapons we promised to share. But the Huexotzincas and Totonacs look at us like we stole their birthright. No guns for them. Just us.
They'll try to take it. That boy had made it look so easy for them, and I don't doubt they'll end up trying to do what Ehecatl did.
Cristóbal de Olid's POV
The reins aren't in my hands. They're gone. Like everything else. Horses taken, pride crushed.
I gave her to him—Catalina. Said it like an offering, like meat left at the altar.
"Take her."
He looked at me, didn't blink. Said nothing. Just stared like he could see through my skull. Like he knew—when I'm scared, the night I pissed myself at Cholula, the nightmares.
He laughed. The kind of laugh that sticks with you.
Then the rumors started: "Your fear makes you taste better."
I believed them. We all did.
Fray Olmedo tried to confront him, waving the cross like it meant something. Came back rattled, eyes gone, mumbling about hell.
Now we drag our feet toward Tlaxcala, pretending we have a plan. A third chance in exchange for weapons. They're going to mimic the boy. The others—Huexotzincas, Totonacs—they're pissed. No cannons for them.
I should've kept the girl. Should've slit Ehecatl's throat when I had the chance.
But I didn't. None of us did.
Bernal Díaz del Castillo's POV
I memorize every step of our retreat. Every insult carved into the walls. Every ruined altar. This won't be forgotten.
Ehecatl rose from the rubble like a spirit with blood on his hands and strategy in his veins.
No parley. No banner. Just sharp metal and worse ideas. Filth on blades. Rigs designed to break bones, not just bodies. Even our dogs didn't stand a chance.
And the Brujería. (Witchcraft) That's what chilled me.
He knew names. Family. Secrets. He mocked Diego de Ordaz's stutter, whispered about Pedro's bastard, laughed like he'd swallowed something unholy.
Olmedo tried to exorcise him. Came back wrecked, mumbling about sin and damnation.
Catalina was given away like a token. Did it help? Maybe. We're still alive.
But Tlaxcala won't stay quiet. The other allies are furious. They got nothing but blood and scars. We got guns and guilt.
They'll rob us Castilians. Maybe even the Tlaxcalans. Maybe we should rob them too before they even have the chance to do so to us.
Ehecatl's rules won, and we lost the city we fought so hard to conquer. Maybe it's time we stopped pretending we're above them, because clearly these Indios are nothing like Castile has ever faced since we arrived in the new world.
Tlaxcalan POV (Hopeful Ally)
The Mexica cheers chase us like arrows—Victory Day for them, retreat for us. Ehecatl: the boy who broke the Caxtilteca, now hunts our shadow. His tactics introduced us to a level of war we never imagined. We demanded horses and guns from Cortés—got promises instead. Sent an envoy to Ehecatl—he sent back bodies. His message? No more diplomacy. He'll annex us. No more republic. No more flower wars. Just governors and chains.
We still march with the Caxtilteca now, pretending it's alliance—not desperation. But the other allies—Huexotzinco, Totonacs—watch us with envy. We're "special" for getting guns. But that envy's turning. Ever since that boy shattered the Caxtilteca air of invincibility the other altepetl's had stopped looking at them and us with awe, fear, and wariness. They aren't even being cautious as I've heard some of their warriors say 'So why not strike first? If Ehecatl can take what he wants, why can't we?'
Huexotzinco Warrior's POV (Resentful Ally)
The Mexica celebrate. We flee. The Mexica wins, again. We gave our warriors to the Castilians—got lies and death in return. Tlaxcala gets the guns. Mexica has their demon-child.
Why them? Why not us?
The Totonacs are thinking the same thing. We nod across the campfires.
The Castilians. The Tlaxcalans.
And us? We're tired of envy. We'll take what we're owed. Guns. Horses. Vengeance.
Then maybe… we turn south.
Totonac Scout's POV (Watching Closely)
The cheers echo behind us—Ehecatl's triumph. Our disgrace.
We've seen what he does: mocks priests with trickery, carves open men with jokes on his breath, kills like it's art. They say he eats fear.
We wish we had someone like him.
Instead, Tlaxcala gets the weapons.
We get ignored.
The Castilians? Just men now. Frail. Breakable.
They're going to be robbed. By Tlaxcala. By Huexotzinco. We should rob them too. If Ehecatl steals with pride, why shouldn't we?
Take the guns. Take the horses. Laugh louder than him.
The column stumbles forward—fractured, hungry, bitter. No more unity. Just the same conclusion, whispered in different tongues:
Betray them before they betray us.
Rob the liars. Burn the deals.
Ehecatl's shadow stretches behind and before.
…
…
…
Six Days Before The Present
The retreat from Tenochtitlan stretched under a pitiless sun, the column dragging itself through the valleys like a wounded beast that refused to die. The drums were gone now, the cheers swallowed by distance, but their echo lingered—mocking, inescapable.
At the front marched the Tlaxcalans, disciplined, purposeful, guarding their fragile prize: Castilian promises of weapons and training. Behind them shuffled the Castilians themselves—bearded remnants wrapped in dented steel, fewer each day, quieter, eyes hollowed of certainty.
At the rear came the others.
Huexotzinco. Totonacs. Cholulans. Men from smaller altepetl who had bled just as much and gained far less. Their pace lagged. Their hands strayed too often to the packs ahead. Arquebuses. Powder horns. Swords. The last cannons dragged on sleds of rawhide and wood.
As dusk fell, the column halted within a narrow canyon. The Tlaxcalans and Castilians made camp apart, guards posted, fires lit low. Behind them, in the shadow of broken stone and scrub, the forgotten allies gathered without flame or signal.
They did not look like an army. They looked like survivors.
Xochitlcoatl of Huexotzinco spoke first, voice rasped raw by dust and rage.
"Enough."
Heads turned. He did not raise his voice.
"We followed the Caxtilteca into Tenochtitlan. We bled. We starved. And when the city burned, it was not ours—it was his." He spat. "Ehecatl rose from the ruins, and now the Mexica celebrates while we crawl away."
A Totonac elder answered, eyes sunken, voice flat.
"They promised us tribute and freedom. Instead, their dogs died screaming, their horses were stolen, their guns failed. What strength is left in them now?"
A Cholulan priest-warrior leaned forward, macuahuitl resting across his knees. Dried blood darkened its edge.
"Their god abandoned them. Ehecatl mocked it. Fray Olmedo broke like a child." He smiled thinly. "If their faith cannot protect them, why should we?"
Silence followed—not doubt, but calculation.
Xochitlcoatl finished it.
"We strike tonight."
No gasps. No protests.
"We do it as he did. From the dark. At close range. We foul the blades. We leave the bodies displayed. Let fear do the rest." His eyes moved across them. "We take the guns. The steel. The powder. Whatever survives belongs to us."
The Totonac elder nodded once.
"If the Mexica can steal and rise, so can we."
Hands met briefly—no ceremony, no vows. When the stars emerged, the allies slipped back into the canyon's folds.
Ahead, the camps slept.
The retreat was about to devour itself.
…
…
…
Five Days Before the Present
The canyon's shadows lengthened as dusk crept in, cloaking the retreating column in suspicion and grit. Camp had been made in a narrow gorge—too tight for comfort, too quiet for trust. The Tlaxcalans and Castilians settled toward the front, exhausted but lulled by routine. At the rear, the other native allies—Huexotzincans, Totonacs, Cholulans, and scattered warriors from lesser altepetls—pretended to rest. But their stillness masked a storm.
A low owl's call split the dark.
Xochitlcoatl, tlatoani of Huexotzinco, had given the signal.
The ambush came like a jaguar's pounce—sudden, savage, final.
Warriors burst from the rocks and scrub, macuahuitls gleaming, spears thrusting. Screams tore through the canyon. The first Tlaxcalan to die was a chief, a Totonac arrow sprouting from his throat. His body hit the dust before his blood finished leaving him.
The Tlaxcalans scrambled into formation, spears rising too late. Castilians fumbled for weapons, still half in disbelief. Pedro de Alvarado roared, blade cleaving a Totonac's arm clean off. "¡Traidores! ¡Perros inmundos!" (Traitors! Filthy dogs!) But a spear pierced his thigh, dropping him. A second drove into his ribs. He clawed at the dirt, coughing blood.
Gonzalo de Sandoval managed one clean arquebus shot—a Cholulan's chest exploded in mist—but he was swarmed. A macuahuitl took out his knee, and the next crushed his skull.
Cristóbal de Olid did not wait to test fate. He slipped past a dying Tlaxcalan, scrambled up a boulder, and vanished into the rocks. He watched from above—saw the cannons dragged off, arquebuses stolen, Castilians butchered, their women being taken—and fled, ambition intact, loyalty discarded.
Bernal Díaz del Castillo fought back-to-back with another soldier, blade slick with blood. A spear slashed his arm, a club cracked his ribs, but he escaped—barely. His journal still tied to his chest, soaked in blood and sweat. A chronicler's pen would live to record the chaos.
The Tlaxcalans held longest. Spears formed a phalanx like formation, but it crumpled under Ehecatl's methods—disease-laced darts, mocked whispers, crucified corpses in dresses. Their envoy to Ehecatl took an arrow through the eye. His body was trampled underfoot, forgotten.
Loot was the goal.
Arquebuses were ripped from cold fingers. Cannons pried away with ropes and curses. Women from the Castilian and Tlaxcalan side taken. Horses screamed as they were tugged from camp—some tried to ride, most failed, tossed into the dirt. Armor was stolen, dragged across rocks, hacked apart for scrap.
The canyon ran red. Limbs littered the dust. Faces smashed, entrails exposed. The stink of shit and spilled guts clung to everything. There was no glory here. Only plunder.
By dawn, it was over.
The native allies vanished into the hills with their prizes. The Castilians had been shattered. The Tlaxcalans broken and bleeding. The road behind Ehecatl now ran slick with betrayal.
And ahead? Only silence. And the sound of victory drums, very far away.
…
…
…
Four Days Before the Present
The ragged remnants of the retreating column staggered into Tlaxcala like ghosts fleeing a storm. The republic rose before them—sturdy adobe walls, temples crowned with feathers, streets quiet with dread. A republic that once dreamed of Mexica downfall now reeked of desperation.
The Castilians—bearded, bloodied, their armor dented and spirits fraying—numbered barely two dozen. Their ranks, gutted by betrayal in the canyon. The Tlaxcalans fared little better—warriors thinned, eyes sunken with suspicion.
They gathered in the central plaza under a leaden sky. Tlaxcalan elders loomed beneath thatched council halls, silent and unmoved. In the center stood Cristóbal de Olid, the last notable Castilian of rank, his face drawn but voice steady. Beside him, Bernal Díaz del Castillo—bandaged, bruised—scribbled grim notes on parchment, unwilling to let history die with the dead.
Olid cleared his throat. "Count the living first," he said in Spanish. "Myself, Díaz, and eighteen others—wounded, but alive. The dead: Alvarado, Sandoval, twelve more. Hacked down like fools. Three taken—dragged off by those we called allies. And the women…" His voice cracked. "Two Castilian followers. María and Isabel. Gone."
Díaz didn't look up. "I saw it. Our former allies swarmed like carrion. They stole the cannons. The arquebuses. The horses. Our dead. María and Isabel were screaming." He tightened his grip on the parchment, ribs aching. A chronicler of conquest now forced to record collapse.
Mixtli stepped forward. His voice rang like a blade against stone. "Twenty of ours, dead. Fifteen taken—bound and vanished. Four women. One my niece." His glare cut through Olid. "They mocked us with that boy's madness—dirt-smeared blades, laughter while they struck. Ehecatl's stain is on all of them. He took your Catalina. He took Malinalli. Now they mimic the boy and take our women too?"
Murmurs rose behind him. Spears thumped into the dirt. One warrior spat, "So far they gave us Castilian words, not Castilian guns. Now our women pay for that?"
Olid raised both hands. "We honor the deal," he snapped, desperate but measured. "What we have, we'll share. Swords, armor, cannons, training. What survived the ambush is yours. We teach you. You lead the raids. Ehecatl meant what he said—he will annex you. Or bleed you dry. He wants no more allies, only subjects."
The plaza held its breath.
Mixtli stared long, then gave a small, bitter nod. The moment passed—for now.
Díaz kept writing, glancing once toward the horizon. The raid had shattered more than bodies. It had cracked the alliance at its core.
And the canyon's ghosts were still speaking.
…
…
…
Earlier That Same Day
The echoes of the canyon ambush had barely faded. Blood still soaked the rocks when the fractured native alliance regrouped in a hidden ravine, a mile from the slaughter. The sky was ink-dark, not yet touched by dawn. Huexotzincans, Totonacs, Cholulans, and scattered fighters from lesser altepetls clustered around their spoils like starving dogs around a carcass.
Torches flickered low. The loot lay piled in the center: dented arquebuses, cannons dragged on makeshift sleds, swords sticky with blood, armor stripped from dead Castilians, and the last surviving horses—tethered, snorting, wild-eyed. Off to the side sat six women: four Tlaxcalans, two Castilian camp followers. Bound. Dirt-streaked. Silent. Claimed as war trophies, just like Ehecatl's "wives."
"If the boy took a woman from these lands and one of theirs," muttered a Totonac scout, "why shouldn't we?"
At the center stood Xochitlcoatl, the Huexotzinco tlatoani. His macuahuitl still dripped. He raised one hand.
"We divide equally. Huexotzinco takes ten blades, five armor. Totonacs, the arquebuses—you earned them. Cholulans, the cannons. Your clubs broke their defense."
The decisions were met with stiff nods and sour silence. A Cholulan warrior glanced at the horses. "What about them? We don't ride like Ehecatl's men—but trade value is high. And fear, higher."
Rough agreement followed. Two horses per group, led like beasts of burden.
Then came the women.
Huexotzinco claimed the Tlaxcalan captives—retribution, they said, for old betrayals. Totonacs and Cholulans took one Castilian each. No protests. Only envy. They mimicked Ehecatl's collection without saying it aloud.
"A native and a Castilian for him," a Cholulan laughed. "We'll teach ours too. Or break them."
One Totonac tried to steal an extra sword. Clubs rose. Tension snapped—until Xochitlcoatl roared: "Fight now, and die being picked off. Ehecatl made the Mexica whole through blood. Don't mimic the Caxtilteca—weak, greedy, scattered."
Silence returned. Barely.
As the first light crept over the ravine, the groups scattered: weapons shouldered, cannons hauled by rope, horses pulled along, women herded like cattle. No farewells. No trust.
"Ehecatl taught us how to take," Xochitlcoatl muttered to himself. "Now we learn to keep."
But already, behind every step, the seeds of new betrayal were growing—whispers about who got the better horse, who took more, who hid something. The alliance fed on blood that morning. But hunger never stays fed.
…
…
…
Three Days Before the Present
The betrayal hadn't just shattered the retreating Caxtilteca column. It had cracked the spine of old loyalty. From the coasts to the mountains, the smell of blood and lawlessness reached deeper than any war drum ever could. Those left behind—commoners, deserters, priests, even merchants—began to break from their lords, not out of honor, but hunger. And behind every split, every torch lit in defiance, there lurked the same ghost: Ehecatl.
Huexotzinco — The Cult of Cuetlachtli
Cuetlachtli, once a boy-soldier, now scarred and obsessed, didn't see a war—he saw scripture. To him, Ehecatl wasn't a man but a message. "He ripens their souls through fear before the kill," Cuetlachtli preached, his voice cracked from screaming through too many nights. Twenty outcasts followed him—orphans and burnouts, armed with stolen blades and an appetite for pain. They struck a Totonac caravan at dusk, wielding filth-dipped darts and grotesque "secrets" from tortured scouts.
But the prize was Isabel—a Castilian woman taken in the canyon ambush. Cuetlachtli named her his "Catalina," and to him, that made it real. "He took one from each side," he hissed. "So shall I." He tied her hands with vines and declared her proof of his worth. The others followed, more rumor than men now.
Totonac Coast — The Scavengers of Tochtli
Tochtli had no sermons—just scars and a ledger of grudges. He was a scout, once. Now he was a predator. "Ehecatl beat them with their own limbs," he told his small, silent crew. "So we do worse." They defected with precision—fifteen killers who raided supply lines, stripped corpses, and stashed goods in coastal grottos.
Their women weren't trophies but currency—traded, ransomed, or used to bend rivals. No chants, no madness. Just business, brutal and quiet. Their camps had no fires, only whispers and heads on poles.
Cholula — The Serpent's Revival
Cuauhmecatl had once prayed for forgiveness. Now he offered blood. The priest saw Ehecatl as divine punishment—Quetzalcoatl reborn not to lead, but to purge. "He mocked their god and shattered the priest with it," Cuauhmecatl cried. "Now we kneel to the true flame."
His cult gathered in mountain shrines, fanatics and survivors dressing their wounds in smoke and ash. Their women weren't captives—they were consecrated. Renamed, veiled, and anointed in rituals meant to reclaim divine favor. Their movement wasn't war—it was prophecy.
The Merchants — Ledgers Over Loyalties
No gods, no oaths. Just profit. As war broke down borders, rogue merchants slipped away from guilds and tribute chains. Ehecatl had shown them the math: steal the enemy's horses, sell their guns, flip their tools.
Soon arquebuses were traded like cacao, and women became walking alliances—brides sold not for love, but leverage. The market didn't care who won. As long as blood flowed, business thrived.
The Broken Women — Rise of Cihuatltecuhtli Atlauh
She had no family left, only rage. Once a noble, Cihuatltecuhtli Atlauh rose among the discarded—widows, raped women, survivors passed around and left behind. "He used terror as a weapon," she said. "So will we."
They struck from marshes and forests, ambushing without warning. No men among them, no lords to answer to. Their "booty" wasn't loot—it was revenge. They freed captive women, trained them, let them vent their trauma, armed them. In their camp, pain forged steel.
Tlaxcala — Don Sebastián's Revolt
Even among the Castilians, rot had taken root. Don Sebastián del Hierro—blacksmith, deserter, witness to every humiliation—could no longer stand it. "He crucified our men. Broke them in public. We gave up our own captain, a India whore, and one of our own women, fuck that."
Now he forged weapons for no flag. With a band of outcasts and ex-forge workers, he turned Tlaxcala's outskirts into a rogue foundry. Their emblem: two hammers crossed over flame. They'd burn every banner before serving another king.
…
…
…
Two Days Before the Present
The news spread like smoke through the mountains: their alliance was unraveling. Not by Ehecatl's hand—but by their own.
In the highland pass above Huexotzinco, Xochitlcoatl drove his macuahuitl into the dirt, splinters flying as a scout stumbled in, pale and wheezing.
"Cuetlachtli's gone rogue," the man rasped. "Took twenty with him. They call themselves his 'circle,' and they laugh when they raid. He took a Totonac caravan—and Caxtilteca named Isabel. The Castilian. Says she's his now. Says he honors the 'boy.'"
The words hit like stone. The gathered warriors looked at one another, their canyon spoils—women, swords, and powder—suddenly poisoned.
"He was with us," someone muttered. "During the war. When we briefly helped occupy the city. Then the call for retreat. At the ambush."
Xochitlcoatl clenched his fists. "If even our own turn—if Ehecatl's name gives them excuse—then what binds the rest of us?" No one answered. But several kept their eyes on the women, as if waiting to see who'd be next.
Far below in the Totonac lowlands, the elder sat unmoving as a runner laid it bare.
"Tochtli's band has split. Fifteen of our best. No gods, no banners—just greed. They're hitting our own caravans. The niece of that Tlaxcalan is among the taken."
A slow breath. Then silence. The camp dared not speak.
Finally, the elder said, "Ehecatl broke the Caxtilteca to win a war. These boys think war justifies anything."
But even he couldn't ignore the doubt seeping in. No one moved to gather the women. No one claimed new loot. What had felt like victory now tasted like rot.
On the Cholula side, a priest fell to his knees in the middle of council.
"Cuauhmecatl has left us," he cried. "Calls Ehecatl the avatar of Quetzalcoatl. He's taken women from our side—calls them 'goddesses.' Drenches them in blood to 'purify' what we tainted."
The lords didn't speak. A silence so dense it choked the room.
"He was our voice of faith," one finally whispered.
Now, his voice belonged to madness.
Across the central trade roads, the merchants felt it next—not with swords, but ledgers. Rumors of new flags. New tolls. Old routes no longer safe, not from Mexica, but from their own people.
"There's no doubt going to be bloodshed and war from everywhere." one muttered. "There's opportunity in that."
"Indeed there is profit to be made from Ehecatl's chaos," said another. "Now we discuss on how we can extract the most from everyone."
In a hidden camp deep in the marshes, Cihuatltecuhtli Atlauh listened with narrowed eyes as a scout delivered the same news—defectors claiming women as prizes.
"Then they never followed the path," she said, voice cold. "It should've been obvious Ehecatl used fear to cripple the Mexica's enemies. These men just want what they've always wanted: power and flesh."
Her women didn't speak. They simply checked their blades.
In Tlaxcala, Cristóbal de Olid stood frozen as the final report came in.
"Don Sebastián del Hierro has deserted," said the scout. "Raised a new banner—crossed hammers. Took for himself. Took from us."
The Castilian's hands shook. "Sebastián was a smith. Not a killer."
Now he was both. And the line between Caxtilteca and cutthroat no longer mattered.
The cracks were no longer rumors. They were ruptures, each one spilling the poison Ehecatl had once fed the Castilians, now reflected in every corner of their broken alliance.
He never told them to follow. They chose to.
Whether they knew why Ehecatl did what he did doesn't matter to most, what matters is it worked against a new group of people that were becoming known for their invincibility and Ehecatl shattered that.
…
…
…
The Day Before the Present
The day before Ehecatl would stand above Cortés and sing "Illegals in My Yard". Mesoamerica had already collapsed into anarchy. Word of defections spread like rot in a wound. Warlords, born of envy and hunger, looted, raped, and crucified in the name of the avatar of Quetzalcoatl they barely understood. Ehecatl had inspired them, but he did not control them. His reach stopped at Tenochtitlan's walls.
In the highlands near Huexotzinco, Cuetlachtli—the cultist butcher—led his zealots into a village harboring Tlaxcalan stragglers. "Ehecatl's whispers break minds—we ripen the souls!" he screamed, blades soaked in filth. They mocked the dying with stuttered cries, then crucified them in women's robes. Survivors fled with tales of a lunatic who crowned three captives his "sacrifices," renamed them after Malinalli, and vanished into the hills beneath a banner of a jackal skull and fire.
Down in the Totonac lowlands, Tochtli—the silent sadist—ambushed a merchant caravan. No chant, no theatrics. Just heads piled like warning stones, and four women hauled away as pleasure women. His crew melted into the swamps, leaving smoking wagons and severed hands as toll markers on roads no longer safe.
In Cholula's temples, Cuauhmecatl—the priest turned fanatic—led a ritual purge against rival clergy. "Ehecatl shattered false gods—we end the age," he preached, as two women were bound in ropes and paraded through the streets, their cries declared divine. The shrine was left in ashes. Survivors spoke of a shadow faith, spreading like rot beneath the sacred stones.
Across the central markets, Chimali—a merchant turned warlord—seized a rival's house and posted ledgers justifying every theft. "Ehecatl took horses and arquebuses," he said. "We take contracts and daughters." His banner—a man with a walking stick—now fluttered over auction houses where women were traded like cacao beans. No blood. Just cold profit.
In the swamps, Atlauh—the noblewoman turned avenger—struck a Tlaxcalan outpost with her all-female guard. Two enemy scouts were left nailed to a tree, and their genitals cut off as warnings. Three captive women were freed, fed, and armed. "Ehecatl used terror for justice. We claim the same—for our sisters," she said. Her reeds-and-blood banner vanished into the hills.
And in Tlaxcala's cracked outskirts, Don Sebastián del Hierro—Castilian defector—raided a patrol, claiming steel and a woman as spoils. His banner: twin hammers, soot-blackened. "Ehecatl kept secrets," he muttered. "We make our own."
By dusk, roads burned, oaths shattered, and no soul could swear who ruled what. Ehecatl would sing his mocking song tomorrow, triumphant.
But tonight, his monsters sang first.
…
…
…
Word of the events in Tenochtitlan spread like smoke from a sacrificial fire—slow at first, drifting on the backs of traders and runners, then billowing outward across valleys and highlands. Camps, shrines, war posts—within days or weeks, all knew. The news struck like a thunderclap: Ehecatl, the devil-boy risen from ruin, had been named Cihuacoatl—the Snake Woman, second only to the emperor, the executor of imperial will.
But the greater shock came from the trial of Hernán Cortés.
No torture. No altar. No flaying. No heart ripped for Huitzilopochtli. Not the bloody justice many expected from the Mexica. Instead, a sentence: life in hard labor. He would rebuild what he destroyed—a living punishment. A breathing symbol of Mexica victory.
And the charges? War crimes. Terrorism.
Crimes against the order of war. Sowing fear for fear's sake. Violations that stained the soul.
Foreign concepts, twisted through Nahuatl logic. Baffling, yet impossible to ignore. Like omens from a god.
The ripples spread fast. Every faction, warlord, and petty kingdom tried to decipher what it meant—envy, confusion, ambition, fear all stirred in the pot. Ehecatl's sentence had become a storm.
Tlaxcala Republic: Outrage and Fractured Unity
Within two days, scouts brought the news to Tlaxcala's council halls. Smoke still clung to their cloaks. Their words burned hotter.
The elders gathered under the shadow of feathered banners. Incense choked the room, thick with unease.
Mixtli slammed his fist against the floor. His scarred face curled in fury.
"Ehecatl named Cihuacoatl? The boy coils around their throne now. His annexation threats are now a true possibility."
Murmurs rippled. Then silence—when they heard of the trial.
"War crimes? Terrorists?" he spat. "They invent words to shame Cortés. Spare him a warrior's death for labor? Mockery! It brands our Castilian allies as criminals—paints their kingdom as a den of horrors!"
Traditionalists erupted.
"This mercy is fear! They didn't want a martyr!"
"Push now—while they flinch from blood!"
But Realists saw something else. Cunning.
"These laws… change the battlefield. Label the Mexica terrorists for their old tribute raids—justify our own."
The room splintered further.
Some raised half-drunk toasts to rumors of Ehecatl's mockery—"Sí Se Puede," they jeered, the phrase already mutating. Others whispered what they feared most:
That the boy now had laws, titles, and a court.
And he was still hungry.
The Huexotzinco Remnants: Paranoia and Omen-Seeking
High in the mountain caves, the news came by the third day—carried on the breath of refugees. Around a sputtering fire, scarred elders gathered in silence.
"Ehecatl… now Cihuacoatl?" one rasped. "The whisperer of secrets now advises the eagle—his soul-ripening rumors now law."
The trial sent them into a tailspin.
"War crimes? Against the order of war?" another asked.
"As if our hangs… our burnings… are now terror?" a third muttered, eyes bloodshot.
"Sowing fear makes us Terrorists? What tongue is that?"
The word sounded like a curse—a perverted ritual word spat back at them.
Cortés spared for labor only fed the dread. "A trap," someone whispered. "He lives to lure us… into judgment."
The mercy felt unclean. No blood? No sacrifice?
"He breaks spirits without drawing the knife," one admitted, low. "That… is stronger than blades."
Envy slithered into the cave.
"Label enemies as 'terrorists' to protect your own fields…"
Their rituals grew fevered. Captured scouts were mocked and stripped. But the echoes in the stone walls were whispers of fear, not power.
The Purépecha / Tarascan Realm (Weaponized by Desperation): Cautious Interest and Strategic Envy
The news arrived a week later, riding the roads into Tzintzuntzan's shadowed halls.
"A commoner boy rises to Cihuacoatl?" one general murmured. "Then the Mexica really have gotten desperate."
But the trial caught their eyes.
"War crimes? Fear sowers? Aren't they ones to talk?"
"And mercy? Sparing the Castilian for labor?" a priest smirked. "Calculated. Clever. But exploitable."
Confusion gave way to imitation.
"Use their words. Steal the concept. Declare them terrorists—justify our pushes."
The council's envy turned to action.
"While he sits in court, we raid. Let's see if his laws hold up."
The Zapotecs and Mixtecs (Fragmented but Proud): Neutral Intrigue and Dynastic Calculation
It took ten days for the whispers to cross the hill passes. In the valley courts, lords and matrons debated under old banners.
"A Mexica boy named Ehecatl… Cihuacoatl? Are the rumors about him true?" one noblewoman said slowly. "Twists power like vines—moves as our mothers once did?"
The trial confused.
"War crimes? Violations? As if our vendettas are terror now?"
"Sparing an enemy for labor… does that buy time? Or trade routes?"
But one strategist smiled.
"Use it. Forge neutrality pacts. Trade terms for trials. Offer 'justice' instead of tribute."
Envy flickered.
"What if we define 'terrorists'? Make rivals wear the stain?"
Dynastic scribes began to draft marriage offers—and legal clauses.
The Chichimeca (Northern Raiders): Amused Disdain and Opportunistic Raiding
Two weeks later, the winds blew it in—carried by merchant gossip and wind-bitten scouts.
The desert warbands laughed.
"Would the Mexica names us 'terrorists'?"
"'War crimes'?" one scoffed. "Words mean nothing in the dust."
They mocked the mercy.
"Sparing the enemy? Weak. He should've fed the earth."
But they weren't stupid.
"Yell his fake laws when we ambush caravans. Call them terrorists. Scare their priests."
Envy twisted into action.
More raids. More mock trials in blood and dust.
Warlords: Twisted Reactions and Escalations
Cuetlachtli (Fanboy Butcher)
News reached his caves in seven days. He wept with joy.
"Ehecatl… Cihuacoatl… judges with law? With 'war crimes'?"
"Terrorists… fear-feeders…" He shuddered. "He harvests souls legally now."
Inspired, Cuetlachtli declared his own "trials" before crucifixions—ritualized, blood-soaked parodies of court.
Tochtli (Sadist)
Ten days later, coastal captains brought the tale. He was in the middle of fucking the niece of that Tlaxcalan, Mixtli.
"So they made him Cihuacoatl? Spared Cortés? Pathetic."
"Terrorists? That sounds like what we're doing!"
He continued to savagely thrust into the girl who was weeping and whimpering, as he kept repeating the word. Entirely foreign, but he liked how it made him look.
Cihuatltecuhtli Atlauh (Noblewoman)
Two weeks to her hillside court. She leaned forward.
"'War crimes'? That justifies terror. That gives us language."
She ordered new ceremonies—trials by moonlight, public declarations before executions. Women watched. Children listened.
The matriarchy sharpened its claws.
Chimalli (Merchant)
Five days. The traders brought word mid-auction.
His laugh shook the stalls.
"War crimes? Terrorist branding? You can sell this!"
He commissioned painted verdict plaques, counterfeit judges, and staged "pardons" for a fee.
By week's end, he had a new sign over his stall:
'Justice While You Wait.'
Don Sebastián del Hierro (Rogue Tlaxcalan Conquistador)
Three days. Ties in Tlaxcala brought the news. He spat into the fire.
"'Terrorists'? 'Crimes'? Fucking Hypocrites. They burned towns too, and did a lot of terror themselves."
But envy twisted his fury.
He began wearing black court robes before raids. He called them "retrials." Victims were "enemy agents."
The message was clear:
Ehecatl doesn't own justice.