Year 8 of the SuaChie Calendar, Great Temple, Tenochtitlan.
The sun rose over Tenochtitlan, bathing the causeways and pyramids with a golden light that seemed blessed by Huitzilopochtli. Moctezuma, in his mantle of green and turquoise feathers, walked with a firm step through the palace corridors, his sandals echoing against the polished stone floor.
He had summoned the nobles for an urgent meeting in a few days, but first, he had to confront a more delicate task: persuading his uncle, the Tlatoani Ahuízotl, sovereign of the Triple Alliance.
The air smelled of incense, mixed with the fresh aroma of Lake Texcoco that filtered through the open windows. The palace walls, carved with images of jaguars and feathered serpents, seemed to watch his every step, as if the gods themselves were evaluating his determination.
Moctezuma, in his late twenties, felt the weight of his lineage and his position as Chief Priest and heir to the throne. Although he was Ahuízotl's natural successor, he deeply respected Mexica traditions and his uncle's authority.
In his mind, words swirled like leaves in a river, searching for the exact tone to present his anxieties without challenging the hierarchy. He needed to warn Ahuízotl about the ancient prophecies he had studied, which spoke of a comet and an eclipse as signs of a cosmic shift, a change he associated with the Suaza Kingdom and its child leader, Chuta.
But he also wanted to propose a strategy: to use Suaza to obtain resources and knowledge, and then, if necessary, subdue them militarily before their pluralistic worldview—which allowed each people to retain their own gods—might corrupt the Mexica order. The idea that this foreign culture could infiltrate the nobles, the conquered citizens, and even enemies like the Tlaxcaltecas filled him with visceral dread.
The corridor was flanked by guards with padded cotton armor, their obsidian macanas gleaming under the light. Priests with faces painted black and red murmured prayers, while servants carried baskets of flowers and maize toward the altars.
In one corner, one of Ahuízotl's wives, adorned with jade necklaces, conversed with a servant, their soft laughter contrasting with the tension that squeezed Moctezuma's chest.
"How do I make him understand?" he thought, stopping in front of a mural depicting Quetzalcóatl ascending to the sky.
The ideas of Suaza, presented by Chuta and his High Priest Simte, challenged everything he had learned: that the gods demanded blood, that Mexica unity depended on the supremacy of Huitzilopochtli. But the possibility that the gods were the same, merely with different names, haunted him like a shadow.
Upon reaching the meeting hall, Moctezuma paused before the entrance. The space was majestic: walls carved with scenes of Mexica victories, an imposing relief of Huitzilopochtli holding a bloody heart, and a throne of dark wood covered with jaguar skins.
The scent of copal was more intense here, the smoke spiraling up towards the open ceiling, where the sky was beginning to tinge pink. Ahuízotl, seated on the throne, received him with a nod. His face, marked by years of conquests, was imposing, but his eyes showed a familiar warmth. Beside him, two priests held ceremonial staffs, and a servant waited with a jug of pulque.
"Moctezuma, nephew," Ahuízotl said, his grave voice resonating in the hall. "Let us fulfill the protocols."
He rose, and together they performed the traditional prayers, bowing before the relief of Huitzilopochtli and offering a plea for the sun's strength. Moctezuma felt a knot in his stomach; reverence for the god was automatic, but his faith had wavered since his journey to the south.
The rituals finished, Ahuízotl sat down and looked at him with curiosity. "What is this audience for? Do you come about the Tlaxcaltecas, who continue to resist our campaigns? Or is it for the gods? Your talent with the codices is known, Chief Priest."
Moctezuma took a deep breath, ordering his thoughts. "It is not for the Tlaxcaltecas, Tlatoani, nor for a sacrifice. I come concerning a kingdom to the south, the Suaza Kingdom, its commerce, its gods, and what its ideas could mean for us."
Ahuízotl raised an eyebrow, leaning an elbow on the throne. "Suaza? Informants spoke of a distant people, merchants with strange fabrics and tools. But you say they are already here, commercially connected?"
"Yes, Tlatoani," Moctezuma responded, his voice firm but respectful. "Their ships reach our shores, bringing paper, bronze, liquors. Their leader, Chuta, an eight-year-old boy, is... unusual. They call him Son of Heaven, and his wisdom seems beyond his age. Their religion does not impose a supreme god, but unites the gods of their peoples—Muiscas, Taironas, Taínos, among many others—in harmony."
Ahuízotl frowned, his hand drumming on the armrest of the throne. "A child leader? And without one god reigning over the others? That is chaos. But their products sound valuable. Are they friendly?"
"For now, yes," said Moctezuma, choosing his words carefully. "They seek trade, even with us. But they also trade with our enemies, such as the Tlaxcaltecas, strengthening them. And their worldview..."
He paused, seeking his uncle's gaze.
"They suggest that our gods might be the same as theirs, only with different names. This idea could take hold among our nobles, among the conquered peoples, even among our citizens. It could weaken our faith, our control."
Ahuízotl leaned forward, his face hardening. "Do they insinuate that Huitzilopochtli is equal to their lesser gods? That is an affront."
"Not a direct affront," Moctezuma clarified, "but a dangerous seed. And there is more."
He pulled out a small rolled codex, brought from his studies in the Templo Mayor.
"I have read the ancient prophecies. They speak of signs in the sky: a comet with a tail of fire, an eclipse that darkens the sun, a star that shines for nights. Some promise blessings, but others warn of a change that will reshape the world."
Ahuízotl remained silent, his eyes fixed on the codex.
"Is that child a threat?" he asked, almost incredulous. "But if they trade with us, couldn't we use their resources? Their tools, their paper..."
"Yes, Tlatoani," Moctezuma replied, his voice gaining intensity. "We could leverage their knowledge, their metals, their ships. But if we allow their influence to grow, their ideas could seduce our nobles. Some are already murmuring about trading directly with Suaza. The conquered peoples, who still venerate their lesser gods, could see in Suaza a model for rebellion. And if the Tlaxcaltecas grow stronger, our alliance will fracture."
Ahuízotl stood up, walking toward the relief of Huitzilopochtli. His fingers brushed the stone, as if seeking guidance.
"Your analysis is sharp, Moctezuma. It always has been. What do you propose?"
Moctezuma felt a momentary relief; his uncle was listening. "Let us trade with them, Tlatoani. Let us take their resources, learn their techniques. But we must watch them closely. Their ideas must not reach our nobles or our enemies. And if the prophecies are true, we must be ready to act, perhaps occupy their kingdom before they surpass us."
Ahuízotl nodded slowly, his gaze lost in the relief.
"A child who brings a new order... That I had not foreseen."
He turned back to Moctezuma, a spark of admiration in his eyes.
"Your reading of the prophecies might save us. Summon the nobles, as you planned. We will discuss this with them. But keep this secret for now. I want no rumors among the priests."
Moctezuma inclined his head. "As you command, Tlatoani."
As he left the hall, the weight on his back seemed lighter, but the fear of Suaza and Chuta still pulsed in his chest. The prophecies called him, and he knew that the destiny of Tenochtitlan depended on deciphering them in time.
A Few Weeks Later.
The Templo Mayor stood imposing over Tenochtitlan, its polished stone steps gleaming under the scorching midday sun.
Weeks after his audience with the Tlatoani Ahuízotl, Moctezuma, wrapped in a mantle of green and turquoise feathers, occupied a step just below his uncle on the temple's ceremonial platform. The leaders of the Triple Alliance—the Tlatoanis of Texcoco and Tlacopan, accompanied by Mexica nobles—formed a semicircle, their faces tense beneath the weight of mantles adorned with jade and quetzal feathers.
The atmosphere was dense, charged with formality: the scent of burning copal blended with the suffocating heat, and the whispers among the nobles ceased when the penetrating gazes of Moctezuma or Ahuízotl intercepted them. Each man concealed his apprehension behind a mask of pride, aware that any sign of weakness could cost them prestige.
A group of priests, with faces painted black and red, emerged from the shadows of the temple, their white tunics stained with dark spots. They led a bound jaguar, its black coat shining like liquid obsidian.
With a flint knife, a priest cut the animal's throat, and the blood sprang forth in a crimson arc, splattering the stone as chants resonated, invoking Huitzilopochtli. The warm liquid was collected in clay bowls, and the priests sprinkled the platform with it, an augury of blessing for the meeting.
Moctezuma, with the turquoise crown weighing on his forehead, watched the nobles, his mind revolving around the Suaza Kingdom and its leader, Chuta. The prophecies he had studied—comets, eclipses, a foreigner—haunted him, and he had to convince the alliance that Suaza was both an opportunity and a threat.
Ahuízotl, seated on a portable throne covered in jaguar skins, raised a hand to silence the chants.
"Nobles of the Alliance," he proclaimed, his voice booming like a war drum, "today we speak of the Suaza Kingdom, a people to the south who rise with audacity. Moctezuma, our Chief Priest, shall guide us."
Moctezuma stepped forward, the sun reflecting on his mantle.
"The Suaza Kingdom," he began, measuring each word, "is a people with ships that cross seas, tools of bronze, and paper finer than amate. Their leader, the Young Chuta, is an eight-year-old boy they call Son of Heaven. Their armies are small; their strength depends on commerce, not war."
He paused, noting the curiosity on the faces.
"Their products are valuable, but their beliefs are strange."
A noble from Tlacopan, whose jade necklace glittered, intervened. "What goods do they offer? Are they worth our gold and cacao?"
"Shining textiles, exotic liquors, durable tools," Moctezuma replied, minimizing Suaza's capabilities as he had planned. "But their knowledge, their gods, must not cross our borders."
He looked at Ahuízotl, who nodded firmly.
"We shall trade for their goods," Ahuízotl declared, "but we shall close our doors to their knowledge. Huitzilopochtli will not tolerate ideas that fracture our faith."
The announcement surprised the nobles. Some exchanged glances, confused by the restriction but enthusiastic about the exotic products.
Moctezuma observed Nezahualpilli, Tlatoani of Texcoco, whose expression was distinct: his eyes shone with an interest that went beyond the merchandise, fixed on the ideas Moctezuma had dismissed, or at least that is what he had interpreted.
The meeting ended with chants and offerings, but the tension among the nobles remained, an undercurrent that Moctezuma knew he had to control.
Several Months Later.
The Templo Mayor stood under a clear sky, its steps drenched in fresh blood that dripped like crimson rivers toward the crowded plaza below. Moctezuma, with his face painted black and red, was at the center of the sacrificing platform, his white tunic now splattered with dark stains.
The crowd roared, a sea of euphoric faces raising their fists to the rhythm of the drums. The air reeked of blood, sweat, and copal, a stench that clung to the skin. Ahuízotl, seated on an elevated throne, watched with a mixture of pride and expectation, his feather crown gleaming under the sun.
Moctezuma had planned this sacrifice to send an unequivocal message: the alliance with the Mexica was unbreakable, their gods superior to any threat, including the Suaza worldview.
A group of priests, with precise movements like dancers, guided a line of prisoners—Tlaxcaltecas and Otomíes captured in recent battles—toward the platform. Their bodies, painted with symbols of death, trembled; sweat ran down their faces, and their eyes reflected a terror that seemed to scream in silence. Moctezuma, with Ahuízotl's permission, raised a hand to silence the crowd.
"People of Tenochtitlan," he proclaimed, his voice cutting the air like an obsidian knife, "today we punish our enemies and traitors. The ancient prophecies promise greatness to our alliance, an eternal sun guided by Huitzilopochtli."
The priests began a chant, their grave voices resonating like thunder.
[WARNING: SCENE +18, GORE INCLUDED]
The first prisoner, a Tlaxcalteca with a defiant gaze, was pushed toward Moctezuma. With an obsidian knife sharp as night, Moctezuma traced deep cuts into the man's chest, the blood spurting in rivulets that drew ritual symbols upon his skin.
Each incision was deliberate, a dialogue with the gods: curved lines for Tláloc, spirals for Quetzalcóatl. The man screamed, his voice breaking while the crowd roared. Moctezuma, with a swift motion, slit his throat, and the blood splashed onto his face, warm and sticky. A priest severed the head, raising it to the sky, and the plaza erupted in cheers, the drums redoubling with fury.
The next prisoner, a young Otomí, was laid upon the stone altar, his wrists and ankles tied with maguey ropes. Moctezuma plunged his knife into the man's chest, the blade crunching against the ribs.
The Otomí's screams were harrowing, echoing over the clamor of the multitude, as Moctezuma extracted the liver and lungs, still pulsating, and offered them to the sun. The blood ran down the altar, dripping toward the steps, and the metallic odor filled the air. The attendees, with painted faces, danced to the rhythm of the drums, while the remaining prisoners trembled, some sobbing, others staring into the void.
Moctezuma varied each sacrifice, seeking a deeper dialogue with the gods. He had studied the prophecies and wanted to counteract his fear of the Suaza Kingdom with this ritual.
For the third man, he cut the abdomen with surgical precision, letting the blood flow slowly while carving symbols of war.
The fourth was partially flayed before being decapitated, his skin hanging as an offering to Xipe Tótec. Every death was a message: Huitzilopochtli would prevail over Chuta's pluralistic beliefs.
But upon reaching the seventh prisoner, something changed.
Moctezuma, with a fierce swiftness, opened the man's chest, a Tlaxcalteca with eyes wide with terror. He extracted the heart with a single motion, the blood splashing his chest and face.
For an instant, his eyes met those of the prisoner, and Moctezuma saw life fading, as if the man had contemplated his own heart beating in the priest's hand. The scene shook him, a cold current running down his spine, as if the gods were judging him.
Then, a brilliant flash crossed the sky to the east, not the glare of the sun, but a fleeting spark, like a star falling in the middle of the day.
Moctezuma, with the heart still pulsating in his hand, looked up and cried: "An augury from Huitzilopochtli! Our future is assured!"
The crowd erupted in a deafening roar, the drums thundering like the world's heartbeat. Ahuízotl stood up, his face illuminated by surprise. The nobles, aligned on the sides, murmured, some with fervor, others with caution.
Nezahualpilli, always observant, inclined his head, but his eyes followed the horizon, as if searching for a different meaning.
Moctezuma, in an act of zeal, brought the heart to his mouth, biting into it fiercely. The metallic taste flooded his palate, and a fierce clarity replaced his doubts.
"The gods have spoken," he thought, his gaze fixed on the fading flash. "The alliance shall prevail."
The sacrifices continued, the blood running like rivers down the steps, the air vibrating with the cries of the prisoners and the cheers of the multitude.
Moctezuma, with every cut, felt Huitzilopochtli closer, his faith renewed by the augury. The Mexica alliance would resist, and he, as priest and heir, would crush any threat, human or divine.
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[A/N: CHPATER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Today we have perhaps the first R18 scene of the novel, and it wasn't smut.
The perspective continued, and perhaps it will continue, or we'll have a new character.
Who knows?
By the way, the flash Moctezuma saw is a comet.
UFD: A comet called C/1490 Y1 passed close to Earth in 1490. The most solid and detailed historical records of the comet come from astronomers in China, Japan, and Korea. These cultures had very advanced and meticulous systems for documenting celestial events. However, no such comet appears in the records of the Aztecs.
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Read my other novels.
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#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis. (Chapter 31) (INTERMITTENT)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 10) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]