The moon was shy tonight. Clouds draped the sky like old cloth, soaking up the silver light and leaving only shadow to guide them.
That was fine.
Ehecatl preferred it this way.
They moved silently, two shapes cloaked in rags and ash, barefoot across the muddy banks of the eastern canal. The water was low and slow — not ideal, but still deep enough if he timed it right. Just ahead, Teyalli walked with her shoulders hunched and head bowed, hair wild, skin smeared to look ghostly pale. The old woman followed a few paces behind, bent and ragged, clutching a worn basket she'd filled with weeds to look the part of a forager.
The road up ahead was narrow. It curved along the canal's edge — a perfect blind spot where he could lie hidden under the brush. Ehecatl crouched low, disappearing beneath a curtain of reeds and mud as his eyes scanned the tree line. He listened.
And waited.
Then… faint voices.
A patrol — four of them.
They came into view slowly, three young Tlaxcalan men and one older one behind. Spears slung over shoulders, they walked lazy and wide-legged, like they owned the path.
Teyalli stepped out.
She didn't say anything yet. She didn't need to.
Just the sound of her walking barefoot along the edge of the road — with a limp, clutching her stomach like something broken inside her — was enough to make the lead warrior squint.
"Hey," one of them said. "Who's that?"
"Looks like a ghost," another muttered.
The older warrior narrowed his eyes. "Quiet. That could be—"
"—Nah, nah, nah," the youngest one grinned, nudging past the others. "She's just some crazy girl. I'll check her."
Ehecatl's grip tightened around the obsidian shard he held in his palm.
Teyalli slowed… then raised a trembling hand and pointed.
"It's you," she whispered, loud enough for them to hear. "I finally found you."
The warrior paused.
"What?"
"My baby," she said, eyes wide, voice cracking. "You're my baby. Come back to me… please…"
The others froze.
"What the fuck…" one whispered.
The young warrior looked back, confused, unnerved — just enough for his guard to lower.
CRASH!
From behind the trees, Ehecatl hurled a jagged clay pot toward the path — it shattered against a rock near the older warrior's feet. Sharp noise. Sudden. Jarring.
Just as planned.
They all turned toward it.
Teyalli ran.
By the time the boy turned back around, he caught only a blur — and then Ehecatl was on him.
The two hit the canal with a wet splash, water exploding around them as Ehecatl dragged him under. The warrior kicked. Flailed. Tried to scream. Ehecatl shoved a knee into his ribs, wrapped one arm around his neck, and drove him deeper into the muck.
The panic didn't last long.
The water was calm again.
From above, Ehecatl could hear one of the warriors yelling:
"What was that?! Where did he go?!"
"He fell in—? Wait, she's gone too!"
"What… what the hell is going on?!"
"It's… it's her. Cihuacóatl. She's real."
They ran.
Just as he predicted — none of them dared to investigate.
Ehecatl surfaced quietly, the warrior's limp body clutched by the underarm. No blood. No marks. Just a missing patrolman and a memory of a weeping woman pointing into their soul.
No one celebrated the victory.
If you could even call it that.
The next morning, the mood around the camp was uneasy. The air hung heavy, and everyone spoke quieter than usual. Even the children didn't make a sound.
Teyalli stayed apart from the others, sitting by the canal, staring at the water like it might rise up and grab her. The old woman who'd gone with her was praying again, whispering under her breath, tracing symbols in the dirt.
The others avoided them both.
When Ehecatl came back from dumping the body, he could feel it. The looks. The small movements when he passed by. The space they left between him and themselves.
Cihuatzin was the first to say it.
"We shouldn't do that again."
Her voice was calm, but firm.
Ehecatl turned. "What?"
"That thing you made them do. Pretending to be Cihuacóatl. It's wrong."
He laughed. Short. Dry. "Wrong? You think there's a right way to survive?"
No one answered.
He looked around the group, at their faces. Tired. Frightened. Silent.
"It worked," he said. "They ran. They didn't come back. We have space now."
"Space?" Cihuatzin said. "We also have bad luck following us now. You don't mock the gods. You don't take their names in your mouth. You don't dress like them and play at being them."
The old man nodded slowly. "Maybe she's right. We've survived this long without doing that kind of thing."
Ehecatl's jaw tightened.
"Survived?" he said. "You call this surviving?"
He pointed at their fire — small, flickering, barely warm enough to boil the filthy water they called soup.
"You think this is living? You think this is enough?"
No one spoke.
He took a step forward, voice starting to shake.
"I've done everything. I go out every night. I train. I push myself until I can't move. I risk getting caught. I steal food. I fight when I have to. And what do you do?"
His voice rose, cracking from exhaustion and anger.
"You sit here and pray! You tell me not to bring more mouths to feed, not to ask for help, not to scare the ones trying to kill us—so what the fuck am I supposed to do, huh?!"
Teyalli flinched but didn't move.
"You don't want to fight, fine. You don't want to scavenge, fine. But don't sit here and act like I'm the problem because I'm the only one doing anything!"
Cihuatzin stood. "You're talking like a child."
"I am a child!" Ehecatl snapped. "And I'm still doing more than anyone here!"
He took a breath, trembling now. His words came fast, spilling out before he could stop himself.
"Do you think I like this? You think I enjoy any of this? I'm tired. I'm starving. I've killed. I've dragged bodies into water. And all of you—"
"—you still treat me like I'm some lunatic with too many ideas."
Silence. Just the crackling fire and the sound of someone quietly crying in the corner.
Ehecatl's fists clenched.
"Where are the gods you're so afraid of offending?" he said finally, voice low. "Where are they when the Caxtilteca take your daughters? When your sons hang from trees? When the city burns?"
He looked around. No one met his eyes.
"They're not coming," he said. "No one's coming. It's just us."
He gestured to the shelter — the mud walls, the dying fire, the half‑empty bowls.
"What we have now? It won't last. The others will find us. The Caxtilteca will move in and finish what they started. And when that happens, your prayers won't mean shit."
He dragged a hand down his face, the anger still boiling but fading into something else — exhaustion.
"All I ever asked for was help. One extra hand. A little more effort. I haven't touched a single woman here. Haven't forced anyone. Haven't taken anything that wasn't mine. All I've done is try to keep you alive."
He looked at them one last time.
"So if you don't like how I do it… you can leave. Or you can start helping. Because I can't keep doing this alone."
He turned away and kicked a broken pot across the floor, the sound echoing through the canal tunnel like a gunshot.
Then he slumped down against the wall, head in his hands, chest heaving.
No one said anything after that. Not for a long time.