The next morning came, quiet and gray.
No one spoke.
They avoided his eyes. Averted their faces. Whispered when they thought he couldn't hear.
The two children stayed close to the old man. The young men sat awkwardly at the edge of the shelter, fidgeting with rocks and broken tools, pretending to be busy.
Teyalli glanced at him once while stirring a pot of bitter broth, then looked away.
Even Cihuatzin didn't say anything. No insult, no quip, no sharp retort.
Just silence.
Ehecatl leaned against a crumbling wall with his arms crossed, watching it all.
And for the first time…
He didn't feel guilty for yelling.
He felt tired, yes — but not guilty.
They were scared. Some of them looked ashamed. Good.
It wasn't about scaring them into worship. This wasn't about control. It was about survival. And last night, they finally heard him.
Maybe this is why leaders are firm. Not cruel — just firm. Strict. No room for softness. Not when lives are at stake.
The thought came uninvited. But it stayed.
He remembered back when he used to work a part-time job in the 21st century. The kind where you show up late, slack off a little, and no one says much.
There was always that one chill manager.
Cool with everyone. Friendly. Never raised their voice.
And he remembered exactly what he did under that kind of boss.
I slacked off. Took longer breaks. Moved slower. I knew I could get away with it.
But the strict one? The serious manager who didn't take shit from anyone?
Oh, under that one, he moved his ass. Did the work. Didn't even think about slipping.
People don't respond to kindness when they're comfortable. They respond to expectations when they're scared. That's just how it is.
He'd been too soft.
He never pushed them. Never made demands.
He thought just helping, providing food, and keeping everyone alive would make them appreciate him.
But no.
They treated him like the chill manager.
Until he snapped.
And now?
Now they were quiet. They were listening.
Maybe I've been doing it wrong.
He watched the group eat slowly, quietly. No one complained about the taste. No one said it wasn't enough.
For once.
Cihuatzin avoided his gaze. Teyalli looked up at him again. Hesitant. Thoughtful.
The old man pretended not to notice the way everyone kept checking on him from the corners of their eyes.
If I'm going to lead… I have to lead.
Not babysit. Not beg. Not hope.
He shifted his weight, feeling the sharp ache in his legs from all the conditioning, the bruises that never quite healed.
I need to hold them accountable. Push them. Expect more. Demand more. Not because I'm cruel — but because I care.
They'll die if I don't.
The silence wasn't just from fear.
It was respect.
Maybe not the kind you like, but the kind that gets people moving.
He closed his eyes for a second and took a breath. Then opened them again.
Alright then.
Enough playing nice.
And with a voice that cut through the morning silence like a blade through rotten rope, he spoke:
"It's time I stop being soft with all of you."
Everyone froze. The stew stopped being stirred. Hands stopped moving. Even the old man looked up.
"I've been trying to keep everything afloat by myself. That's not going to cut it anymore."
He stepped forward, slowly, scanning their faces one by one. No yelling this time. No crashing out.
Just cold truth.
"If even one or two more people helped me gather food, we'd eat more. We'd stock more. We'd be better off. But instead? I'm still the only one risking myself every night while the rest of you wait to see what I bring back."
Cihuatzin's mouth twitched like she wanted to talk.
He shut it down with a glance.
"I'm done begging. From now on, everyone contributes. And I mean everyone. No exceptions."
He turned to Teyalli for a moment — not angry, not pitying — just firm.
"If Teyalli, or any of the other women, contribute helping imitate Cihuacoatl, good. Because here's what'll happen: the native allies will get spooked. They'll stop patrolling the area. And you know who'll have to take their place?"
He paused.
Someone whispered under their breath.
He answered anyway:
"The Caxtilteca themselves."
He let the word sit heavy in the air.
"And that's who I want around."
Cihuatzin frowned. "Why would you want more Caxtilteca around?"
He didn't even blink.
"Because I'd rather deal with them directly. The more that die, the weaker their hold becomes. Less soldiers for Malinztin to command. Less pressure on us. And the more paranoid they become, the more mistakes they make."
He pointed toward the canals.
"If a patrol disappears and people think it was Cihuacoatl who took them? That's power. That's breathing room. That's space we can scavenge without looking over our shoulders."
He glanced over the group again.
"I don't care about the Tlaxcalteca. I don't care about the Otomi or the Chololteca or whoever else allied with the Caxtilteca. They're pawns. Tools. They'll turn on each other eventually. But the real problem is the Caxtilteca. They're the ones who brought this plague. They're the ones who'll never leave."
Another pause.
"But that's a talk for another day."
He lowered his arms and stood fully upright, posture rigid.
"What I want now — starting today — is for everyone to contribute. Whether it's scavenging, guarding, building, scouting, digging, watching the children. I don't care what it is. But do something."
His eyes narrowed.
"If you won't help, then leave. I'm not keeping anyone here who thinks they can freeload forever. If you want to fend for yourself? Go. But don't expect me to protect or feed you."
No one responded.
Even the wind kept still.
The old man looked down at his bowl. The children shrank a little. The young men avoided his gaze.
Cihuatzin said nothing. Not even a smirk.
And Ehecatl?
He meant every word.
He didn't need a vote.
This wasn't a democracy.
This was survival.
And starting now, it would be earned.
Silence still lingered.
The kind of silence that scratches at the back of your throat. No cough. No shifting. No one dared move.
And then—
"I just think," one of the young men muttered, voice thin, "that maybe this isn't the right way. Making her dress like a goddess, I mean. It's dangerous. Blasphemous."
Ehecatl turned.
Not fast. Not aggressive.
Just slow enough to make the man flinch.
"You don't like how I do things?"
He took a step closer.
"Then take the lead."
The boy blinked. "What—?"
"Go out. Go find food. Go kill a patrol. Go pick which houses haven't been picked clean. Show me your better way."
No answer.
"Or leave. No one's stopping you."
Still no answer.
Ehecatl's eyes narrowed.
"Or," he said, voice dropping low, "sit the fuck down. And listen."
The silence returned.
This time, it tasted like swallowed pride and bruised ego.
The older woman, the one who had walked with Teyalli, gave a quiet nod of support. She didn't speak, but she shifted closer to Teyalli, gently brushing her fingers against the younger woman's elbow. A silent way of saying, you did good.
Cihuatzin clicked her tongue, arms crossed.
"You going to threaten us every time now?"
"Not threaten," Ehecatl said. "Remind."
Cihuatzin scoffed. "Feels like the same thing."
"Good. Maybe you'll finally take it seriously."
Another silence. He could see the guilt beginning to sink into their eyes. Even the stubborn ones.
"Look," he said, exhaling hard, "I don't want to become someone I hate. But what choice have I got? You think I like yelling? You think I like fighting with people I'm trying to protect?"
He looked toward the younger children, then back at the group.
"This place—this moment—we got lucky. But it won't last. So either we fight to keep it or we lose it. And when that happens, you better hope your gods are listening because I won't be there to hold your hand through it."
He left them with that. The final word had barely settled before—
"Tch," Cihuatzin muttered loud enough for all to hear. "You speak like a warrior but act like a mule. What kind of plan is this anyway? Dressing up a girl, attacking patrols, pretending you're a general—"
"Cihuatzin," Ehecatl said without even turning around, "you especially… are getting on my last fucking nerve."
She straightened. The women beside her went still. A few of the children looked at each other with wide eyes.
"You act like your words matter more than anyone else's. Like your title still means something. But in case you haven't noticed—your nobility doesn't mean shit out here."
The sharpness of his voice made even the older woman beside Teyalli flinch.
"You're no different than anyone else in this group. Actually? You're worse off."
Cihuatzin's mouth opened, stunned. Ehecatl didn't give her a chance to speak.
"You think the Caxtilteca and their allies hate the macehualtin? You think they're hunting commoners? No. It's you they really want. You, with your pipiltin pride. You, with your nose in the air and your bloodline they'd love to spill."
He stepped closer, pointing toward the opening of the ruined chamber that passed for their shelter.
"Out there? You're not a priest's daughter. You're not a noblewoman. You're a bedwarmer at best, if you're lucky. A trophy to be dragged, broken, and tossed aside once they're done reminding you who runs this new world."
Cihuatzin looked ready to speak, her hands trembling with tension.
"Do you even know if your family's still alive?" Ehecatl asked, lower now, but sharper. "Do you have land? Titles? Jewelry? Power? Wealth?"
He leaned forward.
"You've got nothing."
His voice never broke.
"So you can bitch and whine out there… and stay out there. Or you can shut the fuck up and help—like the rest of us."
No one dared speak. Not the boys. Not the elders. Not even Teyalli.
Ehecatl didn't enjoy humiliating her—but it had to be said. Not because she was noble. But because she had become their loudest obstacle. Sneeze wrong and she'd scoff. Offer ideas and she'd scoff harder. Always ready to complain. Never ready to carry weight.
"I take criticism just fine," he added. "But with you? I could hand you your next meal and you'd still find a way to look down your nose at me."
A long pause. The fire crackled behind him. The still-lingering smoke of last night's bitter corn cobs made the air feel thick.
"So I'll say it one last time: Let go of your pride. Or go find out just how long you last without us."
For a moment, the only sound was the wind slipping through the gaps in the broken stone walls.
Cihuatzin didn't say anything.
Her mouth was parted, trembling. Her jaw clenched, then loosened. Her eyes glistened—but she didn't cry. Pride wouldn't allow it. Not here. Not in front of them.
She looked at the others, half-expecting someone to speak for her.
No one did.
The older woman beside Teyalli looked down at her knees.
One of the young boys, Itzopilli, kept his gaze glued to the dirt.
Even Teyalli didn't meet her eyes.
Reality had finally touched her. And for the first time since this entire nightmare began—she had nothing to hide behind.
No servants.
No titles.
No family name anyone here gave a damn about.
Ehecatl didn't say anything more. He didn't have to. The silence said it all.
Cihuatzin lowered her head and sat down slowly, hands resting on her lap. She didn't look at anyone. She didn't mutter a word.
But she didn't leave either.
And that was enough—for now.
Ehecatl exhaled through his nose. The fire in him still burned, but it no longer roared. He scanned the group.
Some were still watching her.
Others were watching him.
Good. Let them think about it. Let them all feel it.
This wasn't about cruelty.
It was about survival.
And if he had to drag them out of their illusions, then so be it.
They had to wake up—before it was too late.