He hadn't asked for their input.
After that night's training, Ehecatl made it clear what the next phase would look like—especially for Teyalli. Seduction, deception, baiting the Caxtilteca themselves once the other allies pulled out.
The others hadn't said much at the time. But by the following morning, as they gathered around the cookfire and divided scraps of dried maize and whatever little else Ehecatl had scavenged, the silence hung thick.
Even the air felt different. Heavier. Unspoken tension crawled into the space between them.
Teyalli sat cross-legged, hands around a clay cup of warm water. She hadn't touched her food. The older woman who'd accompanied her during the last mission gently placed a hand on her shoulder. No words—just quiet reassurance.
Cihuatzin, for once, hadn't opened her mouth. Her face looked tired. Not angry. Not haughty. Just tired. Even she couldn't throw noble barbs after last night's outburst.
The two younger boys, Cuatli and Izcauatzin, didn't meet anyone's gaze. They sat near the edge of the circle, knees pulled up, occasionally glancing at Ehecatl like they were waiting for the next order—or punishment.
"So that's it?" one of the older men finally asked. His voice wasn't defiant. Just worn. "We… we lure them in like prey?"
Ehecatl didn't answer immediately. He was squatting nearby, sharpening the edge of a scavenged blade. His expression didn't change.
"You saw what happened to our people," Ehecatl finally said. "That wasn't war. That was slaughter. And it didn't stop. It's still going. So if you want to call it unfair, fine. But I'm not asking for opinions."
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to.
The older man swallowed hard and looked down at the dirt.
"We weren't trained for this," another woman murmured. "We were cooks. Market vendors. Runners. I… I don't know how to kill."
Teyalli glanced at her. Then looked down again.
"Not all of us do," Ehecatl said. "That's the point of training."
A pause.
"You don't need to fight like warriors. You just need to fight to live."
That sat heavy in their bones. And in their silence, the cracks in denial began to widen.
Because deep down, they knew.
They knew this couldn't last.
They knew Ehecatl was right.
They knew that whatever small corner of Tenochtitlan they had claimed as their refuge would eventually be swept over—by looters, by rival survivors, or by Caxtilteca steel.
It was only a matter of time.
"He's right," muttered Cuatli, the younger of the boys. "We're not going to survive like this forever. Might as well learn to punch."
The older woman nodded grimly. "I don't want to be caught helpless again."
Another woman added quietly, "I'll help Teyalli next time. We can trade shifts. Rotate."
The older man who'd questioned earlier finally sighed.
"What do you need me to do, Ehecatl?"
Ehecatl looked up, just for a second. His eyes scanned the group—not with pride, but with calculation. They were shifting, slowly. Breaking free from their illusion that hiding and praying would keep them safe.
He simply said:
"I'll assign roles tonight. Get your rest."
And without another word, he stood and walked out into the fading light, disappearing toward the broken streets.
Behind him, the group sat in silence.
They were afraid.
But they were also beginning to accept the truth.
They would either adapt—or die.
And Ehecatl had just made it clear: survival meant contribution. Hesitation would no longer be tolerated.
It had been three weeks since Ehecatl drew the line.
Three weeks since training had become mandatory.
Three weeks since the group began working like a single, breathing body—not out of love, not out of hope, but because survival finally outweighed fear.
And in those three weeks, they'd become something else.
Something frightening.
Something whispered about.
Something avoided.
The first time it worked was with Teyalli again.
She walked alone, slow, limbs swaying unnaturally as she wandered the edge of the dried canal. The broken obsidian shards glued to her body glistened like bone under the overcast sun. Her blackened face paint streaked with chalk and mud made her eyes look dead—empty. She looked like a thing that wasn't meant to be living.
They'd practiced that walk.
Ehecatl told her to look like her soul had left her behind.
When the scouts from Tlaxcala spotted her, they were hesitant. One of them stepped forward cautiously, cracking a joke to the others in Nahuatl about "another broken doll for the taking."
She raised a trembling hand.
Pointed at him.
"My son…" she croaked.
Right then, Ehecatl lit a torch from the rooftop above and hurled it toward the brush behind the patrol. The explosion of dry grass and flame yanked every head away for just a few seconds.
And in those seconds, Cuatli—his short blade in hand—lunged out of the water like a serpent and dragged the target down beneath the surface.
The scout never came back up.
When the others turned back, both Teyalli and their comrade were gone.
They didn't even chase.
They just ran.
That was the first of many.
They changed masks, strategies, and rhythms each time. The goal wasn't to slaughter. It was to terrify. To divide. To make them question every patrol, every ruined wall, every sound.
Sometimes, Ehecatl dressed in pitch-black rags, smeared his face with blood and charcoal, and tied on a wooden jaguar mask. He didn't say anything. Just stood in the fog among the ruins before vanishing.
Others swore they saw Tezcatlipoca himself watching them from behind walls.
Once, during daylight, Ehecatl painted his face like Huitzilopochtli, donned a scavenged feathered crest, and screamed into the wind a deep, guttural battle chant—something between a Mexica war cry and the Haka he'd remembered from late-night videos back in the 21st century. The sound didn't belong in this world.
And when the patrols looked up, they saw a horde of maddened, screeching survivors charging from the ruins with sharpened spears, knives, and burning sticks.
The Caxtilteca's native allies began to avoid the area.
"The gods walk there," they muttered.
"Something happened in those streets."
"We don't speak of the haunted district."
Some called it cursed. Others thought it a test.
It worked.
Scouting patrols diverted paths. Messengers refused to cross through that section of the ruins. Some even began whispering that the dead Mexica had returned to purge the traitors.
But not the Caxtilteca.
They were skeptical.
Confused.
Curious.
They started watching.
Waiting.
And Ehecatl knew: the easy part was over.
What came next would be bloodier.
But for now?
They had space. They had breathing room. And for the first time since the city had fallen…
They had fear on their side.
1. Tlaxcalteca Scout – Coatl's POV
They hadn't even entered the district yet.
They were just near it—along the edge of the causeway. But Coatl's jaw was clenched. His eyes scanned the ruined stone doorways and crumbled altars of the once-glorious Mexica homes. He gripped his spear tighter as they passed the water-scarred remnants of a temple.
"Do you hear that?" asked one of the others.
The silence.
Not the kind that meant peace—but the kind that waited.
They didn't talk. They marched quicker. One of them mumbled a prayer to Camaxtli under his breath. Coatl said nothing, but when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, he turned.
Just the wind.
But… was it?
⸻
2. Mexica Concubine – Atl's POV
She wasn't allowed to speak during meal hours, but that day the Tlaxcalteca guards were whispering among themselves. One of them said they saw Tezcatlipoca. Another swore Cihuacoatl dragged one of their comrades into the canals.
Atl didn't lift her head—but her fingers trembled over the woven basket of roasted maize.
The gods haven't abandoned us.
For the first time since being taken as a spoil, she felt a tight knot of hope creep up her throat.
She swallowed it down quickly.
But that night, she carved the sign of Huitzilopochtli into the underside of her sleeping mat.
⸻
3. Totonac Warrior – Cipac's POV
He wasn't superstitious.
He'd fought the Mexica in the lowlands. He'd helped burn their temples in Zempoala. He'd even pissed on the body of a high priest once.
But this was different.
They'd lost a man last patrol. One second he was there, and the next he was gone. They found nothing. No blood. No footprints. No signs of a struggle.
The rumors were getting louder.
"It's the dead."
"It's Huitzilopochtli."
"They're not rebels—they're ghosts."
He spit in the mud, then whispered a Totonac charm against evil spirits and cursed himself for doing it.
⸻
4. Mexica Slave – Itzcuintli's POV
The Caxtilteca's fort had a dozen slaves chained in its courtyard. Itzcuintli was one of them—one eye swollen shut from a recent beating. He rarely spoke unless ordered.
But when he overheard the Totonac guards arguing about the haunted Mexica quarter, he almost laughed.
Now you're scared?
He sat up straighter. Let the bruises throb. Let the chains dig into his wrists.
Because if the gods had returned—or even if it was just someone pretending to be them—then there was still a spark left in the ashes.
⸻
5. Cholulteca Envoy – Tecuani's POV
At the southern encampment, Tecuani raised his voice with boldness he didn't feel.
"This is not strategy. This is madness."
He stood before a council of Caxtilteca officers. Some smirked. Others rolled their eyes.
"Your patrols vanish. Your scouts refuse to enter certain districts. Entire neighborhoods now stand untouched. What does it matter if we took the capital if you can't even walk inside it?"
The Caxtilteca captain leaned forward, expression tight.
"You think we're afraid of ghost stories?"
"No," Tecuani replied. "But your men are. And that fear spreads."
⸻
6. The Tongue – Malinalli's POV
She wasn't born a soldier, but after over a year beside the Spaniards, she'd learned how to command.
Still, when her own men—the warriors from Xochimilco and Huexotzinco—started refusing orders to patrol certain areas of Tenochtitlan, Malinalli had to reconsider.
Something was happening.
At first, she suspected some Mexica priest had survived. Then, she heard the ridiculous claims:
"Cihuacoatl walks again."
"Tezcatlipoca watches us."
"Huitzilopochtli sings the battle chant."
She dismissed it. At first.
But now even her Spanish handlers were asking questions. The friars were concerned about the morale. The commanders? Annoyed at the delays.
They would want answers soon.
And Malinalli knew… answers meant blood.