It started at dawn…
A group of Tlaxcalan warriors, about eight of them, walk cautiously near the foggy outskirts of Ehecatl's controlled territory that's been known as the haunted zone. They come lightly armed—no banners, no drums, just offerings: two steel swords, powder flasks, salted pork, and one very hasty wrapped arquebus they probably stole from a dead Castillian.
"We come in peace!" one of them calls. "We've come to parlay with Ehecatl!"
They wait. The hills are silent.
One of them steps forward holding the arquebus aloft like it's a divine offering.
"We only wish to learn. To fight together! We share a common enemy—"
BANG
BANG-BANG-BANG
Suddenly, six red flashes ignite from the treeline. No warnings. No mercy. No parlay.
One arrow slices through a man's throat mid-sentence.
Another gets dropped by a well-placed arquebus shot to the chest.
One tries to run. He doesn't make it to the third step.
In under 90 seconds, the patrol is gone.
Their red and white headbands are collected like war trophies.
Ehecatl arrived shortly afterwards.
He walks over the corpses with zero emotion, his boots crunching over bones and broken pride. One of his men picks up the salted pork. Another grabs the arquebus.
"What a waste," one of his men mutters.
Ehecatl responds, deadpan:
"Perhaps for the dumb fucks thinking they could parlay with me, but for us it's not a waste. These idiots were useful training targets… and even brought us supplies."
He personally rips the red and white Tlaxcalan headband off one corpse and throws it into the mud, stepping on it.
"Let's just hope they keep coming back bearing more gifts…"
…
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Tlaxcalan Camp Reactions:
Inside their camp, panic simmers under the surface. Some cry foul, claiming
"We tried peace! We went to him only to make peace!"
"The boy is a savage. A disgrace of the Mexica."
"Today it's the Caxtilteca… tomorrow it's anyone who has sided with the Caxtilteca."
Others are quietly terrified. Because deep down, things like this keep reinforcing the idea that, the Mexica under Ehecatl didn't kill just for defense anymore. They killed to make a point, they humiliate and leave their enemies in horrible states to make a point.
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…
Message to a Caged Emperor
From the Tlaxcalteca Council to Cuauhtémoc, Lord of Tenochtitlan, still confined yet never silent.
The tlaxcalan messenger speaks softly, the delivery respectful — escorted by a small noble retinue dressed humbly, weapons sheathed, heads bowed.
"Great Cuauhtémoc, Huey Tlatoani of Tenochtitlan…"
"We ask of you not as victors, but as those who have tasted the poison of their own choices. We do not ask forgiveness — for we know what was done cannot be undone."
"We come with news, and a plea — one born of survival, not arrogance. A new fire walks among your people. One who burns with no leash and no lord but war."
"This Ehecatl… this child of vengeance. He does not see allies, only obstacles. He spits on words of truce. He loots offerings. He clothes our dead in mockery and leaves them for vultures to pick clean."
"We do not ask for kinship. We do not ask for favor. We ask this: speak to your kin. Speak to this whirlwind if he still listens to you. Curb the bloodlust before it turns not just against our heads — but against every city that does not carry your name."
"For if Ehecatl is the future… then there will be none left to witness it."
Cuauhtémoc's Reaction
He hears the Tlaxcalteca messenger.
Then re-heard it again.
And for the first time in weeks, he laughs — not out of joy, but disbelief.
"Now they call to me?"
"Now they want to talk?"
His advisors lean in. The guards grow tense. He says:
"Let them come. I will send an answer. But they may not like what they hear."
Cuauhtémoc's Internal Monologue
(Upon hearing the Tlaxcalteca messenger, weeks after Cortés himself sent envoys asking for calm)
He sat motionless, save for the subtle shift of his fingers pressing against his tilmatli.
"First Cortés, now them."
His eyes flickered across the messenger's face— measured, desperate, formal — from a man who've celebrated his city's fall with Castillian wine and looted gold, along with the rest of the tlaxcalteca and all others.
"The same ones who spat on the backs of fleeing Tenocha mothers… now whisper pleas through messengers like reeds in the wind."
He remembered the last envoy of Cortés — polished, trained, smiling as he asked Cuauhtémoc to speak sense into the growing rebellion.
"Cortés came asking me to calm my kin. Tlaxcala now begs me to leash a storm I did not summon."
A bitter smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Poetic… isn't it?"
Once, he had been dragged through the streets in chains. Now, from that same prison, they seek his voice to rein in a boy born of fire and fury — a boy named after the wind.
"They feared my armies once. Now they fear a single ember I never lit."
"Fuck em, let them fear. Let them learn."
Still… a part of him stirred — not pity, but calculation.
"If Ehecatl is the storm… perhaps I still am the thunder."
Cuauhtémoc's Response to the Tlaxcalteca Envoys
"To the Honored Sons of Tlaxcallan,
I receive your words with the weight they deserve.
I, Cuauhtémoc, once bathed in the smoke of burning temples, now breathe in silence behind walls not my own.
You speak of my 'people' as if I hold their reins.
But when did Tlaxcallan ever call me Huey Tlatoani?
When did you bow when we stood tall?
I do not command the wind that now is breathing life through the valley.
Nor do I sing the songs that fill your ears with thunder.
If you fear those who were once hunted—perhaps it is the echo of your own hunt that returns.
If you seek peace, then sow it.
If you desire wisdom, then remember silence before offense.
I remain.
I endure.
I observe."
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The Tlaxcalteca War Council Reacts to Cuauhtémoc's Response
Elder Xochitototl Slams the Table
"He mocks us!"
The old noble snarled, voice thick with age and outrage.
"The boy rotting behind palace walls dares send riddles while his dogs dress our warriors in skirts and shoot them for sport?"
A younger captain, more pragmatic, tries to ease the tension.
"It was never wise to call him. He no longer commands Ehecatl. If he ever did."
"This is proof. The Mexica have split in spirit, but not in blood. Their hatred for us runs deeper than any Caxtilteca blade."
Another replies bitterly:
"So what now? We ask the Caxtilteca for arquebuses, they give us lies. We ask the Mexica for mercy, they give us bullets."
They all knew the truth.
One word keeps ringing: Malinalli.
Even their own wives and daughters had started hearing the term spat at them by Mexica rebels:
"Malinalli" — the traitor's flower.
It stung worse than "heathen" or "dog."
It meant their women would be viewed as whores, as bootlickers, as sell-outs.
Elder Tepopoch's Cold Take
"We should've crushed Tenochtitlan ourselves,"
he mutters, bitterly.
"Not held Cortés's leash. We held him up so high, he forgot who gave him the rope."
He spits to the ground.
And then he says what no one wants to hear.
"We must consider retreat. Or revolt."
A few freeze.
"Not yet against the Caxtilteca. But if Ehecatl continues to steal weapons, kill our patrols, and shame our people, we must consider whether the alliance is worth dying for."
"We did not betray the Mexica just to die like them."
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The Final Parley
At the perimeter of Ehecatl's rebel-controlled zone, in the early morning, grey clouds looming, vultures circling the skies. After several failed attempts—shouted pleas and untouched tribute left under watchful eyes—the Mexica rebels finally responded. A single Tlaxcalteca envoy is granted entry… under strict conditions.
Arrival
The Tlaxcalteca envoy is blindfolded. His hands are tied behind his back—not tight, but firm. Armed Mexica patrol escort him through unfamiliar terrain, past barricades of looted carts, shattered arms, and mutilated Caxtilteca corpses strung up with chilling poetry carved into their flesh.
The smell of blood and ash hangs thick.
The blindfold is removed.
The first thing he sees?
Ehecatl.
Not on a throne.
Not in some priestly robe.
But sitting on a ruined stone column, armored in pieced-together cuirass. A steel sword rests lazily on the stone column.
"What do you Tlaxcaltecas want?"
Tlaxcalteca Envoy (elder-class warrior, not a noble)
He swallows. His tongue is dry. But he speaks.
"We… we bring no weapons. No spies. No Caxtilteca lies."
He kneels—slowly—avoiding sudden movements.
"We bring tribute. Not bribes. Not threats. We bring a question… and a hope."
"You kill us. Fair enough. We once did the same."
"But you kill only us. Even when we come alone. Even when we come in peace."
He glances up, seeing Ehecatl's expression for the first time. The face of youth—and wrath.
"Do you hate all Tlaxcalteca… or only the traitors?"
"Some of us—not all—only seek to live. To learn. If the Caxtilteca have lied to us too… and if they mean to use us and discard us… then we wish to know—"
He hesitates, then dares to finish:
"—is there any place under the sun where a Tlaxcalteca might die not as a traitor?"
"You're wrong. We kill ALL of you. Caxtilteca, tlaxcalteca, cholulteca, totonaca, tepaneca, and any other who've been mexica enemies or former allies. If you'd like I can take you to see our shooting range to see for yourself after this. We hate all those who've had a hand in the mexica downfall equally, and yet… despite my hatred I do understand why your people chose to side with the Caxtilteca, but I've personally seen your men rape women of all ages, I've seen your men hold crying mexica babies from their legs to drag them off and then from a distance I stop hearing the crying. I've seen how your men treated our men, so I hope you understand things from my point of view, as I've understood yours. My personal view on Tlaxcala once I leave my biases aside is still the same. We're enemies, so what you've done to us can be understandable. My view is that the mexica should've absorbed and annexed Tlaxcala instead of keeping you as cattle for flower wars. At the very least I don't have plans on making you suffer as bad as say… Texcoco and zempoala."
The Tlaxcalteca envoy, who had been clutching some threadbare hope of diplomacy, stares at Ehecatl in a silent, stunned pause. He doesn't speak immediately.
His face twitches slightly at the mention of dragging babies, of rape, of blood and tears and cities burned—and he knows better than to deny it. He's not only heard the stories himself. Hell, he even partook in the raping of Mexica women and the mistreatment of the men and boys.
"…You've made your hatred plain."
He exhales slowly, eyes no longer pleading—just tired.
"And I won't deny the truth in your words, but I was not sent here to plead innocence. I was sent here because we know the Caxtilteca lie. They twist oaths. They hoard horses and powder. And now they mock us too, behind closed doors, as if we were just dogs they loosed upon you."
"What's left for us? We offer to parlay, you shoot. We offer gifts, you take and still kill."
"So I ask only this—if you mean to destroy us, do it quickly. If you mean to let us live long enough to die slowly under Spanish boots, say so."
A pause.
"But if there is any fate better than those two… then name it."
He lowers his head—this time not from fear. But from clarity.
"I speak for none but myself now… Tlaxcala is crumbling. You've broken more than bones. You've broken belief."
"Forgive me, as I've said a word you're not familiar with. I guess the Nahuatlatolli equivalent to 'annexation' would be tlaltiloni. However my way of doing it would be different from the Excan Tlatoloyan's way. I wouldn't just have you bring tribute every 80 days, and let you do whatever you want. I'd have you bring tribute every 80 days AND have a cuauhtlatoani placed in Tlaxcala."
The envoy's face tightens at the word cuauhtlatoani. Not a tlatoani—no honored ruler, no blood-tied lineage, no prestige. A military governor. A war chief. An occupying hawk.
He swallows hard.
"So… we would be made wards. Occupied. Ruled by your hand."
Then, bitterly:
"You wouldn't be the first. But you would be the first to be honest about it."
His voice trembles slightly—not from fear, but the creeping realization that the world has changed. That this Ehecatl, blood-soaked and blunt, isn't just another rebel.
He's the mirror of everything Tlaxcala once wished it could be.
"And who would be your cuauhtlatoani? One of your own? Or would you pick one of ours to turn us against ourselves, like the Caxtilteca do?"
He lifts his eyes again.
"Or would you wear the turquoise diadem yourself, Ehecatl?"
"Are you content with raids and trophies… or are you building something more?"
The air is heavy now. Real politics. Real terror.
"One of my own of course. Allowing one of your own to be left in charge was a mistake from the Excan Tlatoloyan that I don't intend on repeating. Of course I'm not content with raids and trophies, I'm most certainly going to build more. Perhaps I should've started with this when mentioning on absorbing Tlaxcala, but I don't just intend on squeezing anything of value of Tlaxcala for nothing. I do plan on reinvesting and making the land more better and profitable. I'm sure that's something you'd like to hear considering back when the Excan Tlatoloyan was around they had you all encircled and banned from trade."
The envoy's breath catches for a moment—not at the threat, but at the offer embedded inside the flowery thorns.
"You speak of profit… of reinvestment… as if Tlaxcala were a marketplace, a field to be cultivated. Not an enemy."
His jaw tightens, struggling with the shift in tone. Rage and pragmatism. Hatred and vision. It isn't what he expected.
"You say you will rebuild us while occupying us. That you'll improve our lands, while branding us with your tricolored flag. If that's true… then what would you demand of us in return? To kneel? To shed our name? To speak in your Nahuatl and call you Lord Ehecatl?"
"Would we still be Tlaxcalteca?" he asks flatly. "Or merely another subject?"
He doesn't ask it to negotiate. He asks to understand the kind of world that's coming. The kind Ehecatl is shaping—by force, yes, but also by design.
"You'll be Mexica. You can say you're from the Tlaxcala region, but nothing more. Yes I do demand you all kneel, show loyalty, and contribute to the prosperity of not the Excan Tlatoloyan, but… a sole Mexica Tlatoloyan."
The envoy's lips part slightly. Not in shock, but in bitter clarity.
"Then that's it, isn't it?"
He nods slowly to himself, then meets Ehecatl's eyes once more—really sees him for the first time. Not a rebel. Not a war criminal. Not even a child soldier. But something else entirely:
A founder.
"This isn't revenge. Not anymore. You're building something… something beyond even Tenochtitlan. A Mexica empire where only one voice speaks, only one lord rules, and only one memory survives. The rest of us? We're either fertilizer in the soil… or tools in your hand."
He doesn't ask if Ehecatl plans to keep his word.
"I'll tell my people what you said. Some of them will curse your name. Some will see the truth. But all of us… will fear you."
He breathes deeply. Steps back. And bows—not out of reverence, but acknowledgment of power.
"Farewell, Cuauhtlatoani Ehecatl… even if you haven't taken the title yet."
"I prefer the word… 'Notlatoani'."
The envoy's breathing slowed. Not from fear — but awe, confusion, and something else he couldn't place. He lowered his gaze, but not out of shame. He needed a moment to digest what he had just heard.
"Notlātoāni…"
His voice was hushed, as if saying it too loudly would make it more real.
"That is not a name of conquest. That is a name men give… when they choose who they follow."
He looked up slowly, his expression now tinged with a mixture of irony and clarity.
"So you do not ask to be Huey Tlatoani. You do not claim descent from Acamapichtli. You do not demand temples build you a throne, or jewelry of jade and yet…"
A bitter laugh escaped him — not mocking, but deeply reflective.
"And yet the people who kneel before you might do so with more truth in their hearts than any who ever bowed to Tizoc or Ahuitzotl."
He folded his arms, nodding.
"Notlātoāni…"
A pause.
"Now I understand. You are not trying to rule in the name of the gods. You are trying to rebuild with the will of the living."
"You're overthinking and making it bigger than what it really is. My Mexica who follow me, call me that so I gladly have taken the title. Afterall I am just a macehualtin, and I was barely attending a telpochcalli before the war ended, so naturally I wouldn't take the title of Huey Tlatoani or Cuauhtlatoani."
The envoy exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing with grim respect.
"So… a macehualtin, raised by war, carried by rage, and crowned by survivors."
He shook his head slowly, clearly wrestling with a realization that stung deeper than he wanted to admit.
"Then perhaps that is what makes it more dangerous… and more real."
A faint scoff escaped him — not in mockery, but in bitter recognition.
"You didn't climb from a calm palace chamber or win the favor of priests. You bled in the mud and earned your title from the mouths of men who saw you do what our lords only talked about."
A pause.
"You weren't born a leader. You became one. That terrifies the Caxtilteca. And it should terrify us."
He looked around subtly, voice dropping.
"They'll never call Cortés Notlātoāni. No matter how many trinkets he hands out or how many titles he invents."
His eyes met Ehecatl's again.
"You may be a macehualtin. But the name they gave you… Notlātoāni… might echo longer than any ruler carved in stone. Then I'll carry your answer back. I suspect it'll be the last message ever sent between our peoples."
He looked once more at the bloody remnants of the Tlaxcalan gear looted nearby — silent proof that no compromise existed on this soil.
"We were born to be enemies, weren't we?"
A tired breath.
"And fools to believe otherwise."
He said nothing more. As instructed, he was blindfolded again by Ehecatl's men — not out of courtesy, but to make sure he can't report back on anything useful for the Tlaxcalteca.
When he was escorted far enough to be safely dismissed, the blindfold was removed, and the Tlaxcalteca envoy walked alone… back toward the uneasy alliance he now knew would not last.
Once outside the haunted perimeter, the blindfold was removed. The envoy said nothing for a long while, eyes squinting against the sun as he trudged back toward the Tlaxcalteca camp. Every step echoed the same thought: "We were fools to think we'd be spared."
When he arrived at the center of the temporary council site—surrounded by noble lords, war captains, and scribes—all fell silent at his presence.
He bowed once, stiffly.
"I spoke with him."
Gasps and mutterings.
"He calls himself Notlatoani. 'My Leader.' His followers gave him that name… and he accepts it."
A silence. One old noble scoffed, but no one echoed him.
"He was a commoner. A boy, still in school when the war ended. Not even a warrior by training, yet he now holds the authority of an empire—not by inheritance… but by will. And by fear."
He inhaled sharply.
"He doesn't just hate the Caxtilteca. He hates us. Every Tlaxcalteca. Every ally and turncoat who stood against the Mexica. He spoke of the children our men dragged away screaming, the women we defiled, the warriors we humiliated. He's seen it all. And he does not forgive."
He looked around at the council.
"He does not seek negotiations. He does not want alliances. He spoke of tlaltiloni… conquest. But unlike the Excan Tlatoloyan of the past, he would not let us keep our rulers. He would place one of his own in our city, strip us of identity. No more Tlaxcala. We would only be called 'Mexica from the Tlaxcala region.' Nothing more."
Some councilors muttered angrily. Others sat stunned.
"He says he will rebuild our land… not out of kindness, but to make it more profitable—more useful for his vision. We would bring tribute every eighty days, just like under the Excan Tlatoloyan, but with tighter chains and closer eyes watching."
He hesitated.
"He will not treat us like Texcoco or Zempoala. Yet he made clear—we are enemies. And enemies shall be knelt. Or buried."
Silence. The envoy sat down, grim and quiet. The council had its answer.
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Tlaxcalan Council Chamber – An Emergency Debate
The courtyard was closed to all commoners. Only the highest teuctli nobles, war captains, and elder statesmen remained. They circled the stone platform, eyes fixed on the envoy seated in silence, recovering from his encounter with Ehecatl—the so-called Notlatoani.
A sharp voice cut through first.
Teuctli Yacanex, one of the old guard who had allied with Cortés:
"So… the brat wants tribute, conquest, and a puppet governor in our lands—and expects us to bow to him? He forgets we shattered the Excan Tlatoloyan once. He forgets who helped bring down Tenochtitlan."
The reply came swift and cold.
Xochicuicatl, a younger military strategist from the new generation:
"No. He hasn't forgotten. That's the problem. He remembers everything. In detail. That's why you can't reason with him."
Murmurs of agreement, nods from younger captains who had fought in recent ambushes where Ehecatl's rebels humiliated Spanish-led patrols.
Teuctli Yaotzin, grizzled and pragmatic, folded his arms.
"We made a pact with the Caxtilteca. We spilled our blood to topple the Mexica Triple Alliance. And yet… here we sit. Not rulers. Not partners. Just subjects with Castillian collars around our necks."
A silence.
"we'll be useful to Castile only until they no longer need us."
Huehue Acxopilli, an elder historian, rasped:
"And then we'll be Zempoala. Or worse. Ghosts."
Yacanex, furious: "And your solution is what? Submit to a boy who spits on our name? Who says we're no longer Tlaxcalteca, but only Mexica from the Tlaxcala region? Will you let him erase us?"
Xochicuicatl, unflinching:
"We're already being erased. But at least he offered something. Rebuilding. Investment. A future. Not chains disguised as gifts."
Yaotzin, staring into the distance:
"He hates us. That much is true. But he speaks honestly. That's more than I can say for the viceroy's men in the east. Have any of you been to Vera Cruz lately? We don't even get the opportunity to enjoy the fruits of our labor since we have to help out wherever the Castilians need it."
A teuctli stood up, slamming a fist on the mat.
Tlatlauhqui, a proud noble from Ocotelulco:
"We are a republic! We have never bowed to any empire, neither Mexica nor Castilian! And I will not start now!"
Xochicuicatl, biting:
"Then you'd rather wait until Ehecatl's men are at our gates? You'd rather die screaming that you're free, than live long enough to adapt?"
Another noble added coldly:
"Perhaps it is time we asked if we were wrong. Not just Ehecatl."
The argument fractured into three distinct camps:
Faction One – The Prideful Traditionalists
Led by Teuctli Yacanex and Tlatlauhqui. These were the nobles who helped bring down the Mexica and have generational pride in their autonomy.
• Stance: Never kneel. Ehecatl is a threat. They prefer full alliance with Castile, or even military preemption to assassinate him.
• Motive: Pride, fear of losing their identity, belief in military superiority and glory.
Faction Two – The Realist Reformers
Led by Yaotzin, Xochicuicatl, and younger officers.
• Stance: Ehecatl's hatred is justified. Castile cannot be trusted long term. Maybe submission now is better than extinction later.
• Motive: Survival. Recognition that the Mexica, not the Castilians, are rebuilding. Realpolitik over pride.
Faction Three – The Silent Compromisers
Elders like Huehue Acxopilli and merchant lords.
• Stance: No open stance yet. They listen. They count wealth and trade. But their silence speaks volumes—they're watching who wins first.
• Motive: Delay. Profit. Diplomacy as cover for waiting.
The meeting ended with no resolution. Only tension. The council would reconvene in five days, but everyone knew: if Ehecatl made another move before then… it might already be too late.