The war tent was warm with breath and firelight. Cuetlachtli sat at the head of a mat-lined table, flanked by two captains and a junior officer with ink-stained fingers. Tome stood across from them, arms relaxed but gaze steady, his weathered face lit by the flickering oil lamp.
"I've seen your men fight," Tome said plainly. "I've seen Huastecs pushed back in ways I didn't think possible."
Cuetlachtli didn't react.
"I've seen other nomads test you," Tome added. "Some from my people. Some not."
That earned him a scowl. One of the captains leaned forward, but Cuetlachtli raised a hand before anyone spoke.
"You sent raiders?" he asked.
Tome shrugged, unashamed. "Scouts. Probes. You came from the south in black and white. We had to know if you were soft."
"And?" Cuetlachtli's voice was even.
"You weren't."
A beat of silence.
"So what do you want?" Cuetlachtli asked.
"Alliance," Tome said. "Or something close to it."
The captains exchanged glances.
Cuetlachtli leaned forward. "Why?"
"You're fighting the Huastecs," Tome said. "We are too. They've raided our camps for generations. They treat our land like it belongs to them. If you intend to conquer them, then we want that done."
"And after?"
"We go back to our hills and rivers. You take what cities you want. We don't build those."
"And the other tribes?" Cuetlachtli asked. "You said that you've seen not just your own, but other nomads. What are they like?"
Tome smiled faintly. "You'll have to deal with them, same as us. But we know the roads. The safe water. The dry passes. If you want to hit the Huastecs, we know where to hit them before they could even hit you."
Cuetlachtli folded his arms. "Is this really just that simple?"
"It is," Tome replied. "It really is that simple."
He then looked to the map on the table, sketched roughly on maguey paper. Ink fading in places, names still uncertain.
"You're not here just for the Huastec," Tome said. "I've seen how you build. What you carry. You're staying. So be honest. What are you doing here?"
Cuetlachtli glanced at the captains. Then looked back.
"We're here to conquer the Huastec. Then to see how far the land goes. What rivers connect. What people resist. We're here to learn if what we've seen and heard is true."
Tome nodded slowly.
"Then our interests align," he said. "We want fewer enemies, and we know what surrounds you. Let us show you the trails, and walk beside you. It'd be best if some of our other bands of people got to know you, and know not to shoot at you and your people."
Cuetlachtli didn't answer immediately. He studied the man, his bearing and calloused fingers, his worn sandals.
Then he gave a single nod.
"You'll stay the night," he said. "Tomorrow, we'll speak again."
Tome inclined his head. "We'll bring food of our own."
As he left the tent, the junior officer muttered, "You believe him?"
Cuetlachtli's eyes lingered on the map.
"I believe his hate for the Huastecs."
One of the younger officers scratched his chin, eyes still locked on the flap. "He just… said it. Sent raiders. Like it was nothing."
"Testing us," another said. "Like we're a threat to measure."
"And now they want to talk peace?" a captain muttered. "No tribute, no surrender, just talk?"
Cuetlachtli didn't respond right away. He moved toward where the Castilian map was at.
"Take a look at the map," he said, tapping a finger near the bottom. "Panuco. Here's the river we've already crossed."
He shifted his finger north, to a thinner line etched with hesitation.
"And this. This next river. If the man's telling the truth, he knows it."
The room stayed quiet, save for the flutter of canvas in the wind.
"I don't like him," one of the Tlaxcalan lieutenants said. "Too calm. Why tell us he sent his own people to try us and then tell us about it?"
"Doesn't mean he's lying," Cuetlachtli said. "It means he's either confident or stupid."
Another officer leaned closer to the map. "So we trust him?"
"No," Cuetlachtli said, glancing up. "Not yet anyways."
He rolled the sheet back into a tight coil and set it down.
"The Castilians came here and made deals. Played people against each other. Used what they were given. We've bled to stop that, but that doesn't mean the method was wrong."
Some frowned. One captain folded his arms, shifting weight from one foot to the other.
"So what? We turn into them now?"
"Not exactly," Cuetlachtli said. "If someone walks in offering the same play, maybe we run it better."
The flap shifted again with the breeze.
"They'll sleep inside tonight," he added. "Two guards on their tent. Not four. Not none."
A few exchanged uneasy looks.
"If they lead us to that river," he said, "then we decide if this was worth it."
He glanced once more at the map before stepping back.
"For now, they're guests."
A pause. One of the Tlaxcalans muttered under his breath, "Never thought I'd see the day."
Cuetlachtli gave a short nod, then stepped outside.
No banners. No drums. Just a dirt trail stretching north, and the first glimpse of what came after Huastec lands.
…
…
…
The sun had barely cleared the eastern trees when Tome and his men stepped out from their guest tent.
They didn't wander far. Just enough to walk the rows. Quiet. Alert. Watching.
They said nothing at first, but their eyes moved constantly. From the trenches to the palisades, from the dugout shelters to the hammer clangs near the forge tent. It wasn't the camp layout that drew their attention.
It was the tools.
Tome's gaze lingered longest where blacksmiths worked. Where iron was shaped and ground against stone, cooled in water buckets, and passed off for sharpening. Spears, machetes, and short iron-headed axes. The failed steel-edged macuahuitl caught a few looks too, though none of the Janambre knew it hadn't met expectations. To them, it looked brutal. Exotic.
One of the younger Janambre nudged another when he saw a man loading powder into a primitive grenade shell, eye wide, half-impressed and half-nervous.
A cannon coughed somewhere near the range line. Just a signal test, but the Janambre flinched.
Then came the arrows.
Not the ones from the locals. These had iron tips. Thicker shafts. Some with notches. All lined up in bundles being wheeled toward the quartermaster. One of the Janambre pointed and said something in his own tongue, low and quick.
Tome gave a short nod.
They knew what they were looking at.
Cuetlachtli spotted them from across the camp. He adjusted the weight of his cloak and walked toward them, letting his approach be heard just enough not to startle.
He didn't speak right away. Just stood beside them as they looked.
Tome turned toward him.
"You make all this?"
Cuetlachtli gave a faint smile.
"My people do. I just give orders."
Tome nodded once. "It works."
Cuetlachtli's smile widened, not so much out of arrogance, but pride. He motioned toward the iron axes being laid out for cleaning.
"I see your eyes," he said. "You see something worth having."
Tome didn't deny it.
"For my people," he said slowly, "these things would change everything. The tools. The weapons. The… speed."
Cuetlachtli folded his arms, still facing the forges. "If your word is true, and this alliance becomes more than just words in a tent…"
He paused, letting the fire's hiss fill the space.
"…then we would consider sharing some of it."
Tome's eyes sharpened.
Cuetlachtli turned to him now, tone warmer but still firm.
"Not everything. Not right away. And not for free."
Tome didn't react, at least not outwardly.
"You could steal them," Cuetlachtli went on. "But then they're yours once. Just yours. Maybe your neighbors want them. Maybe they take them from you."
He stepped forward slightly, speaking low.
"But if you work with us… if your name carries weight among your people, and you make this alliance real…"
He motioned back to the rows of sharpened weapons, polished tools, iron-bound arrowheads.
"…then maybe your people become the ones who sell to others. Not just keep. Not just use. But sell. Set the price. Choose the buyers."
Tome blinked once. Thoughtful. Measuring.
"That could happen?"
Cuetlachtli gave a short shrug. "Stranger things already have."
There was a long pause.
Then Tome said, "I'll show you my word."
Cuetlachtli tilted his head.
"Let a few of your men follow back with me," Tome added. "You'll see where we live. What's around us. Who's near. Who hates us more than you do."
Cuetlachtli watched him for a few beats.
Then nodded. "Two men. They leave with you tomorrow."
Tome nodded back. "Good."
They stood for a moment longer before the Janambre drifted away, still watching, still quiet.
Cuetlachtli remained.
His eyes moved back to the forge. The hammer strikes had picked up again. One of the workers had just shaped a new chisel head, and another was smoothing the blade of a reinforced machete.
He exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing at the sight.
It wasn't just war. It was reach. And maybe now, Yaotlan had found its first foothold beyond blood.
…
…
…
The next morning came without noise. Just the snap of twine, the scrape of leather, the quiet shuffle of sandaled feet moving over dry earth.
Tome stood at the camp's northern edge, his men already gathered. They carried little, just what could be tucked into belts or slung across their backs. No armor. No shields. Just light gear and sharp eyes.
The two Yaoquizque Tequitiliztli stood nearby, adjusting the straps of their packs. One finished wiping a bit of soot off the barrel of his arquebus. The other rechecked the flint, gave a small nod to himself, and slung it over his shoulder.
Cuetlachtli watched from a few paces back. He didn't step forward right away. He just stood with his arms crossed, head tilted slightly, eyes locked on the group like a hunter sizing up a target.
It was a risk.
He knew it.
The Cihuacoatl had said something once. Offhand, but sharp. "People move faster when they think you're stronger than you are. Flex just enough. Not too much. Enough to make them hesitate."
Cuetlachtli remembered the words now.
He shifted his stance.
If Tome's words meant anything, if this alliance could hold, then what these two men were doing wasn't just a scouting trip.
It was the beginning of something larger.
And if it didn't hold?
He'd just handed two trained officers into the wilds. With strangers. With men who had tested their perimeter days ago.
No backup. No signal fires. Just trust and teeth.
Cuetlachtli exhaled through his nose.
One of the Yaoquizque glanced back. Not nervous. Just steady. Waiting for the nod.
He gave it.
The group moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just sure.
They slipped out between the brush lines and took the eastern ridge, the sun casting long shadows ahead of them.
Cuetlachtli watched them disappear.
Then turned, said nothing, and walked back toward the forge.
He'd know soon enough whether the gamble paid off.
…
…
…
Seven days had passed.
Cuetlachtli stood just outside the main storage tent, watching the bundles come in from the horse relays. Cloth sacks, sealed jars, wrapped parcels. All sorted by hand, checked against the tallies. The men worked quick and quiet. No one lingered longer than needed.
He scratched at his chin as one of the bundles thudded to the ground beside him. Salt, smoked fish, dried beans, copper nails, more thread, even more paper. Always seven days apart, like clockwork. He never questioned it before, but now it itched at the back of his mind.
Why seven?
A number that meant something to the priesthood maybe. Or maybe Ehecatl was just a creature of rhythm. The Cihuacoatl didn't do anything halfway, so Cuetlachtli figured there had to be a reason.
He didn't dwell on it.
There were footsteps, firm ones. Not shuffling. Not soft.
He turned before the runner could even announce it.
The two Yaoquizque Tequitiliztli were already coming up the hill, dusty, sunburned, but steady on their feet. One carried a small roll of reed paper under his arm. The other had a line of thin scratches across his forearm, half-healed.
Cuetlachtli didn't speak right away. He let them come close, watched how they moved. No signs of a scuffle. No limps. No empty gazes.
He nodded once.
"You made it back."
The first of the two gave a short bow and said, "We did. They're real. Tome wasn't bluffing."
The second one gave a small, dry chuckle. "Got a whole village tucked into the trees. Look like they've been hiding for years."
Cuetlachtli glanced toward the west. No words. Just a flick of the eyes.
Then he looked back.
"Good. Let's talk inside."
He turned toward the war tent, hand brushing the flaps open, voice low.
"We've got decisions to make."
…
…
…
Inside the war tent, the air was warm and still. A few candles flickered in shallow clay holders, casting soft light over the map table and supply lists laid out at the center.
Cuetlachtli stood at the head of the table and gave a nod.
"Go on."
The two Yaoquizque Tequitiliztli stepped forward. One rolled his shoulder before he started, easing stiffness from the journey.
"They don't carry much," he said. "Bone knives, some stone-tipped darts, a few wooden clubs. Arrows that have either stone or bone, obsidian if you were someone important to that tribe. No shields. No armor."
"But they move fast," added the other. "Too fast for ambushes to catch them. They know the land better than the animals do. They don't fight head-on. Not unless they're sure it's in their favor."
Cuetlachtli crossed his arms and leaned slightly over the table, brows pulled tight. "Skirmishers, then."
The first nodded. "Yes, but not cowards. They'll throw themselves into danger if they see a weakness. They're used to terrain doing the heavy lifting."
"They're not Huastec," said the second, glancing at the map as he spoke. "Different language, different look. Bare skin, tattoos, painted faces. Bone necklaces. They dress light, probably for the heat. They walk barefoot. Always watching."
Cuetlachtli tapped a finger on the edge of the map. "And their view of us?"
The first man hesitated, then said, "They don't bow. Not the way some Huastecs did. But they don't sneer either. They respected what they saw. The guns. The walls. The order."
"Not because of words," added the other. "Because of how we moved. How the camp runs. They kept looking at the iron. At how things are built."
Cuetlachtli gave a slow nod. "Strength, not speeches."
"They don't care for pleasantries," said the first. "But they can be impressed. If you show power, and control it? They notice that."
He straightened slightly.
"They think we're worth watching."
Cuetlachtli rubbed his jaw and glanced across the captains gathered in the tent. A few leaned in closer, others quietly took mental notes.
"That's useful," he said. "What else?"
The first Tequitiliztli shifted his weight, then continued.
"They know this land," he said. "Not just paths. Everything. Where the ground floods after rain. Where the soil cracks when it dries. Where insects swarm at dusk. Where water hides when the sun burns everything else away."
The second nodded. "They guided us without getting lost once. Through thorn scrub, through low hills, along dry creek beds that still hold water under stone. They move through it like it belongs to them. Because it does."
Cuetlachtli watched their faces closely. "Speak plainly."
"The river from farther north," the first said. "From what they described to us, it seems wider than the ones back home. They say it cuts across the land and leads into another stretch of territory. Good water. Good fishing. Places to cross. Places to vanish."
"And beyond it?" Cuetlachtli asked.
The second Tequitiliztli hesitated for half a breath. "They warned us. Said there are people there who do not welcome strangers. They named them 'Esto'k Gna.' That is how it sounded in their mouth."
A low murmur passed between a few captains. Cuetlachtli lifted his hand once and the tent settled again.
"Enemies of the Xanample?" he asked.
"Yes," the first said. "Old ones. Raids. Blood debts. Back and forth for longer than they remember. They did not speak of them with fear. But they did not speak lightly either."
Cuetlachtli turned his gaze back to the map. He traced the river line with one finger, slow and thoughtful.
"So they were not boasting," he said quietly. "They truly know this land."
The second nodded. "Yes. Whatever else they are, they are not lost people."
Cuetlachtli straightened and looked around the tent.
"Good," he said. "That kind of knowledge is worth more than quetzal."
A few of the captains exchanged looks. Not excitement. Not doubt. Something closer to anticipation.
Cuetlachtli rested both palms on the table.
"Sit," he told the two Tequitiliztli. "You've done your work well."
They lowered themselves to the woven mats with visible relief, shoulders finally dropping.
Cuetlachtli stayed standing, eyes still on the map, already measuring what this new information might mean for everything that came next.
Cuetlachtli looked at the two Tequitiliztli with steady focus.
"You will return to the Xanample," he said. "Tell them the alliance is not rejected."
One of the men nodded, already standing to reach for his belt sash to ready for travel, but Cuetlachtli raised a hand.
"But with one condition."
Both men paused.
"I want to see the river they spoke of," Cuetlachtli said. "With my own eyes."
He glanced toward the northern part of the map again, finger brushing the faint arc drawn above the Pánuco line. His voice remained level, but the men saw the calculation behind it.
"If they know this land, then they know that river. If they're honest, they will take us to it."
He stepped back from the map and looked the two officers over one more time.
"Go light. Move fast. And if they lie, don't die proving me wrong. Just come back."
The two men stood, saluted briefly, then stepped out of the tent.
Cuetlachtli remained still for a moment longer, staring at the parchment and the faded ink lines that once belonged to a dead Castilian. Then, as if brushing off a memory, he turned and exited into the fire-warmed air of Yaotlan.
…
…
…
Cuetlachtli stood near the edge of the palisade when the two Yaoquizque Tequitiliztli came in. Their faces gave it away before they even spoke.
"They agreed," one of them said, after saluting and then walking up to Cuetlachtli.
Cuetlachtli gave a short nod. "Good."
By the next morning, he was lashing his pack shut.
Inside the command tent, he gathered his captains. The air was stiff with questions, but no one interrupted.
"You all know the plan. Supply lines are stable. Patrols rotate on the second horn. No one moves more than a day from Yaotlan unless needed. If something breaks, hold it down until I return."
His second-in-command, a broad-shouldered captain from Huexotzinco, folded his arms. "How long?"
Cuetlachtli tightened the leather strap across his chest. "Not long. Days. A week, maybe."
"And if the Xanample try something?"
He looked up. "Then kill them."
He stepped outside, adjusted his satchel, and glanced once more toward the north. The two Tequitiliztli waited with their horses. Without another word, Cuetlachtli mounted and gave a light tug on the reins.
The three riders turned, passed through the palisade, and disappeared into the green beyond.
…
…
…
Cuetlachtli rode quiet.
The sun was barely up, a pale smear behind thick clouds. Morning fog clung to the brush, softening the world around him. His breath came slow, measured. His two Yaoquizque Tequitiliztli escorts flanked him, a few paces back, keeping formation without a word.
He wasn't rushing. He wasn't hesitating. Just letting the land pass beneath the hooves.
There wasn't much of a path. Just trails worn thin by game, by wanderers, and now the tread of Mexica boots. They crossed dry creek beds, pushed through mesquite thickets, followed the ridgeline where the air cooled and opened. The terrain rolled, harsher than Tziccoac, but not unforgiving. Wild. Unsettled. Alive.
By the second day, they caught signs. Charred fire pits. Bones. A ripped piece of cloth tied around a branch. They weren't being watched, not openly, but Cuetlachtli could feel it. Like the air had weight.
Tome greeted them before the third day's sun broke fully. No war paint this time. No knife on his belt. Just the same curious stare and a hand raised halfway in silent recognition.
"You came," Tome said.
"I said I would," Cuetlachtli answered.
The Janambre man gave a half-smile. "This way."
They followed him north, deeper into brushland. The ride wasn't long, but the way twisted. Hidden turns. Worn paths only locals would know. When they finally arrived, Cuetlachtli saw it. not quite a city, but not a village either, something in between. Dozens of homes woven from reeds and hides, dugouts tucked into earth, lean-tos under mesquite trees. Children watched from a distance. Women paused at their fires. Men stared, some with cautious eyes, others with quiet calculation.
It wasn't grand. But it was theirs.
Tome raised a hand again.
"These are my people," he said. "This is where we begin."
Cuetlachtli dismounted, scanned the land, and nodded once.
"Then let's begin."
They left the Janambre camp by foot. Horses were too loud for this land. Too heavy. Cuetlachtli walked ahead with Tome, the two Yaoquizque Tequitiliztli trailing just far enough to listen without intruding.
The ground grew flatter the farther north they went. The brush gave way to open plains, wide and hot under the afternoon sun. Tall grass in some places, brittle earth in others. Every few hours they'd pass signs of life—broken snares, old footprints, dung hardened by days of heat. Deer tracks. Maybe something bigger. The Janambre whispered to each other but said little to Cuetlachtli.
He didn't mind.
He was too busy watching the sky. The way the birds circled in one direction. The wind changing. The smell.
He'd smelled water before he saw it.
By the sixth day, the land dipped and cooled. Trees thinned again. Then, just before dusk, Tome raised a hand.
"Here."
They crested a low ridge, and there it was. A wide river, slow and heavy, cutting through the land like a line drawn by a god. Not shallow like the streams around Yaotlan. This one was deep. Wide enough to need canoes. Strong enough to drown a man in seconds.
Cuetlachtli said nothing at first. He just watched the current roll past.
"The Castilian's map showed this," he muttered finally.
Tome tilted his head. "What map?"
Cuetlachtli didn't answer. He stepped forward, crouched, dipped his fingers into the water. Cold. Clean. The kind of river that fed life… or drew eyes.
"Many tribes beyond this," Tome said, nodding to the far shore. "But none as close as us."
Cuetlachtli stood. "And the Huastecs?"
"None this far north. Not anymore."
The air was thicker here. More humid. The mosquitoes swarmed worse near the banks, but none of that mattered.
Cuetlachtli was already thinking like a builder. A line of watchtowers. Canoes dragged up the banks. Maybe even a bridge one day, if they ever found a way to anchor it.
He turned to Tome.
"This river," he said, "you call it anything?"
Tome shrugged. "Many names. Depends who you ask."
Cuetlachtli looked out again.
"I'll give it one more."
He didn't say it aloud, but the name was already forming in his mind. A name the Cihuacoatl would recognize when he saw the map. A name worth writing down.
He looked south, toward Yaotlan.
Then north, to everything beyond.
Cuetlachtli stayed crouched near the edge, fingers still trailing in the slow pull of the current.
It wasn't just wide. It was steady. Quiet on the surface, but strong underneath. The kind of water that could carry canoes for leagues, or swallow them whole if you weren't careful.
He stood, wiping his hand on his tunic.
"Does anyone live here?" he asked, voice calm, but firm. "This place."
Tome didn't answer right away. He glanced upriver, lips tightening, then gave a short nod.
"Not here. But close."
"How close?"
Tome raised a hand and pointed inland, along the river's bend. "Few days that way. By foot. Maybe more if they move."
"Who are they?"
Tome exhaled through his nose. "Old enemy. Slippery. We fight. They run. Sometimes they fight back. Not many, but enough."
Cuetlachtli watched the direction he pointed. Flat land, brush taller than a man in some places, but not impassable. Good hunting ground. Good raiding ground.
"They call themselves Esto'k Gna," Tome added. "But that's not what we call them."
"And what do you call them?"
Tome paused, thinking. "Ghost eaters. Bone stealers. Many names. No one says the same thing twice."
Cuetlachtli shook his head. "Not good enough. I need a name."
He glanced down at the mud, then back to the trees.
"Something I can write. Remember. Say out loud without sounding like I'm spitting into a fire."
Tome frowned, then muttered something under his breath.
Cuetlachtli narrowed his eyes. "Say that again."
Tome repeated it slower.
"Co-a-hui-lteca."
It wasn't perfect. But it stuck.
He nodded to himself. "That'll do."
Tome blinked, then gave a tight nod in return.
Cuetlachtli turned back to the river, stepping forward until the water lapped at his boots.
"This will be ours," he said, almost to himself. "Right here."
He glanced back at the trees behind them.
"I want a post here. Camp first. Then maybe a watchtower. Not too far from the bend."
The two Yaoquizque Tequitiliztli behind him said nothing. One of them had already begun noting the terrain in his mind.
Cuetlachtli turned again to Tome.
"These ghost eaters," he said, "they fight the Xanample?"
Tome nodded once. "They take what they want. Then vanish."
"And they've never taken this river?"
"They camp near it. But not here."
Cuetlachtli's lips pressed tight. Then he reached into his belt and pulled out the folded scrap of the Castilian map they'd taken from Tziccoac. He unfolded it carefully. Pointed to the winding lines the Castilian had tried to draw.
"This," he said, "this was meant to be Panuco. And this…"
He tapped another river, curling farther north.
"This is where we are."
Tome studied it, face unreadable.
"You think like builders," he said finally.
Cuetlachtli allowed a faint smirk. "That's because we are."
Then he folded the map, slid it back into his belt, and took one more look upriver.
"We're not leaving yet."
He turned back to the others, eyes firm.
"Start clearing space. Mark the best spot for a watchtower. One of you," he added, looking at the younger Tequitiliztli, "go back south and send a runner to Yaotlan. Tell them we've found something worth protecting."
The young man gave a sharp nod and took off without question.
Tome watched him go, then turned back to Cuetlachtli.
"You claim this place now?"
Cuetlachtli didn't smile. But there was no hesitation when he spoke.
"I claim the river."
And that was that.
Cuetlachtli stood at the riverbank with arms folded, the weight of his armor forgotten for a moment. The wind shifted, rolling over the slow water. To his left, the river curved inland, its banks narrowing toward thick brush and groves. Somewhere beyond that curve, enemies lived, but not for long.
He turned slightly and asked without looking, "How far inland does it go?"
Tome followed his gaze. "We never made it farther than three days upriver," he answered, voice low. "There are others beyond that bend. We've even traded with quite a few of them."
Cuetlachtli nodded once. "Then we'll go farther than three days."
He let the moment breathe. His eyes returned to the river. Broad, slow-moving, but alive beneath. Then he spoke again, voice clear.
"This river will be called Hueiatoyatl."
He turned to the small party consisting of Tome, a few of his men, and the two Yaoquizque Tequitiliztli. Then he pointed to the cleared patch they'd set up to camp.
"And this place," he said, "will be named Mexicatlan."
One of the Tequitiliztli crouched beside a palm tree nearby. From a satchel, he pulled a blade of tempered iron and began carving.
First the mountain. Then the eagle, wings outstretched. A serpent in its beak. The imperial flag etched above the old glyph. The sunlight caught the blade's glint with each motion.
Cuetlachtli stepped forward, planting a boot in the firm river mud.
"In the name of the empire," he said, loud enough for all to hear, "the Yaoquizque Tlapixque take possession of these lands, and all that's contained within them. The animals. The forests. The rivers. The valleys and the mountains. If any enemy, regardless of who they are tries to stand in our way, I'll remind them this conquest is not for greed. It is for the good of Cemanahuac."
He paused, letting the words settle like dust after a march.
"This Mexicatlan being created here will serve as both our wall, and our bridge into the far northern lands. All in the name of Huitzilopochtli, Quetzalcoatl, our Huey Tlatoani and our Cihuacoatl."
The palm fronds rustled above. The river didn't answer, but it didn't need to. Cuetlachtli's men stood taller, shoulders squared. Even the Janambre were still.
Tome chuckled upon hearing that. He couldn't believe these new comers from the south, were just barely getting by in the land with everyone harassing them, and now they want to claim more land and piss off other people? He leaned slightly toward one of his own. The man whispered something. Tome answered in a quiet hush, eyes never leaving Cuetlachtli.
"I think they just started the alliance."
Another Janambre tilted his head. "What makes you say that?"
Tome nodded toward the carving, the flag, the fresh name spoken like a drumbeat.
"Because he just claimed our enemie's land. And if they're serious about it… they'll end up fighting those enemies for us."
"And if they actually hold it?"
Tome shrugged lightly. "Then they can keep it."