The air near the coast tasted like warm brine and rot. Not sharp like inland decay, but something slower. A kind of rot that crept up through wood and bone and palms that bent with the breeze but never broke. Cuetlachtli stood before the carved glyph, the red-streaked palm tree bearing the shape of the mountain and flag etched deep into its bark. It still bled a little. The fibers were rough, but the lines were clear.
One of the Yaoquizque behind him—Huitzolin, the leaner one with a scar that ran across his scalp like a dried river—stepped back with a quiet reverence.
"It'll hold," he said. "Wind or no wind. They'll see it."
Cuetlachtli nodded once. His gaze lingered on the tree for a breath longer before he turned toward Tome and the two Janambre who'd waited silently during the carving. They stood just beyond the thicket of grass, where the tall roots of the coastal mangroves gave way to dry packed dirt and the faint outlines of a trail worn more by bare feet than sandals.
Tome tilted his head. "You finished?"
"Finished here," Cuetlachtli said. "But we're not done."
Tome's expression didn't change much, but he gave the nod of someone who'd been expecting that answer. He turned without another word and started walking. His two men followed. They carried no torches. They didn't need to.
The Yaoquizque stepped behind Cuetlachtli without instruction, and the five of them followed the Janambre deeper inland.
The trail narrowed fast. Brambles and gnarled brush lined the path, thorned and sun-hardened. Cuetlachtli adjusted the strap of his gear and ducked under a low-hanging branch that brushed against his headcone hat .The forest here was dry, coastal. The air still carried humidity, but the undergrowth whispered of places where water didn't always reach.
"We'll reach the rest site in a short while," Tome said, his voice low and even. "There's no village, just families. Clusters. We don't build tight like you do."
"I didn't expect walls," Cuetlachtli replied.
A pause. "Good. Because there aren't any."
They kept walking. The only sounds were their feet against the dirt, the brush of leaves, and the slow drone of insects hidden in the canopy. No drums. No wind through stone alleys. Cuetlachtli knew how the silence would've felt to most men from the capital. But to him it wasn't absence. It was space. Space for what came next.
After a while, Tome stopped near a fork in the trail. He squatted low, touched the ground with two fingers, and then spoke over his shoulder.
"There was a Huastec scout here two nights ago. Saw his tracks then. They're faded now, but he was moving east, not west. That's toward the gulf cliffs. Probably one of the ones who won't bend."
Cuetlachtli crouched beside him, studying the faint impressions left behind. The curve of the heel. The shallow toe drag. Too light for a warrior. Probably tired. Probably sick.
"You let him pass?" he asked.
"I let him live," Tome said. "Difference."
Cuetlachtli gave a small nod. The wind shifted slightly, carrying the scent of something cooked. Roasted agave maybe, or salted crab. It reminded him how little he'd eaten that day.
"We'll reach camp by nightfall," Tome added. "But no torches. Too risky."
"Understood."
They rose, and the group walked on.
As they crossed a dry creek bed, one of Tome's men—tall, bearded, quiet—stepped closer to Cuetlachtli and looked him up and down. Not in challenge. Not quite. Just measuring.
"You're not like the others," he said, tone flat.
"Which others?"
"The ones who roam these lands"
Cuetlachtli didn't answer right away. He stepped up onto the far bank, his boots crunching dry leaves, then looked back down at the man.
"No," he said. "I'm not."
That seemed to satisfy him.
When they finally arrived at the Janambre camp, it wasn't what Cuetlachtli expected. No perimeter. No guard towers. Just a series of raised wooden platforms beneath the trees, lashed together with rope and bark, shaded by broad leaves that curled down like green spears. Women stirred pots. Children lay in hammocks. Old men smoked fish over coals that hissed faintly with sea-salt sizzle.
One of the children saw the Yaoquizque and ran to alert the elders. But there was no panic. Just the shifting of people. Space made. Attention given.
Tome motioned toward an open platform near the center, where a woman was rolling tobacco by hand. She didn't look up.
"We can talk there."
Cuetlachtli didn't rush. He let his eyes adjust to the rhythm of the camp, watched the people, the way they didn't flinch or show teeth. This wasn't a people on the run. This was a people waiting to see if what he brought was worth more than what they already had.
Once seated, Tome offered Cuetlachtli a gourd of something bitter and red. He drank it without asking what it was.
"The Huastec have a few bands left in the north," Tome began. "One near the salt basin. Another deeper past the bluff cliffs. They're not unified. Most are just trying to disappear."
"But they still raid."
Tome nodded. "Sometimes. Old habits. Others are just looking for someone to follow. Someone who won't kill them."
Cuetlachtli looked past Tome toward the trees. "And you want that someone to be me."
"I want that someone to be someone who won't lie."
Silence stretched again.
Huitzolin shifted, but said nothing. His eyes scanned the camp like a soldier, but Cuetlachtli knew he was listening.
"I won't promise peace," Cuetlachtli said. "But I'll promise a choice. Fold into the Hueiatoyotl, pay tribute, follow the laws, and I won't touch them. They keep fighting, and they die. Simple."
Tome met his eyes.
"You sound like the old world."
Cuetlachtli gave the ghost of a smile. "That world's still here. Just better armed."
The Janambre elder finally looked up from her tobacco and grunted. She spat beside the fire, then said in a voice as dry as sand, "If you break your word, I'll gut you like a catfish."
Cuetlachtli looked at her and didn't blink. "You'll be dead before you touch steel."
The fire cracked once, like it approved.
Then Tome nodded. "We'll take you to them. Tomorrow. You'll speak. You convince them, you gain more than allies. You gain eyes on the gulf. Smugglers. Pirates. Places you haven't seen yet."
Cuetlachtli reached for the gourd again and took another drink. It burned deeper this time.
"I'm listening," he said.
And the camp listened back.
…
…
…
They left at first light.
Cuetlachtli didn't sleep much the night before, not because of nerves but because the air was too still. No drums. No patrols. Just the dark sounds of the coast and the slow breathing of strangers. The Janambre had offered dried meat and some kind of root mash to start the day, and while the taste left much to be desired, it was food. Tome spoke a few quick words to the elders and younger men before joining Cuetlachtli near the edge of the clearing. His two tribesmen followed behind in silence, faces unreadable.
The sun rose behind them as they began the march inland. At first the path was easy, animal trails mostly, and the ground still damp from the early dew. But as they went further, the terrain started shifting—low trees with gnarled trunks, tight underbrush that forced them to move single file, and the occasional rise of shallow hills that gave brief views of the distant flatlands beyond. Every night they stopped, made a small fire, and slept in short shifts. Every morning they set off again.
Cuetlachtli didn't complain, but he didn't hide his irritation either. His clothes stuck to his back, his boots grew heavier each day, and even the salt on his skin no longer came from the sea. But he made note of everything—where the streams crossed, which shrubs cut skin if brushed too closely, how the ground shifted underfoot depending on the hour. He watched how the Janambre moved too, how their eyes caught movement in the brush before his did, how their feet never snagged on roots or sunken logs. He was learning, whether he liked it or not.
By the fifth day, the wind changed.
They had followed a dry riverbed for most of the morning when one of the Janambre signaled a halt. Tome crouched near a split in the terrain, muttering under his breath before motioning for Cuetlachtli and the others to come close.
"Tracks," he said. "Not many. Light. Could be foragers."
Cuetlachtli knelt beside him and looked. Sure enough, the soil had been pressed by soft sandals. Three sets. He glanced around and gestured to fan out. No one spoke. Weapons were drawn quietly—obsidian-bladed spears for the Janambre, iron-edged swords for the Mexica. Cuetlachtli moved left, angling around a clump of trees until he saw them.
Three Huastecs. Young, maybe late teens or early twenties. Dirty, lean, carrying packs of roasted squash and dried meat. One of them had a hatchet. They were muttering to each other near a bend in the trees, unaware.
Tome approached first, hands visible, voice low. He spoke in a dialect the Huastecs seemed to recognize. Cuetlachtli stayed back, watching. One of the Huastecs pointed toward the west and barked something. The others grew tense. The one with the hatchet gripped it tighter.
"Don't try," Tome said over his shoulder. "They're angry. Scared."
Cuetlachtli stepped forward. "Tell them they have a choice. They surrender and we might find where their people are. Maybe they live to see them again. Maybe."
The hatchet was raised before Tome could finish translating.
The first clash was messy. One of the Janambre lunged too soon and caught a kick to the thigh. Cuetlachtli closed the gap with the second Huastec, parried the wild swing of a short club, and drove his blade through the man's shoulder. The scream was quick, strangled. The last Huastec managed to slash Tome across the arm before a Mexica sword caught him clean across the ribs.
Silence fell hard.
The smell of blood rose in the humid air. One of the Janambre spat in the dirt and wiped his weapon on a leaf. Tome sat down slowly, holding his arm as blood soaked through the fabric.
Cuetlachtli kicked the hatchet away and stood over the bodies. "That's what they chose."
Tome winced but managed a lopsided grin. "I think… this alliance is real now."
Cuetlachtli looked at him.
"Blood ties better than words, right?" Tome added, nodding toward the fallen. "Now we've fought together. Now we need each other."
Cuetlachtli cracked a small smile, not out of amusement, but agreement. "The only thing they had over us was knowing the land. We didn't. Now?"
He looked at the Janambre, then at the trail ahead.
"Now that's gone. Or close to it."
He gave Tome a look—more serious now.
"With the… Xanample," he said, getting the name just wrong again but not caring, "we don't need to guess anymore. We can find them. Corner them. Cut them off. Maybe even surround them if we plan right."
Tome raised an eyebrow. "You mean we can. Together."
Cuetlachtli nodded once. "Together."
He walked forward again, leaving the bodies where they lay. There'd be more Huastecs. More skirmishes. But this one mattered. Not for its size, but for what it proved.
They were no longer just marching blind into enemy land. They had guides. They had maps made with eyes and feet. And now, they had blood in the soil.
…
…
…
They moved at a steady pace for two days. The air grew warmer as they marched south, the trees thinner, the underbrush easier to cut through. Tome and his two men led without hesitation, even in the darker stretches of forest. Cuetlachtli didn't say much during the return, but he was watching. Every bend in the trail, every animal sound in the brush. He was memorizing the way.
By the second afternoon, they crossed into the familiar fringes of Yaotlan. A few torches were already lit at the outer ridgeline, and two Yaoquizque Tlapixque on watch blew short horn bursts when they saw the returning group.
Cuetlachtli halted at the outer edge. Tome stopped beside him.
"You brought us to the edge of what we know," Cuetlachtli said, meeting his eyes. "That matters."
Tome gave a simple nod. "You fought beside me. That matters too."
Cuetlachtli motioned to one of his men. The soldier jogged toward a half-covered stockpile under a hide tarp and returned with a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Cuetlachtli untied it and pulled back the corners to reveal eight iron-tipped arrows—fletched clean, wrapped tight at the base with dyed thread.
"A gift," he said. "For your people."
Tome took the bundle with both hands, holding it carefully. He ran a thumb over one of the arrowheads, then gave a small grin.
"I look forward to seeing what comes next."
Cuetlachtli gave a brief nod and turned without another word. Tome and his men faded back into the forest. No ceremony. No farewell speeches. Just the quiet understanding between warriors who might meet again.
As Cuetlachtli crossed the camp perimeter, one of the younger Yaoquizque ran up grinning.
"Tlacatecatl! They said you were halfway to the sea!"
Another joined him. "Did you find anything? Huastecs? More Castilian signs?"
Cuetlachtli raised a hand, and the men quieted as he walked toward the center of camp.
Yaotlan wasn't much to look at. A handful of hide tents, three long barracks still being reinforced with scavenged timber, and a central fire pit surrounded by cooking stones and drying racks. The horse relay post had been expanded with crude fencing, and the beginnings of a supply tent now stood behind a dug-out pit lined with sharpened sticks—defense more symbolic than functional for now.
The other officers gathered fast. Word traveled quicker than it should have in a place this small.
Cuetlachtli stood near the fire and let the warmth soak into his legs.
"We followed the river from the old Castilian map," he began. "The one from Tziccoac."
Several of the men leaned in. Even the ones who normally stayed quiet looked up.
"It's real. That river. Wide, slow in some parts. You could cross it on foot at low tide, but only if you know when."
He pointed northward, toward where he had come from.
"The people there? Nomads. Move fast. Know the land better than anyone I've seen. We made contact. Traded words. Traded blows."
He glanced toward the southern horizon.
"And past them, toward the coast… we found others. Huastecs still resisting. But we handled that."
One of the lieutenants shifted, voice low.
"You claimed it?"
Cuetlachtli gave a single nod.
"Carved into a tree myself. Mexicatlan."
The silence that followed hung heavy for a moment. Then came the murmurs, low and excited.
Cuetlachtli raised a hand again.
"Stop. We don't get to dream just yet."
The murmurs died off.
He stepped closer to the fire and tossed in a thin stick, watching the sparks jump.
"That place is far. Too far to matter if we lose the ground beneath our feet. Yaotlan barely stands. We've got a half-trained supply line, a horse relay system that's one accident away from stalling, and Huastecs still moving in and out of these forests."
He looked around at them, sharp now.
"Our job isn't done. Not until this entire region—every stretch of forest, every path, every river crossing from here to the foothills—is under watch or control."
He motioned to one of the scribes nearby.
"I'll send word to Cuauhtémoc, Maxixcatzin, and Ehecatl. Let them know what we've seen. What we've marked. And what we need."
The scribe nodded, already reaching for parchment and ink.
Cuetlachtli turned back to the rest.
"Until I get a reply, we hold here. Patrol the rivers. Keep the roads clear. If the Huastecs try to cut us off again, we answer fast."
One of the older Tlapixque spoke up. "And Mexicatlan?"
Cuetlachtli gave a faint smile.
"Will still be there when we're ready."
The men relaxed slightly, and the fire cracked as another stick fell inward. No one said anything for a moment.
Yaotlan wasn't a city. It wasn't even a proper town. But tonight it felt a little more real. A little more anchored.
And for the first time in days, Cuetlachtli didn't feel like he was walking blind.
…
…
…
Tome and his men returned three days after they'd parted ways with Cuetlachtli. Their camp sat tucked beneath the overhang of a dry ridge, flanked by scrubland and acacia. Smoke curled from low fires. Children ran through the brush, their voices carrying. The smell of roasted cactus, rabbit fat, and ash filled the wind.
By the time Tome walked in, dust on his legs and a half-emptied waterskin on his hip, the elders were already gathering near the central fire. Word of his return had spread fast. He greeted a few with a hand to the shoulder, gave a small wave to a boy carrying kindling, then lowered himself into the circle without ceremony. His two companions sat just behind him, arms crossed, silent.
An older man with sun-leathered skin and two black stripes across his cheeks cleared his throat.
"You went far."
Tome gave a slow nod. "Far enough to see where their world ends."
Another elder leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "And?"
"The alliance has begun."
That got a few murmurs. A younger elder shifted uncomfortably, while another—face wrinkled deep like dry bark—grunted and spit to the side.
Tome continued. "I brought their war-leader to the river. He called himself Cuetlachtli. Sharp man. Doesn't waste time. He saw the river, walked it, and claimed it. Right there. Named it for his people. Carved it into a tree."
The elder with the black stripes narrowed his eyes. "He just took it?"
Tome shrugged. "Didn't fight us for it. Just said it would be a place of trade one day."
Another elder spoke—round face, missing two front teeth. "And you're sure he's not planning to move more of his kind in? Push us out like the others in the area?"
"We talked about that," Tome said. "He didn't speak like someone interested in swallowing us. His men don't even know the land. That's why they asked for us. They don't move unless we lead."
One of the bitter voices rose now. An older man with sharp cheekbones and white hair that ran in thick braids down his back.
"My grandson never came back," he said, voice low. "You remember. He was one of the first who went to watch them. Came back with fever in his gut, wounds that stank like waste. Said he'd been hit with one of those cursed weapons they smeared with shit and piss."
The fire popped as a log cracked open, red embers blooming inside. No one spoke for a moment.
Tome didn't blink. "I'm aware."
The elder's jaw clenched. "You want me to sit here and bless the hands that put him in the dirt?"
Another man nearby shifted forward. "You also remember your grandson was one of the first to throw a spear. He wasn't there to talk. Neither were his friends. I buried my brother that same week."
The white-haired elder scowled. "And that makes it right?"
"No," the man said, looking down at the dirt. "But what's done is done. We tried to kill them. They didn't all die. Now they want to talk. And if what they say is true, they want no war except with the ones to the south. Same as us."
A third elder spoke now. Thin voice, but calm. "So long as our backs are covered and our feet have places to walk, maybe our dead don't have to mean nothing."
The white-haired man didn't respond. But he sat back slowly. Eyes narrowed. He didn't nod. He didn't smile. But he didn't argue again.
The fire crackled on.
After a few beats of silence, another voice came from across the circle. "The river. The one they claimed. There are still tribes there. Some of them ours."
Tome exhaled through his nose. "They know. Cuetlachtli's men crossed paths with Huastecs while we were out. It didn't go clean. Fight broke out."
Another elder's head lifted. "So that's it. Blood's been spilled. Now it's real."
"It is," Tome said. "They fight sharp. And loud. But they don't scatter. We joined them that day. Stood back to back. And they didn't question it."
The striped elder rubbed his jaw. "What's their plan for the river?"
"They want to mark it as a place to trade. That's why he carved it. Said he'd send word to his own people to keep it known. But not to fill it yet. Not until they're ready. He sees it as a place where people from farther north might pass through. Roads might stretch one day."
The round-faced elder grinned. "Then they'll need guides."
Tome nodded. "And we'll know which paths are safe. Which ones are ours."
A few more nods followed. One of Tome's men added quietly, "And if they do build roads, they won't just be theirs. We'll use them too."
A younger voice, still without grey in the hair, asked, "And if the ones past the river don't want trade?"
Tome looked at him. "Then we don't cross. Or we go with more blades. But that's later."
He stood finally, knees cracking. Looked around the fire.
"This isn't a marriage. Not yet. But it's something. Something we can walk with. I say we keep moving with them. Not ahead. Not behind. With."
The elders didn't cheer. They didn't chant or raise hands. But some looked at each other with less suspicion. Some poked at the firewood to keep it alive a little longer.
The white-haired elder didn't speak again. But he didn't leave either.
And that, for now, was enough.
A/N: special shoutout to Nameless97 for sending power stones everyday, even during days of being lazy or hitting writers block. Seeing that notification everyday kept my mind on focusing on the story even if it were a secondary thought.