The sun was already nearing the gates of Mictlan. A crimson glow spread across the horizon, like blood spilled upon the techcatl stone.
People began to disperse. Warriors walked with bowed heads. Was it not they, and not civilians, who should be the ones to die? Children asked their parents why someone like him had to perish. The parents had no answer beyond what the priests themselves would have said. The devout simply whispered prayers and left. Others drifted away at their own pace, but all with the same sorrow.
At the entrance to the priestly residence stood Tlacotzin, embraced by his four beloveds—Meya, Nenetzi, Xilonen, and Izel. What could he say to them? How could he comfort them? They would remain with his children. What would they do? The king had promised to care for them, but was that truly enough? He did not want to lose them. He wanted to stay. He was a man; he ought to support them at every step—but for the good of all, including theirs, he had to die. What could he do? He longed so desperately to remain with them.
They clung to him as though their embrace might hide him from the world, as if by sheer will they could keep him. Tears shimmered in their eyes, yet they somehow held them back.
Then a heavy step broke their despair.
They looked aside—and saw a specter. But soon realized it was not a ghost. It was a man. Or at least something resembling one. He staggered as he walked. His once-straight posture swayed. His movements seemed wracked with pain, as though beaten mercilessly, though no wound marked his body. He wore fine cotton garments, worthy of a noble—yet upon him they hung like rags. His hair, though tied in a warrior's lock, was disheveled.
The true shock struck them when the figure drew closer.
It was… Itzcoatl.
Usually he looked the very image of a young noble—upright, proud, an example to the community. Now he resembled a damned soul, wandering through the deepest abysses of Mictlan.
As he approached, Tlacotzin narrowed his eyes. He thought he saw something bound with cords at the height of his friend's heart.
The girls stared wide-eyed. Xilonen was the first to speak.
"What happened to you?"
Izel, worried, added softly:
"You look as if…"
Itzcoatl shook his head and began to mumble. The girls could not understand—a torrent of words poured from him, full of pain, incomprehensible. They looked at him in horror. They had come to know him a little, but now he was utterly changed, the embodiment of torment itself.
And yet, for some unknown reason, Tlacotzin understood.
"You owe me nothing."
Itzcoatl suddenly straightened, looking at him in astonishment.
"Yes, I do. I failed to save your mother. I could not help you find a worthy life. And now I have failed to save you."
Tlacotzin met his friend's eyes with all the determination within him. His words were steady, firm as the stones of the sacred pyramid.
"If not for you, I would have sunk wholly into despair and taken my own life. You owe me nothing. Thanks to you, I live still."
Itzcoatl let his arms fall limp at his sides, lifeless.
"Because of me, you are here. I should have watched over you while drinking, or at least walked you home."
Tlacotzin bit his lip at the thought of that miserable hut he had once lived in—the hopelessness, the lack of meaning. Even death upon the techcatl seemed better than that life.
Before he could respond, another figure appeared.
A woman, dressed in gown and cloak embroidered with flowers and butterflies. She wore jade and turquoise jewelry. Yet around her clung a sharp aura, like obsidian blades thrusting outward. Tlacotzin squinted and saw at her heart something bound—not by cords, but by thorns.
The girls recoiled, hands covering mouths, trembling. Without doubt, they feared her. Izel whispered one word, likely the name of the priestess:
"Citalli…"
The woman placed her hands upon Tlacotzin's shoulders. She looked into his eyes with pupils black as obsidian, deep as a cenote. Her gentle voice carried the sound of a jaguar's tread, ready to pounce.
"Itzcoatl, young noble guided by honor—I thank you for all the help and support you have given Tlacotzin. But now you must go. You can do no more. Pray for your friend instead."
What happened next astonished them all.
Itzcoatl, who could stand against the temple guard, now trembled like a dry maize leaf in the wind. Moments later, he fled so swiftly that dust rose in his wake.
Tlacotzin could hardly believe his eyes. The girls stepped protectively before him, as though to shield him from this fearsome woman.
Then came a familiar male voice—Cuathli.
"Tlacotzin, meet Citalli. She will aid us through all the preparations."
Shock struck the four maidens. Xilonen was first to cry out:
"High priest, you must be joking! Her?!"
Then Izel spoke.
"With all respect, high priest, surely anyone would be better than her."
Meya and Nenetzi nodded in agreement.
Cuathli smiled gently.
"I understand your doubts. But believe me—there is no one better suited to this task."
And in his mind, he recalled his conversation with Citalli the day before.
Cuathli had walked the corridors of the priestly residence—toward a part seldom visited, a place all avoided out of fear. Fear of a dread beyond their comprehension. Yet he went to the very source of that dread.
He could not stop thinking of the vision he had received—especially the elements tied to the ritual. The problem was the girls and their role. He was a man; they would not open their hearts to him so easily. And there was the matter of the children to be conceived during the rite. Who would guide them? Who could understand them?
There was only one. Though he could scarcely believe the thought himself. Now he had to face the conversation.
The corridor seemed muted, colors dulled. Flowers along the way bent away from the direction he walked. At last he reached a door. He could swear darkness seeped from behind it—some force locked within, pouring its wrath on all around. And it was precisely this source of wrath he sought.
He knocked. A calm, delicate woman's voice answered—yet with something of the jaguar's poised leap in it.
"Who is there?"
He drew breath, catching a faint floral scent.
"Citalli—it is I, Cuathli. We must speak. It is very important."
A tense silence lingered, then—
"Enter."
Her tone was unchanged, but displeasure tinged it.
Cuathli pushed the door. They moved as any doors would—but felt like massive stone gates sealing away evil.
Inside, the room resembled no other in the residence. A small table stood at its center, two beds to either side, both perfectly made as if never slept in. One was adorned with marigolds. Garlands and wreaths of marigolds hung everywhere. Candles cast a dim, flickering light.
Not a dwelling. A chapel. A chapel for a spirit bound within. Yet someone lived here. A woman sat on the bare floor before the table.
"Greetings, Citalli, servant of Xochipilli."
She gestured to a place across from her. He sat on the floor, not daring to touch the cushions that lay nearby. Everything in this room was set, immutable.
"What do you want?" she asked gently, yet with irritation, as if his presence were unwelcome—though he was her superior.
"Have you heard of Tlacotzin?"
Her eyes narrowed. She flinched, as though struck with pain.
"The young flutist you call a son? Everyone has heard. Even I."
Cuathli sighed heavily and handed her a folded paper.
"Today I performed the ritual of questioning concerning Tlacotzin's role in Xochi Huetzi. Here is the vision I received. Tomorrow the council meets on this matter. Read it."
She took it, unfolded, and began reading. Cuathli studied her. She was a beautiful woman in her thirties—long, straight black hair gleaming like obsidian, flowing down her back. She wore garments embroidered with flowers and butterflies, subtly accentuating her figure without display.
But two things marred this image. Her nails—long, sharp, painted black like talons. And her eyes—black as obsidian, bottomless as the deepest cenote. She could have had suitors, yet all fled her presence, fearing for their lives. Even Cuathli, veteran of battles, survivor of death and capture, felt crushing fear. But no one else could help him.
He noticed the slightest movement of her eyes as she read. Slowly, her dominant hand began to tremble with rage. At last she crushed the paper in her fist and glared at him like a beast. Her words came with fury, anger, grievance, hatred—and also boundless grief, despair, sorrow, pain.
"Why?! Why do you bring me something… like this?"
"I need your help."
The most honest words he had ever spoken. She looked at him with hostility.
"Why?! Why?! Why?!"
"It is about the girls. They truly love Tlacotzin. They will be left alone with his children. Only you understand what it means to lose one you love upon the altar."
His eyes fell on the perfectly made bed adorned with flowers. He remembered.
Once, this was not a forsaken wing, but part of the living residence. That room had belonged to two sisters—Citalli and her elder sister.
He remembered their smiles, their dances, their music. The jest that if one married one, he must marry both. A perfect painting of joy.
Until the day her sister was chosen as an offering.
He remembered it well, for he had witnessed it all.
Citalli could not—or would not—accept it. She screamed, wept, offered herself instead. Nothing helped. Only when her sister embraced her did she fall silent.
His predecessor judged her behavior a threat to the rite. The sisters were separated. The elder told that Citalli had been sent on a task—when in truth she was locked away. She raged, like a jaguar caged. He tried to intervene, to allow her a farewell. For his effort he was punished with a degrading assignment. He remembered his fury at the high priest. And his words, before he left—that for treating the sisters so, divine wrath would fall upon them.
And wrath did fall.
When the offering was made, the high priest and all his helpers fell suddenly down the pyramid steps. Only the high priest survived—screaming in agony. Before all, weeds sprang grotesquely from the bodies of the others.
They had rushed to Citalli, found her locked in her cell. Her only words: "Did the high priest deign to die?"
All fled in terror—save Cuathli, who answered her. He never forgot her cruel, vengeful smile.
It was judged that Xochipilli had indeed raged at the treatment of the sisters. Cuathli, who had urged mercy, was elevated to high priest. Citalli was ordained a priestess. The dead were cast out like refuse, their names erased. Yet it was not enough. For a year they suffered famine.
From that day Citalli was utterly changed. The joyful girl was gone. She shut herself away, giving no time to the city beyond necessity. She hated all—gods, mortals, animals, plants, the world itself. Even herself. Darkness gathered about her, sharp as obsidian blades, dense as night. People feared her presence, whispering it brought misfortune and death. They shunned her as though she were a tzitzimitl fallen from the stars.
She never left the room she once shared with her sister. Rumor said she never moved, sitting like a statue. She ate alone, her meals left at her door.
No one approached her. She sought no company. Only Cuathli knew the hidden truth: somewhere deep in her wounded heart, the old Citalli remained—buried beneath inhuman suffering. Perhaps, if her heart could be healed, she might return. But no power could work such a miracle.
"Cuathli," she said at last, "you know far better than I how to endure pain."
He understood what she meant: I cannot help.
He also knew what she referred to.
When he was young, he had wed a gifted musician. They were happy. She bore a child. They dreamed of names, guessed at gender, imagined the future.
But the day came, and it brought no joy. She died in childbirth, the child stillborn.
Citalli looked at him with quiet sadness. She expected no words.
He had buried his grief in priestly duty, guiding others with wisdom, but remained a widower. Suitors were presented, but he refused all. His family accepted his choice. His brother inherited.
Life flowed on—until he found Tlacotzin upon the temple steps, an orphan.
His dead child… had been a boy.
Had he lived, he would be Tlacotzin's age. He would have finished Calmecac, had friends, found love.
Perhaps this was the root of Cuathli's doubts. He had resisted the bloody rite because he longed for this weary youth to be the son he lost. And Tlacotzin had returned that bond. Yet it could not be fulfilled. The fate of the community outweighed all.
Even powers greater and wiser than he could not spare Tlacotzin's life.
Tlacotzin was not his son—but how he longed to keep him.
Then tears fell—but not his.
Citalli was weeping.
Whether memories of her sister stirred, or she grasped his grief, she wept the truest tears.
"Very well, Cuathli," she said at last. "I will grant your request. But know this—you could not have chosen worse."