Teyalli kept to herself the next day. She sat close to the wall, arms around her knees, watching the fire more than she watched anyone else. She spoke when asked, worked when told, but didn't move unless she had to.
I caught her looking at me more than once. Not trusting. Not grateful. Just measuring. Like she still wasn't sure what I wanted from her.
That night, after everyone else settled into their corners, I sat across from her.
"You're not a burden," I said.
Her head jerked up. "What?"
I kept my voice low so the others wouldn't hear. "Cihuatzin makes it sound like you are. But you're not. Everyone here… we've carved out a small piece of safety in this hole, and anything new feels like a threat. That's all. As long as you help, like everyone else does, you'll be fine."
Her eyes softened, but only a little. "You mean gather scraps and boil water."
I shrugged. "That's what we've got. Nobody here is a warrior anymore. Not really. Just survivors."
She looked away, blinking hard.
Before I could say anything else, Cihuatzin's voice cut through the dark. "Don't start charming Iztaccíhuatl, Popocatépetl."
The group stirred at the words. A few chuckles, a few smirks.
My eyebrow twitched, but I didn't give her the satisfaction of snapping.
I turned back to Teyalli. "Ignore her. She just likes to hear herself talk."
Then, after a pause, I said it straight. "Welcome to the group."
Teyalli nodded, slow. For the first time since I'd met her, her shoulders relaxed just a little.
The fire crackled. Cihuatzin smirked from her corner. The others settled back into silence.
And for one brief moment, it almost felt like we were something more than just thirteen mouths waiting for the next day.
Ehecatl's internal POV:
'It wasn't until Cihuatzin called me Popocatépetl that something clicked.
If everything I've seen so far wasn't already obvious, I needed to stop thinking like it's the 21st century. This isn't a time where people ask for evidence or wait for scientific proof. This is a time of myth, fear, and superstition. People don't just see events — they look for signs. Omens. Ghosts. Gods.
I don't know what day it is. Not by the Christian calendar. Not even by the tonalpohualli. But that doesn't really matter.
Genghis Khan once told the Muslims of Bukhara, "I am the punishment of God. If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me." He weaponized fear. Turned belief into a psychological edge.
Columbus used a lunar eclipse to trick the people of Jamaica into giving him food. Told them his god was angry and would darken the moon. And when the moon turned red, they begged him to intercede.
Even Blackbeard — the pirate — used to light slow-burning fuses in his beard to make himself look like a demon rising out of hell.
I don't need anything fancy. I just need fear. The right kind of fear.
And right now, I've got 13 mouths to feed, almost no supplies, and possibly hostile scouts watching from the brush.
So what if I flipped the script a bit?
What if one of the women… walked the canals or the old roads at night… crying, sobbing, clawing for her children?
Not in the open. Not loud enough to get shot. But enough to be heard. Enough to be seen from the edge of someone's camp.
The myth behind it is old — Cihuacóatl, the weeping spirit, the mother who lost her children. Some say she's a goddess, others say she's a ghost. Either way, she terrifies people.
And while the Spanish may not care, their native allies will. I know they will.
That myth has weight. And if even one group of native warriors decides to fall back or question marching forward because of it… that's enough.
I don't have swords. I don't have steel. But maybe I can use this.'
The fish were already gone. Two small ones. Dried, tough, barely enough to fill a mouth, but they were gone all the same. Ehecatl watched the others chew in silence, the bones tossed to the side like promises that never meant anything to begin with.
They sat in the half-buried canal shelter that passed for a home now — mud-caked, slumped, leaning against rotting beams and overgrown roots. Cihuatzin leaned against the back wall, arms crossed and chewing slower than the rest, always the last to finish, always making it clear she wasn't impressed.
Ehecatl crouched near the low fire. Smoke whispered against his cheek. He didn't look at anyone as he spoke.
"I want to ask something. Not to command—just to ask."
That got them to look.
Teyalli, still keeping her distance near the broken doorway, glanced up from her hands. A few of the older women straightened their backs, weary but listening. Even Cihuatzin raised a brow, though she didn't say a word.
"You all know I've been doing what I can to keep this place hidden. But that won't last forever," Ehecatl said. "One of the patrols will find us. Eventually. By accident or on purpose, it doesn't matter."
He paused. Looked at each of them in turn.
"I can't fight them head-on. Not alone. And the young ones… they're not ready."
Cihuatzin snorted through her nose.
"But maybe we don't need to fight with blades."
That made even the ones chewing stop. Not because it was strange — but because it was different. And different got people killed.
"What are you talking about, boy?" asked one of the older women, her face weathered and lined like dried maize husk.
"I've been thinking," Ehecatl said. "The Caxtilteca have allies from other altepetl right? Not all of them are fully gone to their side, when worshipping the Caxtilteca god. Some of them still believe in the gods. Still fear the old ways."
That stirred the air. Cihuatzin's eyes narrowed. Someone crossed themselves.
"If we can make even a few of them hesitate… we can use that. Delay them. Confuse them. Maybe even frighten them into avoiding this area."
Another pause. Then he said it.
"I want to ask if one of you would walk the road at night. Crying. Dressed and veiled. Just once. Like her. Like Cihuacóatl."
The fire snapped loudly.
The reaction wasn't dramatic. It wasn't silence either. It was tension. Old women shifted in place, some stiffening. One of them scratched her wrist without realizing it. A few of the younger ones exchanged uncertain looks.
Cihuatzin finally pushed herself off the wall.
"You want one of us to pretend to be Cihuacóatl?" she asked. "To dress like her? Cry like her?"
"Yes," Ehecatl said. "At a distance. Veiled. Just enough to be seen. Not close enough to risk danger."
"You do know people have been cursed for less, right?"
"I've heard," he said.
"My cousin's husband once mocked her name during festival season," said one of the women. "He went blind a year later. No warning."
"I heard she takes women who pretend to weep for children they didn't lose," another murmured.
"She's not just a story," Teyalli said quietly. "I've heard her once. In the rain. By the old bathhouse. Everyone said it was a dog howling… but I know what I heard."
The fire crackled again.
Ehecatl didn't push further.
"I'm not forcing anyone. I'm just saying—if we do nothing, they will find us. And when they do, it won't be a fight. It'll be a slaughter."
Cihuatzin muttered something under her breath — it might've been a prayer. Or a curse. Or both.
Teyalli sat forward, her voice barely more than a whisper:
"If I do it… I want my face covered. I don't want to be seen."
Ehecatl nodded once.
"Of course. Full veil. Loose shawl. You won't be near any torches."
An older woman, bone-thin but sharp-eyed, spoke next:
"I'll walk behind her. Not to pretend. But to pray. Someone should be there to make sure she knows this isn't mockery."
The air shifted again — not acceptance, not yet. But no longer outright refusal.
Cihuatzin stared at the two of them for a long moment before sitting back down, muttering something that sounded like "fools" but carried no real venom.
Nothing more was said for the rest of the night.
But something had changed.
A seed had been planted.
And whether it would grow or rot in the dark… only time would tell.
Ehecatl didn't move from his place near the fire. The smoke still coiled between them, like a spirit too nosy to leave. Teyalli's voice had barely risen above a whisper when she'd offered to be the one. The old woman beside her had nodded slowly, thin lips pressed tight.
That was enough. He looked between them both — not as a leader, but as someone desperate to make something work.
"Then listen closely," Ehecatl said. "If we do this… we make it count. This isn't just about scaring them. It's about removing one of them."
The old woman blinked. Teyalli stayed quiet.
"It only works if we pick a patrol that's few in number," he explained. "Three. Four at most. Any more and the risk outweighs the gain."
He reached to the ground and began drawing in the dirt with a charred stick — a simple triangle and dots, a path, a bush line, the water canal that wrapped around the eastern edge of the settlement.
"You'll walk near the road," Ehecatl said, pointing with the stick. "Veiled. Alone. Slow."
He looked at Teyalli. "You don't need to cry — just make the sound. Hiccupped. Distant. Like grief that won't die."
Her throat bobbed, but she nodded.
"When they see you, there's a good chance at least one of them will be bold. The younger ones always are," he said grimly. "I want him to think you're just some broken girl — scared, alone, too far from home."
He paused. "When he starts toward you… point at him."
Teyalli's brows creased.
"Say he's your child," Ehecatl added. "Say he's the one you lost. Say you finally found him."
A rustle went through the group — disgust, unease. But no one interrupted.
"They won't know what to do with that," he said. "The moment they hesitate, I'll create a distraction. I'll be waiting nearby. Hidden."
"When the others turn to see what the noise is, you run. Quiet and fast. Don't stop. Don't look back. The old woman will follow, keep low and stay close to the shadows."
"And the warrior you're targeting?" asked the old woman, voice quiet.
"I'll tackle him into the canal," Ehecatl said without hesitation. "Drag him under. Hold him until the thrashing stops. Then swim off with the body."
The fire crackled again. Even Cihuatzin, now silent near the far corner, didn't laugh this time.
"By the time they turn back around, he and you will both be gone. The noise? Just splashing. But he will be gone. You will be gone. And they'll be left with the sound of water and the memory of a crying woman pointing at one of their own."
No one spoke.
He looked at Teyalli again. "If we do this right… the fear of Cihuacóatl will outweigh their curiosity. They won't chase. They'll run."
She didn't ask what he'd do with the body.
She just asked one thing.
"How many more do you plan to drown?"
Ehecatl's face didn't change.
"As many as it takes."