Cempoala had fallen like the others. No tricks. No clever speeches. Just the same familiar routine.
Seal the roads. Cut off whoever was trying to escape to the river. Make sure no one got out. Then wait.
The ladders came next. Tier 3 had built them days in advance, thick with pine and rope, soaked in saltwater to resist fire. Archers on the walls slowed them down, but not for long. Maxixcatzin gave the signal. Two grenades were lobbed into the nearest tower. One burst clean. The other didn't. Still, the archers flinched long enough for the first wave to climb.
The fighting in the streets was tighter than usual. These weren't cowards. They were Totonac yes, but the men here fought like they had nothing left to lose. And with good reason too, but Maxixcatzin didn't care. His objectives were clear.
Take the temple, burn the grain stores, take their shit, and seize the women.
By dusk, the city burned in two places, the temple and the plaza. That was deliberate. He wanted the heat to draw the others out. Those who fled were cut down or dragged off. Those who stayed were gathered in the temple courtyard, bloodied but alive. The rest would be left for the Tlaxcalans.
That had been Cempoala.
The other towns before it had fallen just as hard. Some had better walls. Some begged quicker. Some resisted until the last spear was broken. It didn't matter. Maxixcatzin used the same method every time.
Brute force first. Fire second. Loot last.
The grenades helped, it had its flaws but it was still enough to matter. He liked them for crowded places. The alleyways, doorways, temples packed with bodies and fear. The sound alone cleared a path. His men respected that.
Cuetlaxtlan had been the beginning. Ever since then, it was fight, burn, take, move.
There were no speeches about honor. No lessons for posterity. Tier 3 didn't ask why.
They already knew.
This wasn't Cuauhtémoc's polished campaign or Cuetlachtli's tidy occupation. This was old-fashioned. Bloody. Loud. Wasteful, maybe. But effective. Just like before.
And Maxixcatzin? He wasn't ashamed. He was proud.
The gods would see the smoke.
The Totonacs would remember who came back.
And Xicomecoatl, wherever he was hiding, he'd remember too.
…
…
…
He was bored.
Not tired. Not angry. Just bored.
The sun had barely cleared the trees and Maxixcatzin was already done with the day. The fire was still curling over the broken roofs in the east quarter and bodies hadn't even been cleared from the temple steps, but he didn't care. He'd walked the perimeter. Issued the orders. Approved the division of the loot. Appointed the runners. His captains were off sorting bodies or arguing with their respective Tlaxcalans about who got what from which house.
He didn't feel like mediating.
All he'd been thinking about lately was logistics. Where to move next. What roads could be used. Whether they had enough wood for more ladders or if the grenades would need to be rationed. The looting was predictable. Appointments even more so. Each town they took meant another list of names, another round of Tecuhtli Calpixque to announce. It was all necessary. But it bored him.
He needed something else. Something simpler. Someone, really.
He was thinking of finding a woman just to help clear his head. Not for love. Not even comfort. Just to get his mind off the monotony that conquest had become. When it started, there was a thrill to it. Now? Now it felt like sweeping out a stable.
He drifted away from the temple, stepping over torn cloth and crushed pottery, then down a side path that led toward the northern dwellings. Most of the houses there had already been broken into. Doors split, roof beams kicked in. A few were still intact. That's when he heard them.
Two voices. Male. One younger, sharp with laughter. The other older, lower, half amused.
Maxixcatzin slowed his pace, not to sneak but just to listen.
"…I'm telling you, I'm taking that one by the well," the Mexica said. "It's got thick walls. Shade all day. And a double room."
"I don't care what wall it's got," the Tlaxcalteca replied. "You can keep the house. I'm going through the chests. If there's silver or feather goods, I'm taking it."
The Mexica laughed, not cruelly but like someone who had already started thinking of which corner he'd hang his hammock.
"So we're clear," the Tlaxcalteca added. "You get the shell. I get the meat."
That made them both chuckle.
Maxixcatzin kept walking. He didn't look at them. Didn't nod. Didn't frown. He just moved on, the sound of their boots on the broken stone fading behind him. He'd heard what he needed to.
The mood was settling.
The men were starting to see this place not as a battlefield but as a reward. A city to carve up. A soft place to rest after blood work. The Mexica were already choosing homes. The Tlaxcalans were hunting for treasures. Neither seemed surprised by the other.
That, more than anything, told him things were going well.
…
…
…
He walked with no particular urgency, hands loose by his sides, gaze low. The kind of walk a man takes when his mind's made up but his blood hasn't caught up. He was going to find a woman. That much was clear. He didn't care if she was plain, or proud, or already claimed. He had command. He had the right. But more than that, he had the mood. That heavy, drifting mood that came after too many decisions and not enough distractions.
The streets were thick with the smell of smoke and salt. Clay dust clung to his calves. Broken reed mats dragged across the stone. And ahead, just past the old market square, the looting had begun.
His people didn't wait for permission. They never did. They moved in packs, laughing, prying open doors with spear hafts, dragging out baskets, jars, bundles of cloth and hides. A few temple guards were still being finished off near the eastern shrine steps. He didn't bother to watch.
They raided homes first. Then the temples. Then the storehouses. One crew found a stairwell hidden beneath a merchant's altar, shouted for another to help haul out boxes of dried fish, jars of chile paste, and lengths of uncut cotton. Another pair wrestled over a gold disk until one punched the other and walked off with it.
Maxixcatzin exhaled slowly through his nose.
Great. That's more shit he'd have to sort out later. More disputes, more ledgers, more names to write down and goods to count. More calls to "be fair," even though he never promised fairness.
He cut left toward a quieter lane and noticed the difference immediately.
The Mexica.
They weren't storming houses. Not the way his Tlaxcalans were. They were marking things. Scratching glyphs into wooden beams. Tying cords around doors. One group had measuring sticks out and were tracing the outlines of a garden plot. Another had laid out captives in rows, asking names, family ties, whether they owned land or owed corn to the temples. A man with ink-stained fingers stood by a pot and asked a local elder what Cempoala's main exports were.
They were organized. And just as entitled.
He watched one of them point at a stone-walled home with an upper floor. The other nodded, tapped it with a staff, and moved on to the next. That one's taken.
Maxixcatzin muttered to himself without stopping.
"At least the Totonacs had something worth taking."
His tone was dry, almost amused. He knew the rumors coming in from the others. Tier 1 hadn't gotten much. Cuetlachtli's group had mostly secured towns without a fight. The Tlaxcalans there weren't allowed to loot freely. Whatever spoils there were got filtered through the tribute halls before any of his people got their share. Dull work. Formal. They got what Cuetlachtli gave them, and nothing more.
And Cuauhtémoc? Mixed results.
They hadn't looted Cuauhtocho. The place had joined willingly, under the banner of alliance. So his Tlaxcalans had to settle for the leftovers—small hamlets, minor villages that didn't even have real walls. Not much wealth. Not much fight either. He doubted the men under Cuauhtémoc felt satisfied. The honor was noble, maybe. The rewards weren't.
Here though? Cempoala had resisted. They had walls. Temples. Storehouses. Wealth. Resistance. Everything he needed to make the looting feel earned.
Maxixcatzin stepped aside as two men passed carrying a thick wooden chest between them, bound in copper trim and still locked. He didn't ask where they got it. He didn't care.
He kept walking. Still looking. Still in that mood. The Mexica were picking out plots like farmers after a rain. The Tlaxcalans were harvesting whatever glittered. And he was hunting something else entirely.
His sandals thudded softly on the stone floor as he turned toward the women's quarters, a section he'd claimed for the spoils. Local women rounded up from the elite households, their huipils now rumpled and stained, eyes hollow from the sudden fall.
He pushed aside the reed curtain with a rough shove, the dry fibers rasping against his palm, entering the dimly lit space where the air grew heavier with the musky scent of confined bodies and faint floral oils. A few women huddled on mats, their breathing shallow as they averted their gazes, but one caught his eye. A Totonac noblewoman in her mid-twenties, her full curves barely concealed by a torn shift, dark hair disheveled across her shoulders, her skin glowing warm in the torchlight, nipples faintly visible through the thin fabric as she shifted nervously.
She looked up as he approached, her eyes widening with a mix of fear and resignation, her lips parting slightly in a trembling breath that made her chest rise and fall, the soft swell drawing his gaze like a magnet. Maxixcatzin grabbed her arm roughly, his fingers digging into the warm flesh with a grip that made her wince, pulling her to her feet with a yank that sent her hair whipping across her face. "You'll do," he grunted, his voice low and edged with frustration, his free hand already fumbling at his loincloth, the coarse fabric scratching his thigh as he freed his hardening length, the cool air brushing his hot skin before he shoved her against the wall.
The stone was rough and cool against her back as he pinned her there, his body pressing close with the heat of his sweat-slicked chest, the scent of battle dust and pulque on his breath as he kissed her hard, teeth nipping her lower lip until she gasped, the metallic tang of a small cut blooming on his tongue. Her hands pushed weakly at his shoulders, nails scraping his scarred skin with stinging trails that only fueled his lust, but he grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand, the strain making her arch into him, her full breasts pressing against his chest, nipples hardening through the fabric as friction teased them. "Fight if you want," he growled against her neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark that bloomed red under his teeth, the salty taste of her skin mixing with the faint floral oil she wore, her body trembling as he ripped her shift open with his free hand, the tear resounding sharply in the confined space, exposing her curves to the cool air that pebbled her skin with gooseflesh.
He dropped to his knees suddenly, the stone hard against his joints as he spread her thighs with rough hands, fingers digging into the soft flesh that yielded under his grip, her wetness already glistening in the torchlight as he buried his face between them, tongue lapping hungrily at her folds with long, firm strokes that made her cry out, the sound muffled by her own hand as her body bucked involuntarily, the musky sweetness of her arousal coating his lips and beard. He sucked her clit hard, teeth grazing the sensitive bud as she sobbed in pleasure-pain, her free hand clutching his hair with desperate pulls that stung his scalp, the heat building in her core like a forge fire as he thrust two fingers inside her, curling them to hit that spot that made her walls clench tight, slick and hot around him, her juices dripping down his hand in warm trails.
She shattered with a muffled scream, her body convulsing as release flooded his mouth, hot and sweet, her thighs quaking around his head as he lapped every drop, the vibrations of her moans resonating through his bones. He rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his length throbbing painfully as he spun her around, bending her over a low stool with a shove that made her gasp, the wood creaking under her weight as he entered her from behind in one forceful thrust, her tightness yielding with a wet slide that made him groan, the friction burning hot as he pounded relentlessly, each drive rocking her forward with the slap of skin on skin echoing wetly, her ass rippling under his slapping palms that left red handprints blooming on her flesh.
"Take it," he grunted, pulling her hair back to arch her spine, biting her shoulder as she sobbed in ecstasy, her walls pulsing around him like a vice, the scent of their mingled arousal thick and heady in the air, overpowering the hut's musty dampness. He reached around to pinch her clit again, rolling it between rough fingers until she shattered once more, her release squirting hot and slick down their thighs as he spilled deep inside her with a final groan, the hot rush filling her as they collapsed together, breaths ragged and bodies slick with sweat, the alcove's cool air chilling their fevered skin, her widow's hunger sated for now but already stirring anew as she whispered, "More… don't ever stop."
Panting, she clung to him, her voice husky against his ear. "Come back soon… I crave you like this." He realized then, amid the afterglow, her hunger was a fire that burned bright, her body too good, too addictive, a secret escape he'd return to again and again. Sated, they collapsed onto the reed mats, her head on his chest as he played with her curves, fingers tracing lazy circles on her sweat-slicked skin, the room's quiet broken only by their slowing breaths and the distant hum of the tecpan.
…
…
…
He woke to the smell of crushed flowers and old smoke.
The cholulan woman still slept on the far side of the mat, turned away from him, one arm curled under her head. She had not asked his name the night before. He had not offered it. It had been simple, quiet, and transactional in the way noble households understood very well. Distraction. Nothing more.
Maxixcatzin sat up slowly and rolled his shoulders. His back felt better. His head felt clearer. The tension that had been coiled under his ribs the day before had loosened enough to make breathing easier.
He stood, gathered his clothing from where it had been draped over a low stool, and dressed without ceremony. Leather straps tightened. Sandals secured. Knife returned to its place. When he turned, the woman had opened her eyes but did not speak. She only watched him.
He nodded once to her. Not gratitude. Not dismissal. Just acknowledgement.
Then he stepped outside.
Morning had already settled into the city. Smoke still rose from certain quarters where fires had not yet been stamped out. The air carried the smell of ash, damp stone, and cooked maize. Somewhere nearby, someone was already shouting over a dispute about ownership. Somewhere else, a child cried. Life continuing because it always did.
His men were gathered near the shell of what had once been a small temple courtyard. Shields leaned against broken pillars. A few sat on overturned baskets eating roasted squash. Others sharpened blades with the calm rhythm of routine.
They straightened when they saw him.
One of his captains, older and broader than the rest, stepped forward and inclined his head. "We found traces."
Maxixcatzin did not slow. "Of who."
"Xicomecoatl and his inner circle. They aren't in the city. They're hiding in the low groves west of here. Moving at night. Locals are feeding them."
Maxixcatzin gave a single nod. No change in expression. No tightening of his jaw. Just acknowledgment.
"They won't stay hidden long," the captain added.
"I know," Maxixcatzin said calmly. "They never do."
He walked past them toward the low stone bench where the daily reports had been laid out. Clay tablets. Bark sheets. Knotted cords. The administrative clutter of a war reaching its end.
He picked up the top sheet and skimmed it. His eyes moved quickly. They always had.
Cuetlachtli had completed his objective. Entire Huastec region broken, roads being built, outposts established beyond the old borders. Cuauhtémoc's front stabilized, logistics fully operational, tribute systems already forming. Horse relays active. Roads under construction. Cities cooperating or already absorbed.
The war was no longer a question.
It was a conclusion.
He let the page fall back to the stack and exhaled through his nose.
"Gather the quartermasters," he said without raising his voice. "And the scribes."
The men around him shifted immediately, alert.
"We're not marching again?" one asked.
"No," Maxixcatzin replied. "Not unless someone else forces our hand."
A few of them looked almost disappointed. Others relieved.
He rested his hands on the stone bench and looked at the group as they formed closer around him.
"The reports from the other fronts are clear," he said. "Their objectives are met. The coast is broken. The valleys are under control. The roads are being laid. Whether people admit it yet or not, the fighting part of this war is finished."
No cheering followed. Just listening.
"That means our work changes," he continued. "We stop acting like raiders. We start acting like accountants."
A few lips twitched at that.
"We count everything," he said. "Every bundle of cloth. Every gold ornament. Every captive. Every jar of cacao. Every blade. Every animal. We tally what belongs to us here and we calculate the tenth that goes back to Tlaxcala. No one skims. No one hides goods. If I catch a man lying to keep more for himself, he loses the hand he used to take it."
That sobered the air.
One of the younger officers nodded and spoke carefully. "And the rest of the spoils."
Maxixcatzin glanced at him. "The rest stays with the men who earned it. That was the promise. We are not changing it now."
A murmur of approval passed through the circle. Not loud. Just present.
He straightened. "Send word to every unit. Looting ends today. From this point forward, everything collected is recorded. We transition from conquest to settlement. Anyone who can't handle that can be reassigned to chasing Xicomecoatl through the brush."
That got a few low chuckles.
The captain who had reported earlier spoke again. "And when we catch him."
Maxixcatzin's expression did not change. His gaze stayed forward, steady, patient.
"Then," he said quietly, "we finish the last unfinished thing."