The jungle sang.
Not in chorus, but in layers—the rustle of palm leaves, the chirp of birds shifting in the canopy, the soft hum of life waking in the green hush of morning.
Sofia stood at the open window of their home, humming a lullaby one of the elder women had taught her—soft, slow, and older than memory.
It wasn’t in English. Or Spanish. Or even Nahuatl. It was the language of the Ixchele women—passed down through rhythm and breath.
The song was for protection. For strength. For the child who stirred beneath her hand.
Sunlight spilled across the woven floor mats, catching the curve of her belly. The baby shifted—a flutter just under her ribs—and Sofia’s hand moved instinctively to cradle it.
The next Tlatoani.
The next fire.
The next hope.
And she wasn’t afraid.
Her other ha
