She met Tezozomoctli and Tlacaelel in the library on the afternoon of the second day, while searching for old Moon Pack boundary maps.
They were bent over a translated treaty, muttering quietly about clauses and redundancies. Sofia nearly walked past them—half-distracted, fingers skimming the spines of the history shelf—until Tlacaelel looked up and grinned.
“You read treaty law and boundary maps? Goddess help whoever tries to fight you.”
He offered her a strip of dried mango, as if it were a peace offering. She took it.
“Only when I’m bored,” she said. “Or being cornered by kitchen inventory reports.”
“Even worse,” Tezozomoctli murmured.
“I’m looking for the boundary records,” she added, glancing toward the far wall. “And peace of mind. Preferably both.”
“Ah,” Tlacaelel said, handi
