Xiuhcoatl returned to camp like a gathering storm.
His footsteps were measured, but something fierce burned behind his eyes. The warriors stationed near the ridge fell silent as he passed. No salutes. No greetings. They parted like reeds in the wind, lips pressed flat with tension.
They had seen this look before. But never this quiet.
Inside the perimeter, the scent of smoke and blood clung to the wind—offerings from the last raid still fresh in the earth. Two of his highest commanders stepped forward.
Tezozomoctli, tall and broad-shouldered, had war paint still streaked across his cheekbones, cracked now from heat and sweat.
His eyes tracked Xiuhcoatl carefully.
Tlacaelel, smaller in frame but sharper in tongue, fell into step beside his Tlatoani, voice low.
“She left again,” he a
