The sun had begun to kiss the horizon by the time Pill, Roy, and Sofia stepped into the clearing beneath the old mesquite tree. Heat shimmered off the dry earth. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk called—a long, sharp cry that sliced through the silence like a warning.
Sofia walked one step behind the two men, her every movement deliberate. Her mother’s shawl was draped across her shoulders, heavy with weight that wasn’t just fabric. The dove-feather headdress caught the fading light like a halo, soft and defiant. The embroidery at her waist bore the colors of her grandmother’s mountain—sky blue and earth brown. But the lines of her face held nothing but steel.
On the far side of the clearing—
Xiuhcoatl.
He stood at the heart of the Ixchele delegation, framed by two of his highest-ranki
