The fire crackled beneath the stars.
Children sat cross-legged in the red dust, their faces tilted skyward, cheeks smudged with charcoal and juice, eyes full of wonder. Above them, the sky stretched wide and black, constellations burning slow and ancient.
An elder sat at the center, wrapped in woven cloth the color of smoke. Her white hair was braided with feathers, with stone, with memory.
Her voice, when it came, was soft as ash—but it carried like thunder.
“A long time ago,” she began, “when the world was still bleeding from war, there lived a Tlatoani carved from obsidian and flame.”
“He was strong. Fierce. A jaguar who walked like a storm. But his heart was a blade—and everything he touched, he cut.”
The children leaned in, breath held.
“But then,” the elder said, her eyes glit
