The movement came just after sunrise.
No warhorn. No warning shout. Just the slow swing of the outermost gate and a ripple of unease as the first scout ran back with word:
A messenger.
Not an attack. But something was coming.
Pill was already at the balcony of the command wing, his hands braced on the railing, eyes shadowed by sleepless hours. Below him, the compound shifted—guards bristling, warriors falling into half-formed lines, all of them waiting.
The man at the gate stood alone.
No weapon in hand.
Bare-chested, his skin painted with dark ceremonial ink, a white tlāquemitl wrapped neatly around his waist, draping in long panels over muscled thighs. His body was still, but not relaxed. His hands were open—displaying no threat—but the painted obsidian serpent spiraling across hi
