The fire had burned low in the center of the tent. Xiuhcoatl hadn’t moved in hours.
He sat on the edge of his sleeping mat, elbows resting on his knees, bare from the waist up. The war paint on his skin had cracked and flaked. Dried blood clung to the ridges of his arms, his ribs, his knuckles.
He hadn’t wiped any of it away.
Outside, the camp was quiet. No orders. No movement. Even the wind felt subdued.
His people had returned to silence—not out of discipline. Out of uncertainty.
Because of what they saw. Because of what he allowed. Because of what he lost.
He stared at his blade lying beside him on the mat.
The one that brought so many to their knees.
The one that had forced her to reach for her own—not to strike, but to make a choice.
To draw a line he would never be able to c
