Xiuhcoatl stood beneath the mesquite tree at the center of camp.
The morning sun had barely touched the horizon, but the warriors were already gathered—five units, five companies, standing in tight, silent formation. Every general present.
Some still wore bandages. Some still smelled of smoke and blood.
His chest was bare. No paint. No weapons. Only the scar over his heart.
Closest to him stood his generals: Tezozomoctli. Tlacaelel. Citlali. Iztac. Necuametl.
He looked at each of them in turn.
“You’ve followed me across mountains,” he said. “Through cities that feared us, and lands that forgot our name.”
“You’ve given me your strength. Your loyalty. Your lives.”
He let that settle.
“And now, I’m asking you for something harder.”
The wind shifted. Warm. Dry. No one moved.
“We are
