The storm churned angrily above the glittering pyramids of Tenochtitlan, bathing the city in pulses of cracked lightning. The scent of rain mixed with burnt incense lingered in the air as Nahua warriors dragged prisoners through the streets, where crimson flower petals glided on rivulets of water. Standing at the edge of the great ceremonial temple, Citlalli gripped the jade hilt of her obsidian blade. Her jet-black hair cascaded past her shoulders, dampened from the storm, and her intricately embroidered cotton huipil clung to her figure. Woven with black threads interlaced with vibrant pink and gold patterns, it exuded a divine authority befitting the High Priestess of Huitzilopochtli. She was a vision of power and beauty, her golden hoop earrings glinting against the flashes of lightning.
Her gaze was sharp, fixed on the hundreds of figures gathered below—a sea of commoners, warriors, and visiting nobles. Behind her, the temple’s backdrop was immense: elaborate serpent carvings, towering braziers emitting tendrils of smoke, and a grand stone altar stained dark by decades of tradition. Across the chaos of the megacity, canals lined with torches stretched endlessly into the jungle, the flickering lights reflecting on rain-slick waters. But amidst all this grandeur, the screams echoing up the temple steps kept demanding her attention. She tightened her grip on her blade but didn’t turn around.
“Citlalli,” a deep voice said behind her, thunder rolling alongside it. “They have brought him.”
She turned slowly, her gold bangles jangling with the movement. Two jaguar warriors emerged from the darkness, their bodies painted in yellow and black, dragging a man who had once stood taller than most. The prisoner was bloodied, his crimson-stained tunic in tatters, yet his eyes remained fierce. This man was no ordinary captive—he was Tecolli, her brother, accused of conspiring with the rival city-state of Texcoco to overthrow their empire.
“Why?” she asked, her words barely a whisper yet cutting through the noise like a blade. The storm rumbled, as though mocking the silence that followed. Citlalli took a single step forward, the golden embroidery of her gown catching the torchlight. Tecolli coughed a bitter laugh, spitting blood onto the temple’s stones.
“Why?” he croaked. “Haven’t you long wondered why our people clamored for war, why we are drowning in blood debt? You worship the sun, dear sister, but it hasn’t risen for you in years.”
Citlalli flinched but masked the pain with a placid expression. Nearby, Xochitl, her eldest attendant, stepped forward, her wrinkled hands fiddling nervously with her blue shawl. “Priestess, the Great Speaker demands the ceremony be completed. The drought persists, and—”
“Enough,” Citlalli snapped, her voice carrying the authority of the gods themselves. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she turned her back on Tecolli and looked out over the gathered throngs once more. The rain intensified, each droplet stinging as it struck her skin. She needed answers, but the weight of expectation crushed her. Betray her oath or spill her brother’s blood—there was no winning this battle.
As she hesitated, Tecolli’s voice rose, hoarse but defiant. “Citlalli, the gods we serve are nothing but shadows! They—”
“Silence him,” she ordered sharply, and the jaguar warriors gagged him, his muffled protests fading into the storm. Shouts of discontent rippled faintly through the crowd far below, though they were quickly drowned by the wind. Citlalli closed her eyes briefly, weighing her options, weighing her faith. In her mind, the moment unfurled in flashes—a memory from years prior.
She had been younger, less bound by duty, when Tecolli had taken her to the sacred lagoon of Chalchiuhtlicue. They swam under the stars, laughed as fireflies painted the night with streaks of gold, and whispered dreams to one another. Back then, the priesthood seemed a distant shadow, a chain yet to be forged. Now here she stood at its summit, looking down at her brother as his captors ground his face into the temple stones.
The temperature in the air dropped suddenly as the plumed serpent carving atop the temple hissed—despite its stone bond, despite its inanimate form. The gods were indeed watching. And demanding.
Citlalli opened her eyes and raised the obsidian blade high into the air. “The gods demand loyalty, honor, and sacrifice,” she intoned loudly, her voice carrying over the temple grounds like an eruption. But before the blade could descend, Tecolli rolled his shoulder into the jaguar warrior nearest him, knocking the man off balance.
Lightning struck the temple brazier with a deafening roar as thunder rolled across the heavens, the flames erupting into gold smoke. The temple descended into chaos. Warriors surged forward; the crowd screamed. Tecolli had broken free for only a moment, but it was enough. He staggered to his feet, fists raised like a wounded jaguar.
“You cannot save them by killing me!” Tecolli bellowed, pointing at her. “Do you not see, sister? The gods take your sacrifices, but they give nothing back!”
Citlalli hesitated once more but lunged forward to meet him—blade clanging against his makeshift weapon, a shard of broken pottery. Their forms clashed atop the temple, silhouetted against a backdrop of flames and storm-clouds, sibling against sibling, priestess against rebel. She saw the fire in Tecolli’s eyes but also the fear. For all his defiance, he looked broken, and it haunted her.
In a final motion as the skies split open with torrential rain, Citlalli spun his weapon aside and drove the jade hilt of her blade into his stomach. He crumpled, unable to breathe, and the jaguar warriors surged to subdue him once more. Her hand trembled as she stared at him, the weapon slipping from her fingers onto the stone below. The temple pulsed with the chants of angry prayers as priests and onlookers demanded divine appeasement.
Citlalli stepped back. “Take him to the dungeons,” she said hoarsely, her words surprising even herself. The warriors looked uncertain but obeyed, dragging Tecolli into the shadows. For a moment, Citlalli stood alone, her rain-drenched gown clinging tightly to her body, her earrings dangling like golden tears beneath her dark eyes. Watching silently as her brother disappeared, she realized that the gods had not spoken to her tonight.
No, perhaps they never had at all.
As the storms continued to rage and the crowd jeered below, Citlalli turned to descend the steps of the temple. Uncertainty and rebellion danced within her with every step, like jaguar and serpent, locked forever in combat.
What divine cost could she bear—and for how much longer?
Genre: Historical Fiction – Pre-Colonial Americas
The Source…check out the article that inspired this amazing short story: Striking Black and Gold Kamisato Ayaka Cosplay | Genshin Impact Inspiration
Disclaimer: This article may contain affiliate links. If you click on these links and make a purchase, we may receive a commission at no additional cost to you. Our recommendations and reviews are always independent and objective, aiming to provide you with the best information and resources.
Exclusive Stories, Photos, Art & Offers - Subscribe Today!
1 comment