Amid the vast, arid sprawl of the Pre-Aztec city of Tzintoa, Tlanitla perched on the balcony of her family’s adobe home, her brightly dyed huipil catching the last light of the sun. Yellow wove into the cotton like golden threads, while patterns of cerulean blue and blush pink snaked around the fabric in intricate spirals reminiscent of blooming flowers and curling rivers. Her thick black hair was braided and adorned with yellow feathers, a sign of her family’s lingering influence in this crumbling world where power was beginning to shift like the slipping sands beneath their feet.
The obsidian dagger felt heavy in her hand. It was ceremonial, its surface reflecting the warm oranges and purples of twilight, but tonight—oh, tonight—it would be more than that. She whispered a silent prayer to Huitzilopochtli, the war god, as the evening air thickened with smoke from the fires of market stalls below. In her other hand, she carried a small, sleek mirror polished from volcanic glass. Not because she was vain. The mirror was the key. It always had been.
Behind her voice, the hum of the city filled her ears—children laughing, priests chanting, merchants arguing over the price of maize. But Tlanitla had learned long ago how to tune out the noise. She let her heart guide her gaze as it latched onto a shadowed figure approaching from the winding thoroughfares below. The man carried with him the look of dust-traveled exhaustion. His leather sandals slapped against the ground, scattering pebbles as he climbed toward the house. His cloak, dyed in muted ochre, blended with the earth. Yet the expression on his face told her enough to understand his purpose: he was carrying a message, one he was terrified to deliver.
“Did they send you?” her voice called down, calm but sharp enough to cut through the air. The messenger hesitated, his face pale beneath streaks of sweat. When no answer came, she drew herself to her feet, her vibrant garments catching the wind like a bird of prey unfurling its wings.
“I know why you’re here,” she said. “But it is not theirs to take. It belongs to my mother’s gods.”
The man faltered, his hand gripping the edge of his cloak tightly—visible even from a distance. He was no soldier. A pawn, perhaps, sent to stir her surrender. But Tlanitla had been taught well by her grandfather, the last warrior-priest of her lineage. The dagger she now wielded wasn’t just decorum; it was truth. It was fire. And it would demand blood before submission.
“Tell him,” Tlanitla continued with a sharper tone, “that if he wants what is mine, he will have to come and claim it himself. I will not trade the mirror of Chicahua for the lifeless seas of his promises.”
Once he had gone—fleeing, stumbling over stones in his hurry to return to his masters—Tlanitla turned her gaze back to the polished mirror in her hand. The reflection it cast was peculiar, warped slightly by its obsidian composition. But it told her things that the eye could not see.
Images danced across it like ripples of water: jaguars prowling an empty temple; the red face of the serpent god, its mouth agape in wails of warning; and then, a tower of feathers toppled into shadow. Her breath caught. She touched the surface gingerly with two fingers, wishing her mother were alive to help decipher what the gods intended.
Would she survive the assault that was certain to come? Would her talismans be enough?
From deep within the house, her younger sister called out. “Tla! The maize is burning!” The smell confirmed it—charred and acrid. Her blades of thought had sliced so sharply into her mind she had forgotten about the meal she had promised to prepare.
“I’ll be there in a moment!” she shouted over her shoulder. It was one thing to step between herself and the wrath of rival clans, but life’s small obligations refused to bend even in the face of destiny.
Over the next three days, the city of Tzintoa buzzed with unease. Rumors abounded of neighboring city-states gearing for war. Tlanitla and her sister hid the precious mirror deep inside the house’s stone foundation, a place only they knew. More messengers arrived, carrying threats cloaked in the language of reason: surrender the artifact, or the streets would run with blood.
Tlanitla continued to wear her brightly hued garments as though their cheerful patterns could beat back the gloom. She refused to fall into despair. The same could not be said of her neighbors. Whispers of betrayal swirled around her. Could she trust the baker across the lane? The grandmother who always offered her tamales? Or had greed for the mirror’s supposed power infected them all?
When the attack finally came, it came under a blanket of stars that burned far too brightly for a peaceful evening. Warriors stormed the adobe walls, their feathered armor clashing with moonlight. Tlanitla stood ready in the courtyard, her ceremonial dagger now warmed by the calloused grip of her hand. A single word rang through her mind as the first invader appeared—a ground-shaking bellow from beyond the city that only she seemed to understand: Survive.
And then, through smoke and screams, she fought. For her city. For her gods. For herself.
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