The city buzzed with life beneath the fiery glow of the Aztec sun. Tenochtitlán, its sprawling causeways slicing through the shimmering waters of Lake Texcoco, was alive with its heartbeats of trade, rituals, and ambition. In the midst of this vibrant world, her presence commanded attention—Coyolxauhqui, named for the goddess of the Moon, and whose beauty seemed to rival the celestial body itself.
Coyolxauhqui’s olive-toned skin glimmered in the sunlight, accentuated by the faint touch of flaked gold powder brushed onto her arms and collarbone. Her dark, cascading hair flowed like the obsidian rivers that edged the great city, weaving itself into a crown of tiny purple feathers pinned with jade stones. Her eyes, an ethereal crystal-blue, shimmered above sharp cheekbones—a rare and haunting contrast that left many captivated.
Her attire, an opulent mix of artistry and power, spoke volumes. Draped over her frame was a deep-purple huipil embroidered with intricate floral and celestial designs in silver and gold thread, interwoven by hand to tell tales of her lineage. The huipil’s wide neckline revealed the delicate dip of her collarbone, ornamented by a chain of linked onyx and amethyst stones, resting just above her bosom. Around her waist, a cinched sash of purple-dyed cotton was belted with fringes of jade and turquoise that swayed with every deliberate step she took. Her skirt hung low—tempting yet dignified, its layers trimmed with tiny gold bells that jingled softly like whispers as she moved.
The grand market of Tlatelolco beckoned with a cacophony of voices, smells, and sights. Merchants hailed passersby, selling ripe avocados, twisted shells, and vibrant quetzal feathers. Coyolxauhqui strode through it like a jaguar prowling a jungle of wares, confident and serene. Her beauty drew eyes, yes, but it was the aura of command around her that made crowds instinctively part in her wake.
She wasn’t here for indulgences today. Instead, her gaze sought something—or someone. Her brother, Cualli, had vanished two moons ago, the whispers that followed saying he had been taken by Tlacaelel’s loyalists. The cunning priest was not only hungry for greater power in the sprawling empire but had also been searching for Coyolxauhqui herself, though she had evaded his grasp. It was said that whoever controlled her family’s sacred relic—a silver obsidian dagger, once belonging to their ancestor Itzcoatl—would hold claim to the priesthood and its divine protections. And Coyolxauhqui would die a thousand deaths before she let that blade fall into the wrong hands.
In the farthest corner of the sprawling market, stalled between pyramids of maize and woven reed baskets, Coyolxauhqui found him. A young warrior, clad in eagle feathers and bronze plating, stood waiting. His armor gleamed, oiled and pristine, though one of his arms bore the faintest of scars—evidence, no doubt, of Tlacaelel’s trials. His pale-yellow eyes lingered too long on her as she approached. Her hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of her ceremonial dagger, hidden beneath her sash.
“Chimalpopoca,” she murmured under breath, using the name Cualli had given her long ago. It meant ‘shield that smokes.’ As the young warrior took a calculated step forward, she could almost feel coiled storms simmering behind his measured gaze.
“I have news of your brother,” the warrior spoke, his voice low, edged with menace. “Tlacaelel intends to—”
Before he could finish, she silenced him with a look. Her blue eyes glowed with an intensity that seemed unnatural, even to herself. The market was too loud, too crowded. Moving swiftly, she seized his arm, leading him toward a secluded row behind the towering temple of Huitzilopochtli, where only the soft echoes of ritual drums reached them.
“Do not toy with me,” she said sharply, stepping close enough that her voice was heard over the fading drums. “Speak plainly. Is Cualli alive?”
“Alive, yes,” the warrior admitted. “But not for long. Tlacaelel will demand his sacrifice come the serpent moon. Your brother…”
He hesitated, glancing away, visibly uncomfortable. Coyolxauhqui’s patience wore thin.
“Say it.”
“Your brother claims he knows where the dagger is hidden,” he finally said, his words hushed and hurried. “Tlacaelel will stop at nothing—and you should expect his shadows are already watching you.”
Something in his tone belied his words, and Coyolxauhqui felt that chill of deception creeping under her skin. Her mind raced, piecing together fragments of lies often told to her by betrayers who sought to gain her trust—or her death.
Her dagger flashed, drawn before he could react. Its blade, slender and near-black from its obsidian craft, glinted menacingly under the streaking rays of the afternoon sun.
“Bold of you to think me so blind,” she hissed. “You’ll lead me to my brother, or your blood will paint this temple’s stones tonight.”
For a moment, the two locked eyes—her striking blue against his pale yellow. And then, unexpectedly, the warrior’s expression softened into an unsettling grin. “You’re clever,” he admitted, almost amused. “But Tlacaelel will not be so forgiving with you, Jewel of Tenochtitlán.”
Before she could respond, the man’s voice seemed to slip into the shadows, and his form broke apart amid the breeze—like vapor dissipating into thin air. Illusion magic, she realized with a pang of fury, clinging to the heft of her dagger.
The hunt was far from over. As Coyolxauhqui lifted her gaze toward the pyramids in the distance, her violet feathered crown aglow with defiance, she swore on the gods that Tlacaelel would bleed before the serpent moon claimed her brother. And with the ominous beat of the ritual drums echoing through the city, the sun seemed to burn brighter, reflecting the sharp fire that glistened in her sapphire eyes.
Coyolxauhqui, the moon’s namesake, may have been born of celestial beauty. But it was her unrelenting rage—and love—that would etch her story into the very stones of Tenochtitlán itself.
And so, she walked on, her purple veils dancing like specters in the wind, the jingle of gold bells announcing her arrival—and the declaration of war.
The city of Tenochtitlán had no idea what was coming for it.
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Purple Bohemian Bikini with Chain Details and Ruffles: Confidence and Elegance in Swimwear Style
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