Ehecatl was already halfway down the stone corridor before the guards at the edge of the tecpan could announce him. He barely acknowledged their stiff posture or murmured greetings, too focused to return protocol. The late afternoon sun cast amber stripes through the lattice windows as he passed, but he didn't look up. Every sound, every shift of footsteps made his chest tighten. He was already sweating, despite the chill that hung over the city since the rains last week.
The door to the family quarter wasn't shut. Catalina stood just outside, arms crossed loosely under her belly, her back leaning against the carved doorway. She looked up as soon as he approached.
"You're late," she said, but not unkindly. "You missed the chaos."
His breath hitched. "Is it—?"
"She's still in labor," Catalina answered, voice even. "But they say it's progressing. At least… that's what I was told."
Ehecatl stepped beside her. "Told by who?"
"The midwives," she said. Then her brow furrowed as if trying to organize thoughts that still didn't sit right. "Or really… they wouldn't say much. Just that it's not yet time. I saw Malinalli a little earlier. She was being encouraged to walk… or squat. Or rock, softly, on her knees. They said it helps shift the baby lower."
She glanced toward the door.
"They rubbed her back with that thick-smelling oil again—copal, I think. And gave her teas. Bitter-smelling. One of the girls—Xochiquetzal, I think—held a cloth soaked in something and kept wiping her lips. They wouldn't let me inside after that."
Ehecatl shifted weight to his heels. "They barred you?"
Catalina nodded, slowly. "Said I was… forbidden. Because I'm carrying, too." Her expression turned faintly sour. "They started muttering things about this being a battlefield… and that women shouldn't fight two wars at once. Something about spirits. I tried asking what they meant, but they just ushered me out."
He looked at her, then past her, toward the edge of the doorway. Inside, faint shuffling and hushed voices echoed through the walls. A sudden sharp moan, muffled, came and went. Catalina winced.
"I didn't argue," she added quietly. "I just… sat here."
Ehecatl sighed and glanced down at her belly, his hand brushing the back of his neck. "They weren't just talking about omens."
Catalina tilted her head.
"They think watching another woman give birth, especially if she's in pain, could stir something in you. Make your body panic. Make it start preparing for labor before it's time. Out of sympathy. Or confusion."
Her eyes widened, lips parting slightly. "That… makes more sense than the whole spirit battlefield thing."
"They don't separate those things like we do," he said. "The pain is real. The reaction is real. So they explain it how they've always explained it."
Catalina gave a slow nod, then looked down at her own hands. She was fidgeting with a woven bracelet, rubbing the knots between her fingers.
"Then I'm glad I stayed out," she murmured. "I'm not ready. Not yet."
Another moan came from inside, sharper this time, followed by murmured reassurances in Nahuatl. Xochiquetzal's voice rose above the rest, calm but firm. Ehecatl's jaw clenched.
Catalina watched him. "They're doing what they can."
"I know."
She reached out, touched his arm. "She's strong."
"I know."
They stood in silence for a moment, both of them frozen outside the threshold like it was sacred ground. Ehecatl exhaled slowly, then finally lowered himself to sit on the cool stone bench beside the door, elbows resting on his knees.
"She's been through worse," he said at last.
Catalina lowered herself beside him with a grunt, hand braced behind her for balance. "Still. This is different."
He didn't answer.
Another quiet sound from inside. Softer now. Then footsteps—quick, purposeful ones—moving toward the inner hallway.
One of the attendants stepped out briefly, saw Ehecatl and froze mid-step.
He looked up. "How much longer?"
The attendant bowed her head, unsure. "Soon. They say… soon."
She vanished back inside.
Ehecatl stared ahead.
Catalina leaned back against the wall, eyes on the far courtyard where the sun had just begun to sink beyond the rooftops.
"You should have a name ready," she said gently.
He blinked.
She smiled faintly. "You look like the kind of man who'd want to meet his child with a name already on your tongue."
His throat tightened, but he didn't respond. His eyes drifted back to the door. The stone was warm where the sunlight touched it. And behind it, his world was about to shift again.
Ehecatl hadn't taken his eyes off the door when he spoke again, voice low.
"Names don't work the same for us."
Catalina turned toward him, brows slightly raised.
He glanced at her. "Under Mexica ways… a child takes the name of the day they're born. Not saints. Not ancestors. The calendar decides."
Catalina tilted her head. "So our child would be…?"
"Thirteen Mazatl," he answered. "Thirteen Deer."
She repeated it under her breath, tasting the weight of the syllables. "That's… different."
He nodded. "It marks the moment they entered the world. Mazatl is the sign. The number, thirteen, belongs to the tonalpohualli cycle. It's how we count life. How we track fate."
Catalina frowned slightly. "But no one I've met here has a number in their name."
He exhaled, slow. "Because we don't speak it aloud. A name is power. If someone knows your true name, they can speak it with venom. They can twist it with ritual. Curse a child before they've had the chance to grow."
She went still.
"So we give other names. Nicknames. Names born from who they become. What they do. What they carry. Sometimes it's kind. Sometimes it's cruel. But it's safer."
Catalina stared ahead. "And… the real name is only known by the family?"
Ehecatl nodded. "Or kept in writing. Whispered during offerings. That's all."
She let the thought settle. The quiet between them was long enough to let the air cool around their shoulders.
"Then what day would it be… for our people?" she asked gently.
"I don't know," he said. "I've lost track of your calendar. I'd have to ask Fray Olmedo. He's the only one I know still counting days by that rhythm."
She hummed. "You'd go to him?"
Ehecatl gave a dry half-smile. "If he's still keeping up from his cell, I might as well put his habit of precision to use."
Catalina let out a short breath, something close to a chuckle.
A moment later, she glanced down, hand resting over her belly again. Her voice softened.
"And… would it be alright if I gave our child a Castilian name, too? Not instead of. Just… also."
He didn't answer right away, but when he did, his voice was steady.
"I don't mind."
She looked at him. "Truly?"
He nodded again, eyes never leaving the door. "Let the child carry both names. Let them carry both worlds. So long as they're strong enough for it."
Catalina rested her head against the stone wall beside him. She said nothing more for a time.
Inside, another soft moan echoed from behind the door, longer this time. A different sound than before. The kind that made silence wrap tight around the chest. The kind that made everything else stop.
Ehecatl leaned forward, jaw clenched. Then his voice came again, quieter.
"She's close."
The door curtain shifted and a midwife stepped out fast, sweat shining across her brow, hands slick with oil and effort.
Ehecatl moved toward her immediately.
"How is she? How far along? Is the baby—"
She lifted a hand, stopping him mid breath.
"She's squatting now," the midwife said, voice clipped from urgency rather than fear. "Main midwife is chanting and working her hips and lower spine between pains. The child is moving well."
Ehecatl swallowed, tension still coiled in his shoulders.
"I need more things," she continued, already turning slightly toward the corridor. "Cloths. More heated water. Fresh herbs. Oil."
He nodded, then spoke quickly.
"Make sure you use soap. Wash your hands. Properly."
The midwife froze for half a heartbeat.
Then she slowly turned her head back toward him.
Her eyes narrowed just a little. Not anger. Irritation. The kind that came from being stopped while working.
"I know," she said flatly.
Then, with the smallest roll of her eyes, she added, "I've done this longer than you've been in this building."
She stepped past him, already calling for an assistant down the hall.
Catalina watched her disappear, then looked up at Ehecatl.
"Why did you say that?"
He dragged a hand down his face, then leaned back against the wall beside her.
"Because people think hands are clean if they look clean," he said quietly.
She waited.
He flexed his fingers, staring at them like he could see something crawling across the skin.
"People cough into their hands. Sneeze into them. That sickness that tries to leave your body sticks there. Then you touch someone else. Or food. Or a wound. Or a newborn."
Catalina's expression shifted, slower this time. Processing.
"And most people don't think about where their hands have been," he went on. "Scratching skin. Sweat. Armpits. Between legs. Wiping after relieving themselves. Then they touch tools. Cups. Other people."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Then they help deliver a child."
Catalina folded her arms loosely over her stomach, gaze dropping to his hands again.
"So the cleaner the hands…" she said slowly.
"The better the chance the child lives," he finished. "And the mother. And the next child. And the one after that."
Silence sat between them for a moment, broken only by distant movement and a faint chant bleeding through the door.
Catalina leaned her shoulder into the wall beside him.
"In my world," she said softly, "people wash for God. Or for appearance. Or because someone important is watching."
He nodded once. "Here, they wash for ritual too. But I want them to think about sickness the same way they think about rot. Something that spreads if you let it."
She glanced sideways at him.
"You really are locked into this world now, aren't you?"
He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but didn't quite make it there.
"Yeah."
Another sound came from inside. Louder this time. Malinalli's voice, strained, raw, pushing through clenched breath.
Both of them straightened without meaning to.
Catalina reached for his hand. He let her take it.
They stood like that, listening. Waiting. Counting breaths they couldn't control.
Down the corridor, the midwife reappeared with another woman carrying steaming bowls and folded cloths. She moved past them without slowing, already back in her rhythm, already somewhere else in her mind where only the birth existed.
The curtain lifted again. Then fell shut.
The chant inside grew steadier. Deeper. Older than either of them.
Ehecatl swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the door.
"Come on," he murmured under his breath. "Come on."
…
…
…
The pain came in waves now, longer and sharper than before. Malinalli's arms trembled as she clung to the twisted cords hanging from the beam above. The rope burned her palms with each squeeze, but she didn't let go. Her knees pressed hard against the woven mat beneath her, slick with the sheen of effort. Her long braid stuck to the sweat along her back, and her breath rasped through gritted teeth.
The midwife closest to her knelt behind, one hand firm on the small of Malinalli's back, the other massaging the rim of her hips with slow, circling pressure. She was chanting again—soft, rhythmic words that drifted in and out of focus. Something about strength. Something about flow. A god's name, or maybe a woman's. Malinalli couldn't tell anymore.
Then the room shifted. Footsteps rushed in. A woven basket rattled. The main midwife didn't turn, but her voice sharpened.
"What took you?"
A clatter of bowls followed, then a breathless reply. "The Cihuacoatl."
That got everyone's attention.
"He stopped me. Said we needed soap. Wanted to make sure we washed our hands." She sounded winded. Irritated.
Tecuelhuetzin, who had been fanning the brazier to keep the copal smoke steady, laughed under her breath. "He's nervous. That means he cares."
Malinalli leaned forward against the ropes, sweat beading along her collarbone. Her jaw slackened between contractions, just enough to respond. "He better," she muttered. "I made him feel like a god. A damn god."
A new wave twisted through her spine, and her voice caught. She bit down hard and rocked backward into the midwife's hands. The chant never stopped.
"Once this boy comes out," she hissed through the pain, "he's gonna owe me for life."
Tecuelhuetzin laughed again, this time louder, and moved closer, a wet cloth in hand. She gently wiped Malinalli's brow and shoulders, careful not to break her rhythm.
Xochiquetzal hovered nearby, her sleeves tied up past her elbows, watching every movement the midwives made. She had already helped boil the cloths and set out the herbs. Now she was handing over calabash bowls and folded cloth pads with steady hands, eyes wide and attentive.
"She's doing well," one of the elder women murmured, mostly to herself. "The girl learns fast."
"Of course she does," Tecuelhuetzin replied. "She has to."
Outside, they could still hear murmurs. Catalina's voice low, Ehecatl's deeper and restless. A clink of sandals shifting, pacing. The scent of damp stone and copal curled at the edge of the doorway.
Malinalli didn't care about any of it right now. Her world narrowed to the ropes, the midwife's grip, and the burning stretch deep inside. Her thighs trembled. Her breath hitched. She could feel the head, close now. Too close.
Another contraction tore through her and she cried out, not in fear but fury.
"Come on then," she growled, "don't make me wait."
The main midwife crouched lower, hands poised, calm but focused. The others moved without needing to speak.
And still Xochiquetzal stayed by the basin, ready to pass whatever they needed next, wide-eyed and silent. Learning. Watching. Preparing.
The pain didn't come in waves anymore.
It came like fire.
Like her body had become its own volcano, molten and rumbling, ready to crack the world open from between her hips. Malinalli clung to the cords and sobbed. Her knees were soaked with sweat and something thicker. Her mouth tasted like bile. Her throat was raw from breathing too fast, too deep. The air stank of blood and herbs and burning copal, and the walls spun every time she closed her eyes.
She shook. She wept. Her hands clawed at the rope like it owed her something.
The midwife was behind her again, still chanting, still grounding her with callused palms—one pressed firm at the sacrum, the other working circles across the top of her hips.
"You are the storm now," she said, voice rising with the smoke. "Break the sky!"
Malinalli's legs threatened to fold. Her chin dropped to her chest. She thought she might vomit, but nothing came. Her stomach had been empty for hours.
Another surge. Her body lurched forward. She screamed, not from fear, not even from pain. Just power. A scream that tore out of her like lightning.
She felt something shift.
The main midwife crouched low, checked once, then gave a nod to the others. "She's ready."
The words carried weight.
They moved fast now. Tecuelhuetzin steadied Malinalli's arms. Xochiquetzal wiped her forehead, wide-eyed but calm, her hands no longer trembling. One of the assistants placed clean cloths beneath her. The midwife's voice stayed in her ear, guiding every breath.
"Breathe with me. Let it come. Don't fight the fire, ride it."
Then it started.
She felt the burn. The ring of heat. The unbearable stretch that made her gasp and try to pull back—but there was nowhere to go.
"She's crowning," one of them called. "Tlaltikpak michilli!"
"The Earth receives!" the others repeated in unison.
Malinalli was too far gone to notice the chant fully. She could feel the head now. Could feel herself splitting open. She let out a low groan, hoarse and shaking, as her body bore down. She wasn't pushing anymore. Her body was doing it for her.
The midwife supported her gently, adjusting with steady hands, whispering praise into her spine.
"That's it. You're close. Let her turn. Just a little more."
Another contraction.
The room filled with pressure and heat and breath and prayer. Then—sudden relief.
The baby slipped free, wet and red and wriggling.
A cry followed. Weak, then stronger.
Malinalli's eyes blinked open, dazed. Her arms fell from the ropes, her whole body folding into Tecuelhuetzin's chest. She could feel her trembling. Could hear someone weeping—maybe herself.
The lead midwife stood and held the newborn high for a moment, facing east. The light of dawn hadn't broken yet, but the direction still mattered.
"Born on 13 Deer," she said.
A girl.
Malinalli blinked again. Tried to focus. A girl?
She didn't speak. She didn't smile. Her lips parted, but no words came out.
The cord was cut with an obsidian edge. Blood soaked the waiting cloth. One midwife folded it carefully and set it aside. Another passed forward the ritual items for a girl—small grinding stones, spindles, a weaving tool. The fate of the newborn sealed in symbols.
"She is a captive," the lead midwife said gently. "Taken in the war of women."
Then, her voice rose. Not soft anymore.
"O my beloved maiden, brave woman," she said, turning to Malinalli with reverence. "Thou hast become an eagle warrior. Thou hast become a jaguar warrior. Thou hast raised up, thou hast taken to the shield, the small shield."
The other midwives echoed her, not in mockery but with deep respect.
"Thou hast returned exhausted from battle, my beloved maiden. My brave woman. Welcome."
They wrapped the girl in cloth and brought her forward. The cries were stronger now, lungs learning the world.
Malinalli didn't reach for her.
She stared instead.
A daughter.
She'd been sure it would be a boy. She remembered how certain she felt. The dreams. The way her belly sat. The way Ehecatl touched her and said "he" without thinking.
Her arms felt heavy.
Still, they placed the baby on her chest. Skin to skin. Heat to heat.
The little thing squirmed and hiccupped, fists curled tight.
Malinalli looked down at her. Her mouth opened again. Still no words.
Xochiquetzal sat beside her, wiping her arm, her face. Tecuelhuetzin ran her fingers through Malinalli's damp hair.
"You fought well," she said.
The baby let out another cry and kicked one tiny leg free of the wrap.
Malinalli blinked again. Swallowed hard.
"She's loud," she muttered hoarsely.
The midwife smiled. "She's yours."
The leading midwife had already risen, hands still bloodied, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp despite the long hours. She cradled the soaked cloth containing the severed cord, tied tight at one end, and gave a short nod to the younger girl beside her.
"Come," she said. "You're learning to be a healer, yes?"
Xochiquetzal glanced at Malinalli, then back at the woman. She wiped her palms on her tunic and stood quickly.
"Yes."
"Good. Then follow me. You'll show me which house he lives in."
Xochiquetzal hesitated for a beat. "The Cihuacoatl?"
"Yes," the midwife replied, already moving toward the doorway. "I need to bury the cord at his hearth. This girl belongs to that fire now."
She didn't wait for a reply. Xochiquetzal trotted after her, glancing back one last time at the mother on the mat.
Malinalli hadn't moved.
She lay propped against a cushion of woven reeds, legs still bare, the afterbirth already cleared away but the soreness written all over her face. Her skin shone with the sheen of sweat and effort, her eyes fixed on the child curled on her chest. The baby girl had quieted again, lips puckered, her head resting in the hollow between collarbone and breast. One fist still clenched, one eye barely open, eyelid twitching like she dreamed something already.
Malinalli's fingertips traced the edge of the wrap. Her thoughts moved slower than her hands. She wasn't smiling. Just watching. Breathing. Stuck in something she couldn't name.
She flinched slightly when Tecuelhuetzin's voice broke the quiet.
"Malinalli."
Her head turned. Slowly.
Tecuelhuetzin leaned by the mat, brushing strands of damp hair from Malinalli's temple.
"I'm going to let him in now," she said. "Him and Catalina. They've been waiting since dawn."
Malinalli stared for a second. Then nodded, just once.
"Alright." Her voice was scratchy, dry. She licked her lips and swallowed.
Tecuelhuetzin stood and gave her shoulder a firm squeeze.
"I'll send them in."
Malinalli turned back toward her daughter. The baby squirmed slightly under the wrap, mouth twitching. Her skin was still mottled, reddish with streaks of white, the soft fuzz on her scalp barely dry.
She didn't look like anyone yet.
Just small. Warm. Real.
Malinalli adjusted the wrap around her tiny back, holding her a little closer. Her eyes didn't move from the girl. Not even when the curtain to the room began to lift.
…
…
…
Tecuelhuetzin pulled back the curtain and led them in.
"Come on," she murmured, stepping aside for Ehecatl and Catalina. "And prepare yourselves."
Ehecatl didn't speak. He barely blinked. His eyes had already locked onto the bundle in Malinalli's arms before his feet crossed the threshold. Tecuelhuetzin had whispered it just before they entered. A girl.
Still, it didn't feel real until he saw the little crown of hair, the tiny cheek pressed against Malinalli's chest.
His voice came out a second late.
"You alright?"
Malinalli gave a nod. "Sore. Tired. Alive."
He approached slowly. Hands at his sides. Breath tight.
His gaze hadn't left the child. Not once.
"She's yours," Malinalli said, watching him watch.
He crouched beside the mat, the way someone does at a burial or an altar. One hand rested gently on the wrap covering the baby's back, then slid upward, trembling just enough to be noticed, until his finger met a curled hand. A tiny fist opened. Her fingers, wrinkled and pink, wrapped clumsily around his.
He swallowed hard.
Catalina stood a little behind him, then stepped forward, quiet but firm.
"She's beautiful," she said. Her voice had that old warmth again, the one she used to speak to children in the villages. She smiled at Malinalli, softening the words. "And lucky. Not all of us have sisters waiting."
Malinalli's brows twitched. Her lips pressed tight.
Catalina sat on the floor near her, brushing a bit of cloth from the mat.
"I always wanted a girl," she added. "So now… she won't be alone."
Malinalli nodded slowly. She didn't look at her, but she heard it. Let it sit. Her hand shifted slightly around the baby's back. "Thank you."
Tecuelhuetzin dropped down beside them with a groan and stretched her arms out over her head. Her chest jutted forward a little too theatrically.
"Damn," she sighed. "All this is giving me baby fever."
Catalina gave her a sideways glance. Malinalli snorted faintly.
All three turned toward Ehecatl.
He didn't say anything.
Didn't even look up.
His thumb moved gently across his daughter's knuckles. The whole room could've gone quiet or caught fire, and he still would've been locked there. Mouth slightly open. Brows drawn tight. Eyes soft, like he hadn't blinked since walking in.
Tecuelhuetzin raised an eyebrow, then leaned in toward Malinalli.
"I mean," she whispered, "at least you've got time to heal now. He's already forgotten what sex is."
Malinalli bit her lip to stop a laugh. Her chest still ached from the pushing. She looked down at the baby, then at Ehecatl.
He was still completely still. Still holding his breath like the moment might break if he exhaled.
And Malinalli, despite everything, despite the ache in her legs and the sweat still clinging to her temples, felt the corner of her mouth turn. Only a little. But it stayed there.
Ehecatl sat with the baby for as long as he could. He rocked her lightly in the crook of his arm, thumb brushing the side of her cheek, fingers cradling the back of her head like she was something fragile and holy. Her breath came in soft little huffs, the occasional twitch in her tiny limbs making him freeze each time as if she might break from too much movement.
Then Catalina cleared her throat.
He glanced her way. She didn't say anything outright, but the way she held out her arms said enough.
Reluctantly, he shifted forward. His hands were steady, but the pause before letting go lingered just a second too long. Catalina eased the baby into her own arms with a practiced touch, cradling her against her chest.
"Dios mío…" she whispered, the name catching in her throat. She rocked slowly. "I can't wait for mine to be born."
She glanced at Malinalli, then Tecuelhuetzin, then down at the newborn again with something caught between longing and resolve in her expression.
"They'll be like sisters, yours and mine. Practically born side by side." She smiled. "I've already picked a name. If it's a girl, I'll call her Inés."
The name sat in the air for a moment. It didn't feel out of place. Just… different. Like it belonged to a different world, but still fit in this room, somehow.
Tecuelhuetzin leaned over Catalina's shoulder. "Inés, huh? Sounds soft. You better give her some bite or she'll get eaten alive by this one."
Catalina smirked. "She'll have older sisters to toughen her up."
"Damn right she will."
Tecuelhuetzin scooped the baby up next with a grin, careful and loose all at once. She lifted her up just slightly, enough to peer at the squirmy face below. "You know," she said, glancing back toward the doorway, "once word gets out the baby's here, the Tlaxcalan council is gonna start pestering me."
Ehecatl raised a brow. "Pestering?"
"They're gonna ask when it's my turn," she said, wiggling the baby gently side to side. "Like I'm next in line or something. Probably already placing bets."
Malinalli chuckled under her breath. Catalina looked over, amused.
Tecuelhuetzin nodded toward them both. "But hey, I'll take it. Watching you two raise your little monsters will give me something to study. Least I won't be winging it."
She turned back to Ehecatl with a wicked grin. "Now that your hands are free…"
He already knew what was coming. His eyes narrowed.
"You feeling frisky yet?" she teased. "I could give the council a real reason to panic."
Ehecatl let out a long, tired sigh and tilted his head back against the wall.
"No."
"Aww." She rocked the baby toward him. "You sure?"
He didn't answer.
She smirked and nudged the baby's hand toward his chest. "Thought so. Too busy falling in love with this little thing."
Ehecatl opened one eye. "You think you're funny."
"I know I am," she shot back. "You just ain't in the mood."
Catalina chuckled quietly. Malinalli was too tired to say much, but the smirk on her face said she was listening.
Ehecatl rolled his eyes and leaned his head into his shoulder, grumbling half to himself, half to the room.
"I should've stayed outside."
They all laughed. Even the baby squeaked.
…
…
…
Night settled over the household like a heavy, quiet blanket. The air inside the room was still, broken only by the low hum of insects outside and the shallow breaths of the women sleeping nearby. Ehecatl lay on his back, eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling with that same expression he wore when something finally caught up to him—something real.
His daughter was asleep just a few steps away. Swaddled, warm, soft. The midwives said she nursed well, clung to life with a good grip, and cried like she meant it. That was supposed to be a good sign. Strong lungs. Strong heart.
His.
The thought circled back again and again. His daughter. Flesh of his flesh. No matter how far he tried to pull away from it, he couldn't. She was his now, no different than his past, his name, or the blood on his hands.
And that's when it hit him harder than anything else had.
Back in his old life—twenties, broke, tired of everything—he never saw himself like this. He used to scoff whenever people talked about kids. "Man, fuck them kids," he used to joke. Always good for a laugh. Too expensive. Too much trouble. You could barely keep yourself afloat in that world, much less raise someone else.
But here?
Here, he didn't even think twice.
August 13th, Victory Day, he'd lost the plot for a while. Catalina had been the first pretty face handed to him after the siege. First woman he didn't have to earn or impress. She was just there, soft and scared and quiet, and he hadn't been thinking about anything other than letting go. He let it all out in her like a fool, and now she was swollen with child, due any week now. That baby would come into the world without any of the old-world logic he once swore by. No car seats. No ultrasounds. No formula. Just heat, prayer, and blood.
Then there was Malinalli.
He flinched, physically, just thinking about it.
That situation had spiraled out of his hands. He used to plan on sentencing her with Cortés. Bury the whole damn colonial legacy in one go. Keep the message clean, the future untainted.
Instead?
He'd left her belly full too. She was sleeping now, curled toward the wall, back rising and falling slow and steady. And he was the reason. That night wasn't soft. Wasn't tender. It happened because they were both angry, both bruised, both carrying too much. But still—it happened. And he hadn't stopped. Hadn't even tried. Now look where they were.
He rubbed his face, dragged his hand down his chin, over his lips.
He was going to have to tell his children one day how he met their mothers. And there wasn't a version of that story that made him look good. Because truly, how could he? It was one thing to be smug, be prideful, and boast about fucking the enemy and leaving your seed in her, and essentially letting people view Malinalli as his sex slave, but how would that go about now when his kids grow up?
It was scummy, on the one hand he thought himself better than others because he didn't do this or that, but on the other he truly wasn't any different. That did weigh on him.
But tonight, none of that mattered. Not Catalina's fear. Not Malinalli's silence. Not his guilt.
Tonight, it was that little baby girl—tiny, wrinkled, warm—who reached her hand out and grabbed his thumb. She didn't know him. Didn't know what he'd done. She didn't care. She just held on.
That's what did it.
Everything else up until now could've still felt like a story. Another world. Another timeline. A fantasy. He'd killed. He'd built. He'd risen. He'd gone from zero to emperor with nothing but his brain and rage. It was something out of a manga.
But this?
This was his daughter.
And that made it real.
The kind of real that locked you in place, whether you liked it or not. You could run from guilt, from women, from enemies. But not this.
Not her.
He turned onto his side, adjusting the thin blanket over himself, eyes drifting toward the shape of her little bundle in the dark. He thought about her future. About what kind of world she was going to grow up in. About the kind of world he'd dragged her into.
And for the first time in a long time, he wasn't thinking about conquest. He was thinking about playgrounds. Teachers. Food security. Women not having to give birth in fear or silence. Girls being able to dream. He wanted the empire to feel familiar to her. Like something she could belong to. Not just survive in, but actually live.
He'd done some foul shit. That wasn't going to change. He wasn't about to pretend to be a saint. But if there was anything worth cleaning your hands for, it was this.
The kid had no idea what she started.
He exhaled, deep and long, letting the weight of the day bleed out of his lungs. His eyes finally closed.
When he woke up tomorrow, there wouldn't be any more waiting, no more playing both sides.
He was locked tf in.
…
…
…
She lay curled on her side, back to the wall, one hand under her cheek, the other draped loosely around the swaddled child sleeping beside her. The room had grown still. Outside the walls, the fire crackled soft and steady, casting faint flickers through the doorway. Someone stirred in the next room. Catalina maybe. Or Ehecatl adjusting his position on the petate. Malinalli didn't care to know.
She stared at her daughter's face for what felt like the thousandth time. The girl's cheeks were round. Her mouth slightly parted. She hadn't cried much since the birth, just small whimpers when shifted too fast or disturbed. Malinalli had already memorized the little pout, the furrowed brow, the way the girl's hands curled into tiny fists.
And still, despite everything, her chest didn't feel full.
She'd tried to play the part earlier. Smiling gently. Nodding when Tecuelhuetzin offered praise. Keeping her voice soft when they placed the bundle in her arms. The midwives had called it a blessing. Catalina had looked nearly teary-eyed. Ehecatl was practically glowing. And Malinalli had played along. She'd nodded. Said thank you. Whispered what a beauty she was.
But she wasn't happy. Not really.
A girl.
Of course it was a girl.
Of all things, after everything, that's what the gods gave her.
She clenched her jaw and swallowed the bitter pit forming at the base of her throat. It wasn't hatred. Not toward the child. It wasn't her fault. But she couldn't lie to herself. She'd wanted a boy. A strong one. One who could shield her. Protect her. Someone Ehecatl would never cast aside. Someone the other women wouldn't dare compete with. Someone who wouldn't become what she became.
Hadn't she earned that? Hadn't she given enough of her body, her dignity, her everything?
She let out a slow breath through her nose, eyes locked on the little face resting in the crook of the deerskin blanket. The baby squirmed just a little, adjusting into warmth.
And already… already she was too pretty. There was no denying it. Pale, smooth skin. Sharp little nose. Thick lashes. Her hair already black as ink and refusing to sit still. There was no pretending she'd grow plain. The child would inherit her mother's looks, maybe more. And worse—her father's name.
That alone would draw danger.
She shivered, pulling the blanket tighter over both of them. Men would line up for a child like that. Nobles. Traders. Priests. She'd seen how they spoke about girls born into prestige. They weren't treated with care. They were displayed. Admired. Used.
And if anything happened to Ehecatl? If he tired of her like men do? If another woman took her place? If a second wife had a boy and she didn't? She'd be cast aside like her own mother cast her.
Her thoughts twisted. Her own story resurfaced like a stone rising through a muddy field.
She was the firstborn too.
Her father died. Her mother found another man. Had a boy. A proper son. And that was that. She was out. Sold. Traded to slavers like a bag of maize. Passed from Mayan to Castilian to now… whatever Ehecatl was.
She blinked slow, her throat tightening as the air in the room turned heavier.
She was still afraid of him. Even when he was gentle. Even when he said kind things. Even when he kissed her with warmth. He had power. The kind that made men disappear. The kind that turned enemies into ash. The kind of power that made women forget their own names if they weren't careful.
But he loved the baby.
That much was clear.
The way he'd stared at her. The way his voice cracked just a little when he held her the first time. The way he called her beautiful like it was the only word he knew.
That did quiet something in her. It settled one of the louder screams in the back of her mind.
If nothing else… their daughter would have that. A father who looked at her with stars in his eyes.
But then came the other part. The part that made her chest burn again.
The things he said.
About no forced marriages. About saying no to men. About owning her body. About being free to learn, to read, to choose.
He meant well. She could feel that. But it was absurd. It was dangerous. It was the kind of talk that got people flogged, or worse.
She remembered staring at him, mouth slightly parted, as he spoke like the world worked on feelings. Like love mattered more than structure. As if letting a girl say no to power wouldn't end in ruin. As if letting her avoid marriage wouldn't paint her as some filthy woman that no man of status would ever want.
She had almost snapped then. Almost told him he was a fool. But she didn't. She just smiled. Nodded. Let him finish.
He even said she could marry a commoner.
She nearly laughed in his face.
She only tolerated this commoner house because Ehecatl was no ordinary man. And even then, she still missed the feel of smooth tiles, the weight of gold, the scent of herbs in a noblewoman's chamber. Their daughter? A girl of blood and standing, settling for a woodcutter? Over her dead body.
And that part about rebellion. Thirteen years old, and already Ehecatl assumed their daughter would defy them. The shame of it made her curl tighter around the baby. Her heart ached.
What kind of father speaks of rebellion like it's a natural storm?
Rebellion is failure. It's a sign of weak parenting. It's when a girl doesn't fear her elders. Doesn't know her place.
She shifted, her forehead pressing against her daughter's hair. The scent was warm. Sweet. New.
Ehecatl could keep his dreams and foreign ideas. Let him whisper soft foolishness into their daughter's ears.
She would do what mothers always did.
Teach her how the world works.
How to survive it.
How to wield her beauty like a blade. How to speak soft and mean hard. How to hide her thoughts behind smiles. How to study a man's mood before opening her mouth. How to nod even when she wanted to scream.
She'd give her daughter every trick she had.
Ehecatl could be the light.
She'd be the anchor.
She let her eyes close, finally.
Tomorrow would be another long day. And now, she had a second reason to endure. The first one lay nestled under her arm, still sleeping.
And soon, she would try again.
A boy.
She had to have a boy.
That's the only way her place would ever be safe.
…
…
…
Catalina lay on her side with a woven shawl draped across her belly, one hand tucked under her cheek and the other resting lightly over the curve of her stomach. The baby had kicked again—stronger this time. She'd been feeling it more often lately, but tonight felt different. Sharper. More alert. Maybe the child had heard the cries earlier. Maybe it knew that tonight was when its sister came into the world.
She blinked slowly, her lashes damp. It hadn't hit her until she saw Ehecatl standing there with the newborn in his arms. Something about the way his face changed—just watching it happen—made the room feel warmer than it was. He had held that baby like she was made of glass. His voice softened into something that barely resembled the man she knew when he spoke to her. Catalina didn't expect that. No part of her imagined him cooing. But he had.
And now she couldn't stop thinking about how he'd act when it was their child in his arms. She rolled onto her back, stared up at the wooden beams overhead. Would he look at their baby the same way? Would his eyes glaze over with that same stunned love? She didn't doubt he'd care for them—he told her he would, back when they'd first slept together, when she still thought the whole thing was temporary, a transaction of flesh and survival. She remembered him saying if she ended up pregnant, she'd never be cast aside. That he'd take care of them both. At the time, it felt like a line—like the kind of thing a man says to keep a woman from pulling away.
But now she believed him.
Seeing the way he looked at Malinalli's baby, Catalina felt something shift inside her. The tightness that lived in her chest since leaving Santo Domingo… it eased just a little. She could see the future now, or at least some version of it. Not clear, not full of joy, but real. She might still be a concubine. She might still be a spoil of war, she might be his sex slave and only live to fulfill his desires, but she wouldn't be raising a bastard in some brothel or alley or dirty corner of a churchyard.
She would have a home. Her child would have food, protection, clothes. A name.
She turned her head toward the other sleeping figures in the room, listening to the faint rustle of blankets. Somewhere nearby, Ehecatl shifted in his sleep. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he was still awake. Maybe he was thinking the same thing she was—that tonight changed everything.
Catalina drew in a slow breath, pressing her hand against the movement in her belly. She wasn't ready. Not fully. But she was more ready than she'd ever been.
She still feared raising a child in this world. In this pagan empire. She still woke up some nights wondering if the Devil had taken root under these gods, if she was already damned for bearing a child like this. But even as those thoughts wormed into her, the flutter in her womb made her smile.
She could live with fear. She'd lived with worse.
This child would come soon. She knew that now.
And when it did, she wouldn't be alone.
…
…
…
Tecuelhtzin lay curled on her woven mat, arms tucked beneath her head, bare feet poking out from under the edge of her blanket. The laughter from earlier still echoed in her chest like a slow ember, but the warmth had faded. It was quiet now. Malinalli's baby had long stopped crying. Catalina was still. Ehecatl hadn't stirred in a while. The flickering torch in the corner of the room had gone out. All that was left was moonlight slipping in through the cracks and the quiet breath of people too exhausted to pretend.
She closed her eyes.
She hadn't been lying when she said the birth would start up talk back home. She could already hear the old women in the Tlaxcalan council chamber chuckling behind her back, whispering in that not-so-subtle way: "So… if one's given him a baby, and the other's due in a few moons, what about you, little spark?"
She smirked at the thought, but it faded fast.
Yeah, she teased. She tempted. She joked about it to Ehecatl like she always did—played it off like the idea of kids made her womb itch. Truth was, sometimes she did get that flutter. Baby fever, they called it. But that wasn't the whole story.
She pulled the blanket tighter over her hip.
She didn't want a child yet. Not now. Not while the scent of war still clung to her skin. Not while she still dreamed of blood on her hands from that night in Tlaxcallan. She could laugh and flirt and run her mouth like nothing scared her—but deep down, there was still a weight she hadn't put down.
Her first time with Pedro still lingered like a stain. Nothing romantic. Just a man with rough hands and rougher breath, grunting in her ear while she stared at the ceiling. That was the first time she understood what her body meant to men. That it wasn't hers. That it was a thing to grab, to squeeze, to get off to. Not cherish. Not understand.
She swallowed hard, blinking.
Sex with Ehecatl hadn't been that different at first. Same sweat, same breath, same weight pressing into her hips. He didn't talk much. Didn't kiss her forehead. But he never told her how to move. Never stopped her when she tried things. Never got angry when she laughed mid-thrust. And thinking back on it… that freedom? That quiet allowance? It did something to her.
She remembered one night when she asked him if he'd let her be on top. He just shrugged. Said, "Do what you want." And she did. Rode him like she had something to prove. And when she finished, panting and half-dazed, he just looked up at her like she was made of smoke and power.
That made her hot now, just thinking about it.
But even then—she wasn't ready for all that came after. Diapers. Crying. Breastfeeding. Sleepless nights. She wasn't ready for the weight of another human soul needing her for everything. Not yet. She still wanted to run wild a bit longer. Say stupid things. Drink pulque and keep fucking Ehecatl whenever she or he were in the mood. Still wanted to roll her eyes when Catalina asked how to cook beans properly and laugh when Malinalli got fussy over bed linens.
Eventually though… eventually it'd come.
She'd seen the way Catalina looked at her belly when she felt it kick. The way Malinalli—despite everything—kept glancing at her daughter like she was afraid the baby would disappear. Tecuelhtzin knew those looks. And somewhere deep in her chest, she knew one day she'd want it too. Not now. But someday.
She exhaled, long and slow.
Maybe she'd name her son after her brother. Or maybe her daughter would be loud like her, climb trees, throw stones, and scare the boys off. Ehecatl would pretend to scold her but let her get away with it. Malinalli would complain. Catalina would laugh. She'd have her turn. And when she did, she'd already know what kind of mother she didn't want to be.
Her lips parted in a slow breath as she rolled onto her side.
Sleep came easier than she thought.
…
…
…
The moon hung high and pale through the latticework of the wooden beams, bathing the room in a dim silver light. The night had settled into the still rhythm of shared exhaustion. Soft breathing rose and fell beneath the quiet hush of woven blankets, each figure draped in their own silent conviction. Each mind had drifted off with a weight behind the eyes and a heat in the chest—Malinalli clutching closer to her daughter, Ehecatl curled nearby with a guarded calm still hanging over him, Tecuelhtzin sprawled with one arm slung over her brow, lost in heat-laced dreams she wouldn't speak of in daylight. All of them had fallen asleep thinking they had time.
Then it came. A raw, wet cry—sharp and deep from the belly.
It pierced through the stillness like a jagged edge tearing cloth.
Catalina.
Her voice split the night, trembling and primal. She cried out again, louder this time, chest arching forward as her hands clutched her lower stomach. The pain had hit all at once, like something had torn loose from inside her.
Her breathing turned ragged. Her fingers dug into the blankets beneath her as she tried to sit up, legs drawing in instinctively. Her nightdress clung to her thighs with sweat already forming, and her face twisted into something between panic and realization. The baby had been kicking all day. She thought she had more time. She thought she might have another night, maybe two.
She didn't.
Another contraction slammed into her, this time deep enough to make her gasp, choking off the sound before it could form into another scream.
"Help—" she tried, voice cracking.
The others stirred, sluggish at first, the kind of dazed confusion that came from being yanked from heavy sleep. Ehecatl sat up first, hand flying to his blade before his mind caught up. He saw her face, the pain tightening around her eyes, the beads of sweat starting to form, and he knew.
Malinalli was up next. No questions. No hesitation. She wrapped her shawl around herself and crossed to Catalina in a flash, her body still aching from her own delivery but moving on instinct. She had just lived this.
"It's happening," Catalina whispered, jaw clenched. "It's—oh God—it's starting."
Malinalli pressed her hand against Catalina's lower belly and felt the tightening wave crash under her palm. "It's early," she muttered. "But it's happening."
Ehecatl moved toward the door, shouting for the midwives in the hallway, his voice sharp and clear. No hesitation. No doubt. "Wake them. She's in labor!"
By the time he turned back, Tecuelhtzin was already moving. Still groggy, but quick with her hands, pulling clean cloth from a folded basket nearby, gathering water from the clay jug.
Catalina tried to breathe steady, but each breath came sharp and broken. Her eyes darted around, wild and terrified. "It's too soon. What if something's wrong? It's not time yet. It's not—"
Malinalli placed both hands on her shoulders, firm and heavy. "It's time. Look at me. Breathe."
A new contraction hit hard, curling her spine. She screamed this time, no shame, just pain, just fear that it would never end.
The sound echoed through the halls.
And just like that, the quiet night was gone. The moment was here. Everything else would have to wait.