The sun over the Valley of Tlacaxinachyotl was like a white-hot hammer that beat down upon the Great Plaza of Elpantepetl. It bleached the color from the vast, dusty expanse, making the carved stone of the surrounding temples and palaces shimmer with heat. From the high platforms of the Northern Acropolis to the tiered galleries of the Southern Palace, the city watched. Nobles fanned themselves under vibrant cotton canopies, merchants paused their haggling to peer down from the market causeways, and off-duty soldiers lined the training ground's retaining walls, their bronze skin slick with sweat. The air was thick, tasting of dust, human effort, and the distant, sacred scent of copal smoke drifting from the city's heart. It was a stage fit for legends, and in the center of it all, was Etalcaxi.
Stripped to a loincloth of jaguar-pelt, his body was a study in sculpted muscle, gleaming under the unforgiving sun. Sweat traced the sharp lines of his abdomen and the broad sweep of his back, catching the light with every fluid movement. He was beautiful, and he knew it with a certainty that was as much a part of him as his own bones. Before him, three of the army's better warriors circled like weary wolves. Izel, a squat powerhouse with arms like tree trunks; Xilotli, lean and fast, his face a mask of frustration; and Ohtli, a mountain of a man whose breath came in ragged bursts. They were battered, their loincloths grimed with dust, their chests heaving. Etalcaxi, by contrast, looked as if he were enjoying a light morning stretch.
In the crowd of soldiers, a young warrior named Citli leaned forward, his knuckles white where he gripped the stone barrier. His eyes, wide and dark, were fixed on Etalcaxi, devouring every motion. At seventeen cycles of the calendar wheel, Citli still saw the world through the glorious haze of the story-singers' epics. He did not see a lopsided training match; he saw a hero from the sacred stories brought to life, a warrior of destiny scattering his foes before him. For Citli, the sun did not beat down on Etalcaxi; it anointed him.
"Is that all?" Etalcaxi's voice, a rich baritone, carried easily across the plaza. It was a voice made for commands and seductions. "Three of the Eagle Regiment's finest, and you pant like dogs left in the noon heat. Have you forgotten which end of the spear holds the danger?"
He felt the ripple of amusement from the crowd, a familiar and pleasing sound. His gaze flickered over them, a performer checking his house. He saw the flash of colored feathers in the hair of a noblewoman, the appreciative smirk on the faces of his fellow warriors, the awe on the face of young Citli. His ego was a great and thirsty hearth, and adulation was the finest, driest wood.
The taunt worked. With a collective snarl, the three men charged. It was a clumsy, desperate assault, born of fury and humiliation. Izel lunged low, aiming for his legs. Xilotli came in high, his obsidian-tipped spear jabbing for the chest. Ohtli swung his macuahuitl, a heavy wooden club edged with razor-sharp obsidian blades, in a wide, decapitating arc.
For them, it was a battle. For Etalcaxi, it was like dancing.
He did not dodge so much as he ceased to be where they expected him. He flowed backward, a single, liquid step that made their coordinated attack fall into disarray. Izel's spear scraped harmlessly against the packed earth. Xilotli found himself aiming at empty air. Ohtli's club whistled past, its momentum threatening to spin the big man around.
The fight became percussive. The clack of his spear shaft blocking Xilotli's follow-up thrust was sharp and musical. He used the force of the block, not resisting it but redirecting it, spinning on the ball of his foot. The butt of his own spear swung around in a low, swift arc, connecting perfectly with the back of Izel's knees. The bigger man folded with a surprised grunt, collapsing into a heap.
Etalcaxi laughed, a bright, genuine sound of pure enjoyment. "An admirable effort!" he called out, his voice ringing with theatrical condescension. He dipped his shoulder, letting Ohtli's recovering swing pass inches from his head. "But aggression without control is folly! Pay attention, boys, this is your lesson for the day!"
Ohtli roared, a sound of pure animal frustration, and swung his club again, a wild, downward blow meant to crush bone. Etalcaxi sidestepped with an elegant economy of motion that seemed to defy the effort the larger man was expending. As Ohtli stumbled forward, off-balance from the force of his own missed strike, Etalcaxi brought the smooth, wooden butt of his spear up in a light, almost playful tap against the man's taut backside.
A wave of laughter rolled down from the watching soldiers. Even some of the nobles behind their fans allowed themselves a smile. Ohtli's face, already flushed with exertion, turned a shade of crimson that clashed horribly with his copper skin. He was no longer a warrior; he was a buffoon in a farce, and Etalcaxi was gleeful.
Xilotli, seeing his chance while Etalcaxi's attention was on Ohtli, drove his spear forward. Etalcaxi didn't even seem to look. He simply leaned away, the obsidian tip gliding past his ribs, so close it could have snagged a hair. His left hand shot out, not to grab the spear, but to gently guide it, pushing it further off course. At the same time, his right foot hooked behind Xilotli's leading ankle. A simple pull was all it took. Xilotli yelped, his feet flying out from under him, and landed flat on his back with a winded oof.
Two down. Only Izel remained, scrambling to his feet, his face a mess of dirt and sweat. He let out a desperate war cry and charged, a final, hopeless bull-rush.
Etalcaxi watched him come with an expression of almost bored disappointment. With contemptuous ease, he lowered the tip of his own spear and deftly hooked Izel's ankle as he ran. The warrior's legs tangled, and he pitched forward, his valiant cry ending in a mouthful of dust. He sprawled face-first at Etalcaxi's feet.
In a single, unbroken sequence of motion, Etalcaxi flicked his spear, disarming the stunned and rising Ohtli before the man could even register the threat. The enemy spear flew into the air, spinning end over end. Etalcaxi flipped his own spear, catching it by the obsidian tip, and planted the wooden butt firmly on the ground with a solid thump.
Silence fell over the plaza. The three warriors groaned in the dust, defeated not by brutal force, but by an effortless, almost insulting, grace.
Etalcaxi stood over them, like a bronze god in the midday sun. He lifted his chin, letting the light catch the heroic angle of his jaw. He drew a slow, deliberate breath, expanding his chest, making every muscle in his torso and arms stand out in sharp relief. This was the moment. The pose that would be etched into the memory of every man and woman watching. He held it, letting the silence stretch until it was taut with anticipation.
Then, the roar came. A wave of cheers and shouts crashed over him. It started with the soldiers, a deep-throated bellow of appreciation for pure, undeniable skill. It was picked up by the merchants and artisans, and even a smattering of polite, percussive applause could be heard from the nobles' galleries.
Down by the barrier, Citli was shouting himself hoarse, his face alight with a delirious joy. "Etalcaxi! Etalcaxi!"
Etalcaxi allowed a slow, magnificent smile to spread across his face. He scanned the crowd again, his eyes lingering on the shapes of women, imagining their whispers, their admiration. He was, in this perfect, sun-drenched moment, the living embodiment of every Itzotec hero's tale. He savored the adoration, let it soak into his skin, a balm more soothing than any oil.
He was in the middle of a particularly heroic quarter-turn, designed to showcase the formidable curve of his shoulder and triceps, when a figure broke from the ranks and trotted onto the plaza. It was a junior officer, a boy barely old enough to have fuzz on his chin, and he looked terrified to be interrupting the spectacle. He approached hesitantly, slowing to a halt a respectful distance away.
"Etalcaxi!" the boy called out, his voice cracking with nerves. "Commander Yotolin requires your presence. At once."
The name fell into the plaza like a thrown stone, and the cheers rippled into silence. A summons from the Old Jaguar was no small thing. Yotolin was the supreme commander of Elpantepetl's armies, a man whose legend was written in scars and victories, not in flashy training bouts. Murmurs replaced the cheers, a low hum of speculation.
A sharp thrill shot through Etalcaxi. This was it. The adulation of the crowd was sweet, but this was the validation he truly craved. A mundane training match was one thing, but a personal summons from Yotolin himself... this was the call to glory. His grin widened, transforming from mere satisfaction to genuine excitement.
He turned to the section of the wall where Citli stood, his young admirer looking as if the gods themselves had just descended. Etalcaxi gave him a slow, dramatic wink.
"The nation calls for its champion," he said, his voice pitched to carry to those nearest him. He magnanimously handed his practice spear to the nervous junior officer as if it were a sacred relic. "A new legion to command, perhaps? A war to be won in my name? Try to keep up with the glorious news, Citli."
With that, he turned and swaggered from the plaza. He did not run, nor did he hurry. He walked with the measured, confident stride of a man on his way to receive a crown. The sun was at his back, casting his long, heroic shadow before him. Behind him, he could feel the weight of a thousand eyes, and he left Citli looking like he might faint from the sheer, vicarious thrill of it all. This, Etalcaxi thought, was how the legends of storytellers begin.
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The transition from the sun-blasted glory of the plaza to Commander Yotolin's quarters was like plunging into a cool, deep cenote. The room was a stark, functional cell carved into the heart of the military barracks. The air, thick with the scent of old leather, drying medicinal herbs, and the crack of sharpening stones, was a long way away from the dust and sweat outside. Light struggled through a single, high slit of a window, illuminating dust motes dancing in a solitary beam. The only adornments were maps etched onto cured animal hides, tacked to the walls and spread across a large, scarred wooden table. They depicted the Valley of Tlacaxinachyotl and the surrounding territories, with markings in charcoal and ochre indicating troop strengths, mountain passes, and the hostile borders of the Nictex kingdoms.
Behind the table sat Commander Yotolin. A man in his late fifties, his face was a map of past conflicts. A thick, white scar cut through one eyebrow, giving him a perpetually skeptical squint. His nose had been broken more than once, and his hair was more gray than dark. He moved with a stiff-legged limp, the legacy of a Nictex spear point from a battle two decades past, a battle Etalcaxi had only heard about in songs. The Old Jaguar was not a man of flash or performance. He was a man of grim, brutal results. He was currently examining the edge of a wicked-looking obsidian dagger, holding it up to the sliver of light, his expression unreadable.
Etalcaxi strode into the room, bringing the heat and bombast of the plaza with him. He filled the spartan space with his presence, his chest puffed out, his chin held high. The sudden dimness did nothing to temper his radiance; in his own mind, he brought the light with him.
"Commander Yotolin," he announced, his voice echoing slightly off the stone walls. "Etalcaxi reports as ordered. Ready to serve the Itzotec nation in whatever grand capacity you require."
Yotolin did not look up. He tilted the dagger, watching the light play along its razor-sharp, flaked edge. The only sound was the faint, dry scrape of his thumb testing the blade. The silence stretched, a deliberate tool the Old Jaguar used to deflate egos. Etalcaxi felt a flicker of annoyance, but quickly suppressed it. This was a test. A great commander testing the patience of his chosen instrument.
"Settle your feathers, boy," Yotolin said at last, his voice a low gravel that seemed to rise from the stone floor. He finally set the dagger down, its point resting on a map depicting the southern trade routes. He looked up, and his gaze was as sharp and unforgiving as the blade he'd just inspected. It was a gaze that had seen real war, real death, and it held no room for theatrical posturing. "Grand capacities are in short supply today."
Etalcaxi's practiced smile remained in place, but he felt it tighten at the edges. The man's bluntness was wearying. He could at least show a little appreciation for the talent standing before him. Still, the summons had to mean something. Yotolin did not waste his time on trifles.
The commander leaned back in his heavy wooden chair, the motion producing a low groan of protesting wood. He steepled his scarred fingers and studied Etalcaxi, his eyes missing nothing—the perfect hair, the carefully cultivated swagger, the faint sheen of sweat that was the only evidence of his recent exertion.
"The council has a mission," Yotolin began, his voice flat and devoid of any fanfare. "A task of great sensitivity." He paused, letting the words hang in the still air. "It requires a warrior with a... unique reputation." He squinted, and the scar tissue around his eye crinkled. "A man whose presence commands attention."
Etalcaxi preened. The initial deflation vanished, replaced by a warm, expanding balloon of vindication in his chest. A unique reputation. Commands attention. The Old Jaguar saw it after all. He understood that some battles were fought not with brute force, but with style and presence. This was it. The real assignment.
"A diplomatic mission to the Nictex kings at Tititepex?" Etalcaxi offered, his mind already racing. He pictured himself striding into the court of their bitterest rivals, his sheer magnificence cowing them into submission. "An assassination of that upstart commander from Coychila? My spear is yours to command, Commander. Name the enemy, and I will bring you his head."
Yotolin stared at him for a long moment, his expression unchanged. "My spear is for killing people, Etalcaxi," he said slowly, as if explaining a complex concept to a small child. "This mission is far more delicate." He leaned forward again, his forearms resting on the map-covered table. "We need a man to lead the security detail for a trade caravan."
The puffing of Etalcaxi's chest deflated, losing a bit of its air. A security detail? A glorified guard? That sounded... pedestrian. He had imagined armies and kingdoms, not merchants and mules. Still, he kept his composure. A caravan carrying vital state secrets, perhaps? Or a tribute so valuable it could start a war?
"A security detail," he repeated, his voice carefully neutral. He would not show disappointment. A true champion accepts any duty. "Of course. To protect a shipment of... strategic materials? Obsidian blanks from the northern mines? Raw jade from the Motacalli River valley?"
Yotolin's lips twitched, the closest he ever came to a smile, and it was a terrifying sight. It was the smile of a predator enjoying a private joke.
"Honey," the Commander said.
The word hung in the air between them, small and sticky and utterly absurd. Etalcaxi was certain he had misheard. The acoustics in the stone room must be strange.
"I'm sorry, Commander, I thought you said—"
"Honey," Yotolin repeated, enunciating the word with pointed clarity. "And feathers. For the wedding of Lord Tlanextli's daughter. The finest quetzal feathers and bee honey from the Uetatan lowlands. The merchants are bringing it up from the port at Topilango. Your job is to meet them at the edge of our territory and ensure the shipment reaches Elpantepetl without being molested by bandits or, spirits forbid, Nictex raiders who might develop a sudden taste for sweets." He tapped the dagger point on the map again, on a spot deep in the sweltering isthmus. "A great honor."
The silence that followed was absolute. It was like something had sucked all the air, all the glory, all the heroism from the room. Etalcaxi's face was a battlefield of warring emotions. First came blank confusion, a simple inability to process the words. It was followed by a wave of dawning horror, then a surge of pure, undiluted indignation. His jaw, which moments before had been set in a line of heroic determination, now hung slightly agape.
"Honey?" he finally managed to whisper, the word sounding alien and foul in his mouth. "...Feathers? For a wedding?"
"The bride is apparently very particular," Yotolin said, his voice dry as dust. He picked up his dagger again, his attention already returning to its flawless edge. The interview was clearly over. "This requires your finest... skills." He glanced up one last time, a flicker of what looked suspiciously like malicious glee in his good eye. "Dismissed."
Etalcaxi stood frozen in the center of the room. The grand stage of the plaza, the cheering crowds, the visions of commanding legions and toppling kingdoms—it all dissolved. He felt a phantom buzzing in his ears. He was Etalcaxi, the champion of the Itzotec nation. And he had just been assigned to guard breakfast condiments.
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He didn't swagger out of the Commander's quarters. He stormed. He moved through the shaded corridors of the barracks like a thundercloud given human form, his handsome face contorted into a mask of thunderous fury. Soldiers, seeing him approach, wisely flattened themselves against the walls to let him pass. The aura of triumphant glory that had surrounded him earlier had been replaced by one of pure, seething outrage.
He burst into the armory, the heavy leather flap of the doorway slapping against the stone frame behind him. The armory was his sanctuary, a place that smelled of oiled wood, metal, and the satisfying scent of leather bindings. Racks of spears stood in orderly lines, shields bearing the glyphs of various regiments hung on the walls, and macuahuitls rested in their hangers.
Citli was there, just as Etalcaxi knew he would be. The boy was on his knees, lovingly polishing the shaft of Etalcaxi's training spear with a beeswax-coated cloth, humming a tune from one of the great war stories. His face was still flushed with the excitement of the summons, his eyes shining with anticipation.
He heard Etalcaxi enter and leaped to his feet, his posture a salute in itself.
"Great Etalcaxi!" he chirped, his voice brimming with breathless hero-worship. "What news? Has the council seen your worth? Do we march on the Nictex dogs at dawn? Am I to be your standard-bearer?"
Etalcaxi snatched the spear from Citli's hands, his grip so tight his knuckles went white. "Worse!" he snarled, his voice a low, theatrical growl that filled the armory. "We march on the bees!"
Citli blinked, his expression of adoration curdling into one of profound confusion. "The... bees, my lord?"
"The bees, Citli! And the birds!" Etalcaxi began to pace the length of the armory, his every step a percussive strike against the stone floor. His gestures were grand, a performance for an audience of one very bewildered boy. "The might of the Itzotec army, the pinnacle of our warrior tradition, the glorious champion you witnessed this very day, is being dispatched on a mission of earth-shattering importance! We are to protect pots of honey! Honey, Citli!"
He spun around, his eyes wild with indignation. "Our enemies will not be trembling in fear; they will be laughing into their breakfast! They will smear our sacred honor on their morning bread!" He gestured wildly with the spear, narrowly missing a rack of javelins. "Imagine the terror we will inspire! 'Flee! Flee for your lives! It is Etalcaxi, the dreaded guardian of the royal pantry!'"
He resumed his furious pacing, his voice dripping with a melodrama so thick it could have been ladled. "And for what? Feathers! Decorative plumage for some noble girl's hat! The singers of tales will compose new epics in my honor, Citli. They will sing of my glory for generations to come! Ha, the tale of brave Etalcaxi, who faced down a flock of very aggressive hummingbirds! 'Listen, children, to the legend of the warrior who ensured the wedding cake was adequately sweetened!'" He threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of despair. "My legacy will be of dessert!"
Citli's face was a mask of earnest, uncomprehending sincerity. He watched Etalcaxi's tirade not as an outburst of a wounded ego, but as a speech whose meaning was too layered for him to immediately grasp. He did not see the problem. To him, any mission undertaken by Etalcaxi was, by definition, glorious.
"But... the Uetatan, Great Etalcaxi," Citli said, his voice soft but earnest. His brow was furrowed in genuine thought. "The journey itself... it is a land from the stories. The old men say it is a world of green shadows and jaguar gods. They say the pyramids there are so old they were built by the earth itself. And the women..." Citli's voice dropped, taking on a conspiratorial, reverent tone. He leaned forward as if sharing a sacred secret. "The legends say the women of the Uetatan are carved from moonlight and honey. That they wear orchids in their hair and dance with serpents in the cenotes. An exotic conquest for a great warrior, no? A story in itself, separate from any honey."
Etalcaxi stopped pacing. He stood frozen mid-rant, one hand still held aloft in a gesture of dramatic outrage. Citli's words, spoken with such guileless romanticism, pierced through the thick, thunderous cloud of his self-pity.
Carved from moonlight and honey.
The image bloomed in his mind, vivid and intoxicating. He imagined dark hair strewn with flowers, skin the color of pale gold, eyes that held the mysteries of the deep jungle. He imagined a woman not like the solid, earth-bound women of Elpantepetl, but someone more ethereal, more challenging. Someone worthy of a true conquest.
The pout on Etalcaxi's face slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to morph. The downturned corners of his lips flattened, then began to curve upward. The fury in his eyes subsided, replaced by a thoughtful, calculating gleam. A slow, predatory smirk spread across his features.
"Carved from moonlight, you say..." he murmured, his voice losing its shrill edge and regaining its familiar, confident baritone. He lowered his hand, his posture shifting from that of a petulant child to a predator catching a new scent on the wind. "Hmmm. The journey may be beneath my station, but the... local diplomacy... could prove worthy of my talents."
His ego, which had been so brutally crushed and deflated, began to reinflate with astonishing speed. It was a different kind of inflation, not fueled by public glory, but by the promise of private, legendary conquest. The mission was still an insult. A galling insult. But perhaps, he considered, it would not be a total waste of his time. It was a detour from his epic, not a cancellation. A side story, ripe with its own unique rewards.
He strode over to Citli and clapped the boy firmly on the shoulder, his swagger returning in a magnificent rush. "You are wise for your age, Citli," he declared, his smile now wide and full of its old, infuriating confidence. "A warrior finds glory wherever he walks. Even if that walk is through a swamp guarding breakfast delights. A true hero makes his own legend, regardless of the materials at hand."
He took the spear and held it aloft, striking another pose. This one was not for the cheering crowds of the plaza, but for his own reflection, caught in the polished surface of a nearby shield. He admired the line of his arm, the confident set of his jaw, the glint in his eye. The hero was back.
"Prepare our gear," he commanded, his voice once again ringing with purpose. "The finest armor, the sharpest blades. And pack my good loincloth. The one with the jade trim." He winked at his own reflection. "The women of the Uetatan await a true Itzotec champion."
He held the pose for a moment longer, a perfect sculpture of supreme self-assurance. His grin was of arrogance, utterly confident and completely, blissfully clueless about the fate that was actually waiting for him in the depths of the jungle.