The High Temple’s imposing gates loomed, black volcanic glass polished to a mirror sheen. Xilotsa, with Tlanextli clutching her hand and Miztli perched on her shoulder, strode through them as if she owned the very air. The guards, still reeling from her earlier audacity, parted like water. Their destination: the Calmecac of Chalchiut, nestled within the temple complex, a formidable stone citadel where Ometlan’s elite youth were forged into Jaguar Knights and Sun-Priests. The academy courtyard buzzed with the controlled chaos of young nobles. Teens in crisply starched tunics swung flat hardwood clubs, the inset volcanic glass teeth singing through the air. Whispers followed Xilotsa, sharp and curious. It was unheard of for a woman of her standing, especially the infamous Lady Xilotsa, to personally escort a ward, let alone a boy marked by the stars. She found the registration office, a small, humid chamber smelling of dried herbs and old parchment. The registrar, a balding man with spectacles perched on his nose, nearly choked on his pulque when he saw her. “Lady Xilotsa? And… this child?” His gaze lingered on Tlanextli’s star-mottled skin, an ugly sneer twisting his lips. “My ward, Tlanextli. He requires enrollment. Full Jaguar Knight training track, effective immediately.” Xilotsa’s voice was as smooth as polished jade, but the underlying steel was unmistakable. “But Lady, he’s… a demon-child. And so young. The usual age is at least eight cycles.” The clerk gestured vaguely. “And his… origins. There are… protocols.” Xilotsa leaned forward, her eyes narrowing into cold slits. “My ancestors paid for this academy’s very foundations. My family offers more tribute in a month than your entire lineage has in a lifetime. Protocols will be *adjusted*. Now, complete the paperwork, or I will ensure you spend the next harvest season scrubbing the latrines of the outer districts.” The clerk blanched, hands shaking as he fumbled for a fresh scroll. Tlanextli, wide-eyed and silent, watched Xilotsa, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks at her ferocity. Miztli, noticing the clerk’s discomfort, landed on his head, ruffling his sparse hair with dark feathers, prompting a startled yelp. Enrollment secured, Xilotsa led Tlanextli to the training grounds. He was easily the smallest among the cadets, a scrawny sapling in a forest of young oaks. He clutched the rough cotton of his new tunic, his gaze flitting nervously around the bustling yard. “Look, a star-demon runt!” A voice boomed, thick with adolescent arrogance. A group of older boys, all burly and already sporting the first fuzz of a mustache, swaggered over. Their leader, a broad-shouldered boy with a cruel smirk named Axayacatl, pointed at Tlanextli with a practice war-club. “What’s this, Lady Xilotsa? Did your family run out of sacrifices, so you brought us a new pet?” Another, taller boy snickered, nudging the ringleader. “He looks like he’d break if you breathed on him.” Xilotsa shifted her footing, placing herself directly before Tlanextli. “He is a student, like any other. And he is under my household.” Axayacatl scoffed, teeth showing in a grin. “Your household? You think you can keep him safe from a proper hazing? This is the Calmecac, Lady. We make men here, not coddle star-spawn.” He raised the ash-wood bat, aiming it straight at Tlanextli’s head. “Enough,” Xilotsa said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Put that down.” “Or what, Lady?” Axayacatl laughed. “Will you run crying to the temple elders?” Before he could finish, Xilotsa moved. It was a blur of motion, unexpected and precise. Her hand shot out, snatching the wood from Axayacatl’s grip. She brought the edge down across his knee. Bone and timber snapped together with a dry *CRACK!* The boy dropped to the stone paving, clutching his smashed leg. His face was contorted in shock and agony. A hush settled over the dust. All eyes turned to Xilotsa standing over the whimpering cadet, the split timber hanging loose in her fingers. “I said,” she enunciated, “put that down. Next time, it will not be practice wood.” Just then, another figure arrived, gliding through the stunned onlookers. It was a girl, perhaps a year or two older than Tlanextli, with hair dark as wet slate and eyes like bright turquoise. She wore the white tunic of a temple initiate, and at her collar rested a small, intricately carved sun-stone: the Eye of Tonatiuh. Quetzalli. Her gaze swept over the scene, from the broken macuahuitl to the crying Axayacatl, and finally landed on Xilotsa. Instead of the disgust Xilotsa expected, a flush bloomed across Quetzalli’s cheeks, a vibrant crimson that spread to her ears. Her lips parted slightly, a soft gasp escaping them. She looked, not at Tlanextli, not at the male bullies, but solely, intensely, at Xilotsa. “Lady Xilotsa,” Quetzalli managed, her voice a reedy whisper. She gripped the carving against her chest. “That… that was incredible. Your… strength.” Her eyes, wide and filled with an almost painful admiration, fixated on Xilotsa’s face. “Please, accept this. It is a sacred ward, blessed by the Sun. It will shelter you from… harm.” With trembling fingers, she unclasped the pendant and held it out, her gaze never leaving Xilotsa’s. Xilotsa took the offering, the dark stone surprisingly warm against her palm. “Thank you, child,” she said, a small, soft smile gracing her lips. “Quetzalli, isn’t it?” Quetzalli nodded vigorously, her blush deepening. “Yes, Lady! If there is anything… anything at all, I can do.” “You could help Tlanextli settle in,” Xilotsa suggested, gesturing to the silent boy. “He will be staying in the junior dormitories. I’ve arranged for a private chamber for him to help with his… transition.” She glanced pointedly at the gawking cadets. “It seems he’ll need a friend.” And so, a strange, cozy dorm life began. Xilotsa had indeed pulled strings, securing a small, private chamber adjoining the junior dorms, an unprecedented luxury for a new initiate. She spent her afternoons there, ostensibly supervising Tlanextli’s studies, but mostly enjoying the quiet domesticity. Quetzalli, now a constant fixture, brought them small clay cups of spiced cacao and dried fruit from the inner cloisters, hovering near the bench with quiet eagerness. Xilotsa taught Tlanextli to read, her finger tracing the intricate glyphs on parchment scrolls. His small brow would furrow in concentration, his tongue poking out slightly as he repeated the sounds. Miztli, ever mischievous, found a new game in stealing their quills, fluttering just out of reach with the writing implement clutched in its tiny talons, only returning it after a chase and a gentle scolding from Xilotsa. Quetzalli, meanwhile, observed Xilotsa with an almost scientific intensity. “Lady Xilotsa,” she ventured one afternoon, watching Xilotsa press two fingers into her temple. “You look pale. The skin below your lashes is grey. I could brew a tonic from dried copal and sun-steeped amaranth to restore your vigor.” Xilotsa merely smiled, a tight, dismissive curve of her lips. “I appreciate the thought, Quetzalli, but my constitution has always been… delicate. Nothing to concern yourself with.” She saw Quetzalli’s worried frown, but simply redirected her attention back to Tlanextli’s reading lesson, oblivious to the Sun-Priestess’s burgeoning mission to cure her ‘delicate’ health. Xilotsa watched Tlanextli meticulously copy a glyph, his small hand still clumsy but determined. This was it. Her pension plan. A powerful, loyal knight who would secure her peaceful retirement. She missed his subtle, possessive glares that swept over Quetzalli, over Miztli, over anyone who drew Xilotsa’s attention away from him. He was hers, a silent, growing devotion that pulsed beneath his quiet demeanor, already dangerously absolute. Later that evening, after Xilotsa had left for her own quarters, Tlanextli found it. He was tidying the small sleeping mat Xilotsa used when she stayed late, tucking away the last of her belongings. Underneath a neatly folded tunic, he saw it – a small square of embroidered cloth, meticulously hidden. He unfolded it with innocent curiosity. The pristine white linen was stained, a dark, rusty bloom spreading across the center. Black, viscous blood. A chill that had nothing to do with the cool evening air crept through Tlanextli. The boy's pupils shrank to tiny pinpricks of dark ink, his hands closing tight over the soiled fabric. She was hiding this from him.

The Sun-Priestess and the Bloody Handkerchief