“Unless you surrender the boy by the next eclipse, I will inform the Emperor that his esteemed General Xocoyotl has a daughter whose soul is already claimed by the underworld, and that she shelters a rogue star-demon.” The cold bile on her cheek made Xilotsa’s stomach churn. Yaotl’s words, a poisoned barb, struck deeper than any blade. He knew. He truly knew the blight of her bloodline, the eight-year clock ticking down to zero, the one she’d inherited and tried so hard to outrun. The Emperor’s interest in ‘rotting souls’ was no idle threat; it was a death sentence, not just for her, but for anyone associated with her, including the boy. He was gambling on her pragmatism, on her inherent need to protect her tomorrows, and by extension, Tlanextli’s. He wanted to force her to choose. But Xilotsa had already made her choice the moment she offered him maize bread. Her own peaceful retirement, a small, quiet life, was worthless if it meant dragging an innocent, traumatized boy into her family’s cursed legacy. Her lips thinned. “You overestimate your influence, Uncle Yaotl. The Emperor is far too busy with the southern rebellions to heed the ramblings of a bitter man who lost his sacrifice.” She met his gaze, her own eyes like chips of volcanic glass, unyielding. “And my family’s secrets are precisely that: *mine*. Try to spread your rumors, and you’ll find yourself silenced by the very ‘blight’ you so enjoy observing.” Yaotl’s sneer tightened, his eyes promising retribution, but Xilotsa simply turned her back, dismissing him with an icy finality. The lingering scent of ozone and stale blood hung heavy in the air. She would find a way. She always did. But her heart, hidden behind its pragmatic armor, cracked a little more. This meant accelerating her plans. This meant pushing him away, for his own good. Two weeks later, the morning air in the Calmecac dorm room hung thick with impending departure. Tlanextli, now fifteen, had outgrown his clothes several times over, his frame lean and agile, promising the towering build she knew he would possess. He carefully folded his roughspun tunic, placing it into a woven reed pack. His eyes, no longer shadowed by fear, held a deep, unreadable intensity. “The Border Wars are a crucible, Tlanextli,” Xilotsa said, her voice carefully modulated, betraying none of the tremor in her hands. She sat on the edge of her cot, watching him. Miztli, usually a chaotic ball of energy, clung silently to her shoulder, its soot-black feathers ruffled, sensing the tension. He paused, looking at her, his dark eyes searching. “You always said I needed to be independent, Xilotsa. To carve my own path.” His voice, now deeper, held a resonance that made the air hum. “Precisely. True independence isn’t just about making your own decisions; it’s about having the strength to stand alone, to protect what you’ve built.” She swallowed, the lie burning her throat. “You will gain invaluable experience on the frontier, forge alliances. This is how you secure your path, *our* path. My peaceful retirement depends on you becoming a respected knight, a man of power and influence.” She made it sound like a transaction, a necessary step in her grand pension scheme, hoping to mask the agony of sending him into danger. He finished packing, then turned to face her fully. His gaze was unsettlingly mature, as if he saw through the carefully constructed facade she presented. “And if I don’t return?” A sharp pang shot through Xilotsa’s chest. Miztli chirped, a small, worried sound. She forced a light laugh. “Don’t be dramatic. You’re Tlanextli. You’re stronger than you know. Besides,” she pushed herself up, crossing the small space to stand before him, “I’ve already invested too much maize bread in your survival to let you simply perish. Come back a hero, or don’t come back at all.” Her voice broke on the last few words, and she quickly averted her eyes, reaching out to adjust a stray lock of his dark hair, a maternal gesture that felt like ripping her own heart out. He caught her hand, his fingers firm, warm. “I will return,” he promised, his voice low, a vow spoken not to the air, but directly to her soul. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, just above the wrist, a touch that sent a strange current through her. He held her gaze for a long moment, then released her, turning to pick up his pack. “Go on, then,” she said, stepping back, her chest tight. “Don’t miss your caravan.” He nodded, a silent farewell, then walked out of the dorm, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. Xilotsa stood there, unmoving, until the sounds faded completely. Only then did she sink back onto her cot, a single, black-tinged tear tracing a path down her cheek. Miztli nuzzled her neck, its small body trembling. Five years peeled away like ancient plaster from a temple wall. The Calmecac hummed with new generations of cadets, but Xilotsa’s presence there had diminished. Her role as a ‘benefactor’ had been secured, her pension funds accruing steadily. She had moved into a small, elegant house in the quieter districts of the capital, a place far removed from the constant clang of training macuahuitl and the shouts of young warriors. It had a small courtyard garden, perfect for Miztli to sun itself, and a private study lined with scrolls. It was the peaceful retirement she had planned, nearly within her grasp. Nearly. Each morning, the persistent cough was a little harsher, the black flecks in her sputum a little larger. The fatigue was a constant, unwelcome companion, clinging to her like damp moss. Quetzalli, now a revered Sun-Priestess, visited often, her bright eyes clouded with concern, her hands itching to perform healing rituals. Each time, Xilotsa deflected, her explanations about a 'persistent cough' growing thinner, more brittle. Her fiercely independent spirit still refused to burden anyone with her dying body. Today was the day. The last parchment confirming her full pension had arrived. She was packing the final few scrolls, her movements slower, more deliberate than she liked, a faint tremor in her hands. She paused, a fit of coughing seizing her, leaving a dark, viscous stain on the linen handkerchief she quickly tucked away. Her skin, once vibrant, had a sallow undertone, and her eyes, though still sharp, held a weariness that sleep could no longer banish. A shuddering boom ripped through the quiet house, shaking the very foundations. The air itself seemed to crackle, charged with an immense, predatory power. Before Xilotsa could even register the sound, the heavy, carved wooden door to her study exploded inwards, splintering into a thousand shards. Dust, stone fragments, and slivers of wood rained down. Standing in the gaping maw of the ruined doorway was a man. No, a warlord. A towering, scarred figure, draped in the dark, heavy mantle of a Jaguar Knight. His chest, broad and muscled, was crisscrossed with intricate battle scars, some still raw-looking. His face, etched with the harsh lines of countless campaigns, was framed by long, unbound black hair. A heavy macuahuitl, its obsidian blades glinting ominously, was strapped to his back. His eyes, the same intense, unreadable eyes from five years ago, were fixed on her, burning with an incandescent, terrifying devotion. Tlanextli. He was magnificent, terrifying, and utterly unrecognizable as the boy she had sent away. Miztli, usually fearless, let out a terrified screech and vanished under the desk. Before Xilotsa could utter a sound, he was across the room, moving with the silent, deadly grace of a predator. He slammed the door behind him with a casual flick of his wrist, the remaining frame groaning in protest. One massive hand shot out, pinning her wrist to the wall beside her head. The scrolls scattered to the floor. The other hand gripped her chin, forcing her to look into his pitch-black eyes. “Xilotsa,” he rumbled, his voice deeper, rougher, a low growl that vibrated through her bones. His scent, a mix of ancient leather, woodsmoke, and something feral, enveloped her. “You thought I wouldn’t return?” He leaned closer, his immense body eclipsing the light from the shattered doorway. “You thought you could simply… disappear?” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then to her neck, tracing the faint pulsing of a vein. “I know, Xilotsa. I know exactly how many days you have left.” His eyes were not sad, not mournful, but alight with a dangerous, possessive fury. “And I will not let you die.” Xilotsa struggled, a surge of defiant anger rising within her. “Let me go, Tlanextli! You have no right–” She tried to knee him, but he anticipated the move, easily shifting his weight, trapping her leg between his own. Her struggles were like a moth against stone. His strength was overwhelming, absolute. The small jade dagger she’d kept hidden up her sleeve was useless against him. He ignored her protests, his focus unnervingly absolute. “You wanted to protect me from your end. You sent me to war, thinking I would forget.” He shook his head, a dark, humorless smile touching his lips. “Foolish. Every kill I made, every scar I earned, was for you. To be strong enough to keep you here.” His free hand reached into the folds of his mantle. He pulled out a heavy, intricately wrought gold collar. It gleamed, catching the faint light, inlaid with small, dark jade talismans. A faint, humming power emanated from it, cold and ancient. He brought it up, the metal chill pressing cold against her skin. “Never again,” he whispered, his voice dangerously soft, his eyes burning into hers. “You are never leaving my sight again.” The heavy gold clicked, cold and final, around her neck.

The Time-Skip and the Warlord's Collar