3. The Empire That Burned

I was born beneath the shadow of Templo Mayor, raised on stories of gods who demanded blood and empires built on stone. My name is Ichtaca, scribe of the House of Glyphs, and I write this as fire devours the city of Tenochtitlán.

It began with omens: the weeping woman who wandered the causeways at night, the temples struck by lightning, and the twin-headed men born in the market district. The priests warned us the gods were displeased, but no one listened—not even Emperor Moctezuma.

Then they came—men with thundersticks and metal skin, their horses like beasts from the underworld. They called themselves Spaniards, led by a man named Hernán Cortés. Moctezuma welcomed them, perhaps believing them gods, or perhaps hoping diplomacy could spare the city. He gave them gold. They asked for more.

I saw them in the palace. They did not bow or observe our customs. They stared at our gold as if it were more sacred than Huitzilopochtli himself. I remember the chill in my bones when one of them laughed during a temple ceremony. The gods would not forgive that, I thought. I was wrong. The gods did nothing.

Moctezuma became their puppet. Our emperor, once feared and divine, now stood behind foreign guards like a captured bird. The people murmured, then shouted, and finally rebelled. Stones were thrown, blades were drawn. Moctezuma died—some said by their hands, others by ours. It no longer mattered. The spell of the gods was broken.

Then came La Noche Triste, the Night of Sorrows. We drove the Spaniards from our city in a torrent of blood and screams. I remember standing on the causeway, watching their soldiers drown beneath the weight of stolen gold. We cheered. We believed it was over.

But it was not.

They returned less than a year later with thousands of native allies—Tlaxcalans and others who had long hated our empire. They brought disease, a curse we could not fight. Smallpox swept through the city, killing warriors and priests alike. Even children bore its mark. Our gods did not protect us.

We fortified Tenochtitlán, cutting bridges, hiding food. Still, they came. Day by day, they tore through the outer defenses. I wrote on bark and cloth as our temples burned. I painted the deaths of warriors whose names deserved eternity. I carved the sun god’s symbol with hands that trembled.

I remember the final week. The air stank of smoke and rot. The lake ran red. We ate insects, leather, and rats. The once-proud city became a graveyard of echoes. I saw children fighting over dead dogs. I saw priests weep, not in ritual, but from despair.

On the last day, I found myself near the broken palace, my stylus still in hand. Around me, warriors screamed. The Spaniards moved like demons, fire in their wake. I saw one tear the heart from our eagle knight and shout to his god. Was this what their god demanded?

I fled through the sacred square, past fallen idols, past the body of my friend, Xolotl. He had once dreamed of becoming a high priest. Now he lay with his face in the dust, his throat cut. There were no prayers left for him.

And then I reached the top of Templo Mayor, the once-holy place. Smoke blackened the sky. From there, I saw the city of Tenochtitlán—not in splendor, but in ruin. No chanting. No drums. Only silence and ash.

I knelt, pressing my writings to the altar. My last gift to gods who had abandoned us.


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Now, they call this the New Spain. They build churches where our temples stood. They melt our gold into coins. They teach us new prayers, new gods, new names.

But I remember.

I remember the scent of burning feathers and incense, the rhythm of warrior songs, the pride of a city floating on a lake. I remember the old gods. And even if they did not save us, I will write their names until my hands forget how to hold a stylus.

Let them build their empire of stone and crosses.

Mine was an Empire of Ashes—and it was beautiful.