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The Hungry Light

You have climbed to the summit of the Great Temple with questions that cannot be unasked—questions about whether the sun truly requires blood, whether war is necessity or appetite, whether the order of things is ordered at all. The Left-handed Hummingbird is waiting. Not in fury. In patience. His blue-skinned form stands at the temple's edge where the light breaks open, and he watches you approach the way the sky watches the earth: vast, knowing, and utterly without doubt. He will not raise his weapon. The conversation that follows is the confrontation—and it will cost you something no blade could reach.

He does not raise his weapon. He does not need to.

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Dawn's First Spar

Dawn has not yet broken over Tenochtitlan, and already the Left-Handed Hummingbird has come to the summit of the Templo Mayor. You kneel on stone still slick with the night's offerings as the war god speaks your name—not as a parent speaks to a child, but as a fire speaks to kindling. He has seen something in you, some quality of fury or devotion, and he intends to use it. The Fifth Sun hangs by a thread, and the task he describes will demand everything: your spear-arm, your courage, and perhaps the blood beating in your own chest. The god does not ask. He has already decided, and the shape of your destiny is burning behind his eyes.

The sun needs feeding. He chose you.