His second attempt at the throne went much better, all things considered. He had waited. He had been patient. He had let Tizoc's reign stabilize, ignoring the deep cracks that threatened to shatter it each time his craven brother raged at another innocent he suspected of some plot (but he never suspected Teomitl, oh no, not his loyal little brother, his most skilled general). He had clenched his fist each time his fingers strayed towards a knife, each time he thought End it, end it here and now before he breaks our Empire apart--

And when Tizoc died choking on the fluids in his lungs (surprisingly not his fault, though he wouldn't rule out Mihmatini or Acamapichtli having gotten in some long-awaited revenge), he was ready to take the crown, and Tenochtitlan was ready for him.

(He wasn't ready for the first time one of the family members he actually liked called him Ahuitzotl, though. Hearing it from his subordinates? Fine. Hearing it from Acatl's lips? Not fine. To his loved ones, he'd rather be Teomitl until the day he died.)