He is a fool. No, worse than that. There aren’t words harsh enough, bitter enough, for the kind of man he is. What sort of man stands in front of his wife and his teacher and says such things to them? What sort of man strides onto the remnants of a fresh battlefield, with the people he loves still bleeding, and demands that they help him in his cause? Of course they turned him down. Of course they’re sure to hate him now. He’s treated them—gods, the look on Acatl’s face—he’s treated them worse than Tizoc.

Mihmatini had cried, when they’d been alone, and he’d had no right to console her. His sword had lay in the dust between them, and he’d entertained thoughts of driving it into his own heart. It’s still a little tempting.

At some point while he’s been feeling sorry for himself, an ahuitzotl has eeled its way into his tunnel and is now leaning against his side like a dog. He buries his face in its wet, spiky fur and takes a deep lake-scented breath. So he’s ruined everything between himself and the people he loves.

He’ll just have to make amends.