When Teomitl caught sight of his reflection, he saw Tizoc’s hawkish nose and high cheekbones, a flash of dark eyes and straight dark hair before he turned away. Sometimes—it was much rarer now, but it still happened—his older brother would smile, and Teomitl could never look at him when he did that because he knew, he knew it was far too much like his own.

If there was a mirror capable of displaying the darkness of a man’s heart—cruelty, arrogance, paranoia—he wondered if he’d see Tizoc’s in his own reflection too.

(You’re not him, Acatl told him. You’ll never be him, Mihmatini said. Teomitl wished he could believe it.)