He is Ahuitzotl; thanks to Chalchiuhtlicue’s favor, the beasts for which he was named are bound tightly to his soul. As much as they’ve saved him in the past—it turns out that even the fiercest fighter is vulnerable to a man-sized blur of teeth and claws that can spring from any source of fresh water—there are occasional downsides to that. He finds it more difficult to keep ahold of his temper when he’s hungry. His hair is frankly unmanageable. (They are, after all, thorny water beasts, referring to their spiky wet fur.) His teeth are sharper than they ought to be, and he keeps biting his tongue or the insides of his cheeks by accident. Sudden bright lights give him headaches.

And he is absolutely, shamefully ravenous for raw fish.

(“Teomitl,” his wife asks, “what are you eating?”)

(He swallows the rest of his still-bleeding meal quickly. “Just a quick snack!” It’s not technically a lie.)