Xochipilli stood near the grand entrance of the marketplace, her keen eyes scanning the strange procession entering Tenochtitlan. The pale men, as the elders had whispered about them, were being led by a translator as they presented colorful cloths, shimmering beads, and trinkets made of metals she had never seen before. Their goods gleamed in the sunlight, and their smiles seemed genuine, but Xochipilli's brow furrowed as she watched them approach the leaders of her city.

She had heard whispers of their intentions, of how their ships had come from across the great water. But none of it felt right to her. These men, with their strange language, their unfamiliar ways, and their offers of gifts, did not have the same air of respect her people held when meeting new tribes. There was something hidden behind their eyes, something she could not place.

As they conversed with one of the elder leaders, a young pale man—his features sharp and eyes bold—caught her gaze.

She didn’t flinch at his eyes. She returned the gaze, unblinking. He smiled, a look she couldn’t quite interpret. Was he mocking her? How she dressed? Bold for a guy dressed in shiny metal.

"Watchful, aren't you?" one of the older women beside her murmured, noticing Xochipilli’s sharp attention.

"I trust them not," Xochipilli replied quietly, her voice low but firm. "Gifts are never given without a price."

Her eyes never left the young conquistador, her suspicion growing stronger.