The crisp morning air, thin at this altitude, carried the distant bleating of llamas and the murmur of the river far below. The sun, already strong, began to warm the stone walls of the small, tightly packed houses clinging to the mountainside.

Pachacuti, his hands dusted with fine maize flour, emerged from his dwelling, stretching his back with a groan. Across the narrow, terraced path, Mama Ocllo, her dark hair braided with colorful threads, was meticulously sorting dried coca leaves on a woven mat.

"Inti is generous today, Mama Ocllo!" Pachacuti called out, his voice echoing slightly in the clear air. "A good day for the fields."

Mama Ocllo looked up, her weathered face creasing into a smile. "Indeed, Pachacuti. Though my old bones feel the chill of the night still. Are you preparing chicha already? I smell the fermentation."

"Just setting the maize to soak for the next batch," he replied, gesturing with a floury hand. "The festival of Inti Raymi approaches, and the curaca (village chief) expects plenty for the communal feast. My son, Tupac, will be helping harvest the last of the potatoes today."

Mama Ocllo nodded, picking up a particularly large coca leaf. "Ah, the potatoes. We need a good harvest this year. The last winter was long, and the stores are running low. My daughter, Coya, had to trade her best alpaca fleece for a small measure of quinoa from the lowlands last moon."

Pachacuti grimaced. "The mit'a (labor tribute) has been heavy this season. The apu (local lord) demanded many hands for the new road to Cusco. My back still aches from carrying those stones. And the quipu-kamayoc (record keeper) was here again yesterday, counting our llama herd."

"Always counting, always demanding," Mama Ocllo sighed, shaking her head. "They say the Sapa Inca needs more gold for the temples in the capital. But what of our own temples, our own needs? The spring rains were late, and the maize is not as tall as it should be."

"True. And the new yanacona (servant) for the apu is a harsh one. He fined old Wayna for taking water from the main canal before his allotted time, even though Wayna's patch was parched." Pachacuti spat lightly on the ground.

"A harsh man indeed. My grandson, Illari, speaks of leaving for the jungle lands, where the chunchos (forest people) live. Says there is more freedom there, away from the Inca's reach."

"The jungle? Full of spirits and unknown dangers, Mama Ocllo. Better to stay here, where the ancestors watch over our terraces, even if the work is hard," Pachacuti advised, though he understood the sentiment. "Have you seen young Killa lately? She's been spending a lot of time up at the huaca (sacred site), leaving offerings to the mountain spirits."

Mama Ocllo smiled softly. "She is a devout one. Perhaps her prayers will bring us a bountiful harvest. My husband, bless his memory, always said the mountain spirits listen best to the pure of heart."

A small child, barely old enough to walk, toddled out of Pachacuti's doorway, clutching a small woven doll. Pachacuti chuckled. "Speaking of pure hearts, my little Uchu is already up and exploring. He tried to 'help' me grind the maize, and ended up with more on his face than in the bowl."

Mama Ocllo's eyes twinkled. "He'll be a strong farmer one day, just like his father. Perhaps even a great curaca." She paused, her gaze drifting towards the distant snow-capped peaks. "The yatiri (shaman) performed a divination this morning. He prayed for rain, and for balance. We need both, Pachacuti, we truly do."

"Yes," Pachacuti said quietly. "May the Pachamama (Mother Earth) hear his prayers. The river is already so low." He shooed a persistent fly away from his face. "I should get back to my work. The maize needs to soak before the sun gets too high. And I hear my little explorer calling for me again." He gave a tired smile. "May your sorting be fruitful, Mama Ocllo."

"And may your chicha be strong, Pachacuti. And may the spirits protect your family from the demands of the apu." Mama Ocllo raised a hand in farewell and returned to her coca leaves, the gentle rustle of the dry leaves resuming its quiet rhythm. Pachacuti watched her for a moment, then turned back to his doorway, the earthy scent of maize a small, comforting presence in a world that often felt demanding and uncertain.