Chapter 208: A Victory That Tasted of Defeat

The troops and giusseppe escaped in the night.

Though their departure stirred whispers through the narrow streets, the bishop and the city’s elites—consumed with restoring order in Santa Fe—had neither the time nor the clarity to pursue a the general who had lost the Church’s favor, nor the undisciplined soldiers who followed him. By the time certainty replaced rumor, it was already too late. He had fled south with most of his force, vanishing into the humid darkness that swallowed roads, loyalties, and names alike.

Only then did they hurry toward the bishop.

The church of Santa Fe stood in ruin.

What had once been the sanctuary of God now smelled of cold ash, damp stone, and wet rot rising from charred beams soaked by mist. The heavy oak doors had been reduced to jagged black stumps. Inside, the nave opened into a cavern of shadow where silence pressed against the lungs.

The gilded altars—once the pride of the province—had blistered beneath the heat. Gold leaf had melted and hardened into warped tears across the faces of saints whose limbs had cracked or fallen away. A marble hand lay on the floor beside fused rosary beads, blackened like drops of pitch. Above, part of the roof had collapsed, exposing the sanctuary to a dull gray morning sky where thin smoke still drifted.

The soot-darkened walls were veined with pale scars where limestone had fractured in the flames. Dust floated slowly in the chill air. Somewhere, unseen water dripped with hollow patience, echoing like a distant clock counting the end of something sacred.

It was no longer a house of worship.It was a skeleton.

The paladins who entered felt their solemnity deepen into unease. Even men hardened by war sensed accusation in the ruin. Burned incense clung faintly to the air, mixed with the bitter scent of charcoal and wet earth tracked in on boots.

At the center of the nave stood the bishop, dazed, as if the fire had passed through him as well. Gray dust rested on his shoulders. His eyes wandered across the devastation, searching for meaning in broken stone.

A paladin approached and bowed.

“Your Excellency… General Giuseppe has taken two thousand troops and fled toward Urabá. Shall we pursue?”

The bishop’s gaze sharpened with sudden fury.

“Did you not assure me he would die?” he asked quietly. “How did you allow him to escape?”

The question lingered in the ruined air like smoke.

In truth, the bishop already regretted the order he had given the previous night. He had known he should wait until the new general secured command before moving against Giuseppe. But when he saw the church burning, rage overcame judgment. Fury demanded action—and he obeyed.

Now the consequence stood before him:a living enemy instead of a dead one.

In the south, A new powerfull force was going to raise.

The paladin hesitated.”Sir… the servant girl never returned. We believe she failed, and that Giuseppe killed her. Her family has been dealt with. He likely discovered our plan. The soldiers are… uncooperative. Many suspect we are responsible for his escape.”

The bishop’s expression tightened. The charred smell of the church seemed heavier now, a reminder of how quickly power could turn to ash.

Hurried footsteps echoed across broken stone.

A priest stumbled into the nave, robes torn, face pale with terror no prayer could soothe. He clutched a crumpled parchment.

“Your Excellency… bad news.”

“What is it?”

“The Gómez family has reached an agreement with elites across the Medellín region, from the valley to Río Negro. They have proclaimed a decree of secular redemption.”

The bishop stiffened.”A decree? Under whose authority? Are they declaring independence from Spain?”

“Not exactly. A letter was sent to the viceroy—more a warning than a request. He declares himself the representative of a loyal anti-theocratic order. The viceroy has not responded. They may accept this… for now. It seems the letter is old; the viceroy was likely waiting for the troops to defeat us before dealing with them. But now that we have defeated those troops, he may simply ignore the Gómez family.”

The priest’s voice fell to a whisper.

“Carlos Gómez has seized the Archivos de Censos y Capellanías

. He declares all Church land ’stagnant wealth.’ Tithes and ecclesiastical taxes are abolished. Monasteries are forced to surrender their titles, the land handed to those who make it produce. He claims immigration will bring chaos unless property is redistributed. What he does not say is that most of those immigrants are heretics and not Hispanic. Of course, the viceroy has known this for some time—but now the situation is beginning to backfire.”

The priest sank to his knees.

“He is selling Church mortgages back to landowners and immigrant farmers for a fraction of their value. He is turning the people into his own loyal citizens. Prussian troops stand guard at every cathedral door while they inventory the golden altars as collateral for something he calls a bank. He even rebukes our clergy, calling such gold a shame before Christ’s teaching—saying the Church must not possess more wealth than the people.”

Silence followed—heavy, suffocating.

The bishop’s face shifted from pale to a sickly, mottled gray, damp with the sweat of realization. This was more than the loss of a general and two thousand troops.It was the draining away of the Church’s lifeblood: the land.

Without those estates, the clergy in Gómez territory would weaken rapidly and become increasingly dependent on the government he is founding. The priests might resent him, yet they would not dare to oppose him openly.But I—standing outside their territory—would become the Church’s true enemy. The Vatican may hesitate to grant me further support. They have already quarreled with the Crown, and now that the very existence of this theocracy threatens the Church’s rights, they may cast us aside even sooner.

Even victory would not restore what has been given away.No farmer who has tasted ownership will surrender it peacefully.No province freed from tithes will kneel again.And even if the Church were to reclaim the land, it would never reclaim the people.

Ezequiel felt a cold chill.

Carlos is not playing the game of kings, he thought.He is playing the game of the future.

With ink instead of steel, the Gómez family had ended the Middle Ages in eastern Antioquia.

The silence that followed was terrifying.

Behind the bishop, the elite families shifted uneasily. Silk rustled. Mourning black concealed calculation—and envy. If sacred lands could be divided, what else might follow?Even now, some imagined that, were they in Gómez territory, a piece of that bounty might fall to them. Yet none would dare speak such thoughts aloud. the didnt noticed but the first seeds of rebellion already begun to take root within their own ranks

Outside, morning sounds continued: mule carts creaking, vendors calling bread, distant hammering on wood. The world was not waiting for the Church to recover.

It was moving on.

Months Earlier — Medellín

Days after the fall of Boquerón Pass, which blocked the road between Santa Fe de Antioquia and Medellín, Carlos received troubling news. Armed strangers had appeared near the city—men with unfamiliar uniforms and weapons unlike those of Spain or the militias.

Fearing escaped fanatics, he sent patrols.He did not expect them to seize the small villa of San Jerónimo.

Panic rippled through the countryside, yet something strange brought uneasy calm:the men had killed no one.

Villagers were expelled but allowed to take their belongings. The strangers spoke an unknown language, though one among them knew Spanish.

Carlos mounted his horse immediately.He wondered if this could be Krugger. Francisco had sent word, but certainty was dangerous. Militiamen rode with him beneath humid skies heavy with the scent of river mud and crushed guava leaves.

After two hours of hard riding, he saw soldiers surrounding the villa. Small cannons—dragged from nearby forts—pointed toward tiled roofs glowing dull red beneath the afternoon sun.

Carlos dismounted.”What did the translator say?”

The soldier hesitated.

“He will speak only with the bastard who took his daughter. Some believe it may be a scion of one of Medellín’s elite families who seduced the daughter of an important European house—and that these men were sent to reclaim her or seek revenge.”

Carlos frowned.”Then didn’t you ask what family he belongs to?”

The soldier looked at him, slightly awkward.”We did, sir. He said… the Gómez family.”

The men nearby leaned closer with poorly concealed curiosity, their faces alive with gossip. They all knew the rumors about Carlos and Amelia—how often she visited his estate, how suddenly she seemed to linger there, how servants had seen her leaving his chambers in the pale light of morning. Whisper had turned into certainty long ago.

Now, with talk that Francisco might also have left some romance behind in Europe, the soldiers watched Carlos carefully, wondering what expression would betray the truth.

For a moment, Carlos allowed the thought to form.Had Francisco loved someone abroad? Had he abandoned Catalina… or had Catalina accepted the union while her father had not?

Then he suddenly struck his own forehead.

Of course.This was not a mystery suitor. This had to be his father-in-law.

A flicker of nervousness crept through him. Francisco had written often of the man’s size, his strength, and the cold resentment he carried toward the one who had taken his daughter across the ocean.

Carlos opened his mouth to explain—but the sight of the militiamen smiling like fools, hungry for scandal, killed the impulse at once.

“I will go speak with them,” he said curtly. “Wait here. He may be the father of my late wife.”

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