Chapter 253: Soli Victores de Honore

Ogundele spoke first, his tone carrying a mixture of curiosity and mild disdain.

“It seems he is quite the character. Are they sending him as a last resort, after all the losses Spain has suffered since the uprising of those fanatics began?”

Carlos nodded, though his expression remained restrained.

“Most likely,” he replied. “Though they will not simply leave us unchecked. That is precisely why we must take Mompox before he reaches this region.”

He paused, his gaze lowering slightly in thought.

“He is known to be a capable tactician. If he discovers our intentions, he will ensure the city is fortified—either to resist us outright or, at the very least, to slow our advance with calculated losses.”

Ogundele exhaled slowly.

“There is little more we can do for now,” he said. “And even if this man arrives, there is no guarantee the Crown will provide him with the necessary supplies. That alone gives you an advantage.”

He shifted slightly, his tone becoming more deliberate.

“Strengthen the areas that matter to you—Isabella, and the rest. Or better yet…” he added, with a faint edge in his voice, “use his own methods against him.”

Carlos frowned.

It was, undeniably, a sound suggestion.

And yet—it carried risks.

If it became known that he resorted to assassination, other noble houses would respond in kind. The conflict would shift into something far less controllable, far more personal.

Until there was clear evidence—until the man acted first—such a move remained… dangerous.

Ogundele rolled his eyes, letting out a dry, humorless laugh.

“You Europeans,” he said, shaking his head. “Always bound by rules that only serve your enemies.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his hands against the anvil, the glow of the coals reflecting in his eyes.

“You wait for the snake to bite your child before you crush its head—just so you can show the wound to your neighbors and call it proof.”

His voice lowered, growing sharper.

“In the lands of my fathers, if a man is known to carry venom, we do not invite him to a duel and hope he fights clean. We do not wait for a trial while our families die in their sleep.”

A brief pause.

“We find where he breathes… and we end it.”

Carlos tightened his grip around the hilt of his saber, his knuckles whitening.

“It is not that simple,” he said, his voice controlled, though strained beneath the surface. “If I strike first from the shadows, I become no different from what I seek to overthrow.”

He looked directly at Ogundele.

“Every noble house in New Granada would turn against me. I need proof. I need legitimacy.”

Ogundele did not hesitate.

“The moral high ground,” he replied, lifting his hammer, “is a very lonely place to be buried.”

The metal rang softly under his touch.

“You concern yourself with what other nobles will whisper at their tables. I concern myself with what keeps people alive.”

He glanced at Carlos, his expression firm.

“If this man brings poison into our lands, I will not wait for your permission to return it to him.”

A pause.

“My honor is keeping Isabella alive.”

Another strike of metal.

“Yours… is a refinement that may one day get you killed.”

Carlos remained silent for a moment, absorbing the weight of those words.

Then something shifted.

“Wait…” he said quietly. “That would mean you already have them.”

His gaze sharpened.

He looked at Ogundele—not merely as a blacksmith, nor as an advisor, but as something far more deliberate.

“You have been training them… all this time?”

Ogundele did not look up.

The hammer continued its steady rhythm against the steel, each strike measured.

“There are many Yoruba in New Granada,” he said calmly. “Some in chains. Some who bought their freedom.”

He paused only briefly.

“But all of them remember.”

The metal cooled under his hand as he continued.

“It was not difficult to find those who still know how to move through the brush without sound. They still honor the Orishas. They still understand that a man’s strength is not in his title…”

Another strike.

“…but in the blade he keeps hidden.”

Ogundele finally lifted his gaze, the fire of the forge reflecting in his pupils.

“Do not think that only the indigenous of these lands possess such abilities,” he said calmly. “Like those guards… the Barí, as you call them.”

Behind him, a shadow shifted.

Carlos’ eyes moved instinctively—and for a brief moment, surprise broke through his composure. He looked upward, following the movement, until his gaze settled upon the branches above.

There, partially concealed among the leaves, a Barí stood motionless.

Watching.

Only then did Carlos realize—they had been there all along.

Ogundele continued, almost amused.

“So no, our men are not weaker. I have not seen the Barí at their fullest, but I know the Yoruba are no strangers to such arts.”

“Obãyã,” the Barí whispered, inclining his head slightly.”Daxidomãy daphitidobi daka.”

Ogundele started, stepping back half a pace before letting out a short breath.

“Alright,” he muttered, a faint grin appearing. “I admit it… they are indeed like shadows.”

He glanced upward again.

“Where were you hiding?”

Carlos raised a hand and pointed toward the tree.

Ogundele followed the gesture, then nodded slowly as understanding settled in.

“Then perhaps…” Carlos began, his tone more measured, “we should combine what both sides know. The knowledge of your people… and that of the Barí.”

He paused briefly.

“It would increase our chances. We cannot afford to underestimate this man.”

Ogundele’s expression hardened.

“You speak lightly of something that is not yours to give,” he replied.

“These are not tricks to be traded—they are the inheritance of a people. The men I trained carry that knowledge because they belong to it.”

He crossed his arms slightly.

“And if we share it? What guarantees do we have that it will not one day be turned against us?”

His gaze sharpened.

“I doubt the Barí would agree either. The Spanish fear them precisely because of what they know—and what they cannot see. If that knowledge reaches the Crown…” He shook his head. “It would be their end.”

Carlos turned his gaze toward the Barí.

He did not need words.

The answer was already there—in the stillness, in the silence, in the refusal to step further into the light.

Knowledge was survival.

And those who gave it away were always the first to disappear.

Ogundele broke the silence.

“Then we must decide,” he said. “Who do we send? One of your men… or one of mine?”

Carlos exhaled slowly.

“You are speaking of sending an executioner.”

“I am speaking of survival,” Ogundele corrected without hesitation.

“Before this man—before this Borgia—sends his own agents after María or Isabella, we should act first.”

He stepped closer, his voice steady.

“And as for reputation… you are still a rebel in the eyes of the world.”

Carlos remained silent—but his expression shifted.

For a moment, memory surfaced—unbidden, unwelcome.

Ogundele’s voice cut through it sharply.

“What reputation are you trying to preserve?”

Carlos’ hand tightened slightly.

“I was raised to believe that a man’s name is his only true fortress,” he said, his voice lower now, strained at the edges.

“In Lerma, even a prisoner is treated with the dignity of his blood.”

He looked down briefly.

“If I send an executioner—if I strike at Mendinueta while he sleeps—then I destroy that fortress myself.”

A pause.

“I become exactly what the Crown claims I am… a bandit.”

Ogundele stepped forward, his presence filling the space, blocking the light of the forge.

“The Crown lies,” he said bluntly.

“They call it ’honor’ when they hang a man in the plaza… and ’murder’ when a slave breaks his chains.”

His gaze did not waver.

“You are clinging to a ghost.”

A brief pause—then sharper, more personal:

“Lerma? The place where your own brother killed your father—to prevent him from helping you rise? And you still speak to me of honor?”

He shook his head slowly.

“Mendinueta will use that same ’honor’ against you. It is not a shield—it is a weakness.”

His voice lowered.

“You must understand this: honor is a privilege of the victorious.”

Another pause.

“The dead have no voice to defend it.”

Carlos felt the weight of those words settle heavily upon him.

There was no elegance in them. No refinement.

Only the cold, practical logic of iron—sharp, unadorned, and impossible to ignore.

Carlos hesitated.

His eyes drifted toward the dark line of the treeline, as if searching—if not for an answer, then at least for a way to delay one.

“Then… do as you see fit,” he said at last, though the words came with visible reluctance. “If it succeeds, all the better. If it fails…” He paused briefly. “We can distance ourselves from it. A rogue slave, acting alone. A madman who slipped his chains.”

His gaze returned to Ogundele, more serious now.

“But are you truly prepared to send your men into the jaws of that man?”

A faint tension settled in his voice.

“If they fall into the hands of a Borgia, they will not simply die. He will make them suffer. Pain, torture… he will turn their final hours into something far worse than death—if only to extract what he needs.”

Ogundele stopped.

The steady rhythm of iron against iron fell silent.

He did not look angry.

He looked… disappointed.

As if Carlos had attempted to measure something vast and ancient with tools never meant for it.

Slowly, deliberately, he set the hammer aside and turned to face him fully. His chest rose and fell with a calm, controlled strength, like the breathing of something that did not fear what stood before it.

“You speak of ’cleaning your hands,’” Ogundele said, his voice lower now—deeper, carrying a weight that seemed to settle into the very air of the forge, “as though somewhere there still waits a basin of perfumed water… and a servant to offer it to you.”

He stepped forward, not aggressively, but with quiet certainty.

“But my men do not require your excuses.”

A brief pause.

“And they do not fear the Spaniard’s instruments.”

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