Chapter 290: A New Order In The West

“She is a Krugger by training,” Carlos muttered to himself, tapping the ash from his cigar against a silver tray, “but she must be a Gómez by grace.”

The door creaked softly.

The butler entered without haste, closing it behind him with care. His posture was straight, his expression composed.

“You called, sir?” he asked, bowing his head.

Carlos did not look up at once. He took another slow draw from the cigar, letting the smoke settle before speaking.

“My daughter is becoming too much like a soldier,” he said at last. “That is useful—necessary, even—for a general. But it is not enough for the future of this family.”

He lifted his gaze.

“I need someone who can place a velvet glove over that iron fist of hers. Not a soft tutor who trembles when Isabella so much as looks at her. I want someone with a spine.”

The butler inclined his head slightly.

Carlos continued, his tone measured but firm.

“Find her a teacher. Not merely for music or French, but for conduct—manners, diplomacy… and a degree of politics. She must understand that a word, properly placed, can wound more deeply than a blade.”

A brief pause.

“I will not have her grow into a brute.”

The butler considered this, then spoke carefully.

“There is a lady, General. A widow of a high-ranking Spanish officer who remained in the city. She is… not easily intimidated. It is said that even children quiet themselves at the mention of her name.”

He allowed himself the faintest shift in tone.

“What distinguishes her, however, is not only her command of etiquette. She is also trained in the sword. After her Marriage she chose to lay it aside—but not from weakness. but for respect.”

Carlos frowned slightly.

A Spanish officer’s widow.

Under other circumstances, such a recommendation would have been convenient. In the present moment, it was dangerous.

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly.

“A widow of the Crown,” he said. “In a city where I am at war with that same Crown.”

He did not finish the thought.

He did not need to.

The butler observed him for a moment, then stepped forward with quiet deliberation, lowering his voice.

“I understand your concern, General. In these times, a Spanish name often conceals a dagger.”

He paused, choosing his next words with care.

“But Doña Elena is not what she appears to be on paper. Though she bore the title of a Spanish officer’s wife, she is, by birth, a mestiza of Bogotá. Her marriage was… an irregular one, by the standards of the old order. A nobleman who chose a woman of the land.”

Carlos said nothing. His eyes followed the slow drift of smoke rising toward the ceiling.

Encouraged, the butler continued.

“When her husband fell during the early skirmishes, she did not find protection in the Crown. Quite the opposite. The administrators in Madrid used that very marriage—his union with a woman of mixed blood—as justification to seize his estates.”

His tone hardened, if only slightly.

“They stripped her of property, of pension… and of dignity. It was done through legal forms, of course—but with a degree of corruption that left little room for doubt.”

A pause settled between them.

“She has little reason to favor Spain, General,” the butler concluded quietly. “If anything, she has more cause to resent it than many of the men who serve under you.”

Carlos’s frown eased, though it did not fully disappear.

The butler, noting the slight shift, continued with care.

“At present, she resides in a rented room here in Medellín. She works in a warehouse to meet her expenses. The family who owns the house has shown her some kindness, but…” He paused briefly. “For a woman once accustomed to comfort, it is a harsh existence.”

Carlos tapped the ash from his cigar again, slower this time.

“If you offer her the means to return to a more fitting station,” the butler added, “she is likely to accept.”

Carlos remained silent for a moment, weighing the matter.

At last, he nodded.

“Very well. Proceed.”

He raised a hand slightly, as if to fix the terms in place.

“But she will not be left alone with Isabella. I want one of our people present at all times. Someone loyal. And in situations where a man cannot remain, a maid—one capable not only of service, but of defense.”

His gaze hardened.

“I will not place full trust in Doña Elena. Not yet.”

The butler bowed his head in agreement.

He understood the reasoning. As Carlos’s power grew, so too did the number of those who might wish him harm. And Isabella—whether as daughter, symbol, or leverage—was among the most vulnerable points.

It was, in part, why her time among the soldiers had been tolerated. Those men were bound to Carlos by more than command. Their fate was tied to his. If Spain were to reclaim the territory, they might overlook merchants or foreign laborers—but not the Prussian officers and their trainees. In that sense, loyalty had been forged not only through discipline, but necessity.

“I will see to it at once,” the butler said.

Carlos gave a brief nod.

“Do so. I will review the reports from the west.”

The butler bowed once more and withdrew, leaving the room to silence.

Carlos remained still for a moment before reaching beneath his desk.

From a concealed compartment, he drew out a heavy, iron-bound box. A small key—hung on a silver chain—unlocked it with a soft metallic click.

Inside there was no gold.

Only paper.

Thin sheets, sealed in wax—reports from agents placed within the Fanatic faction to the west. His Shadows.

He selected one and broke the seal.

As he read, his hand tightened slightly—not from fear, but from recognition.

The situation had shifted faster than expected.

The coup in the west had been decisive.

Bishop Esteban had been a man Carlos understood: traditional, rigid, but ultimately governed by reason and calculation. A figure one could anticipate.

Ezequiel was not.

The young man who had seized power was something altogether different—driven less by structure than by conviction. A zealot, shaped by personal grievances that ran deeper than politics… deeper even than loyalty to blood.

Carlos’s expression darkened.

That vendetta was no longer distant.

It had already reached into his own life.

He set the report down briefly, his gaze drifting toward the map pinned against the wall.

He knew the terrain of the western border intimately.

At the Boquerón Passage, Krugger’s demolition teams had reduced the main road to ruin, collapsing the cliffs with carefully placed charges. What had once been a clear route was now a wall of broken stone.

To an army, it was a barrier.

To a handful of determined men—

It was merely an obstacle.

They would find a way through. They always did.

Carlos’s hand closed over the report once more.

Then, without hesitation, he raised his voice.

“Send for the Alguacil Mayor. At once.”

The command cut cleanly through the heavy oak door.

Moments later, the sound of boots echoed along the corridor—measured, deliberate.

“Sir. did you call for me ?,” the Captain stated as he entered.

“Sit,” Carlos replied, already casting the wax-sealed report onto the desk.

The Captain obeyed without hesitation, his posture straight, his attention fixed.

“The Fanatics have a new leader,” Carlos continued. “A boy named Ezequiel. He has no interest in borders or treaties.” A brief pause followed. “He is interested in heads.”

The Captain’s expression hardened.

“He has already begun sending purifiers through the Boquerón.”

A flicker of confusion crossed the officer’s face.

Carlos clarified, his tone flat.

“A name for assassins.”

Understanding came at once. The Captain leaned forward slightly.

“If they slip past the military camps in the valley,” he said, “they could be inside the city by nightfall.”

“Exactly.”

Carlos rested his hands on the desk, the candlelight catching the faint scars across his knuckles.

“From this moment, I am declaring a State of Vigilance. I want new orders issued to every gate and every tavern in Medellín. We are no longer merely hunting criminals—we are hunting infiltrators.”

The Captain nodded, already considering the implications.

Carlos continued, precise and deliberate.

“I want the common guards instructed to take note of every unfamiliar face. No one passes without scrutiny. And impose a curfew.”

He paused, calculating.

“When the moon stands high—around the tenth hour of the night—the taverns are to close. Send patrols to enforce it.”

The Captain inclined his head again, though a concern remained.

“And the French and Irish engineers, sir? They are… not known for discipline in such matters.”

Carlos’s expression did not soften.

“Everyone,” he said.

A brief silence followed before he added, more quietly:

“At present, I trust no one from beyond our territory.”

His gaze shifted, if only for an instant.

“My daughter has already had an incident with those Frenchmen. I do not believe them to be conspirators—but belief is not certainty. If a man with sufficient coin or malice were to influence them…”

He let the thought hang.

“We would not be dealing with a minor disturbance.”

The Captain understood.

In Medellín, danger no longer wore a uniform. It moved through crowds, spoke in foreign tongues, and waited for opportunity.

He rose from his seat.

“It will be done, General.”

Carlos gave a single nod.

The city, restless and growing, would now be placed under watch.

And somewhere beyond its walls—

Men were already moving.

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