Chapter 68: The Butterfly Wings Cannot Change Everything

Antonio sat behind his desk, cigar smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. “I suppose you’re here about that villa of African blacksmiths I promised you,” he said, voice smooth as oiled wood.

Francisco nodded. “That’s right. It’s been a little over a year.”

Antonio leaned back, exhaling a thick cloud. “I know. But there have been… complications. With France at war, Spain’s tightening defenses. They haven’t sent new slaves in months. It’s not that they don’t want to give that family back — they simply don’t have the manpower to manage it right now.” He looked apologetic, but his eyes didn’t match the tone.

Francisco frowned. “Is there a way? I need them for… some work at the factory.”He lied with care. No one tied to the Crown needed to know he planned to forge weapons.

Antonio tapped ash into a tray, studying him. “If you’re willing to pay for a boat, I can arrange it. But it must be a Portuguese or Spanish vessel.”

“That’s no problem,” Francisco replied calmly. “My family has merchant friends with their own ships.”

Antonio’s expression darkened; a faint smirk followed. “Of course. But a stranger’s merchant fleet — hard to trace, harder to prove ownership. A convenient sort of arrangement, wouldn’t you say?”

Francisco sighed. “How much?”

Antonio’s grin sharpened. “Not much. Two thousand pesos.”

Francisco blinked. “Are you insane? I could buy my own slaves for that.”

“Perhaps,” Antonio said quietly, “but they wouldn’t be blacksmiths.”

Francisco leaned forward. “Fifteen hundred. I’m rich, not an idiot.”

“Seventeen-fifty.”

They haggled in low tones, voices steady but sharp — the air thick with cigar smoke and quiet calculation. The faint clink of coins punctuated the tension. In the end, Francisco got it for sixteen hundred. The victory tasted like blood and metal.

“But I want something else,” Francisco said, breaking the silence.

Antonio raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“I want you to connect me with that newspaper from Bogotá — the weekly one I saw downstairs. I want regular copies.”

Antonio frowned, letting the cigar hang from his lips. “That’s complicated. They don’t send them weekly outside the capital. What you saw are brought by traders passing through to Cartagena.”

“I can hire a merchant to travel monthly between Bogotá and Antioquía,” Francisco said. “He can bring the four volumes at once.”

Antonio tilted his head, intrigued. “I can send a letter. But wouldn’t it be easier to buy them directly in Bogotá?”

Francisco smiled faintly. “Better to use your channels. That way, no one tampers with the papers or feeds me fakes.”

Antonio studied him a moment. “You read too much politics for a man who sells stone.”

“Information builds faster than walls,” Francisco replied, eyes steady.

Antonio blew smoke through his teeth. “Fine. Speaking of business — have you thought about selling that cement of yours outside New Granada?”

Francisco raised an eyebrow. “Why? Tired of trading in flesh?”

Antonio chuckled. “Something like that. Slavery’s going to slow down soon — Europe’s a powder keg. But we’ve got men to feed. So why not use our time advantage? We could sell your cement to Brazil, New Spain… maybe even that northern republic.”

Francisco frowned. “Smart idea. But without ships, how would you move it? You can’t haul it overland.”

Antonio grinned. “Maybe we don’t have ships to cross to Africa, but the coastal trade is alive and well.”

Francisco understood. Coastal routes — slower, but discreet.”I’ll agree,” he said, “but I want fifty percent of the profit.”

Antonio laughed. “You really do open your jaws like a tiger.”

“Perks of a monopoly,” Francisco said dryly.

Antonio leaned back, still smiling. “I hear the royalists are breathing down your neck.”

“They are,” Francisco admitted, relaxing slightly. “But for now, they can’t touch me. Not unless the Crown itself learns of the factory — and Spain has her eyes fixed on France.”

Antonio took another drag. “Thirty percent. Leave us something, or the boys won’t be happy.”

They argued again, until Francisco walked away with forty percent. He stood, satisfied.

“Oh,” he added with a sly grin, “take the money for the boat to Africa out of my share.”

Antonio’s face fell, realizing too late he’d be covering the real cost himself. Still, he had padded his price — enough to recover quietly.Francisco smiled, shook his hand, and turned to leave.

Outside, the air was thick with humidity and tension. The streets of Medellin felt restless — vendors shouted without conviction, and Spanish soldiers marched past with hollow eyes. Francisco noticed the townsfolk watching them with something darker than fear.Hate,

he realized. The kind that simmers before it burns.

He shook his head. “Things are going to get worse,” he muttered, walking back toward the estate.

Paris — National Assembly

Across the ocean, chaos ruled another hall.

The chamber reeked of sweat, wax, and anger. Deputies shouted until their throats cracked; papers lay scattered like fallen feathers. Every sheet carried a name, a threat, or a future execution.

Brissot, face red with fury, slammed the desk. “The Revolution has succeeded! What France needs now is unity — not executions. We must spread liberty to our brothers, not destroy each other!”

Robespierre rose slowly, his calm cutting through the noise. “Unity without virtue is corruption,” he said. “You would spread freedom while a king still lives? No. Until we deal with that parasite on the throne, our revolution is a lie.”

A moderate cried out, “Are you mad? The people still trust the king! Kill him, and they’ll hunt us tomorrow!”

The chamber erupted again — shouting, spitting, pounding tables.Nothing changed.

Later, behind closed doors, the noise was gone — only the soft hiss of rain outside and the flicker of candlelight.

Robespierre leaned over a cluttered desk. “We cannot go on like this. Those defenders of the crown will drag France back into chains.”

Saint-Just frowned. “The people demand clarity. Limiting the king’s power isn’t enough. We need justice. But with royalists in power, fair trials are impossible.”

Robespierre nodded slowly. “Exactly. To build justice, we must first remove the rot. Some of those royal defenders must be eliminated — quietly, surgically.”

Saint-Just’s gaze was troubled. “We cannot rely on lies. If the people sense falsehood, they’ll turn against us.”

Robespierre’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “We won’t need lies — only proof. None of them are innocent. They all have ties to Austria, Prussia, or England. Once we have evidence, we can execute them. And better still — we can force the king himself to sign their sentences. Then the fury of the people will fall on him, not us.”

Saint-Just’s lips curved into a slow, cold smile. “And when enough heads roll under his name, the crowd will beg us to cut off his.”

They clasped hands — the ink-stained hands of men who would redraw the world with blood.

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