PREVIOUSLY (Chapter 141)
[As we emerged from the meeting, the air of Dawn City felt heavier than before. I walked toward the pier in silence, watching the sea. We were an oceanic power, with cities on three continents and a route to Asia soon to be secured. But while I planned the resistance against the Triple Alliance and the Sunset Domain, a far more mundane thought tormented me.
"Four wives..." I thought, sighing as the Caribbean wind ruffled my hair. "If I survive the Mexica and the Spaniards, I might just die from the complications of my own court."
I looked toward the horizon of the Dawn (Atlantic). The future was bright, but it was becoming dangerously crowded.]
One month after Edward de Vere's proposal.
Year 12 of the SuaChie Calendar, Ninth Month.
Central City (Tunja, Colombia), South Central Region.
The mist clung to the walls like a damp shroud. In the distance, the song of the furnaces mingled its smoke with the cold morning air. The resinous scent of new wooden reinforcements joined the smell of toasted corn and the sweet aroma of warm chicha being served at a nearby stall. Each breath burned in my chest; being back in Central City always produced that strange mixture of calm and vertigo.
I advanced along the main avenue, the very same where I once ran barefoot chasing Hyqua. The ground, once uneven and earthy, was now a firm expanse of polished stone. The guards surrounded me in formation, their helmets glistening with the mist. I made a gesture with my hand—barely a movement—and they cleared the way. A gust of air brushed my knuckles; the cold skin reminded me it was no dream: I had truly returned.
My city was no longer the same. It grew like a new organism upon old foundations. The ancient Muisca houses of adobe and pitched roofs were still there, but between them rose structures that, twelve years ago, no one would have believed possible. Walls of stone reinforced with blackened metal, wooden balconies with smoked glass, towers bearing solar symbols that captured light to ignite internal lamps when darkness fell. It was my design, and yet, seeing it overwhelmed me. It was not a copy of any future nation, but something of its own: an architectural language of a people who had learned to think of the sun as energy, rather than myth.
A cry broke my thoughts. A child, perched on his father's shoulders, waved his arms. "Chuta! Son of Heaven!"
That voice struck me with force. For an instant, I imagined the child that Hyqua—my late little brother—might have been. I knew it was impossible, but memory understands no reason. I felt his laughter again, those baby sounds that seemed to brighten the mansion being built back then. I closed my eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and moved on.
The bustle grew with every step. The streets were flooded with color and music. Drums, conches, flutes; people sang blessings, others prayed my name. Totumo flowers spilled from balconies, and fabrics dyed in blue and red billowed like waves. The air tasted of sweet smoke and carob. For the first time in years, I felt that the crowd did not suffocate me: it claimed me.
I reached out and touched an old man bowing before me. His gray eyes trembled. "Thank you for returning," he whispered without looking up. Then he wept. I did not know how to answer.
Further ahead, a woman held up a baby. She pleaded with her eyes. I took the little one and lifted him slightly. His warm skin, his irregular breathing—everything weighed less than a promise... or perhaps more. I felt, in that brief contact, that I did not rule only over lands and walls, but over the hopes breathing within them.
The heat of the crowd enveloped me. I felt sweat trickling down my back, mixed with dust. The guards tensed, though they tried not to show it. I saw outstretched hands, faces pressed close together. I heard a voice cry out: "For your family, may the new sun be born healthy!" and another from behind added: "For your mother, Son of Heaven!" It felt like a pang in my heart.
A gust of incense crossed the avenue and covered me. The scent of burnt stone, dried seaweed, and medicinal herbs brought back another scene I could only imagine: my mother weeping, the healers grinding plants for an ointment while Hyqua shivered with fever. His rhythmic breathing, the calm she feigned so as not to break.
I pressed my hand to my chest; my heartbeat thudded in time with the drums. It was a brief instant, but I felt the edge of fear: I did not want anyone to notice the tremor in my fingers. I had to remain firm, even though I was weighed down by worry for her, for the child about to be born, for everything I could still lose.
A guard approached through the jostling crowd. His voice was urgent yet respectful. "My Lord, the tide can no longer be contained. I recommend we take you to the Mansion now."
I nodded. I looked around one last time.
The streets that saw me grow had changed their face, but not their soul. Where walls shone with new alloys and towers pierced the sky, I could still feel the breath of the first ones who raised this place stone by stone.
We crossed toward the steps leading to the Central Mansion. From a distance, the metallic towers reflected the light like shards of wet obsidian. On the balconies, the banners of the Sun and Moon fluttered. The watchtowers had been recently raised; the profile of the guard at the top reminded me of the sentinels we used on the battlefield against the Mexica. Everything spoke of security, of vigilance, of care.
When I crossed the main arch, the noise ceased. Everything became thicker, more silent, as if the air itself held its breath. Inside, it smelled of carved wood and dried herbs. I recognized the exact scent of my childhood home; they had maintained my old ways.
The master of the mansion appeared, followed by the servants. "Welcome, Son of Heaven."
The voices resonated together and rose to the ceiling, multiplying. I gave a slight nod, offering few words. What my ears sought was not protocol, but a different, more familiar sound.
And I heard it.
From the main hall came a laugh: my father's, restrained, firm, as if he feared breaking the air; and my mother's, light, trembling between exhaustion and tenderness.
I walked slowly down the corridor, my fingers brushing the cold walls. Each step felt heavier. As I drew closer, the voices became clearer.
When I crossed the threshold, time stopped.
She was there, seated in the wide armchair, covered by a blue cloth. My father stood beside her, a hand resting on her shoulder, preventing her from rising. Both turned their heads upon hearing me. The air smelled of freshly baked bread and wax smoke.
I stood still, motionless, feeling something inside me soften. I had faced warriors without trembling, but in that instant, I was afraid: afraid to see her weak, afraid that the time of birth would not come, afraid of returning too late. Yet, she smiled. And that smile was enough.
Laughter escaped me, soft and absurd. "I am back."
The words floated in the room. My mother raised her hand slowly until her fingers rested upon her chest, right over her heart. She did not speak. Her gaze held the calm of one who knows more than everyone else.
Behind her, the valley wind struck the shutters and brought a distant murmur: the echo of the drums, of the crowd still celebrating out there. I closed my eyes. I thought of Hyqua. I thought of the child about to come, of what this kingdom would mean for him. I thought of what I must do so that his name would not be born under the noise of war.
I clenched my fists, just barely, feeling the pulse within my palms. The future could be built, stone by stone, just like that city I had just traversed. But deep down, I knew none of it would matter if they—my family, my people—did not continue to breathe with me.
I took a deep breath, and when I opened my eyes, she was still looking at me, as serene as the sun before dawn.
One hour later.
The dawn mist had not yet dissipated. A thin veil floated between the walls of the Central City, softening the glints of burnished metal on the buildings. The stone retained the damp breath of the night, and beneath our feet, the echo propagated as if the city breathed with us.
I walked beside my father, Hyba, along the corridor that descended from the Mansion toward the City Palace. Despite the distant murmur of the markets, the silence between us weighed more than any sound.
I noticed the cold air slipping through the collar of my tunic, forcing me to adjust the copper brooch on my chest. That simple gesture helped steady my mind. We walked at a slow, synchronized pace. Neither seemed to know how to begin that which we both desired to say. The truth was that, for the first time in months, I was glad he had insisted on accompanying me.
As we crossed a side street, my thoughts drifted, as they always did when the surroundings became too quiet. I thought of the kingdom we had raised, of the network that united regions and cultures around a common purpose. Ten provinces born from the Southern Quyca (South America), each with its own council and laws, but all responding to the balance that emanated from the Central City.
To these were joined the two federal regions—the Floating Islands, extending over the Sea of the Floating (Caribbean), and the Chibcha (Central America), which rose among the jungles and volcanoes of the continental center. It was a vast fabric, tense and vital, held by innumerable threads of trust and fear.
We passed the corridor of the Council of Artisans, and the hammers rang in a familiar cadence. That dry, metallic sound took me back, unwillingly, to the first times I worked alongside my father, tuning mechanisms under the rain. I remember him humming while I watched the gears. That melody, which seemed infinite to me then, was the first thing to break the day Hyqua died. Since then, our silences had taken its place.
I looked at my father out of the corner of my eye. He walked upright, though his gaze fixed on the ground betrayed him. His hands, once so firm over tools and maps, now trembled slightly. I wanted to speak, but the words sank into my chest, trapped between pride and guilt. We advanced a few more steps in silence. Each of us carried our own weight.
Suddenly, his voice emerged like an open crack: "I am sorry, Chuta. I disappointed you back then."
I stopped.
The mist thickened around us as if wanting to hide us. I looked at him. In his face was something I hadn't seen for years: the clean shame of fatherly love. His eyes sought mine, but lowered whenever they found contact.
"Father..." was all I could say at first. Something lodged in my throat.
He took a deep breath before continuing: "I should not have allowed the sacrifices. I believed that by doing so, I would save your brother... You said the gods did not ask for that, but... we were desperate. Your mother wept day and night. And I..." his voice broke. "I only knew that I was losing everything."
It took me a moment to react.
The silence between us became memory. I saw in his face the same shadow that consumed him that afternoon, when he tried to hide the smoke of the altar behind my mother's tears. I remembered the smell of scorched earth, the edge of my contained rage, and the distance I had imposed between us ever since.
I faced him without hesitation.
"I am sorry too, father. If I had been here... Hyqua might have been saved."
He shook his head slowly. "No, son. No one could have prevented it. You were uniting peoples, carrying a growing kingdom on your shoulders. None of that was your fault."
"And yet, we did not save him," I whispered.
He stepped closer, enough for his shadow to touch my shoulder. "We are not gods, Chuta. Only men who learn through pain."
I looked at him, and I felt the pressure in my chest finally release. I answered him with the simplest truth: "I too would have resorted to those extremes if I believed I could see him breathe once more... He was only a baby."
He smiled with melancholy. Our eyes shone with the same clumsy light. We walked again in silence, but it was different: less dense, more human.
When the City Palace appeared before us, with its triangular columns and the carved emblems of the Sun and Moon supporting the crest of Tunja, we both knew that something inside had healed, or at least begun to. We stopped before the entrance. The sentinels saluted with the metallic strike of spears.
Hyba spoke first. "No wonder the people celebrate so much when they see you. You have made this city grow more than I ever dreamed."
"We did it," I corrected, and that made him laugh with a brief, warm sound.
But then his expression changed, becoming lighter. "I must return to your mother; she has been stubborn lately. She gets up every moment saying she needs to supervise the temple offerings."
I laughed, shaking my head. "Then do not let her exert herself. Tell her to obey the healers."
"Right, you tell her, see if she listens to you," he replied with a complicit grimace. He was already starting to walk away when he turned and called out: "And tell Fiba that it is time. At this rate, you will marry before your brother Upqua."
"I have no intention of marrying yet!" I replied with feigned indignation.
He laughed heartily, raising his hand in farewell. "You have both postponed it too long, I fear. Take care of them, son."
I watched him walk away until his figure dissipated in the mist. For a moment I stood still, feeling the air was calm again, as if the city had held its breath during our encounter.
I entered the Palace guided by two assistants.
The corridors smelled of ink and damp stone. Through the slits of light, dust motes filtered, slow as flakes of gold. The inner walls were covered by tapestries representing the regions of the kingdom.
I stopped before the insignia of the Federal Region of the Floating Islands—a school of fish intertwined with wind symbols. I observed it for a moment, thinking of the ports I myself helped plan, of the merchant fleets that united all the Floating Islands under a single banner.
The assistant stopped before a dark wooden door. I knocked softly. From within came Fiba's firm voice: "Enter."
I pushed the door open.
The light from the skylights fell directly over her desk, which was cluttered with maps and notebooks. Fiba looked up. Her hair was gathered in a broad braid, and she wore the matte gold bracelets that indicated her rank as Governor of the City. In her eyes shone a spark between respect and complicity.
I gave a small smile as I closed the door behind me. The air in that room smelled of parchment, ink, and resolve. Inside the governor's office, the inkwell steamed with a metallic scent, and a freshly written parchment left damp marks on the table.
Chuta walked to the chair in front of the desk and turned it gently before sitting. The furniture creaked under his weight, a slight echo that anchored him to the moment. The room was spacious and sober: maps spread across the walls, numbered archives, hardened wax seals. Fiba remained standing, her hands firm over the papers she had arranged with military precision.
"Good morning, Fiba."
She bowed her head slightly. "My Lord. It is an honor to receive you again."
Chuta suppressed a smile. He knew that distant tone, so measured it seemed carved in stone. Fiba had always been this way: formal even before his mother, Za, who treated her like another daughter whenever she invited her to eat. Methodical, disciplined, incapable of fully relaxing. But that rigidity had earned her authority before everyone. She governed Central City with the same neatness with which she organized the documents before him.
"How are things in the city?" Chuta asked, adjusting the angle of his chair until he could see the light from the window reflecting off his Sun and Moon brooch.
She wasted no time. She opened the top folder and spread out several thin sheets covered in dark ink.
"Agricultural production has exceeded forecasts, just as we estimated half a year ago. The main warehouses, including those in the surrounding districts, are filled to maximum capacity. We have even been forced to allocate part of the surplus to the western regions, where forests limit the extent of crops."
As she spoke, her eyes ran over lines of figures with the speed of one who does not need to verify them twice. She turned each page to the rhythm of her breathing.
"Well done," Chuta murmured. "Did the shipping routes remain stable?"
"Yes, My Lord. The convoys departed at scheduled intervals. The Suaza River remains navigable, and the transports heading toward the coast have left under escort. We have recorded no losses this time."
The slight pride in her tone was as discreet as it was sincere. Chuta nodded, resting his fingers on the polished wood.
"And the new crops?" he asked. "Those that came from the exchange with the Europeans... and from the Guanza Quyca."
Fiba nodded, pulling out another sheet. "Some moved from the lowlands did not adapt well to the high-altitude climate. However, the sweet grains from West Africa—the ones you ordered to be tested—show promising yields. The bitter-root herbs are also thriving, though they are more for medicinal than dietary use."
Chuta perceived the slight quiver of feathers on the table: the candles were beginning to flicker. The smell of warm smoke took him for a moment to another memory, one where the air was impregnated with the same scent; the night he designed the first waterwheels of the valley alongside his engineers. Back then, Fiba was just a field agent. Seeing her now, governing the city, reminded him of how many lives had shed their skin over the years.
She looked up when his silence lingered. "Do you wish for me to continue with the report, My Lord?"
"Please."
Fiba broadened her stance slightly, as if wanting to ensure she omitted nothing.
"Public health remains stable. Minor illnesses are attended to in the centers using early isolation protocols, as you disposed. Seasonal epidemics have not spread; the surveillance units are operating swiftly."
She paused, lowering her voice: "And, as you had asked in your last letter, mortality during childbirth has decreased even further. The healers have integrated the improved sanitation and cleanliness methods from the Academy researchers."
Chuta rested an elbow on the armrest, looking at the reflection of the lamp on the floor. He did not respond immediately. The subject of childbirth struck him harder than he expected; barely an hour had passed since he saw his mother, and that word filled his stomach with tension.
He frowned. "And the preparations...?"
Fiba interrupted him before he could finish the question. "Everything is ready, My Lord."
She spoke to him with a firmer, more solemn precision than usual, as if by pronouncing it she was signing an oath. "The full team of the kingdom's most capable healers has assembled this month. Tempered steel tools, sterilized according to regulations. Fresh bandaging materials brought from the Floating Islands. Even the elder midwives who attended the founding families are already at the Mansion... All according to your orders."
For an instant, silence filled the room again.
Chuta let out a short sigh, his breath mingling with the sound of his own pulse. Relief ran down his back, dissipating the invisible weight he had been carrying for weeks.
"Good," he replied softly. "I knew I could trust you."
Fiba bowed her head, but this time her gesture was accompanied by something different; a minimal relaxation of the lips, almost a contained smile. "We do our duty, Young Chuta."
He observed her for a few seconds. Since when had he treated her so formally, even in private? Perhaps the distance was necessary; hierarchies made it possible to maintain the order they both had helped build. But as she turned back to the window to record new notes, Chuta felt something akin to the well-being of hearing the gears of a machine functioning without error.
.
----
.
[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
I hope you enjoyed this emotional chapter.
Before we continue, let's go over the events chronologically in case you've forgotten anything.
Chuta learns of his mother's pregnancy around the third or fourth month, then sends them to Central City, and later he departs for the front lines, where he encounters some difficulties.
Let's also remember that Chuta had been constantly thinking about his brother Hyqua, who had died as a baby years before (this is shown in the chapter "Memories - Chuta I").
Let's return to the topic of the chapter.
This return to Central City felt more emotional because of what came before, and it also adds to that sense of true belonging he gained on the front lines.
This is clearly reflected in Chuta's gestures, something he didn't do before. This is also reflected in the narration, which is more vivid and detailed.
Regarding the conversation with his father, it was something he had thought about several months ago. He wasn't sure how to approach the conversation or what trigger to use. I think it came out quite naturally in that particular situation.
Finally, as I mentioned before, I mixed things up. However, due to the more emotional and immersive tone of the chapter, it ended up being an extensive mix of dialogue and sensory descriptions.
I hope it worked well, but don't expect all the chapters to be this long, haha.
---
Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (INTERMITTENT)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]