Francisco sipped his Blue Mountain coffee and watched Kingston move like a living map beneath the veranda. The brew was darker and sharper than the coffee he knew at home—smokier, with a clean bitterness that woke the mind. He mumbled to himself, more question than answer, "The efficiency of this system may make a superpower, but can it make a good country? What is a good country—wealth and military might, or happiness, or strict hierarchy?" He reached for paper and began to write his pensamientos.
Meanwhile, two weeks had passed in Cartagena. Carlos, impatient, decided it was time to return to Antioquia. He now knew the viceroy wanted his son dead; that knowledge hardened him. He thanked Elizabeth's men for their help—"I'm going back. Thank Miss Elizabeth for her aid," he said—and left with a quiet determination. He had struck a deal with the viceroy to sell a new formula: Roman cement. But Carlos planned his own surprise. He would alter the recipe, weakening it based on his son's formula so that the cement, when used by the crown, would not match the strength of his family's constructions. It would be an asymmetric defense—deceptive, but clever.
The journey was uneventful—no ghosts, no restless nuns from centuries past—but somehow it felt heavier than before. The air itself seemed tense, thick with the unease that radiated from Carlos and spread through his men like smoke.
One of the younger servants leaned closer to an older officer and whispered, "Sir, do you know what happened? The master seems… different. More aggressive. I've never seen him like this."
The old man glanced back toward the carriage, where Carlos rode in silence, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "I can't say much," he replied in a low, steady voice, "but it seems he's uncovered a conspiracy against his son. It's only natural he's not in a good mood."
The servant fell silent, his face pale in the flickering light of the coach lamps. No one spoke after that. The only sounds were the creak of wood, the dull rhythm of hooves striking the packed earth, and the soft rattle of chains on the luggage rack.
Carlos face, glimpsed through the carriage window, was colder than usual—his jaw set, his gaze distant. The men exchanged uneasy looks. Their master had always been composed, almost scholarly, but now there was something different about him. Something dangerous.
Back in Antioquia, Carlos set the wheels in motion. "Speed up the armory in the mountains," he told his longtime butler. "Prepare Francisco's workshop. I want to test and weaken that cement recipe."
The butler hesitated. "Sir, this could damage the Gómez family's reputation."
Carlos's face hardened. "The viceroy tried to kill my son. Setting aside vendettas, what if the next viceroy is bolder and decides to take our lands by force? I used to trust the Crown—but now I know what they will do to keep power. We must prepare to protect ourselves."
He wrote a letter and handed it to his butler. "Deliver this to the Lozanos and the Álvarez family patriarchs. This is a matter for the leaders, not the children. Give it personally, in my name."
The butler swallowed and nodded. He had served Carlos since boyhood and knew better than to argue.
One of the servants who had earned Carlos's complete trust, upon hearing how events were unfolding, resolved to prepare as well. He paced the dim corridors of Carlos estate, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor.
"We're fortunate Francisco hired smugglers to bring people into New Granada," he muttered under his breath. "If we grant them land and buy provisions from them, we might raise enough to field an army. But how long would that take?"
Carlos nodded. "That's right — the boy thinks more about the future than the present."
He paused by the window and watched the lanterns flicker in the street below. The light stained the sill amber as he repeated under his breath, "I should aim for the mayoralty of Medellín… then the governor's seat. Nothing in Antioquia should fall beyond my grasp."
His eyes narrowed, the faint light glinting against them. He would need the old families' support for this.
As events unfolded in Antioquia, chaos gripped the viceroy's office in Cartagena. Papers lay scattered across the polished desk, and the humid air buzzed with hurried whispers.
Word had spread quickly — Francisco and Elizabeth had indeed traveled together, while Carlos alone had been detained. The news struck like a musket shot. If the British knew even part of their plan, the balance of power in New Granada could begin to tilt.
Officers moved uneasily through the chamber, exchanging anxious glances as the viceroy rubbed his temples, the sweat glinting on his brow despite the slow-turning fan overhead. Outside, the harbor's cannons stood silent, but the tension within the palace walls was heavier than gunpowder.
An anxious officer asked, "Do you think she will report this to the Crown?"
The viceroy, weary and wet-eyed, answered slowly, "She will, of course. But words alone may not hurt us—unless she carries proof. Given our alliance, the British might overlook things or demand compensation."
The officer pressed, "Then what worries you?"
The viceroy looked toward the inn where Carlos and Francisco had been held. "My concern is that the Gómez family may already suspect my intentions. This could push them toward the liberals."
The officer shrugged. "If they act openly, we'd have the perfect excuse to crush them."
The viceroy smiled without humor. "If they act openly, yes. But they are no fools. The fact Carlos did not storm the palace shows their caution. They are more cunning than you assume."
"You fear plots behind closed doors?" the officer asked.
"Right now, who knows how many families harbor ill will toward the Crown? Adding another to that list is dangerous."
"Shall I ask Governor Francisco of Antioquia to watch Carlos and his estate?" the officer offered.
The viceroy nodded. "Do so. Though he likely receives bribes from the Gómez family in exchange for overlooking bandit raids. Replace him? Not yet. We need stability—especially as we plan new taxes. Upheaval now would be reckless. Wait until after the war with France."
The officer frowned. "Very well. I'll station men near Antioquia discreetly."
The viceroy gave one last instruction. "Prepare to raise taxes. Watch the Church closely—I've heard troubling rumors of collusion with the liberals."
"I already have men watching the clergy," the officer replied. "They act strangely. I suspect hidden musters in New Granada."
"If any cross the line," the viceroy said flatly, "do as needs be—kill them. The Crown and the Church will applaud."
Silence fell. New Granada had entered a new season of tension and conspiracy—an uneasy march toward chaos that would bring the colony closer to the edge of independence.