PREVIOUSLY
[Umza would be a whirlwind of energy, Nyia a silent anchor, Turey a bridge to the beasts and nature. Three women, three distinct forces. Upqua had been right about one thing: my wedding was not far off. And when it arrived, the entire realm would feel the shifting tide.
But for now, the air of celebration endured. My sister's birth had lifted a great weight; Upqua's wedding would further bind the Southeast Zone. Simte would turn fifty, Turey sixteen. My birthday, the trials, the Sun and the Moon… everything was falling into place.
The warrior aura of the kingdom—that legacy I did not wish to erase entirely—would find its channel in the sporting combats. And I, relaxed for the first time in months, was ready to take my part.
The sun warmed my back as I returned to the corridors. The gravity of the barracks enveloped me once more, but now with a lightness I had not felt in an age.]
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Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, First Month (March 1495).
Central City (Tunja, Colombia), South-Central Region.
Central Manor.
Several weeks later.
The time between Upqua's wedding and my own birthday slipped through my fingers like ink-stained sand amidst endless lists.
It wasn't so much that I was "overwhelmed with work" in the traditional sense, but rather that I had been made the linchpin of a machinery of preparations that stretched from the kitchens of the Central Mansion to the House of Government.
Every minister seemed to have an idea of how the celebration of the 13th year of the SuaChie Calendar should look, and all craved my formal blessing, even if they already knew my answer. This is to say nothing of my family, who also expected every birthday to be nothing short of grand.
The preceding weeks had been a chain of celebrations great and small, each distinct in tone but bound by the same realization: the Kingdom of Suaza had entered a phase where progress was measured not only in ships or cannons, but in prosperity and the occasional revelry.
Simte's birthday was the perfect embodiment of this. As High Priest of the Realm, his day could not be boisterous, yet it was heavy with significance.
Cardinals arrived from every region, even from the federal territories, alongside bishops from nearby Great Cities. Watching them enter the Basilica—robes of varying hues, local symbols embroidered over the same central emblem of the Kingdom—was like seeing the very idea of unity we had pursued since the beginning finally take flesh.
The ceremony was somber: prayers, chants in various tongues, and a brief discourse by Simte that spoke more of responsibility than personal honor. Even the most fervent devotees of the Central City and its neighbors respected the tone, filling the Basilica not with clamor, but with a constant murmur of prayer.
I found myself observing the ritual less than the way people from vastly different towns knelt before the same altars. It was an image worth dozens of treaties.
Turey's birthday was the other extreme.
At her request, there was no official retinue or solemn mass; only family and those close to her at the Central City's Animal Park.
Since I first met her in the Floating Islands (Caribbean) and witnessed her almost supernatural affinity with animals, I knew I had to give her a space where that bond was not merely a private curiosity.
Over time, that idea evolved into a living park, a sanctuary where creatures gathered from every accessible corner of the Kingdom: vibrant birds from the south, felines from the plains, river dwellers that looked as if they were sculpted from dark clay, even beasts that in other cultures would have been considered mere food or threat.
That day in the fields was filled with scenes that would have made any protocol officer's hair stand on end.
Turey bypassed barriers as easily as one jump over puddles; she entered "dangerous" enclosures and greeted their inhabitants like old acquaintances.
I saw the keepers—priests, shamans, volunteers—swallow hard as she crossed the marked lines, yet none dared pull her back. They had learned too much from her not to trust her judgment.
The scene with the lions was the most revealing.
A small group of young males approached her purring, rubbing their heads against her side like giant housecats. When she tried to step away, one of them stood in her path, refusing to let her leave.
There were nervous laughs, then genuine ones when she began to negotiate with the animals as if they were capricious children.
"I will return tomorrow," she promised them in a low voice, and though it was absurd, a part of me was certain they understood.
Those are the memories that help me better endure dense reports and maps filled with arrows. I returned to the present when a brief, firm knock sounded at my office door.
"Enter," I said, resting my quill upon the inkwell.
An aide poked his head in, respectful but visibly excited.
"Young Chuta," he announced, "the envoys from Dawn City, along with the foreign emissaries, have arrived."
I nodded. It did not surprise me; I had been mentally tracking the caravan's progress for days, coordinating messages between Dawn City and the Central City.
I dismissed him with a gesture, confirming I would join them shortly. When the door closed, I let the mask of the calculating leader slip a fraction and admitted to myself what I had been ruminating on for so long: I was anxious.
Not only because they were foreigners crossing the gates of the Central City. It was, in truth, the first European delegation to venture into the continental territory of the Suaza Kingdom.
Until now, direct contact had been limited to islands, distant ports, and enclaves carefully designed to contain both curiosity and risk. Here, however, they were to sit beneath roofs that represented the very heart of power—something strictly controlled.
The migration policy we had adopted—or rather, expanded—was clear.
People of different cultural origins could visit, trade, and even settle in growing cities or peripheral towns. But they could not become full citizens of the Central City, the regional capitals, or the Great Cities.
It was not my own invention; it was the formalization of something many local cultures practiced long before my birth: reserved sacred or administrative centers, with more permeable outer belts.
From a contemporary perspective—the one still embedded in some corner of my mind from another century—the measure was harsh, discriminatory. I knew that, in another time, it would have been debated in terms of individual rights and integration. Here, however, it functioned as a shield.
Thanks to this "migratory fence," the great settlements were exceedingly safe. Those who lived within them developed a sense of belonging to the Kingdom and its regions that went beyond fear; it was pride. Furthermore, we had created an upward mechanism: those who wished to draw closer to the center had to demonstrate commitment, contribution, and loyalty—not just economic capacity.
The price was real: less spontaneous blending, less direct exposure to external cultures. The gain was also real: internal stability, time to assimilate advancements without collapse. Carrying that contradiction was part of my burden.
Today, the tension sharpened. For the first time, Europeans would enter this protected space.
The envoys from Dawn City were no strangers to the Kingdom; we had already shared seas, storms, and negotiation tables. But the symbolic reading was different. Bringing them to the House of Government, making them walk the same corridors where campaigns, treaties, and reforms were decided, was a declaration: we were ready to show them our heart, but under our rules.
I rose from the desk slowly, smoothing a fold in my tunic with my hand. At the edge of the table, a small wooden toy—an improvised gift from Upqua for my newborn sister—reminded me that while I calculated diplomatic routes, simple things were still happening in the Mansion, like a baby learning to close her fingers around an object.
I took a deep breath.
In my mind, the images of the past weeks aligned like beads on a necklace: Simte receiving solemn congratulations under the Basilica's dome; Turey laughing among lions loath to let her go; Upqua trying to escape Fiba's implacable gaze; my sister crying for the first time on the other side of a door. And now, foreign envoys crossing the fence that so many struggled to keep firm.
I left the office toward the House of Government.
Every step resonated differently this time.
I was not just moving toward another meeting; I was moving toward a delicate test of the balance we had built. We had guarded our cultural core with zeal; we had grown outward with audacity. Now it was time to see if we could open a crack to the world without the exterior wind blowing out our own flame.
As I crossed the courtyard, I thought of something Simte had said on his birthday, in a low voice, meant only for me: "The strength of a temple is not in its walls, but in what it guards within."
Today we would find out if our walls were clever enough to let in what was necessary and halt the rest. And I, who had learned to move pieces across entire maps, had to remember that sometimes, the most important battle is fought in the way you receive a guest in your own home.
One hour later.
After leaving the Central Mansion, the meeting hall of the House of Government felt like the center of gravity for something much larger than any map I had ever unfurled in my life.
The air was thick with scents that were beginning to mingle; the polished wood of the walls, soft incense from the braziers, the faint trace of travel clinging to the guests' clothes, but above all, the contained curiosity that floated between everyone.
I sat at the head of the long table, feeling the weight of glances crossing over plates yet empty and gleaming chalices.
Around me, the hall was filled with figures representing fragments of the world I had begun to assemble without fully knowing how.
My gaze started with the familiar: The Lords of the Plateau (Mexico).
Their figures projected power adorned in color. Some wore headdresses of quetzal feathers—vivid, brilliant green—that reached toward the heavens, along with a tilmatli (cloak) of cotton so fine it seemed like silk, bearing a geometric blue design that rippled softly. Their arms were adorned with solid gold that caught the sunlight.
Beside them, other Nahua and Tarascan nobles displayed cloaks printed with traditional patterns. Their bodies, tempered by war and ritual, were exposed beneath their layers, sporting robust cactli (sandals).
Others drew my attention, a more somber but equally imposing group: The Maya of the Southern Jungle.
Their attire was longer—tunics of white and raw cotton reaching the ankles, adorned with intricate red brocade. Their hairstyles were complex, with long hair pulled back and decorated with colored feather headbands.
They wore jade in heavy necklaces of polished beads and large ear-flares that stretched their lobes. Their faces, marked with subtle tattoos and the characteristic cranial deformation of the nobility, observed the scene with an ancient calm.
The next to draw everyone's attention were the Europeans: Spanish, English, and Portuguese.
Men of pale skin, with trimmed beards and low-crowned hats. Most wore doublets and hose of velvet in various colors representing their kingdoms; over their shoulders fell heavy capes.
At their waists hung swords that seemed more ornamental than functional, and gold chains adorned their chests, glinting with a cold light from pendants shaped like crosses.
Another group drawing all eyes were the delegates of the Misizibii (Mississippi).
Tall men from the great rivers of the north. These warriors were pure natural energy. Their bodies were painted in black and red patterns, and they wore short tunics of deerskin that allowed for fluid movement. Their gorgets (disks) of hammered copper and carved seashells hung from their necks, shining intensely. Their headdresses featured shorter feathers from local birds like turkey and hawk, and they held long spears tipped with polished black stone.
The last group, but no less important, were the envoys from kingdoms, sultanates, and tribes of the Guanza Quyca (Africa).
Men of deep, dark skin, with short and well-groomed beards. They wore flowing robes of blue silk and gold that billowed around them—boubous printed with intricate patterns that spoke of a textile sophistication unlike any other. Some wore wrapping turbans denoting an Islamic faith.
Their jewelry was monumental: heavy solid gold chains and wide bracelets of hammered gold, a display of evident wealth. Their expressions were serene and cultured, observing the gathering with a sophisticated curiosity.
"The cultural differences are staggering," I thought after scanning everyone present.
Each group was distinguished not only by their dress but by the murmurs escaping in different tongues: the harsh intonations of the Europeans, the fluid Nahuatl of the Mesoamericans, Mayan dialects that seemed to sing even in casual conversation, the guttural tones of the Misizibii, and the rhythmic cadences of Hausa and Mandinga from the Africans.
There was no animosity in those sidelong glances, only a palpable curiosity, as if each were measuring the other without yet knowing what weight they would hold in the day's balance.
Among them all, three figures captured my attention most—not due to rank, but because I had shared moments with them that went beyond formality.
Edward de Vere, ambassador of Henry VII of England, with his impeccable Tudor tunic and the expression of one who calculates every word before speaking. We had maintained constant correspondence over the last months, and he never failed to remind me, with varying degrees of subtlety, of the proposal for marriage to Margaret.
Son of the Bear, of the Pensacola people in Northern Quyca, a young man of broad build and direct gaze; I remembered him vividly from a friendly hand-to-hand bout years ago, when his strikes had been as honest as they were powerful.
And Nezahualpilli, Tlatoani of Texcoco, whose presence was the most unexpected. In the midst of war with the Triple Alliance, he had found a way to attend my celebration. We had been communicating in secret for years; he was one of the few who saw value in importing our idea of freedom to the plateau, even at the risk of his allies' wrath.
I wanted to handle this meeting myself, without intermediaries.
Important figures of the realm would appear later: ministers, regional governors, perhaps Simte, but this moment was mine.
To me, seeing representatives from nearly the entire known world gathered in a hall at the heart of the Suaza Kingdom was iconic—almost an echo of the UN assemblies I remembered from my other life. Cultures that, in the original timeline, would never have crossed paths without violence now shared a table under my roof.
To soften the barriers, I had placed discreet translators behind each group.
Each handled the languages present in the room: Muisca, Nahuatl, English, Hausa, Misizibii dialects—whispering into the ears of the delegates so that communication could flow without pause.
I would speak primarily in Muisca to mark the character of the host, but I would switch to the language of each interlocutor when necessary.
"This is the advantage of a photographic memory," I thought, mentally calculating how many languages I already mastered: fluid Muisca, conversational Tairona, diplomatic Nahuatl, basic but effective English, some Maya and Hausa thanks to the Shadows.
Twelve, perhaps thirteen. Enough to navigate the room without losing the thread.
Just as my mind began to wander toward other grand scenes— "What would this hall say if one day it included the Ming or the Great Khan?"—the side door opened with a discreet creak.
The steward of the feast poked his head in, assessing that all guests were in their seats. I nodded, and a group of cooks and attendants entered in a silent line, carrying steaming trays and gleaming pitchers.
The dishes had been devised by my mother Za and myself, designed to appeal to any palate without offending traditions.
The centerpiece was a beef stew slow-cooked with dark beer and bitter chocolate, its thick sauce glistening under the torchlight, releasing a deep aroma that mixed earthy sweetness with smoky notes.
Beside it, tomato and roasted pepper shakshuka, topped with poached eggs whose yolks trembled slightly, promising creaminess against the spice. Steam rose in thin columns, carrying scents that were already beginning to unify the hall: spices familiar to some, exotic to others.
The drinks followed the same principle: hot apple cider sweetened with maple syrup and a touch of local bourbon, filling the air with warm, alcoholic notes; thick, frothy hot chocolate; fresh tropical juices from fruits that only grew in the Floating Islands.
To close, desserts: creamy arroz con leche (rice pudding) dusted with ground cinnamon, its sweetness balanced by the spice; roasted apples stuffed with toasted walnuts and drizzled in maple syrup, their caramelized skin crackling at the slightest touch of a fork.
Everyone looked at their plates with expectation, some raising eyebrows, others smelling directly over the tray. Glances converged on me, waiting for tacit permission.
I nodded with a brief smile.
"Eat," I said in Muisca, while the translators whispered the invitation in every language. "Food is for sharing, not for contemplation."
The first fork broke the silence.
Edward de Vere tasted the stew with British caution, but his eyes widened at the second bite. Son of the Bear dipped a piece of bread into the shakshuka, grunting approval. Nezahualpilli took the hot cider, inhaling the steam before drinking, and a murmur of pleasure escaped his lips. The Africans attacked the roasted apples with enthusiasm, commenting among themselves on the crunchy texture against the walnut.
For a moment, the hall was filled only with human sounds: cutlery against ceramic, sips, satisfied sighs. It was, in its simplicity, the purest cultural clash I could imagine: a Tarascan tasting hot chocolate while a Maya carved the stew with ritual precision; an Englishman debating quietly with a Nahua over the cider. I remembered the diplomatic dinners of my other life—tense and calculated. This was more honest, more alive.
Edward wiped his lips with a napkin, leaning slightly toward me.
"Young Chuta," he said in English, which I answered without an intermediary. "I must admit, I expected… something more austere. This is worthy of any European court."
Son of the Bear, chewing his rice pudding, let out a deep laugh.
"Tastes like home, but better," he remarked in his Misizibii dialect, perhaps referring to the honey. "How do you make the fire stay so… trapped within the meat?"
Nezahualpilli, more reserved, raised his cup of chocolate.
"A banquet that unites palates divides less than any treaty," he said in fluid Nahuatl. "Well played, friend."
The atmosphere visibly relaxed.
Murmurs crossed the table—not just curiosity, but genuine questions about ingredients and preparation. I felt a strange, familiar nostalgia: in my other life, these meetings were cold and protocol-driven. Here, the cultural clash was palpable but welcoming, as if the stew and the cider were acting as better ambassadors than any speech.
"This is what I will remember," I thought. "Not the treaties signed later, but this moment where a Tarascan and an Englishman share bread before speaking of borders."
The conversation flowed now, translators working effortlessly.
I navigated between languages with ease, responding to each in their native tongue, feeling the silent pride of that skill my photographic memory had perfected.
It was more than convenience; it was a way of saying: "I see you. I understand you. Come, sit at my table."
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Yes, it's already a fact, I've written several chapters.
The question is: How many more will be published before there's an earthquake in my country?
It's a joke because of my recent bad luck, but it's still a possibility in my country, Chile.
Back to the chapter.
These chapters aren't very interesting, but I put a lot of work into this one specifically so you could see what the kingdoms, peoples, and cultures that the Suaza Kingdom has come into contact with look like.
What's important now is to know what the Suaza people look like, how they dress, do they wear jewelry?
However, we won't know that until I learn to draw or the AI understands what I'm asking it to. Hahaha.
By the way, while the meal scene seems friendly, keep in mind that the most important European character is Edward de Vere, and he's not even a great nobleman. While his father could end up being a count or duke, he himself only aspires to be a baron.
On the other hand, from the plateau (Mexico), no one important came to the celebration either, only Nezahualpilli.
The only one who is becoming increasingly powerful is the son of the bear, and that's because his father, the upright bear, has united several peoples due to his increased power in the area, a result of cooperation with the Suaza Kingdom.
What am I getting at?
That, in reality, there is a culture clash, but not a political union.
Is that bad? No, not really. Just more realistic.
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Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (ON HOLD)
You can find them on my profile.]