Inside a private chamber dimly lit by flickering candles, the viceroy met with his closest aides. The air was heavy with the scent of melted wax and ink. Outside, the distant murmur of the city filtered through the open shutters — laughter, carriage wheels, the occasional bark of a soldier's order.
Viceroy Ezpeleta frowned, his voice low. "With that connection to a Prussian general, it will be harder to move against that boy."
An aide tried to downplay the concern. "But he's from Prussia — just a small kingdom, far from Spain."
Ezpeleta shook his head slowly. The candlelight caught the edge of his signet ring as he gestured. "It's not that simple. Prussia has some of the best-trained soldiers in Europe, second only to France. And his grandfather is a general under their king."
Another aide muttered in disbelief, "What kind of luck is that? One grandfather a duke, the other a Prussian general."
Ezpeleta gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Too much luck. That will make it harder to touch his Roman cement enterprise. And since the Crown has yet to notice its importance, we're stuck. Without Madrid's intervention, we can do little. We can only hope they realize the value of that cement—perhaps once war with France begins."
The chamber went silent except for the faint crackle of the candles. Then one aide spoke cautiously, as though afraid of his own question."Is that why you told the British about him?"
All eyes turned toward the viceroy. The room's warmth suddenly felt heavy, almost suffocating.
Ezpeleta's gaze hardened. "That boy is a threat — to order, and to the viceroyalty's stability. If the British eliminate him, Spain might gain leverage. Prussia could side with us against them. Perhaps even help us restore our status — maybe recover Gibraltar itself."
The aides looked at one another, pale but silent. It was a cold, calculating plan — one that might restore the empire's pride at a dreadful cost.
Another aide spoke hesitantly, "But the British are cunning, Excellency. I doubt they'll fall for the trap. That girl — the commodore's daughter — may already know everything about him. If she reports back, they could turn the boy into a weapon against us."
Ezpeleta exhaled through his nose, a faint trace of irritation in the motion. "Then we'll use their own alliance as an excuse. Let him go to Europe — once he's there, we'll seize his factories and control the output."
The aides nodded, uneasy. The viceroy leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking faintly beneath the strain of his thoughts. If he didn't raise taxes, Madrid would blame him. If he did, the criollos might side with the mestizos and revolt. The colonies were rich — but rebellion was expensive. His only way out was to claim the cement industry and use its profits to quiet the elite. Unless, of course, the British conveniently removed the problem for him.
He finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper. "Watch the boy. If he's seen speaking with the British, we'll accuse him of treason. And keep an eye on them too — in case they're sowing seeds elsewhere."
The aides bowed and withdrew, leaving the viceroy alone with the wavering candlelight. For a moment, he simply stared at the map of the colonies spread before him — his empire shrinking one province at a time.
Meanwhile, Francisco and Carlos returned to their estate. Time passed, and by April, the spring rains had softened the roads, the smell of damp earth clinging to their boots. Inside, servants moved briskly about, preparing the trunks for the voyage. The flicker of lamplight glinted off brass buckles and travel chests.
Francisco folded his last shirts carefully and tucked a small notebook between them. Catalina helped in silence, her hands steady but her eyes lingering on him longer than usual.
Carlos watched from the doorway, his face shadowed. Pride and worry wrestled inside him. He stepped outside, where the night air was cool and smelled faintly of wet leaves and tobacco smoke. Ramiro soon joined him with two cigars, their tips glowing like faint embers in the dark.
"So," Ramiro asked, handing him one, "how does it feel — your son leaving to cross the world?"
Carlos took a slow puff, the smoke curling lazily upward. "Honestly? I have to stop myself from going inside, knocking him out, and dragging him back."
Ramiro chuckled. "You need to accept he's not a child anymore. Focus on your daughter instead — or one day she'll run off with some foreigner and leave you behind."
Carlos turned sharply, his eyes narrowing through the haze. "Never. I wouldn't let her go that far."
Ramiro laughed softly. "You said the same when Francisco was born. Anna asked what you'd do if he ever left for Germany — and you swore you'd never let it happen."
Carlos stared at the glowing tip of his cigar. "He's my firstborn. If something happens out there… our family might end with him."
Ramiro's tone grew firm. "Don't worry. I swear I'll bring him back safe. I owe his mother that much."
Carlos nodded, then exhaled a thin stream of smoke. "It's not just pirates or storms that worry me. It's politics. The French, the English… even our own viceroy. That man plays a game I don't like."
Ramiro frowned. "You think he's dangerous?"
Carlos hesitated, then said quietly, "He praised my son too much, too publicly. No one does that without a reason."
Ramiro shrugged, but his confidence sounded hollow. "Maybe you're overthinking it."
Carlos said nothing, listening to the faint chirp of crickets in the fields. Then, at last, he spoke again. "Just… watch every flag you meet. Even Spanish ones. Men in power kill under borrowed banners when it suits them."
Ramiro's expression darkened. "This journey won't be easy."
They finished their cigars in silence. When only ash remained, they went back inside to help Francisco and Catalina close the last chest. The scent of burnt tobacco still lingered in the night air, mixing with the distant roll of the waves — a quiet reminder that the world was already turning toward the unknown.