Deep within the Matriz Church of Santa Fe, Bishop Esteban knelt alone, his fingers pressed together as his lips moved in silent prayer. Incense still lingered in the air, clinging to the stone like an old memory. Outside, beyond the heavy doors, the sounds of labor echoed—hammers striking stone, voices shouting orders—as workers struggled to transform the aging church into a true cathedral, worthy of the new faith he envisioned.
At last, Esteban exhaled and rose, lowering himself into a carved wooden chair near the altar. He waited.
News from Medellín should have arrived by now.
Despite the thousands of Italian volunteers he had gathered—men driven by zeal, exile, or ambition, drawn in by the expulsion of the Jesuits from Spain—unease gnawed at him. Antioquia remained out of reach. The Gómez family stood there like an immovable wall, frustrating every design he had carefully laid.
