Miguel stared after the retreating figures with a dumbfounded expression, his lips pale and trembling.

"Are they… really abandoning Santa Fe?" he whispered weakly. "They aren't joking, are they?"

Behind him, one of the servants tightened his grip on Miguel's shoulder and nodded grimly. "Yes, sir. They're gone. Once the dragoons withdrew, the city was finished. We must leave now. At least the troops you sent to Matorral should still be safe."

Miguel exhaled slowly, the breath rattling in his chest. His hands moved in a dismissive gesture, though his fingers shook from pain and exhaustion. "I can't move far. Help me into the city first. I'll find somewhere to hide."

He paused, thinking hard despite the dizziness clouding his thoughts. "There's a Gómez family associate working in La Pesa. It's a lower-caste district—dockworkers, mule drivers, laborers. No one will look twice at me there. I can survive."

The servant nodded without hesitation. "As you say, sir."

Together, they slipped out of the council building through a side corridor, avoiding the main halls now echoing with panic and retreat. Outside, Santa Fe was already unraveling.

Church bells rang wildly, not in order but in alarm, their sound colliding with distant musket fire. Smoke drifted through the streets—burnt powder, overturned oil lamps, kitchens abandoned mid-meal. Shutters slammed shut as families barricaded themselves indoors, while others fled with whatever they could carry: silver candlesticks, bundles of clothes, crying children pressed to their chests.

Miguel was half-carried through narrow streets slick with mud and blood, past soldiers stripping off uniforms to avoid recognition, past clerks burning documents in doorways. The air smelled of sweat, fear, and wet stone.

Santa Fe was no longer a capital. It was prey.

On the opposite side of the city, Ezequiel stepped into a commandeered chamber where Esteban awaited him.

His eyes shone with barely restrained excitement.

"Sir," Ezequiel said, bowing quickly, "our forces are breaking the Spanish lines. By tomorrow, Santa Fe will be fully under our control. Several families are already prepared to swear allegiance."

Esteban nodded calmly, hands clasped behind his back. His posture was relaxed, almost priestly, as if he were discussing parish matters rather than conquest.

"Do not let victory intoxicate you, my son," he replied evenly. "We have taken a city, nothing more. Our enemies remain numerous."

He turned toward a rough map spread across the table—New Granada sketched in charcoal and ink. "The Viceroy will not remain idle. And the Gómez family continues to strengthen its position in Medellín. We must strike quickly. Antioquia must fall before the mainland can react."

He traced a finger across the region. "Once Antioquia is ours, Chocó will follow. After that, the rest of New Granada will fracture on its own. Cartagena can wait. Ports are useless without land behind them."

Ezequiel straightened, chastened. "Yes, sir. Forgive me. I only thought… my grandfather would forgive me, in Heaven, for helping you build a Christian nation."

Esteban's expression softened, if only slightly. "Your grandfather's sacrifice will not be forgotten. God weighs intent as much as blood."

Then his gaze hardened. "Now tell me—where is the governor? Were we able to capture him? And what of those Protestant vermin of the Gómez family?"

Ezequiel shook his head bitterly. "We lost them in the confusion. The guards barred them entry to Santa Fe. After resupplying, they vanished—likely toward Matorral. As for the governor… we have not seen the dragoons either."

Esteban's lips tightened. "It matters little. An army of flesh cannot stand against an army of God."

He turned away dismissively. "Finish matters here. Then we march on Medellín."

Ezequiel nodded and left at once.

The fanatics threw themselves against the Spanish troops with absolute abandon. They fought with their bodies, their faith, and their certainty, advancing without hesitation even as bullets tore through their ranks. Against such conviction, the royal soldiers—corrupt, exhausted, and fearful—could not hold. Discipline collapsed, lines broke, and resistance dissolved.

By the afternoon, Santa Fe was entirely under the control of the new army.

Esteban walked solemnly through the streets, blood still drying between the cobblestones, smoke drifting from shattered windows. Wherever he passed, soldiers instinctively fell in behind him, drawn by authority that felt almost sacred. Without a word, he led them toward the cathedral.

As he approached the doors, the vicar hurried out, pale and trembling. His eyes locked onto Esteban, and he lowered his voice to a desperate whisper.

"What do you think you are doing, Esteban?" he said. "You know this is nothing short of treason."

Esteban stopped and turned slowly.

"Juan Salvador de la Villa," he said coldly. "A rich boy who bought his robes with his parents' silver."

He stepped closer, his gaze hard. "By what right do you speak to me?"

The vicar straightened, trying to recover his dignity. "Get out of this church. This is the house of God."

Esteban's lips curled into a thin smile. "It will remain so. From now on, it will be the heart of our Kingdom of God. And I will assume the position of Archbishop."

The vicar burst into laughter, sharp and incredulous. "An archbishop? Have you lost your mind? Only the King can appoint one."

Esteban sneered. "I do not answer to secular laws written by a foolish king. Our new nation answers only to God."

His voice rose slightly. "And God Himself has chosen me."

The vicar's face flushed red with fury. "God chose you? Do you believe yourself His Holiness? You will pay for this betrayal, Esteban—you fanatic."

A sudden blow cut him off.

Ezequiel stepped forward and kicked the vicar to the stone floor, the sound echoing through the square.

"Mind your words," Ezequiel said coldly. "If not for the timing, His Holiness would already have expelled that Vatican traitor himself."

He turned toward the assembled soldiers, his posture rigid, his gaze severe.

"Take this servant of Rome to the dungeon. I don't want to see him again. His presence stains His Holiness."

The soldiers moved immediately, dragging the screaming vicar away as his protests echoed down the stone corridors.

Esteban watched without emotion.

"I am going to pray," he said at last. "Do not disturb me unless it is urgent. Ezequiel, you are in charge."

He entered the church, the heavy doors closing behind him.

Ezequiel nodded solemnly. Once Esteban disappeared behind the heavy doors, he immediately began issuing orders. A group of men was assigned to secure the church and guard its surroundings, while Ezequiel himself turned to the far more difficult task of governing Santa Fe.

The aftermath of the battle was chaotic. Many elite families had fled during the fighting; others had died trying to escape. Their abandoned estates had to be catalogued, their wealth counted, seized, and redistributed to sustain the new regime. Gold, silver, land titles, warehouses—everything had to be accounted for.

At the same time, new troops needed to be trained. Supplies had to be gathered: grain, gunpowder, weapons, horses. Plans were drawn to march on Medellín and the surrounding territories, while fortifications were strengthened to slow any advance from the Viceroy's forces.

Ezequiel paused for a moment and looked toward the distant hills that led to Medellín. His fists clenched tightly at his sides.

"Wait for me, Francisco," he muttered. "Your family will leave this world while you hide in Europe. And you will spend the rest of your life regretting that you ever crossed me, you pagan."

The fall of Santa Fe did not go unnoticed.

Many families had seen the dragoons and the surviving royal troops fleeing toward Remedios. When news spread that even the Captain had been attacked, panic followed. Those among the elite who could afford it fled toward Cartagena or Bogotá, unwilling to remain in a city now ruled by fanatics.

Those who could not escape hired gunmen to defend their estates or disappeared into the forests and jungles, building crude refuges in the hope of surviving—even if they could not win.

Only in Medellín were the news deliberately suppressed.

Esteban's and Ezequiel's men worked carefully to silence rumors, keeping many families unaware of the danger slowly approaching them. This silence, however, created constant problems for Carlos, who was desperately trying to gain military control over the local guards and soldiers.

"What did Joaquín say?" Carlos asked sharply. "Is the new major willing to cede control of the army?"

The butler shook his head helplessly. "Of course he refused, sir. He fears you intend to rebel. He believes that granting you control of the army would make you too powerful."

He hesitated before continuing. "When we showed them the rifle, most of them did not understand what its existence truly meant. Some even believed we had invented it ourselves—as some kind of experimental weapon. That only made them more afraid, and more suspicious of us."

The butler sighed. "At this moment, they are trying to contact Santa Fe and the Governor to decide how to respond."

Carlos sank into his chair, rubbing his temples.

"Working with ignorant men is unbearable," he muttered. "That rifle could not have been made with our technology. If we truly possessed such capabilities, Spain would have lost New Granada decades ago."

He straightened suddenly. "And what of the families who control the militias? If we cannot persuade the major, perhaps we can convince the sergeants—through the families behind them."

The butler shook his head again. "They do not oppose you openly, sir. But they are demanding greater rights once independence is achieved."

Carlos froze.

"They believe, like the major, that you intend to declare independence and use the army to fight the Viceroy. Their demands are based on that assumption."

Carlos said nothing.

Everyone believed he had killed Aurelio. Everyone believed he sought independence. The major, fearing betrayal, refused to grant him command. The military families, convinced independence was inevitable, demanded privileges in advance.

Caught between suspicion and ambition, Carlos found himself unable to move in any direction at all.

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