Knowing the weakness of the fanatics did not guarantee victory—but it gave them something just as important: hope.

It was a fragile thing, thin as glass, yet enough to steady trembling hands.

Carlos stood in the courtyard as the men gathered before him. The air was cool for the season, heavy with the scent of damp earth and smoke from nearby hearths. Two crude fusils rested against a wooden table beside him. They were the best Ogundele and the blacksmith had managed to produce since receiving the originals—shorter barrels, imperfect rifling, and mechanisms that jammed too easily. Inferior to Italian craftsmanship in every way. Still, in desperate moments, even flawed steel could decide life or death.

Carlos placed a hand on one of the weapons, feeling the roughness of the wood beneath his palm.

"These are yours," he said quietly. "Use them only if there is no other choice."

One of the servants stepped forward, adjusting the strap of his satchel. His face was pale, but his eyes were steady.

"Sir, we are leaving now. I pray we survive… and that we may see each other again."

Another man forced a grin and added, "That's right. Prepare some pesos as a reward, so we can spend them with our families when we return."

Laughter rippled through the group—thin, brittle laughter meant to cut through fear rather than dispel it. Some men slapped each other's shoulders. Others stared at the ground, lips moving in silent prayer.

Carlos looked at them carefully, as if carving their faces into his memory. Lines of exhaustion marked their cheeks. Calloused hands gripped reins and musket stocks. These were not soldiers raised for war, but men shaped by hunger, labor, and loyalty.

"Go with God, my friends," Carlos said at last. His voice tightened despite his effort to remain composed. "May your victory be swift, and your return quicker still—so we may celebrate together."

He embraced each of them in turn. When the last man stepped back, Carlos turned away for a moment, wiping a tear before it could fall.

The men mounted their horses, hooves striking stone as they rode out. The thunder of their departure echoed across the fields, startling birds into the gray morning sky. The sound lingered long after they vanished from sight.

---

Far from Medellín, beneath canvas tents stained by rain and dust, Ezequiel stood rigid before the captain of the Jesuit forces. The air inside the command tent was thick with incense and sweat. Maps lay scattered across the table, weighed down by daggers and rosaries.

Ezequiel's jaw was clenched.

"You Jesuits were trained by the Italians," he said sharply. "Why can you not defeat that city? A proper bombardment would reduce Medellín to rubble. Why are you delaying?"

The captain's expression hardened. His armor bore scratches from weeks of skirmishes, and his hands—resting calmly on the table—were scarred from years of discipline and combat.

"We follow the doctrine of Just War," the captain replied. "We will fight soldiers. We will die fighting armed men. But we will not slaughter women and children. What you ask of us violates everything we stand for."

Ezequiel's lips curled in disdain.

"As members of God's army, you should obey the Bishop—our future Pope—who speaks with God's authority on Earth. Those civilians who shelter behind Carlos's army are heretics. Their elimination serves the greater good."

The captain's eyes narrowed.

"I know of your conflict with Francisco," he said coldly. "Do not insult me with false sermons. His Excellency Esteban has never ordered the killing of civilians. In fact, he agrees with our doctrine. We follow him—not you."

He leaned closer.

"You are nothing but a boy raging against his own weakness."

Ezequiel slammed his hand against the table.

"Who do you think you are?" he screamed. "And who do you think I am? I will not be insulted by a filthy exile!"

The slap came faster than thought.

The crack of flesh against flesh echoed inside the tent. Ezequiel staggered backward, blood spilling from his mouth as broken teeth clattered to the floor.

"Silence," the captain growled. "You are a sycophant who earned favor through flattery alone. Those men out there"—he pointed toward the camp—"are *my* soldiers. They will bleed and die for His Excellency's dream of a theocratic nation. Not you, hiding behind canvas and stolen authority."

Ezequiel stared at him, cheeks flushed, eyes burning with undisguised hatred.

"You dare strike me," he whispered. "Not even my father or grandfather ever raised a hand against me."

The captain sneered.

"Perhaps that is why you murdered him like a rat."

He spat on the ground.

"Parricide."

Ezequiel froze. His breath caught in his throat. He had known these men despised him—but never had he imagined they would speak such words aloud.

He straightened slowly.

"You forget something," he said calmly. "I was willing to kill my grandfather. Remember that—and watch your back."

The captain pointed at him, fury trembling in his hand.

"You dare—"

"I dare," Ezequiel interrupted. "And what will you do? Will you kill me?"

The tent fell silent.

The captain knew the truth. Killing Ezequiel would be unforgivable. Esteban valued him precisely because of his ruthless loyalty. A slap might be overlooked—but murder would doom them all.

Around them, swords slid halfway from scabbards. The soldiers' faces twisted with revulsion. They waited for the order.

It never came.

The captain exhaled sharply and waved them aside.

Ezequiel snorted and turned away, leaving the tent without another word.

When he was gone, the captain spoke again.

"As much as I despise him," he said, "he is correct about one thing. This stalemate cannot continue. Sooner or later, they will realice we have no cavalry. Our supply lines are weak. If they strike properly, we will be ruined."

Then as if recalling something important, spoke again.

"And the adaptation of our men to cavalry warfare in New Granada —how is it going ?"

One of the attendants frowned before answering. "They are trying, sir, but the terrain here is completely different. Only a few elders still remember something about the cavalry here , and even they are too old. Their training is poor, and many of them were exiled when they were barely twenty—some even younger. We are forced to train from the beginning, and it is… difficult for everyone."

The captain's brow tightened.

"Then what do we do?" he asked quietly. "Do we truly resort to artillery, as that foolish boy suggested—leveling the city and slaughtering even innocent civilians?"

The attendant reacted instantly, crossing himself in alarm.

"Never, sir. If we do that, how are we any different from the secular tyrants we claim to oppose? We would become the very monsters we seek to destroy."

The captain exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging, yet he nodded.

"You are right. Prepare for an assault tomorrow. Those trenches and parapets will not hold forever. The people of Medellín must already be exhausted by this war. Sooner or later, they will surrender."

The attendants nodded in grim agreement. They all understood that this was the only remaining path—unless they were willing to abandon their beliefs entirely and become no better than the rulers they despised.

After the meeting ended, the captain remained alone in the tent. His gaze drifted to the wooden cross hanging beside the maps. Christ's carved face seemed sorrowful, the eyes glossy as if filled with tears. For a moment, the captain wondered whether those tears were meant for the world—or for him.

His thoughts wandered to Esteban.

He remembered him as he once was: a minor tonsured priest in the Vatican, freshly initiated, unremarkable at first glance—perhaps a little dull, a little ambitious, but deeply respectful. Thanks to the Pope's favor, they had been granted refuge in the Vatican and the Italian cities, and it was there that the captain had come to know him.

Then Esteban changed.

He began speaking of a future where Christianity would be hollowed out by secularism, of a world stripped of faith, warmth, and meaning—reduced to cold materialism. He spoke with such certainty, such conviction, that others followed him willingly. Some even whispered that he was a prophet, receiving visions of what was yet to come—visions he himself never confirmed nor denied.

The thought unsettled the captain, yet it also brought him a strange sense of comfort. If Esteban truly was chosen, then history might one day understand their actions. Perhaps the books written for future generations would judge him kindly—for choosing restraint, for clinging to the doctrine of just war even when brutality promised easier victory.

The tent flap burst open.

"Sir," a scout reported breathlessly, "our patrols have disappeared. Several witnesses claim they heard horse galloping near the city."

The color drained from the captain's face. He closed his eyes briefly, then let out a weary sigh.

"So it seems God is no longer with us in this battle," he said softly. "Prepare to withdraw. In a matter of weeks… we will be defeated."

The scout hesitated, surprised, but nodded and departed at once.

Left alone again, the captain turned back to the cross and sighed—this time not in anger or frustration, but in quiet resignati

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