Chavarriaga struck the floor with his cane, his jaw tight. "It doesn't matter whether it is a lie or not," he said sharply. "The problem is that the situation is developing against us."

The Alguacil leaned forward, lowering his voice. "For now, sir, they are only rumors. Even if we continue to harass that man, they will likely do nothing more than curse our names. Still, we must be careful. We should not deploy our warriors as openly as before. Discretion will make this easier."

Chavarriaga nodded slowly. "Yes, we must be cautious. The orders from the Crown were clear: provoke Francisco, but do not cause a direct conflict. Spain is already fighting France, and they do not have troops to spare. Even in Cartagena, the Viceroy is acting carefully, afraid that a single misstep could cost him all of New Granada."

The Alguacil asked in a grave tone, "And what does the Governor of the Captaincy of Venezuela say? Will he not send troops to support the Viceroy?"

Chavarriaga let out a dry laugh. "That man is a soldier to the bone. He fears that if Caracas is left unguarded, someone will seize the opportunity to attack Venezuela. The same is true of Quito. Each man clings to his own province, terrified of being the first to fall."

The Alguacil shook his head, speechless. "Idiots. The longer this conflict in Antioquia lasts, the more likely it is that others will rise. People will begin to believe the Spanish Empire is weak, and once that idea takes root, independence will spread like fire."

"That is not our concern," Chavarriaga replied curtly.

Suddenly, a commotion rose from outside the longhouse—shouts layered with excitement and fear. Chavarriaga frowned and turned toward the entrance. "What are you waiting for?" he snapped at one of the guards. "Go. Find out what is happening."

The soldier bowed and hurried out. Five minutes later, he returned, his face pale and uncertain.

"Sir… something has happened in Medellín. Carlos—"

Chavarriaga's grip tightened around his cane. "What?" he demanded. "Speak!"

The soldier swallowed hard. "It seems he has opened something called a bank. He is offering low-interest loans to the people of Medellín so they can buy their own tools. And… he has invited our people as well."

The cane slipped from Chavarriaga's hand and struck the dirt floor as he collapsed back into his seat. Several men gasped, and two guards rushed to his side.

"Sir, are you all right?"

Chavarriaga's face drained of color. Then fury flooded back into his eyes. He slammed his fist against the table.

"That bastard," he hissed. "He is going to destroy us."

The other members of the cabildo frowned in confusion.

"What do you mean, sir?" one of them asked. "It's just a loan. We could do the same. I don't see how this is so dangerous."

Chavarriaga exploded. "Are you all fucking idiots?" he roared. "Our control over the tools is what gives us control over the commons. The moment they own their own tools, they gain their own money—and with it, their own ambitions. Do you even realize how much of our income comes from renting those tools?"

The members exchanged uneasy glances. One of them spoke hesitantly. "We usually leave those matters to the pages…"

The rest nodded in agreement.

Chavarriaga pressed his fingers to his temples, a pounding headache forming. "Constable," he snapped, "you should have at least some idea how much my family earns from this."

The constable swallowed and nodded. "Sir… it represents at least forty percent of your profits."

Chavarriaga stiffened. Even he had not expected the number to be so high. Slowly, he turned toward the others.

"Now do you understand?" he said coldly. "And I assure you, this is not just my case. Some of you depend on that income even more than I do."

Shaken, the members hurriedly called their pages and sent them back to their estates for confirmation. When the messengers returned, one by one, the color drained from their faces. They sat back down in silence.

Finally, one of the cabildo members spoke. "Then we must act decisively, sir. We should forbid our people from taking these loans. Impose heavier taxes on anyone who buys their own tools. If necessary, we close San Lorenzo entirely—prevent the commons from leaving."

Voices quickly joined in agreement.

"Yes, sir. This is our land. They cannot defy us."

Chavarriaga slammed his cane against the floor. "Are you completely insane?" he thundered. "If you say that aloud, the people outside will cut off your heads before Carlos even has time to intervene. You underestimate the commons—but let me remind you, the King of France lost his head for making that very mistake."

The room fell into stunned silence.

For generations, they had ruled without challenge. They believed they understood the limits of obedience. What they failed to grasp was that these were no longer the same people. Most were now mestizos, not the submissive indigenous of their ancestors' time. They were ambitious, mobile, and increasingly unwilling to accept the old order.

Seeing their blank expressions, Chavarriaga exhaled sharply. "Leave," he ordered. "Think. I need real solutions, not fantasies. I will speak with the Spanish envoy."

The members of the cabildo bowed stiffly and filed out.

A short while later, a Spaniard named Christian entered the longhouse. He bowed deeply.

"Vuestra Merced, Don Mateo," he said respectfully. "I hear troubling news has reached San Lorenzo. If you wish to confide in me, I would be honored to assist."

The cacique felt a flicker of flattery at the Spaniard's words, though deep down he understood they were nothing more than etiquette. Noble title or not, men like Christian would never see him as an equal. Still, Chavarriaga inclined his head and spoke carefully.

"Mister Christian, my apologies, but this matter truly requires your help. The traitor Carlos has begun offering loans to the people so they may buy their own tools. From what I hear, the interest is only two percent annually—until the debt is fully paid."

Christian nodded absently at first, but the moment he processed the interest rate, his composure shattered.

"Two percent?" he asked sharply. "Don Mateo, this is no time for jokes."

Chavarriaga felt a wave of grim relief. From Christian's reaction, it was clear this threat extended far beyond San Lorenzo—it struck at the heart of the Spanish system itself. He solemnly repeated everything his men had reported.

Christian exhaled slowly. "This is bad," he muttered. "That bastard had a brilliant idea. With this, he is dismantling a system the Spanish Empire has spent centuries constructing. Even if Royal troops arrive, the people will fight to the death before returning to the old order."

He fell silent, pacing the room. Then suddenly, his eyes lit up.

"I have a solution," Christian said. "We will buy every tool in Medellín—and in every town under his influence. Once the tools vanish, we spread rumors that the Gómez family is deliberately hoarding them. They will claim shortages, using that excuse to refuse loans.

The people will believe the promise of credit was nothing more than a ploy to build reputation—that the Gómez family never intended to honor it. Distrust will spread, and with it, support for Carlos will rot away.

If we do this correctly, we can drive him out of Medellín entirely. And once he is isolated, we can drag him before the viceroy—or even send him to Spain, to answer before the King himself."

Chavarriaga leaned forward, excitement briefly overtaking caution. "Then, sir… what funds will we use to buy so many tools?"

Christian turned toward the window, gazing out at the darkening valley. "Yours, of course. And the funds of the cabildo. I am merely an envoy. I do not possess the capital for such an endeavor."

The words hit Chavarriaga like a hammer.

For a moment, he was speechless. Then, stiffly, he began, "Sir, I do not believe that will be possible. We—"

Christian raised a hand, silencing him. "Do not insult me by pretending poverty," he said coolly. "Your family has controlled San Lorenzo for generations—often while paying less than its due in taxes. If the Crown were to examine your accounts closely, can you truly swear they would find nothing… improper?"

A bead of sweat slid down Chavarriaga's spine.

Everyone took money. Everyone bent the rules. It was true not only in New Granada, but in Spain itself. Corruption was not an exception—it was the system's lubricant. Christian's words were not a warning; they were a threat.

If he refused, the Crown would devour him.

Grinding his teeth, Chavarriaga lowered his head. He had no choice but to comply.

Sensing his hesitation, Christian softened his tone. "Do not worry, sir. You will not bear the expense alone. There are many families in this region whose hands are no cleaner than yours. Pass the bucket to them. Let everyone share the risk."

Chavarriaga's eyes lit up. He straightened and replied solemnly, "You are right, sir. This is a sacrifice we must all make—for the good of the Empire."

A wicked smile crept across the cacique's face.

Christian, watching him, could not help but shake his head. These indigenous leaders were no different from their ancestors, he thought—just as foolish, just as eager to believe themselves clever. The Spaniards had taken their land, their resources, their authority, and still they called it order. Still they were grateful for scraps of power. They possessed ambition, yes—but not the cruelty required to protect it.

And in the end, that made them useful.

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