While the family enjoyed their peace in New Granada, the situation on the other side of the world was very different. Europe was slowly becoming a chaotic whole. Spain, in particular, had entered a deeply complicated situation. After the defeats in the colonies, the empire had been forced to shift from aggression to defense. The humiliation still lingered in every council eting, every military report, every whisper in the corridors of power.
And at the center of the storm was a single na.
Carlos Góz.
The King could not ignore it any longer.
Worried about the growing instability—and about the man responsible for much of it—King Carlos ordered the representative of the House of Lerma to appear before him: Luis María de Fernández de Córdoba y Gonzaga, the future Duke of Lerma.
Winter had settled harshly over Castile.
The air around Aranjuez was sharp and dry, the cold wind cutting through the manicured gardens and frozen fountains that surrounded the palace. Frost clung to the hedges like powdered glass. The statues of ancient kings stood silent beneath a pale gray sky.
Inside the palace, however, warmth reigned.
Thick carpets muffled footsteps in the corridors, and tall chandeliers bathed the halls in soft golden light. The air carried the scent of lted beeswax from hundreds of candles, mixed with the rich aroma of imported chocolate being served to courtiers. Beneath those pleasant slls lingered sothing harsher—the faint tallic tang of gun oil and polished steel from the guards stationed throughout the palace.
The French Republic lood like a dark cloud beyond the Pyrenees, and everyone in Madrid could feel the tension tightening.
For King Carlos, the situation was becoming unbearable.
His father had once enjoyed a strong reputation in Madrid and across Spain. The court respected his authority, and the great noble houses moved carefully around the Crown. He had seed almost like a perfect man—and that very perfection had always weighed heavily on Carlos’s shoulders. Many tis he had wondered if he was worthy of walking in his father’s footsteps, and now everything seed to prove that perhaps he never truly was.
now tis had changed.
Since Manuel Godoy had departed for New Spain, the delicate balance of power inside the court had begun to collapse. Godoy had once served as a counterweight between the monarchy and the aristocracy. His presence, controversial as it was, had kept many ambitious families cautious.
Now he was gone.
His replacent was an extrely loyal man, but also painfully young—too inexperienced to navigate the vicious rivalries of Madrid. With every passing day the political atmosphere in Spain grew worse. Suspicion spread like a disease.
And the rebellion in New Granada only made things worse.
For King Carlos, the ti had co to confront the House of Lerma directly. If the Góz rebellion continued to grow, soone would have to control it—or answer for it.
anwhile, Luis María approached the palace.
The cold wind brushed against his cloak as his carriage rolled through the palace gates. Despite the heavy winter coat around his shoulders, his heart felt even colder.
He had never imagined that his bastard half-brother would dare to beco a rebel.
Truthfully, he had never paid much attention to that brother at all.
Carlos Góz had always existed sowhere on the edge of the family’s story—an inconvenient reminder of his father’s indiscretion. The boy had been born from a common woman, a fact that had quietly poisoned Luis María’s view of both his father and the mistress who had dared to enter his life.
His mother had always been fiercely loyal to her husband, almost painfully devoted. The knowledge that his father had betrayed that loyalty had left a scar inside the young nobleman.
Resentnt had followed.
Not only toward the unknown woman who had borne the child, but toward the child himself.
Still, Luis María had never actively sought conflict with his half-brother. The distance between them had been enough. Their lives moved in completely different worlds.
Or at least, they had.
Now the actions of that forgotten brother were dragging the entire House of Lerma into danger.
The situation had beco especially delicate because of the alcohol trade.
Before the fanatic uprisings and the chaos in New Granada, the Lerma family had made a vast fortune thanks to the liquor produced in Carlos Góz’s territories. His nephew’s distilleries had flooded the Spanish market with high-quality spirits. The profits had been enormous.
So enormous that the Lerma house had nearly gained control of Spain’s entire alcohol industry.
At the ti it had seed like a blessing.
Now it felt like a curse.
With rumors of rebellion spreading across the Atlantic, the King had begun to look at those profits with suspicion. In the eyes of the crown, the Lerma family now appeared dangerously connected to a potential traitor.
Luis María had already been forced to share a significant portion of those profits with other noble houses—buying loyalty, buying silence, buying protection.
Anything to prevent the King from simply seizing their assets.
When he finally reached the palace entrance, another man was already waiting.
Saavedra.
After Godoy’s departure to New Spain, Saavedra had beco the acting Pri Minister. As such, he had grown deeply distrustful of the Lerma household.
He stood by the tall doors of the palace chamber, wrapped in dark robes trimd with fur. His thin face barely moved when Luis María approached, but his sharp eyes followed every step.
"You are late, Luis María," Saavedra said calmly.
His voice was not loud, yet it carried the quiet authority of a royal decree.
Then his lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile.
"Though I suppose it takes ti to count the silver arriving from the ports... before one cos to face the King he is betraying."
New Chapter – Part 2 (Final)
Luis María’s hand instinctively moved to the lace at his throat.
"Don’t talk nonsense, Saavedra. Most of the money we made during that ti was given to His Majesty the King to fight against France. We have never betrayed the Crown. And move aside—this is not the place for a small treasury clerk to prevent soone from seeing the King."
Saavedra did not move.
"Right now I am the acting Pri Minister, not a small treasury boy. I would be extrely careful with your next words," he replied, his eyes cold behind the thin lenses of his spectacles. "While Manuel Godoy plays at secularization in the colonies, I remain here cleaning the rot from the roots of this monarchy."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"And that rot, Duke... slls remarkably like the aguardiente your nephew distills in the mountains of Antioquia."
Saavedra stepped closer, his shadow falling over Luis María like a blade.
"Do not think for a second that your ’contributions’ to the war effort buy my silence. I know the ga well enough. Your brother, Carlos Góz, is effectively stepping on the King’s authority in New Granada, carving out a private empire while you play the loyal courtier in Madrid. You provide the coin; he provides the rebellion."
His voice lowered into a quiet, cutting whisper.
"Between the two of you, the Crown’s finances are beginning to look like hostages."
Luis María’s face paled.
He had not expected this extre royalist to beco the new Pri Minister. Godoy had been ambitious and manipulative, but he understood the balance of power in court politics. Saavedra, on the other hand, seed determined to purge anyone who looked even slightly suspicious.
Still, as the heir of a great ducal house, Luis María could not allow the man to openly insult his honor.
"My family’s accounts are perfectly clean, Saavedra," he replied stiffly. "You are welco to review them whenever you wish. After that disobedient brother of mine began acting more and more independently, we stopped all transactions with him."
He straightened his posture.
"And let remind you of sothing. He has not declared independence. The only reason he holds authority in Antioquia is because your useless bureaucrats abandoned the cities and towns when the fanatic uprisings began. Soone had to restore order in the region."
Saavedra leaned closer, until his voice was barely more than breath.
"Beautiful words, future Duke of Lerma."
His lips curved slightly, though his eyes remained hard.
"For now, I will take you at them. But understand this clearly—I will be watching you. And that foolish father of yours as well."
The whisper turned sharp as a knife.
"If I find even the smallest trace of treason... I will ensure that your house disappears from history. Just like that cursed surna Góz."
Luis María said nothing.
He understood perfectly well what Saavedra represented: the King’s guard dog. In reality, even the royal family could not simply erase a ducal house without enormous political consequences. But Saavedra could still cripple them—confiscate estates, destroy reputations, turn the entire court against them.
That alone would be enough.
Without another word, Luis María walked past him and approached the heavy doors of the royal office.
A servant opened them.
Inside, the atmosphere felt even heavier.
Luis María entered the chamber.
The King sat in a tall leather chair behind a massive mahogany desk. The desk looked less like the workspace of a monarch and more like the bench of a watchmaker. Small gears, springs, and chanical parts were scattered across its surface alongside sealed letters and colonial dispatches.
Dozens of clocks ticked across the walls.
Large clocks. Small clocks. Traveling clocks from France and England.
Their endless ticking filled the chamber like the sound of distant rain.
Saavedra had followed him inside and now stood beside the King’s chair, silent as a shadow in dark silk.
Without the grandeur of a throne, King Charles IV looked strangely smaller than expected.
But also more dangerous.
Like a cornered animal surrounded by the very clocks counting down the ti left in his reign.
Luis María crossed the threshold and stopped imdiately.
Following the rigid etiquette of the Bourbon court, he perford the first bow—a deep, sweeping inclination of his torso, his tricorn hat tucked beneath his arm. The silence of the chamber made the rustle of his silk coat echo like thunder.
He advanced four careful steps.
His eyes remained fixed on the floor. To et the King’s gaze too soon would be considered an insult.
He perford the second bow.
Behind the King’s chair, Saavedra watched the ritual with thinly concealed judgnt, his expression sharp as a carved gargoyle.
Luis María finally reached the edge of the desk.
There he lowered himself into the third and deepest reverence, his knee nearly brushing the carpet.
"At your feet, Your Majesty," he murmured—the traditional greeting of the Spanish court.
King Charles IV did not extend his hand to be kissed.
Instead, his fingers remained pressed against a stack of colonial dispatches.
The air felt colder.
The King looked at Luis María. Then at Saavedra.
Only after several long seconds did he finally speak.
"Rise, Luis María," the King said slowly.
His voice trembled with suppressed anger.
"And pray to God that you are found innocent... and that this is only a misunderstanding."
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