After listening to the old woman for so ti, the leader judged it prudent to withdraw.
"Madam, forgive ," he said at last, with a slight inclination of the head. "I must return to my work, or I shall be dismissed. My master granted but a short leave to see to my wife."
The woman nodded, her expression turning serious once more.
"Go, then, lad," she replied. "Your wife will have need of you."
He offered a brief word of thanks and took his leave.
Freed from her conversation, he turned his attention at once to more pressing matters.
He required a way out of the city—or, failing that, a ans to remain unseen within it. More urgent still was the need to reestablish contact with his n. From what he had overheard among the soldiers, only two had been captured. Of the dozen who had descended the Boquerón, that left near ten unaccounted for.
So, no doubt, had perished. Others may have been taken along the roads.
Yet it was unlikely that all had been lost.
At least one—perhaps more—must have reached dellín.
The thought offered little comfort, only a calculation.
He moved on, adjusting his tattered poncho and keeping his chin lowered as he passed along the stone-paved streets. The lesson of the old woman lingered with him: here, idleness was not rely frowned upon—it was dangerous. A man without visible purpose invited scrutiny, and scrutiny, in such a place, could end in forced service under Krugger's command.
It would be a bitter irony to escape the night only to be conscripted by daylight.
As he walked, he studied the city more closely.
dellín stood in stark contrast to Santa Fe de Antioquia.
He laughted at himself thinking of santa fe de antioquia "A "fake theocracy" where the high-born supporters of the Bishop had abandoned all piety. And beco beast They stole land and shops without the restraint of a King, while the soldiers were nothing more than corrupt thugs or people who suffered the robbery of those leaders,. The city was drowning in a stagnant depression, and the desperate priests could only watch as their holy dream turned into a nightmare of greed
Here, there was no such concealnt.
dellín did not resemble a relic. It resembled a machine.
The influence of the Germans was evident in every aspect of it. Not rely in the construction of its buildings, but in the rhythm of daily life. The streets were not chaotic; they were regulated with a rigidity that felt foreign to the New Kingdom.
Officials passed between offices carrying leather-bound ledgers, their movents precise, their attention fixed. Their expressions bore little warmth—only calculation. Even the guards differed from the Spanish sentries he had known. They did not idle, nor did they speak unnecessarily. They stood as if cast in iron, their discipline unmistakable, their uniforms blending European form with local necessity.
It was order—deliberate, imposed, and maintained without pause.
As he observed it, he found his thoughts drawn unwillingly back to the west.
He gave a faint, humorless breath at the comparison.
"A false theocracy," he thought. "A hollow imitation."
In Santa Fe de Antioquia, the high-born adherents of the Bishop had long since abandoned restraint. They seized land and trade without fear of correction, unchecked by crown or conscience. Soldiers, where they existed, served less as guardians than as instrunts of corruption—or else suffered under it themselves.
The city stagnated beneath the weight of its own decay. And the priests—those few who still believed—could do little more than watch as their sacred design gave way to greed.
Here, by contrast, dellín was rising.
Every man and woman appeared to serve so function. There were no slums in which to vanish, no neglected quarters where disorder could take root. Carlos had turned every mouth into labor, every idle hand into service. Under German influence, the roughness of the colony had been honed into sothing sharper—more efficient, and far more dangerous.
The leader's gaze lowered further as he walked.
"What is it we truly fight for?" he murmured inwardly. "Why does the Bishop permit the theocracy to fall into such ruin?"
The thought lingered—but only for a mont.
He forced it down, burying it beneath discipline. Such reflections, however natural, could weaken resolve. And resolve was all that remained to him.
He owed his life to Bishop Esteban.
Eight years earlier, he and the others had been taken from the streets—fed, sheltered, instructed in the Gospel. Whatever faults now lay within the theocracy, that debt could not be dismissed.
He would not prove ungrateful.
Not now.
The leader arrived at the industrial district near the Great Warehouse. He spotted the rchant boss—the man who had "accidentally" let him slip through the gates in the fortress earlier that morning. The rchant was currently overseeing the loading of crates, looking nervous as a patrol of guards with those strange, rifled muskets passed by he was going to use that man to make sure he could stay in the city.
He made his way, with asured haste, toward the small alleys in the area.
The leader of the Purifiers understood well that a man such as the rchant master could not be approached carelessly. To confront him in daylight—amidst the ceaseless motion of cranes, the scrutiny of guards, and the ordered noise of labor—would be folly. Fear, once stirred, was an unstable force. A single misstep, a glance held too long, and the man might cry out for the alguacil, if only to relieve his own unease.
No—this required patience.
He waited.
The industrial quarter, with its high walls of grey cent and narrow passages between them, offered sufficient concealnt. There he remained, still as stone, while the sun descended behind the western mountains and the light faded from gold to ash.
When guards passed and questioned his presence, he t them without hesitation. A small offering—a cigar—served its purpose. He spoke simply, as a laborer might, claiming a brief rest before returning to his duties. Then he moved on, never lingering long enough to invite suspicion.
Thus the hours passed.
At last, a bell rang through the district, its tone clear and final—the signal that the day's labor had ended.
n began to disperse.
The rchant master soon erged from his office. He appeared worn, his hand rising to his neck as though to ease so lingering strain. He set off along the street that led toward the heart of dellín, his steps steady, though his expression betrayed fatigue.
If he carried any unease from the morning's incident, he concealed it well enough. To him, it had likely been no more than a passing irregularity—a vagabond slipping away from duty, perhaps even from forced enlistnt. Such things, in this city, were not unheard of.
The leader followed at a distance.
The streets, though quieter than by day, were far from silent.
The rchant's boots struck the cobblestones with a asured rhythm, the sound sharp in the evening air. Around him, however, life continued in a different form. Taverns had opened their doors; lantern light spilled into the streets; voices rose in laughter and song. The stizo spirit, restrained under daylight order, found its release in these hours.
Music carried faintly from within, accompanied by the murmur of drink and conversation.
The rchant allowed himself a small smile as he passed.
"Armando!" a voice called from the entrance of a tavern. "Why not join us for a drink?"
He halted briefly and turned.
"Another ti," he replied, with a tired shake of the head. "It has been a long day at the warehouse, and I have no desire for trouble. Tomorrow I must send supplies again to the fortress at Boquerón."
A man within clicked his tongue in mild disapproval.
"I do not see the purpose of that fortress," he said. "Those madn of the so-called theocracy cannot govern their own lands, and yet we build walls against them. My cousin fled from there only weeks ago—he says they press n into the army without cease."
"It is worse than that," another added, setting down his cup with so force. "My uncle kept a shop there. Those thugs—servants of the Bishop's so-called paladins—taxed him until he could no longer keep it. He escaped with his family before they took more than coin."
A brief silence followed. Even the music seed to recede for a mont.
Armando shifted slightly, then spoke more quietly.
"A friend of mine told that sothing changed this year. It was not always so. He said the theocracy was once a decent place—nuns providing food, teaching trades… even children were given schooling by the Church." He paused. "So say there was a coup. That the Bishop lost the support of those sa paladins."
The n exchanged glances, then nodded among themselves.
"That must be it," one said. "A sha, perhaps—but we are fortunate to be here, in Carlos's lands."
Another gave him a light shove.
"Have you not read the notice? We are no longer rely his lands. We are a Mancomunidad now."
The man frowned.
"I care little for the na," he muttered. "I am told it cos from those English. I do not trust anything of theirs."
A few laughed softly at that, and the conversation drifted on.
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