"Quilla," Carlos began, his voice heavy. "A little girl, a Quechua. Unlike the others, her mother hadn’t joined the rebellion. She lived quietly with her child after her husband disappeared—so said dead, others whispered the Spanish killed him. No one knew for sure. Still, she endured. The Quechuas had small independent communities where they could survive together, safe for a ti from the Spaniards’ abuse.
"But in 1781, the Quechuas rose against the Crown. Retaliation was rciless. The Spaniards massacred entire communities—n, won, children, even the old. No one was spared." Carlos’s eyes darkened as the sunset bled behind the mountains. "Quilla’s mother managed to hide her before the soldiers reached the village. That’s how I found her—crouched behind a rock. It was then I learned that war wasn’t glory. It was hateful, senseless butchery."
Carlos kicked at the dirt, trying to exhale the weight of mory. "I decided to protect her. My plan was simple: take her to a church in the city. Surely the priests would care for her. So of my companions mocked —she was too small to fetch any price, they said. I ignored them. During our march, I grew close to her. She was bright, sweet. I even thought... maybe I could bring her ho. Raise her as a servant, or even as a daughter. But the campaign dragged on. Every day I saw corpses burned in piles, survivors chained and sold into slavery—sotis by my own hand. Saving one child while enslaving her people—it tore apart.
"After fifteen days, we reached a city. I took her to a church. The priest agreed to keep her, and though her eyes filled with tears when I told her I’d return, I truly believed it was best. I had three more months of duty before I could take her ho. When I ca back..." His voice faltered.
"The priest was gone, replaced by another. This one swore there had never been an Indian girl. I nearly ca to blows, and the guards had to drag away. Later, their captain—he must have seen my desperation—told to wait until his shift ended.
"When night fell, he took behind the church. There was a hole in the ground. A mass grave." Carlos’s hands trembled slightly. "The captain confessed: the last priest had been abusing children. Killing them. Burying them in secret. The soldiers had discovered it, but the viceroy intervened—sent him to Spain instead of punishnt. They said the archbishop would handle it. Lies. A bargain, nothing more. Still, God—or fate—took its price. The ship carrying him sank off the coast of Pachacámac. So soldiers whispered it was the wrath of the Inca gods. Others said God Himself couldn’t stomach such a man.
"I wept that night, more than I ever had. Not just for Quilla, but for my own blindness. For trusting the Church. For letting her down. That was the day my faith in priests died. Since then, I’ve called myself a liberal. Even your grandfather despised for it. But from that day on, I swore never to leave you or your sister alone. Not once."
Francisco, seeing his father’s pain laid bare, embraced him silently.
Carlos steadied himself, his voice firm again. "I don’t know what path you’ll choose, son. Rebel, royalist... even emperor of your own lands. But rember this: every choice carries consequences. stizo, Indian, criollo, Spaniard—they’re all human. They all have souls. Make sure that whatever you build, it doesn’t leave scars on your heart. Never choose a path you’ll regret."
He walked on ahead, leaving Francisco deep in thought. So lost was he that he didn’t notice the man who bumped into him until it was too late.
"My apologies," the stranger muttered casually, slipping past. Another shadow trailed behind him. Francisco almost ignored it, but sothing gnawed at him. He reached into his pocket. A folded letter.
Reading it, his pupils widened. He quickly whispered orders to two servants, sending them running. "I hope they reach him in ti..." he muttered.
"Francisco, let’s go ho!" Carlos called from a distance.
"Coming, coming," Francisco replied, tucking the letter away.
"What happened?" Carlos asked, confused.
"Nothing, father. I just sent my servants to look for soone I think I know. We’ll learn more later." Francisco lied by omission — not because he didn’t trust his father, but because the letter’s contents were too scandalous to speak aloud after hearing Carlos’s story.
Back at the estate, Francisco went to his room and sat at his desk. He took out so sheets from the mill of San Antonio del Tequendama — expensive paper, saved for special projects — and began sketching plans for the alambique (still) and its upgrades. Stills were known, but not common in South Arica; most were imported from Europe and almost none were made of copper. Copper was scarce in New Granada — not as precious as silver or gold, but close. Still, thanks to his wealthy, Crown-connected father, Francisco found so copper hidden in the warehouse.
A copper alembic would llow the spirit and raise its market value, but that alone wouldn’t make them rich. In the flashes of mory he’d seen there was sothing called a "fractionating column" — a device that, twenty-two years from now, would be invented to make alcohol both purer and producible in much larger quantities, continuously. He didn’t know the exact numbers, only that the gains were huge. A continuous-process still could churn out spirit without stopping. If he hid the design from the Crown, he could pocket most of the profits. Technology could change everything — no wonder the people in those visions were so obsessed with it.
On his drawing board he sketched a tall, narrow tower with gratings at each level where vapor could condense and then rise again. If it were high enough... Francisco chuckled at his own bad joke about it reaching the sky. He bent back to work, lost in plans and asurents.
Far away, on a hill, two of his servants were still shaking from what they had seen: three n against one, and all four had ended up dead.
"What do we do?" one whispered.
"Let’s go. Check if any of them survived," the other said. They edged toward the bodies, careful, voices low.
"Nothing here," one servant said after feeling for a pulse on the first body.
"This one’s dead too."
One of them hurried to the innkeeper and, feeling for a pulse, gasped, "This one’s alive!"
The other servant ran back, panic in his face. "What do we do now?"
"Grandma María taught you so dicine, right? Look after him while I go tell the young master," the first replied. Left alone among the bodies with no good choices, the second servant fumbled for a small case of dicines he always carried for ergencies — the kind of things kept for saving a master’s life.
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