When Carlos received the letter, he felt a quiet disappointment settle upon him.
Having seen the German troops trained to such a high standard, he had allowed himself certain expectations—almost elevating them beyond reason, imagining they might break any enemy with ease. Yet war, as it revealed itself once again, was never so simple.
The Spanish Empire had not endured through weakness. It possessed both strength and resolve, and men like Carlos, who now sought independence, were in truth attempting to take a fragment of that strength for themselves. It was only natural that Spain's defenses would harden in response.
Amelia, who had been assisting Carlos with matters concerning the local elites within his territories, noticed the change in his expression. She set aside her papers and regarded him with mild curiosity.
"What troubles you?" she asked.
Carlos shared his thoughts, speaking plainly. When he finished, Amelia let out a soft laugh—not mocking, but measured.
"European armies are formidable," she replied. "Not only the Germans. The Spanish as well. They have been fighting wars since the time of the Romans. Their strength did not vanish simply because the battlefield has shifted to the New World."
She paused briefly, her tone growing more deliberate.
"The true advantage here lies in distance. Supplying troops and materials from Spain is difficult—but not impossible. And they are not limited to Spain alone."
Her gaze sharpened slightly.
"Consider the Portuguese. Two years ago, they faced the Inconfidência Mineira in Minas Gerais—a group of men who dared to speak of liberty and gold. Do you know how Lisbon answered?"
She did not wait for a reply.
"They did not merely suppress the movement—they made an example of it. Tiradentes was hanged, and the ground where his home once stood was salted so that nothing would grow. Portugal fears the idea of independence, Carlos. If it takes root here, the embers will not remain contained. They will spread—to Brazil, and beyond."
Carlos listened in silence, his expression tightening.
"And it is not only Portugal," Amelia continued. "Under normal circumstances, the Dutch and the French would gladly strike Spanish galleons for their own gain. But in the face of colonial independence…" She shook her head slightly. "They will think differently. They have their own territories—Cayenne, Paramaribo. They will not risk encouraging rebellion. If anything, they may lend support to Spain to preserve the order they rely upon."
She folded her hands calmly.
"Only the British might remain neutral—or act discreetly in their own interest. At least, that was the case before Francisco disrupted their monopoly. Now…" She allowed the thought to trail off. "Their position is less certain."
Carlos nodded slowly, absorbing her words.
"Then it seems," he said at last, "that declaring independence is the only path left to us."
He leaned back in his chair, the weight of her analysis pressing upon him. The idea itself felt like opening a door that could not be closed—a Pandora's box.
The world, as it stood, offered little stability. The American Republic remained a fragile experiment. France was consumed by its own revolution, descending into terror. Elsewhere, monarchs held power with an increasingly wary grip.
After a long silence, Carlos reached for a fresh sheet of parchment.
"Amelia," he said, his tone firming, "we will not begin with taxes or trade. We begin with the attempt on Francisco's life in 1792."
He dipped the quill, his eyes fixed on the page.
"We will tell the world that the Crown did not merely fail to protect a brilliant mind—it sought to eliminate him. That it attempted to destroy the future of New Granada, and to place the blame upon the French."
His voice lowered slightly.
"Patriotism died that day on the road to the port. What remains is a debt—one that can only be repaid with sovereignty."
Amelia frowned, her expression turning cautious.
"Are you certain you wish to use that?" she asked. "There is no clear evidence. Many may see it as an excuse—or dismiss it entirely. They may have heard of Francisco's abilities, yes, but that does not mean they believe in them. And after two years abroad…" She hesitated briefly. "It will not be easy to convince them that such a man is worth this cause."
Carlos gave a small shrug.
"After what he has accomplished in Europe, his reputation is no longer in question—at least not there," he said. "For the European powers, his status is already established. And here, in New Granada…" He paused briefly, choosing his words with care. "Whether the people believe it or not is of little consequence. We already possess an army. What we require from the elites is not their conviction, but their compliance. So long as they do not interfere, it is sufficient."
Amelia considered this, then inclined her head slightly. It was, in essence, true. Francisco controlled the finances—and with them, the army. Persuasion, in such a case, became secondary to stability.
Carlos leaned forward, resting his forearms upon the desk.
"As for the form of government," he continued, "we stand between two models—monarchy and republic. Yet the republic falters. France descends into chaos, and the northern experiment remains fragile. It does not inspire confidence."
He allowed a faint pause.
"A monarchy, on the other hand…" He gave a quiet, almost ironic breath. "Even if I were willing, the people here may not be. And Europe would never accept it. No royal house would recognize the son of a duke as king in the New World. They place too much weight upon lineage."
His gaze sharpened slightly.
"And yet, we require a centralized authority—particularly in war. Without it, command fractures, and response becomes slow."
He straightened.
"I will follow the Mandate of Cincinnatus. I shall assume the role of dictator—temporary in principle, though absolute in necessity. As did Julius Caesar in his time."
Amelia watched him closely, her expression thoughtful rather than alarmed.
"Then our next concern must be the elites," she said. "Their support may not be essential—but their opposition would be dangerous. They can undermine us from within while your army fights without. They hold influence, wealth, and in many cases, the greater share of learning within these lands. We will need them for what comes after."
Carlos nodded, setting aside the documents before him.
"I have considered that," he replied. "The solution, I believe, lies in separation of powers—though not as the philosophers describe it."
He spoke more deliberately now.
"The military and the civil administration must remain distinct. The army shall remain entirely under our control—trained through the school Carlos established, reinforced by the Germans and the mestizos who have chosen our cause. Discipline and loyalty must be unquestioned, at least until the war is concluded."
He paused, then continued.
"As for governance, we may grant the elites authority at the local level. They may oversee taxation, adjudicate disputes, and manage civil works. They will retain their titles, their offices, their outward dignity. And with that, a measure of responsibility."
A faint, knowing look crossed his face.
"With such authority, they will have sufficient incentive to defend their own cities."
Amelia frowned slightly. "Taxes?" she asked. "That is a dangerous concession. If they choose to embezzle, it may weaken your position."
Carlos shrugged once more, though not carelessly.
"Not immediately," he said. "Thus far, we have sustained ourselves without reliance upon taxation. The industries Francisco established are sufficient to maintain the army. The taxes collected by the elites would serve primarily to fund administration—the salaries of officials, the maintenance of order."
He leaned back slightly.
"In truth, it may benefit us. At present, such expenses fall upon me, as we still remit taxes to the Crown. Once independent, those revenues will pass directly into local governance. It will free resources for further investment elsewhere."
Amelia listened, then nodded, though her expression remained cautious.
"That may suffice for now," she said. "But it cannot endure indefinitely. A nation, once formed, cannot be sustained as though it were a private enterprise."
Her tone softened slightly, though the point remained firm.
"When the Spanish are driven out, your industries alone will not sustain an entire country. Nor should they. A nation must stand upon broader foundations than the wealth of a single man."
Carlos smiled—though there was something sharp, almost unsettling, in the expression.
"Indeed," he said. "In truth, I would not be displeased if certain families took the opportunity to embezzle… enough to make their guilt undeniable. When the nation is no longer constrained by external threats, such actions would provide the justification for a decisive measure."
He leaned back slightly, his tone measured but unmistakably deliberate.
"To remove them entirely—or compel them to accept whatever system Francisco deems appropriate. It would present… a most convenient moment."
Amelia shook her head, though a trace of amusement crossed her face.
"You are a dangerous man," she said lightly. "But tell me—do you truly believe it wise to grant them so much political authority in the meantime?"
Carlos gave a low chuckle.
"That is precisely why I will not relinquish control of the army," he replied. "It matters little how much disorder they create within their cities. So long as I command the military, I retain the means to restore order whenever I choose."
He paused briefly, his expression turning more practical.
"Besides, this is not the moment to purge the bureaucracy. We lack the personnel to replace them. By the war's end, however…" He allowed the thought to settle. "We may have a new generation—men shaped by Francisco's school. Educated, capable, and loyal to the new order."
He folded his hands together.
"With them, we may not need to replace the entire elite. It would suffice to introduce balance—to set capable individuals against established power, and ensure neither grows unchecked."
Amelia raised an eyebrow, considering his reasoning.
"That," she admitted, "is a sound approach. And delaying such reforms until the war's conclusion is… prudent. With the embezzlement and disorder they are likely to cause, you will have both reason and opportunity to act more freely."
She fell silent for a moment, her expression thoughtful.
The plan was harsh—but not without logic.
