Two heavy-set guards stepped forward.
Esteban did not resist. He allowed them to take his arms, regarding them with a quiet, almost sorrowful pity.
"You believe you are seizing power, Ezequiel," he said in a low voice. "Yet you are only opening the gates. Without my guidance to navigate what is to come, you are steering a ship into a hurricane."
He paused, his gaze steady.
"May God have mercy on Antioquia, for you certainly will not."
Ezequiel did not so much as glance at him as he was led away. Instead, he approached the great map and placed his hand over the lands belonging to Carlos. His eyes gleamed—not with doubt, but with the dangerous certainty of a man convinced the world had finally fallen into his grasp.
Behind him, one of the noblemen hesitated. His voice, when it came, carried a trace of unease.
"Are we… doing the right thing, sir? It is undeniable that his visions have aided us in the past."
Ezequiel gave a short, dismissive sneer.
"Of course I know that. It is precisely why I once admired him. But you have seen it yourself—that ability is as good as dead. He no longer sees the future, and his hesitation has already begun to hinder us."
He turned slightly, his tone sharpening.
"Still, he spoke one truth: we must consolidate power. With a new viceroy, the situation in New Granada will grow only more chaotic. We cannot afford weakness—not within, nor without."
He gestured toward the map.
"Root out any hint of disloyalty. Replace the Jesuits swiftly—those arrogant bastards are our greatest liability. And prepare the troops. We must secure Urabá and take Cali. Our strength must not merely endure—it must grow."
The nobleman inclined his head, though his expression remained cautious.
"And the families, sir? The ones seizing lands from the flock… they have caused disturbances."
Ezequiel's lips curled faintly.
"Let them. It serves us. Those displaced will have little choice but to seek employment. We will give it to them—in uniform. A desperate man makes a useful soldier."
A slow, calculating smile spread across the nobleman's face. It was the answer he had hoped for.
In his mind, the path was already clear: his family's holdings would expand, swallowing land after land under the guise of necessity. And with the influx of dispossessed men pressed into service, their territories would be defended by a force both numerous and dependent.
Order, of a kind, would be maintained.
Yet in Santa Fe de Antioquia, particularly in the western reaches , the situation had already begun to deteriorate. For those who lived there, the consequences would not be immediate—but they would be certain.
And they would not remain confined to these lands.
The shifting of the world did not concern Esteban and Francisco alone.
Across the ocean, in the recently formed United States of America, another figure had begun to move.
Killian Vance, an Irishman, had received visions of the future some years prior. Unlike Esteban and Francisco—locked in a deadly struggle for the lands of New Granada—Killian had seen opportunity.
In his visions, this young republic would rise to become the wealthiest and most powerful nation in the world. Yet it would also become a place governed by a single, relentless force: money.
For four years, he had labored in Ireland, gathering what little wealth he could to fund his passage. The country he now sailed toward was insignificant in the present—fragile, uncertain.
But not in the future.
And Killian intended to claim his place within it.
He stood now on the deck of the emigrant ship, his posture still, his eyes watchful. Everything he did, every risk he took, was bound to a single purpose: to become so wealthy that no man who governed that land would dare threaten his family.
A small voice broke his concentration.
"Brother… that man is still looking at me."
Siobhan Vance stood just behind him, her unease plain in the way she clutched at her dress.
Killian's grip tightened around the handle of a heavy belaying pin he had quietly taken from near the mast. He did not turn toward her, but his voice dropped, steady and controlled.
"Stay behind my shadow, Sio. Do not meet his eyes—watch his feet. If he steps toward us, you run to the cook's galley. Do you understand?"
She nodded, though he did not look to see it.
The man she feared was known among the passengers as Grady—a creature of the docks more than a proper sailor. He had boarded at Cork, a scavenger with yellowed teeth and hollow, predatory eyes. There was something in his gaze that suggested a soul long since bartered away for drink.
Since the Irish coast had vanished behind them, he had watched the girl.
Tracked her.
In the lawless depths of an emigrant vessel, far from any authority, a young girl was a form of currency. And men like Grady understood all too well that, at sea, accidents occurred with troubling regularity.
Killian did not need to look back to know the man was still there.
Waiting.
Killian knew well enough that he could not face such dangers alone. Fortunately, he was not entirely without allies aboard the vessel.
Some cousins—distant, though bound by blood—had also taken passage. They were not men he would have sought out under ordinary circumstances. They carried a reputation for disorder, for dealings that skirted the edges of legality. It was precisely for that reason he had avoided them at the outset.
Yet necessity had a way of sharpening judgment.
In this new country, he would require protection. And money—above all, money. Honest work might come later, once a foundation had been secured. For now, less reputable means could serve a purpose.
So he turned, Siobhan close behind him, and made his way across the deck.
Grady followed.
Killian did not acknowledge him, though he felt the man's presence like a shadow at his back. There was a certain calculation in it—Grady was waiting, weighing his moment. With land so near, there would soon be buyers, men of means who asked few questions. The girl represented opportunity, and Grady intended to claim it.
Killian, however, had no intention of allowing that future to unfold.
At last, he reached a cabin from which came the sound of rough laughter and the clatter of coin. A place of wagers—of risk, and men accustomed to it.
He knocked.
The door opened a fraction, revealing a broad-shouldered man whose expression quickly hardened.
"You are?"
"Killian Vance," he replied evenly. "Cousin to Cormac."
The man studied him for a moment, then turned his head and called into the room.
"Cormac! There's a Killian here—claims to be your cousin."
A voice answered from within, loud and certain.
"My cousin? Aye, I know him. Let him in—I've business to speak with him."
The man at the door hesitated, his gaze shifting past Killian.
"That bastard Grady is eyeing his sister," he muttered.
A pause—then Cormac's voice again, sharper now.
"That useless dog is still at it? Throw him out. The girl's blood as much as mine."
The door opened wider.
"Fine. Get in, then."
Killian guided Siobhan inside, keeping himself between her and the corridor. As they crossed the threshold, the burly man stepped forward and fixed his gaze past them.
Grady lingered near the wall, half-shadowed, unwilling to retreat.
"You heard him, Grady—get the hell out of here," the man said, his voice loud and edged with sharp authority. His tone darkened as he stepped forward slightly. "Skulking about like a rat in the bilge… Do you think we've forgotten what you are, just because we're at sea?"
Grady attempted a sneer, though it sat poorly on him. His hand twitched near his belt, but he did not advance.
Cormac himself stepped forward then, closing the distance until there was scarcely a hand's breadth between them.
"Look at you," he said, his voice edged with contempt. "A grown man whose trade is the fear of children. You're filth, Grady. Even the sharks trailing this ship would turn from you."
A murmur stirred among the men inside.
"You reckon a child's life is worth a few shillings," Cormac went on, quieter now, though no less dangerous. "But out here… the cheapest thing there is, is a body dropped into the sea in the middle of the night."
He leaned closer, his breath thick with ale.
"If I see your shadow near this door again—if you so much as linger where we stand—I won't settle for throwing you out. You'll be sewn into a weighted sack before we ever sight New York."
Silence followed.
Then, with a slight tilt of his head:
"Now go. Back to whatever darkness you crawled from. Before I decide this ship would be better rid of you entirely."
Grady held his gaze a moment longer. Then his eyes shifted—first to Killian, with open reluctance, and then to the girl. There was calculation in it, and loss. He knew well enough that the coin he had hoped to claim was slipping beyond his reach.
And he knew, too, the men he stood before—and who they answered to.
This was not a fight he could win.
With visible reluctance, he began to step back, slow and measured, as though yielding ground cost him something with each movement.
Then, without another word, he turned—
and disappeared into the dim passage beyond.
