"But father, they were the ones who began the conflict," Isabella replied, her tone restrained, though a trace of indignation remained. "We were only visiting the tavern."
Carlos looked at her sharply.
"And what," he asked, his voice lowering into a quiet, dangerous intensity, "were you doing in a tavern?"
He held her gaze.
"A tavern is a place for men without families. For soldiers seeking to forget themselves, for sailors washing away their sins, for those who have lost direction." A brief pause followed. "It is not a place for a lady of the Gómez House."
He drew a slow breath, mastering his tone before continuing.
"I am not so rigid as to deny you the right to choose your path. I have not forbidden your training, though I have my reservations. But a tavern—" he shook his head slightly, "—is unfit even for most men. And you are thirteen."
Isabella frowned faintly.
"I am capable of defending myself," she replied.
Carlos's expression hardened.
"Do you believe yourself invulnerable?" he asked, the edge returning to his voice. "Strength is not a shield against numbers. If a group of men chose to surround and subdue you, even your grandfather would not walk away unscathed."
He stepped closer.
"And you—" he added, more quietly, "—you have but a year of training."
Isabella winced, though she did not lower her gaze.
"I only wished to see the city," she said after a moment. "The one you are building. I have heard the soldiers speak of it—how different it has become under your command."
A small pause.
"I envied them. So… I convinced Hans and Willi to allow me to come."
Carlos exhaled sharply.
"Do not remind me of those two," he said, casting a brief, severe glance in their direction. Both men kept their heads lowered.
"Do you understand," he continued, addressing Isabella again, "what will follow when this reaches the camp? When your grandfather hears of it?"
His attention shifted.
"And you," he said, now directing his words at Hans and Willi. "Explain yourselves. It is one matter that she wished to come—another entirely that you chose to indulge her."
His tone sharpened.
"Krugger entrusted you with her safety. Not with obedience to her whims."
Neither man answered.
There was nothing to say.
Carlos gestured toward the carriage with the belt still in his hand.
"Inside," he said. "We will continue this discussion at the mansion."
They obeyed without hesitation.
The carriage doors closed, and within moments the small convoy departed, wheels rolling steadily over the stone streets as the city continued its restless motion around them.
Behind them, however, the story did not remain still.
By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon, the incident had already begun to spread—altered, expanded, and reshaped with each telling, carried across the city in every language spoken within it.
Among the Irish laborers, the tale took on a fierce admiration. In the barracks, they spoke of the General's daughter as a Banshee of the Andes—a figure of cold resolve who had faced multiple Frenchmen without hesitation, her spirit echoing that of her father in battle.
In the French quarter, the tone was different.
The injured engineers, tended with the very medicine Carlos had paid for, spoke bitterly of what they called a "Prussian trap." To them, Isabella represented something unsettling—the rigid, uncompromising discipline now replacing the revolutionary ideals they had carried from Paris.
And among the criollo families, the whispers were sharper still.
From balconies and shaded courtyards, the old houses spoke not of the fight itself, but of what it suggested.
"A daughter who drinks among soldiers," they murmured, "is a sign of disorder."
Their concern, however, was not truly Isabella.
It was Carlos.
While the criollo elite whispered behind lace fans about the decline of propriety, a very different account began to take shape in the chicherías and shared barracks of the working class.
Among the common people—the mestizo porter, the displaced farmer, the immigrant laborer—Isabella's actions were not seen as a scandal.
They were seen as something else.
A sign.
For the mestizos in particular, the rigid etiquette of the old Viceroyalty had long served as a tool of exclusion—a quiet but constant reminder of their place beneath others. To see the daughter of the most powerful man in the faction disregard those rules so openly carried meaning beyond the incident itself.
There were already rumors that Carlos intended to name a new nation.
And now—
His own daughter had broken with the customs of the old order.
To many, that was no coincidence.
In the lower quarters, the interpretation spread quickly.
They did not want a distant, delicate figure—untouched by hardship.
They wanted a leader who understood the weight of the world they lived in.
A leader of the mud.
Among the farmers and laborers, the story grew further. It was said that Isabella carried within her the fire of the mountains—that same stubborn, unyielding force that had shaped the land itself. A girl who could stand against foreign men without hesitation was, in their eyes, one who might one day stand against invaders.
Thus, while the upper houses spoke of shame—
The streets spoke of strength.
Within the mansion, however, the atmosphere was far less divided.
Francisco's expression was severe.
The rumors themselves did not trouble him greatly. Had he cared so much for appearances, he would never have permitted Isabella's training under Krugger. But this—this was different.
His daughter had not merely defied convention.
She had acted without restraint. In public. And worse—she had drawn her guards into it.
That crossed a line.
After a long moment of thought, he reached a quiet conclusion.
Isabella required instruction—not in war, but in conduct.
Not the elaborate refinements expected of courtly marriages—those he considered of secondary importance—but the essential discipline of presence. Enough to ensure she understood where she stood, and how she must act within it.
Carlos spoke first.
"You two," he said, turning toward Hans and Willi, "report to the captain of the mansion. He will deal with you."
Both men nodded at once and withdrew without protest.
Carlos then looked at Isabella.
For a moment, he seemed about to speak further. Instead, he exhaled slowly.
"Go to your room," he said. "We will speak tomorrow. I have no wish to continue this tonight."
Isabella studied his expression. There was no anger left in it—only distance.
That, more than anything, told her the moment was not one to test.
She nodded quietly.
Before turning, her gaze lingered briefly on Hans and Willi—an unspoken apology in her eyes. Their situation, she knew, had been caused by her own decision.
Then she departed, making her way through the corridors toward her chamber, where her father resided during his time in Medellín.
Carlos remained where he stood for a moment longer before turning toward his office.
At the doorway, he addressed one of the servants.
"Send for the butler," he said. "I require a word."
The servant inclined his head and departed at once. In such moments, even minor errors could carry consequence.
Inside the office, Carlos closed the door behind him.
He moved to his chair—a heavy piece of mahogany—and sat, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight. From a small case, he took his tobacco and lit it, drawing in a slow breath before exhaling.
The smoke drifted upward, curling through the dim light.
Around him, the walls were lined with maps of the New Kingdom of Granada—marked, annotated, revised. Lines of control. Supply routes. Points of conflict.
The silence in the room was dense.
Beyond the walls, Medellín continued its restless motion. The distant ring of metal on metal echoed faintly, accompanied by the steady pacing of guards outside.
Carlos leaned back, watching the smoke disperse.
His thoughts refused to settle.
They moved restlessly, one upon another, like a storm that would not break.
The rumors did not trouble him. Being called a barbarian—ruthless, excessive—was not, in itself, a danger. On the contrary, such a reputation could serve a man attempting to build a nation from the remnants of an empire. Fear, when properly directed, was often more useful than admiration.
Nor was he truly opposed to Isabella's training.
In times such as these, a daughter incapable of defending herself was not a virtue—it was a weakness. The world did not forgive weakness.
But the tavern—
That was another matter.
A tavern was not merely a place. It was a symbol. It belonged to men without restraint—to the drunk, the desperate, the ones who had lost direction or chosen to abandon it. Disorder gathered there, even when it appeared contained.
And Isabella—
His daughter. The future of what he was trying to build—
had placed herself in the middle of it.
He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate before him.
It was not only that she had fought. Nor even that she had drawn blood.
It was how it had happened.
Shattered bottles. Raised voices. Engineers—men he had spent considerable resources to bring across an ocean—reduced to bruised bodies on a tavern floor.
It was not simply a failure of conduct.
It was a failure of discipline.
Of judgment.
And, in a way he did not care to name—
A failure that reflected back upon him.
