PREVIOUSLY.
[I let all the air out of my lungs in a trembling sigh and leaned against the doorframe, feeling my legs fail me from sheer relief. A nervous, tearful laugh escaped my lips.
They were fine... My family was fine.
Amidst the whirlwind of emotions and the deafening rush of my own blood roaring in my ears, the attendant kept speaking, but my mind was already on the other side of that door. I didn't even notice when he told me whether the creature that had just been born to inherit this strange and vast world was a boy or a girl.]
----
2 months later.
Year 15 of the SuaChie Calendar, Second Month (April 1497).
Lake Mountain City (Valledupar, Colombia), Coquivacoa Region (LR).
Meeting Room I, Council House.
The crisp air descending from the peaks of Lake Mountain City drifted through the wide windows of Meeting Room I, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and the distant stillness of the mountain.
I leaned back in the carved wooden chair and let the silence of the room envelop me. Over the passing days, I had grown unexpectedly fond of this space, with its solid walls and colorful tapestries.
Two months had already passed since that whirlwind of panic and relief culminated in the birth of my first son: SuaChie Hynyia.
I savored the name in my mind as I watched the slight flicker of the oil lamps' flames on my desk.
His arrival into the world had unleashed unprecedented euphoria; the new year's celebration, just over a month ago, had been fervent and boundless across all the macro-regions of the Suaza Kingdom.
Even with me being far from Central City, reports indicated that the people in the capital had celebrated in the streets as if I were there among them.
I deeply appreciated the immense affection the people showed my son, but at the same time, his fragile existence had awakened in me a visceral, animalistic protective instinct; one that, with my former modern mindset, I never expected to possess with such intensity.
It was precisely that overwhelming need to protect him that kept me anchored in the Coquivacoa region, when I could have easily returned on my own to the urgent matters in the Caribá region.
I wanted—needed—to be present for every second of Hynyia's first months of life, and, above all, to care for Nyia, who was still navigating the delicate process of recovery.
To my immense fortune, and as a blessing I thanked the gods for in my moments of quietude, both had emerged from the birth remarkably well.
Hynyia, for his part, had been born demonstrating overwhelming vitality. I shifted my gaze to a thick logistics report, but my eyes unfocused as I remembered, and a physical shudder ran down my spine.
That blessed vitality manifested itself, to the absolute exhaustion of both Nyia and me, in powerful and endless nocturnal wailing. I passed a hand over my face, feeling the ghost of those consecutive sleepless nights, of pacing the stone corridors cradling a tireless little lung.
Fortunately, we were not alone in the battle. Nyia was learning the art of motherhood from expert hands: her own mother and Za, my mother. It was something I appreciated from the very bottom of my soul.
Moreover, that maddening crying phase that still made me shudder came to an almost miraculous halt when both women intervened, helping us, the young and inexperienced couple, to calm and care for little Hynyia.
Motherhood, however, had transformed Nyia. My sweet and artistic wife had become a fiercely protective woman, a lioness ready to tear off heads at the slightest threat to her cub.
That attitude led to our first real "fight."
Knowing the child was vulnerable, I had suggested subjecting him to variolation; after all, the method had proven to be a resounding success with the children at the Royal Orphanage, and I myself had passed the trial after inoculating myself.
But to Nyia, the mere idea of bringing the disease near her baby was a declaration of war. Her dark eyes flashed with fury, and for a couple of days, the air between us was pure ice.
Luckily for me, the conflict was resolved thanks to the diplomatic intervention of the doctors and priests, who backed my suggestion with firm scientific and spiritual conviction.
I rested my elbows on the desk and let out a weary sigh that brought with it a half-smile.
"Women..." I murmured to the emptiness of the office, shaking my head with affection.
Not everything had been tension and diapers these past months. I had also been able to share a great deal of time with my little sister, Chaza. Just as I had expected, the girl had grown hopelessly attached to Hynyia. She would peer into the crib with her large, curious eyes and, with that adorable solemnity of toddlers, had promised to protect him from any harm.
I took a sip of fresh water to clear my throat and began reviewing the state planning scrolls for the current year. I stopped halfway through the first parchment, blinking in surprise.
I realized that, for the first time since the official formation of our kingdom, my workload had drastically decreased.
The majority of the entries on my schedule consisted of purely protocolary meetings, reviews of consolidated reports, or simple appearances at ceremonies that I considered fundamental for public morale.
Of course, this tranquility was fragile; I did not dismiss the possibility of sudden changes in plans depending on the erratic movements of allied kingdoms or our declared enemies.
The word "enemies" soured the taste of the water in my mouth.
Something that I knew for a fact and that weighed heavily upon me, like a stone on my chest, were the constant clashes with the Mexicas. Although the war had not been a continuous frontal assault, we had already spent years embroiled in peripheral conflicts that seemed to have no end in sight.
The truly tragic part of this situation, what kept me awake when Hynyia didn't, was that many innocent people had been dragged to the slaughter. It wasn't our disciplined Suaza warriors falling, but the inhabitants of the independent local lordships; those who, like Tlaxcala, upon receiving our direct aid with bronze tools or medicine, had been immediately branded as enemies of Tenochtitlan, suffering brutal massacres.
Despite the bloodshed, the political chessboard showed cracks in our favor.
According to the information handled by intelligence, part of the Triple Alliance was fracturing from within.
Specifically, the partisans of the renewed lordship of Texcoco, under the subtle command of the Tlatoani Nezahualpilli, were increasingly limiting Tenochtitlan's military actions. The winds of separation, fueled by internal intrigue, were feeling thicker by the day.
I unrolled the last document in the pile. It was an encrypted report sent directly from Tenochtitlan by Painalli, our undercover agent beneath the guise of a Mexica nobleman.
As my eyes scanned the symbols detailing the state of the enemy shipyards he himself was in charge of, a spark of memory crossed my mind. I mentally reviewed the calendar of maritime movements.
I pressed my lips together, calculating the oceanic distances. Right around these dates, thousands of kilometers away in the arid lands of the Guanza Quyca, Soca should finally be receiving his official summons to return to the kingdom.
…
Two months later.
Year 15 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fourth Month (June 1497).
Dawn City (Santiago de Cuba, Cuba), Caribá Region (FRFI).
Chuta's Office, Stone Manor.
A little over two months later, the salty, humid sea air drifted through the wide windows of my personal office. I was finally back at Stone Manor, in the urban heart of the city.
My fingers absentmindedly traced the routes drawn on a map spread across the heavy mahogany desk. I was mentally preparing for the imminent summit with the vice governors of each of the kingdom's macro-regions.
This month marked exactly two years since the official formation of these macro-regions, a monumental restructuring that I had personally discussed and planned with Zasaba some time ago to ensure our long-term survival and overcome our traditional border limitations.
For this anniversary, reading figures on a piece of paper wasn't enough; I needed to hear the true situation firsthand, observe their gestures, and understand the landscape through the very words of the political actors.
However, despite the strategic importance of the event, a cold, heavy knot had settled in my stomach. I had been forced to leave little Hynyia in Lake Mountain City. Remaining alongside him were Nyia—my beloved wife, ever the botany expert and passionate about her painting—her parents, and my own mother, Za.
Neither I nor anyone in their right mind wanted to risk such a small baby to the rigors and dangers of a journey of that distance.
The plan dictated that, in about two more months, when Hynyia passed the half-year mark and his immune system was stronger, he and Nyia would relocate to Central City, where they would both receive all necessary medical care and the little one would be completely safe in the capital.
I let out a long, broken sigh while reading some encrypted reports delivered by Zasaba, the leader of the Shadows.
Melancholy clouded my vision. I would be separated from my wife and my firstborn son for several months; the harsh reality struck me as I realized I would only see them again for the little one's first birthday.
That profound sadness was not mine alone.
The manor, usually brimming with activity and laughter, felt steeped in a strangely cold, almost lugubrious atmosphere. Umza and Turey wandered the halls with drooping shoulders.
Both had grown hopelessly fond of Hynyia, and this was, moreover, the first time since they met Turey that the three women of the house would be separated.
The emotional impact was so dense that even Umza's inexhaustible and chaotic energy had been completely extinguished. Left behind were her intense outbursts and her fiercely competitive attitude to conceive a child for the kingdom.
Now, Umza had halted all her madness and ambitions. She silently took refuge in her work, dedicating her days and nights exclusively to the monthly publication of the kingdom's official diary and the city's local gazette—a communications project she had initially rejected with disdain.
Just as I found myself rubbing my temples, sighing again at the memory of my baby's warm breath, three sharp knocks on the oak door echoed in the office, pulling me from my reverie.
"Come in," I instructed, clearing my throat.
An aide crossed the threshold, gave a quick bow, and stood at attention.
"My Lord, forgive the interruption. I have just received word from the bay that Chancellor Soca's ship has just docked at the port."
The news made me sit up straight in my chair.
Soca!
The Chancellor of Desert Oasis City, returned from the scorching lands of the Guanza Quyca.
I nodded, feeling a bit of the weight in my chest lift at the prospect of seeing an old friend.
"Excellent. Go and arrange immediately, alongside Zasaba's office, everything necessary for the rest of Soca and his entourage. Have them prepare for his integration into tomorrow's meeting."
The aide nodded with martial obedience, formally took his leave, and closed the door, leaving me once again alone with the sound of the distant waves.
The next morning.
The sun shone with relentless intensity over the city. I left the manor surrounded by my usual escort of guards and aides, making my way on foot through the cobbled streets toward the imposing Council House.
The journey was, as usual, a bath in the crowds. The citizens, possessing the most diverse origins and features that showcased the expansion of our empire, crowded the sides of the road, craning their necks and waving their hands.
Despite the hollow in my chest, I made the effort to approach the front rows, shaking hands and returning greetings, feeling the genuine warmth of my people.
After a few minutes of walking through the sea of humanity, the high pillars of the government building rose before us.
Guided by the staff on site, I entered the compound, leaving behind the bustle of the street. The echo of my boots rang out in the antechamber until the grand double doors of the meeting hall swung wide open.
As I crossed the threshold, the sound of scraping chairs filled the vast, ornate hall.
All the vice governors present stood up in unison, rigid as statues, in an impeccable display of respect. No one moved a muscle; all eyes were fixed on me, and they only dared to sit when I finally took my place at the main seat at the head of the table.
I swept my gaze over their expectant faces.
"Greetings, everyone," I said.
My words were meant to be cordial, but they came out dragged, cloaked in a cold, harsh tinge, devoid of my usual enthusiasm.
I didn't mean to sound so formal or distant, but the heavy emotional burden of being separated from my little boy had poisoned my tone. I instantly reprimanded myself internally for letting my feelings bleed into my state duties, but the damage was already done.
The vice governors, ever alert to my moods, interpreted my polar coldness as an unequivocal sign that I had uncovered grave errors in their administration. Instantly, they went pale, rigid, and visibly tense.
"Greetings, Son of Heaven," they replied in a chorus, their voices stifled and nervous.
And then... nothing. An absolute, heavy, and uncomfortable silence took hold of the room. They cast sidelong glances at one another, terrified of being the first to speak.
Attempting to dispel the fog of terror I had inadvertently summoned, I began the meeting trying to project calm.
"I am deeply grateful for the presence of all of you here today. I hope your journeys from your respective regions were peaceful and without incident."
The silence persisted. No one interjected or nodded.
Seeing that fear had paralyzed them, I decided that the only way to move forward was to shake them to their core, entirely uprooting the traditional manner in which we conducted these meetings. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the carved table.
"Very well, since we are so quiet, we will do something different today. I do not want to hear your praises or the green numbers of your harvests," I declared, my voice echoing off the stone walls. "I want you to start by giving me the bad management data. The failures, the crises, and the real problems of each of your regions."
The eyes of several attendees widened, exchanging glances of genuine stupor.
"And so, you see that this standard applies to everyone," I added, fixing my gaze on the representatives of our home territory, "we will begin by analyzing the Caribá Region itself."
The surprise morphed into an incredulous murmur. Some of them, veterans who had participated in numerous executive meetings before, blinked in astonishment; in all the short but intense administrative history of the kingdom, proceedings had never been conducted in such a manner.
The vice governor of the Caribá region—Governor Foza's second-in-command—swallowed hard. The sound was harsh, almost deafening amidst the sepulchral and tense silence I had brought upon the Council House hall. With visibly trembling hands, the man began to frantically leaf through his thick stack of parchments.
I heard the crinkle of paper and the rustle of dry ink as his eyes desperately searched for some shipyard chart or a minor customs report that he could cleverly disguise as a "failure." But it was useless; nothing he had meticulously prepared among his pages seemed able to answer my strange and unprecedented request.
Seeing a drop of cold sweat slide down his temple, the pressure in my chest eased a little.
I did not want to rule through fear; I needed leaders who could see reality. Aware of his panic, I leaned toward him and urged him, in a much softer tone, to set the papers aside.
"Explain it to me in your own words," I asked, looking him in the eyes. "What do you personally feel has been done poorly during these first two years in your region?"
The vice governor dropped the documents as if the ink burned, closed his eyes for a moment, and took a long, agonizing time to think. When he finally spoke, his voice resonated with a vulnerability unusual for a politician of his rank.
"Son of Heaven... I feel that the disaster of the recent massive hurricane could have been vastly mitigated. Had we adopted the kingdom's standardized construction as a general rule, using the proper foundations and reinforcements, the winds would not have claimed so many lives."
The man clenched his fists on the table, ashamed.
"Due to our passivity regarding some of the chiefdoms and the more 'independent' tribes, we did not want to enforce the regulations to avoid territorial friction. Because of that political tepidness, those vital infrastructure measures were delayed, and in many villages, completely halted."
I leaned back in my seat, processing his words. It was the kind of painful self-criticism I needed to hear. Satisfied with such a level of sincerity, I questioned him again:
"And tell me, what have you and Foza himself done to resolve this weakness?"
The vice governor straightened his back, and a spark of genuine pride replaced the fear in his eyes.
"In the devastated zones, we have taken charge of rebuilding the affected villages strictly using the kingdom's construction standard, just as the engineers dictate. Furthermore, thanks to an intensive campaign proposed by me, we have managed to convince the vast majority of the minor local leaders. We offered them a deal: with the direct material aid of the regional government, they could rebuild or improve their homes and buildings, provided they adhered to the new safety blueprints."
I offered a smile of pure approval and nodded. Without thinking, I raised my hands and began to clap softly. The sound broke the ice in the hall. As if by an instinctive and natural reaction, the rest of the vice governors relaxed and joined in, filling the room with collective applause, sincerely congratulating the man for his brilliant diplomatic maneuvering.
The vice governor of Caribá, utterly surprised by such a display of appreciation in a meeting he thought would be his verbal execution, nodded to everyone, his face flushed, biting his lip in a failed attempt to hide his happiness.
When the echoes of the applause faded, I addressed him to congratulate him directly.
"You have done an excellent job," I told him in a solemn voice. "I too deeply mourned what happened back then. The deaths tormented me with guilt, and I learned the hard way that I am not a leader capable of controlling the wind. Even I, and the central government, should have been much more vigilant to prevent and send aid in time."
I took a strategic pause, letting my own admission of guilt sink in with them, and seized their attention to launch my new directive.
"Let me explain that, as a direct result of this tragedy, a new shared information system will be created. Starting today, information about our mistakes, our successes, and the different measures you take, will be documented and treated as vital intelligence for the administration of all the territories in the kingdom."
From the middle of the table, the vice governor of the immense, jungle-covered Roraimá region frowned slightly, somewhat confused.
"Forgive me, My Lord, but what exactly does this measure entail?" he asked.
"It will be something akin to a master management manual," I replied immediately. "A constantly updated compendium detailing the most optimal administrative measures, the passive practices that must be avoided at all costs, and the direct actions to implement in the face of various crises and situations."
The vice governor of the Eyadobida region raised a hesitant hand.
"Will military actions and tactics also be included within that same information system?"
I nodded partially, conceding the point.
"There will be a similar and complementary manual, but it will be strictly separated for security. It will be your regional generals who will have full access to such a tactical document."
Wide-eyed, the vice governors nodded in unison, picked up their quills, and began taking frantic notes on all of the above.
Taking advantage of the sound of graphite against paper, I returned to the central topic of the natural disaster.
"Speaking of the hurricane, I want to take a moment to personally thank the vice governor of the Karinamá region for the timely, swift, and massive aid they provided to the neighboring areas right after the storm passed."
Once again, I initiated the applause, and the entire hall erupted in congratulations toward him.
The man stood up and, with profound and sincere humility, bowed to me and to his peers.
"The merit is not mine. It was all part of Governor Kamui's contingency plan. He has taught us by example that, as members of the same great family, all regions should help each other without reservations or conditions."
I nodded, feeling a warm pride in my chest at seeing Kamui's ironclad loyalty confirmed. Satisfied with the man's performance, I decided it was the perfect moment to announce the biggest structural change of the day.
"It is under that very spirit of family that I announce today the promulgation of new national emergency measures to face these situations."
I rested my palms flat on the desk, adopting an immovable posture.
"First. Starting today, there will always be large-scale warehouses at our disposal, fully stocked with non-perishable food, medicine, and emergency materials. They will be strategically located in the most important ports of our territory, both on the oceanic coasts and along the passage of the great rivers, such as the Suaza River or the Karinamá River. In this way, no city will depend entirely on awaiting material support from other distant regions."
The relief was palpable in the room, but I didn't give them time to fully digest it.
"Second. A designated branch of the 2nd Army Division, our Civil Guard, will redirect its efforts... From now on, they will focus on intensive training for emergency situations and rescue operations. To properly equip them, I will personally request the scholars of the Simte Academy and the offices of the Civil Innovation Department, directed by Ubatas, the exclusive creation of new equipment, tools, and modified weaponry to face the wrath of nature."
The silence that filled the hall after my words was charged with pure, astounded stupefaction. The monumental announcement had taken them by storm.
While the measure to unify information and the idea of creating great supply centers for emergencies was something pragmatic that they themselves expected, and that perhaps in some of their most battered regions they were already planning on a small scale, the rest exceeded their imagination.
The creation of a highly specialized military corps dedicated to saving lives rather than taking them, and the direct inclusion of the most brilliant minds from the development institutions to combat disasters, were entirely beyond their thoughts.