PREVIOUSLY.
[He left the word half-spoken.
Something lit up in his eyes. It wasn't joy. It was the kind of stillness that follows a discovery, when the piece being sought has been in one's hand the whole time. Soca's gaze remained fixed on me, and I watched him gather, one by one, the things he had just said and the things he had kept silent.
I nodded.
"That was the goal from the beginning," I said. "To bring a piece of us to every corner of the world. Through the overseas territories, yes, but also through something much simpler, and at the same time much more complex, like trade."]
----
One week later.
Year 15 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fourth Month (June 1497).
Dawn City (Santiago de Cuba, Cuba), Caribá Region (FRFI).
Main office, Port Security Building.
From the high window of the port security building, Dawn City looked like a sleeping animal in the sun. The pale stone roofs stepped down toward the water, and between them thin, straight tendrils of smoke rose from the forges, for that morning not a breath of breeze was blowing.
It smelled of warm tar, of fish set out to dry on the dock racks, and of the thick moisture that rises from wood after hours under the sun. Seagulls cried over the iron crane on the third pier, and beneath that noise, constant as a heartbeat, came the snapping of ropes as they pulled taut.
The main office was full without being crowded.
My usual aides were spread out along the wall with their folders, two guards waited on either side of the door with spears resting against their shoulders, and at the desks in the back four port officials pretended to review cargo manifests.
One of them had spent a quarter of an hour stamping the exact same page. I could have told them there was no need for pretense, but I had learned that sometimes people need their charade to bear the proximity of the one in command.
Today I had come to watch, not to say goodbye.
I had already said goodbye to Soca the previous week, in the private meeting, when everything that could be said was spoken. A public farewell, with horns and flags and speeches on the dock, would have been something else: an act by the Leader toward his Chancellor. What I wanted was different. I wanted to see how the man moved whom I had just handed, without ceremony, the fate of all the kingdom's settlements in Guanza Quyca.
Down below, Soca's retinue was finishing boarding.
I could single him out by the sand-colored tunic, standing still on the deck while the sailors bustled around him casting off lines. He gave no orders. Nor did he look up toward the building. His head was turned toward the open sea, as if he had already crossed the ocean in his mind and was waiting for his body to catch up.
The ship separated from the pier with a deep groan of wood. On the sails, the silver moon over the golden sun unfolded heavily and hung loose, with no wind to move it.
I rested my forehead against the window frame. The stone was warm.
I remembered Soca's face that day, when I told him that the kingdom, overseas, would not last forever.
He had taken a long time to speak. After my last sentence, about trade and culture, he remained so long with his eyes fixed on the road map that I began to think he hadn't heard a thing. When he finally looked up, his voice came out worn, like a cable that had carried too much weight.
"And the people, Leader? Those who live there. Those born in those cities, those who came with us. Will they cease to belong to the kingdom?"
The question held no anger. It held the fear of a man who has laid foundations and discovers there might be no house built above them.
I understood that he had grasped the core of it—that we wouldn't cast them aside in the near future—but something in his body resisted the image left behind. To him, what I was describing was a kingdom leaving them to their fate, looking ahead.
"No," I told him. "Never. They will always belong to the kingdom. Those born there and those who arrived. And those who one day wish to return will be able to, because they will have their place here. And if any migrant seeks a new future and knocks on that door, the door will be open."
Soca nodded, and he did it fully, with his entire head, with his neck. But his eyes were still full of doubts, and I didn't strip them away. Some doubts are better left to resolve on their own.
On the dock, the sailors retrieved the last line. A guard coughed behind me, without malice, and returned to his stillness.
I kept watching. The ship was beginning to tack toward the mouth of the harbor, slow, with that heavy weight of large vessels that seem as if they won't obey, yet do.
We had remained a full minute without speaking, that day, after his silence.
It surprised me that it didn't feel uncomfortable. Outside, in the courtyard of Stone Manor, a maid had sung a little Tairona song without knowing anyone was listening. When she finished, I knew it was time.
"I am going to tell you something I have not said out loud to anyone," I began. "Personally, I hope that from this expansion, in time, great kingdoms are born. From yours, from those of the north, from those of the other ocean. Kingdoms like ours."
Soca looked at me. First without understanding. Then understanding far too much. His mouth opened, he tried to say something that wouldn't come out, tried something else and it came out half-clipped, half-choked in his throat. He swallowed so audibly I heard it from across the desk.
"So..." he began, and stopped, and started again. "So you want us to be the origin of a kingdom."
"Yes."
"Leader..." He lowered his voice almost to a whisper, glancing sideways at the door as if the walls might betray him. "That would be betraying the kingdom."
He said it with fear. Not fear of me, but of the words. He was a man who had crossed an ocean to carry out an order, and he was being asked to imagine the end of that order.
"Yes," I replied, with the simplicity of someone who has nothing to hide. "That is what it would be, seen one way. But I don't see it like that."
I watched him shift tensely in his chair.
"Look at the world, Soca. We almost know all of it now. And everywhere, every culture grew on its own, with its own traits, its gods by other names, its way of greeting, of eating, of burying its dead. Nothing looks entirely like anything else. You know this better than I do. You are Chancellor of a territory where the local and what we brought coexist on every street. You've seen with your own eyes how much it differs from what you'd see in Dawn or Central."
Soca nodded. This time for real.
Then he did something I didn't expect. He stared at me with a different kind of attention, that of someone who has just measured the depth of a well and decides, despite everything, to step closer to the edge. Confidence returned to his face—not completely, but in a way distinct from before, grounded firmer to the floor.
"What do you want me to do, Leader?"
I felt a resignation in my chest that I struggled to conceal. I offered a brief smile, the kind that doesn't reach the eyes.
"I'd like to tell you simply to follow your instinct," I said. "To do what you think is best. It's what you would do, and it would probably turn out well. But that wouldn't be honest. I must give you instructions, and some advice you might not want to hear."
"I will do as you say," he answered, without pause.
It was hard to bear that loyalty without having earned it. I waited for the feeling to pass.
"First. From now on, you and your peers, the other chancellors of the settlements, will be de facto regional governors. Without a formal title, yet. But you will act on your own, without waiting for my permission for every step."
Soca leaned forward as if he hadn't heard correctly.
"Governor?" His voice almost cracked. "Me?"
"You."
He looked at me for a long while without saying anything, his hands open on his knees, motionless, as if he had forgotten what they were for.
"Second," I continued. "You must grow as fast as you can, but always strengthening the foundations before building another floor. You know this better than I do, having actually built things. Go to every oppressed village, to every minority others have set aside. Stay with them as long as necessary. And show them the will of the gods."
Soca nodded again. His eyes had changed; they were no longer looking for an exit. They had found a task.
"And I warn you of one more thing. Kingdoms will come, cultures will come, knocking at your door. With different goals. Some sincere. Others not. And you must always be careful with..."
A dry, discreet cough pulled me from the memory.
It was my aide. He had taken a step closer behind me, his folder pressed tightly against his side, looking at me with that mix of respect and urgency I knew so well.
"Leader Chuta," he said softly. "Excuse me. The meeting with those selected by the Chamber of Commerce and their leaders awaits you at the Council House."
"Are they already there?"
"For a short while now."
I nodded. I turned my gaze back to the window.
The ship had reached the mouth of the harbor. The sails, now indeed, had caught some air, and the silver moon over the golden sun was tilting and filling out, a real moon and sun moving across the water, growing smaller and smaller. Soca remained on deck. From that distance, he was nothing more than a sand-colored dot against the blue.
"Good luck," I whispered. And I didn't know if I was saying it to him or to what I had asked him to carry.
I turned around. The guards straightened their spears, the aides gathered their folders with a rustle of papers, and the officials in the back, finally free from pretending, let out their breath. I crossed the room with a firm step, and behind me the retinue set off—footsteps on wood, the clinking of buckles, the murmur of people following someone headed elsewhere.
On the staircase, echoing from the dock, the horn of the departing ship sounded just once, deep and long. Something in me followed it until it died away.
We stepped out into the noon light, on our way to the Council House.
Upon crossing the threshold, the midday heat was left behind like a coat someone had lifted from my shoulders, leaving only the cool dampness of the thick stones.
Inside, it smelled of polished cedar, beeswax, and beneath all that, a fresh varnish that had not yet fully dried.
Zasaba was waiting at the foot of the stairs.
He wore his usual long, gray tunics, of a cut so unassuming it wouldn't have drawn attention in any market in the city, with his hands joined at stomach height like a scribe awaiting the signature of a contract.
He had the look of a bored, almost distracted man. He would pass unnoticed in any room. I knew, having known him for years, that this distraction was the surface of a very deep lake, and that few people in the kingdom had seen more things with less effort. That was why I had put him in charge of everything that had no name... Why I called him, only in my head, the First of Shadows.
"Leader Chuta," he said, with a minimal bow.
"Zasaba." I extended my forearm to him, and he took it with the dry firmness of someone who needs to prove nothing. "How are the preparations?"
"Everything is done according to your instructions and Chewa's arrangements." The corner of his mouth barely twitched. "Follow me."
We went up together. The aides stayed a pace behind, the guards split to either side of the door, and Zasaba opened the double doors of the hall with an open palm, unhurriedly.
I stopped at the threshold.
The main meeting hall, which I knew for its tables, maps, and long discussions, had vanished.
At the back, where the ministers' dais used to stand, a stage of cedar planks had been erected—new, with the wood grain still vibrant—bordered by two raw cotton curtains that stirred gently in the breeze from the windows.
In front of it, where the tables had been, rows of armchairs and chairs were arranged in a semicircle, separated by a central aisle. Someone had lit small braziers with copal resin to drive away the smell of varnish, and the bluish smoke rose straight toward the rafters.
Along the sides, against the walls, people stood waiting.
I saw them one by one as I made my way between the armchairs. They were young, mostly, wearing clean tunics that had been ironed for the occasion and were already beginning to wrinkle under the warmth of their hands. Some carried bundles wrapped in cloth. Others held writing tablets against their chests.
No one spoke to each other. As I passed, several straightened their backs and lowered their eyes, and I felt the weight of those gazes like a warm pressure on the back of my neck.
I greeted those from the Chamber as I encountered them. Each greeting brought its phrase, its small courtesy, and I returned them one by one.
Today's event was a competition. It had been my idea, originally of a much smaller nature than what now lay before me.
At first, we had only opened the door to students from the regional technical Academies and the Simte Academy: whoever had an idea, a project, a business on paper, could present it to a committee and receive funds to carry it out.
Few signed up, fewer were funded, and I myself had forgotten about half of them.
But when the first results appeared—a tannery workshop in the south, a fishermen's cooperative in the islands—the rumor spread through the regions like the smoke from those braziers. And then the Suaza Chamber of Commerce decided this wasn't an academic pastime, but a goldmine. They took charge of it, elevated it, gave it a stage and a panel of judges. They were even talking about a second edition for the following year or the year after.
I sank into the main armchair in front of the stage, the leather creaking with a short groan.
I took in the whole picture. The room, the stage, the investors scattered across their chairs with crossed legs and the expression of someone who has come to buy or not buy, the young people clinging to the walls with their hearts in their throats.
And suddenly the image folded over an older one, of a screen, of a blue light in a windowless room: men and women in suits deciding between bites how much a stranger's dream was worth.
Sharks, they used to call them. I almost laughed. The only things missing were the cameras and a host with overly perfect hair.
I haven't even said a word and I've already done it again, I thought.
Zasaba sat to my left without my noticing him move.
Chewa took the stage amidst applause.
He was dressed with more care than usual, a dark blue tunic with silver trim that fell straight to his ankles. He stopped at the center of the boards. He waited for the last applause to die down with his hands clasped behind his back, and then let his gaze sweep across the entire room, slowly, like someone counting merchandise.
"Good afternoon, everyone," he said, his voice filling the hall effortlessly. "Officials, members of the Chamber, participants. And Leader Chuta, who honors us with his presence."
I nodded with a brief gesture.
"I won't give you speeches," he continued. "We are here to listen. The projects will be presented in random order, drawn by lot. No favoritism, no privileged regions, no friends."
He signaled with his chin. Two aides stepped forward from one side of the stage carrying an open wooden box between them, placing it on a small table. Inside was a pile of folded papers.
Chewa walked over to it slowly. There was no need to act like that. He took his time, letting his footsteps echo on the planks, and with every step I saw the young people along the walls tense up.
He reached his hand into the box. He stirred. He pulled out a paper and unfolded it with two fingers.
"Project number twelve," he read. "Achagua-Nirua Region."
A movement by the right wall. A man of about twenty separated himself from the wall as if he had been pushed, setting off toward the stage with steps that were too long, then too short. He carried a cloth-wrapped bundle under his arm.
Reaching the center of the stage, he turned toward the room and found every eye set on him—rows and rows of faces staring back, and among them, mine. He held my gaze for an instant. Then he looked away.
He was pale. His hands were damp, and he wiped them once, quickly, against his tunic. He took a breath—a deep breath, the kind taken before diving underwater.
"My name is Aca," he said. His voice came out lower than he expected, and he cleared his throat to start again. "I am an arts student at the Simte Academy."
And the room shuddered.
It wasn't a loud noise. It was a murmur of low voices, of bodies shifting in armchairs, of throats clearing. On the faces of several Chamber members, that icy courtesy settled—the look of someone who has already decided not to invest and is only waiting for the formality to end.
I understood them. I really did.
They were men of trade, of numbers and routes. They had seen the kingdom's commerce grow into a network that breathed on its own, and they knew which goods moved and which didn't. And the kingdom's art did not move.
Whoever bought art here was the Central Government, which in practice meant me, and I mostly bought pieces from abroad: portraits from other courts, vessels from other seas, fabrics that had never touched native hands. They had no reason to believe in the future of a paintbrush at home.
That was my fault.
I noted it in some corner of my mind with all the clarity my memory allowed. We had to give the kingdom's art the place it deserved. And for that I needed Nyia and her eye, and her quiet way of knowing what things mattered regarding art.
When she had a free moment, when she stepped away for a bit from little SuaChie Hynyia—whom she was raising with a care and love that left me speechless—I would propose a few measures to her.
The murmur kept growing. I saw Aca shrink slightly, that hunching of the shoulders of someone expecting a blow and trying not to let it show. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
I thought about the filters. The projects reaching this stage had already passed through the hands of experts at the Simte Academy, and through those of my sister, who let nothing pass without sifting it three times. If that boy was standing there, it wasn't by whim. Someone had looked him in the eye and seen something.
"Continue, Aca," I said.
I didn't raise my voice. It wasn't necessary. Aca looked at me, and for a moment it seemed he was going to cry, or laugh. He did neither.
He straightened up. His shoulders dropped half an inch, and the hand holding the bundle stopped trembling.
"My project," he said, and this time his voice came out firm, "is about supporting the spread of the kingdom's knowledge... And helping education."
Nothing.
Not another murmur was heard. No huffs, no arched eyebrows, no icy courtesies. The room fell quiet in a different way—attentive, almost respectful.
Everyone present knew what the word "education" weighed in my mouth. They knew I had changed rules, budgets, and even road routes for its sake, and more than one person suddenly leaned forward in their seat.
Aca noticed it. And he knew how to capitalize on it.
He turned toward the back wall, where a large black slate blackboard had been installed for the occasion, framed in wood with a bowl of chalk at its base. He pointed to the dark surface with his free hand.
"This is the blackboard provided for us today," he said. "Special stone. I know it was brought from afar because it isn't found in just any quarry, and each piece costs a fortune to extract. It is only used for this: writing and erasing. And without it, many classrooms in the kingdom cannot teach as they should."
He paused. His gaze swept over the Chamber members, one by one.
"But there is another way."
He picked up a piece of chalk from the bowl. Approaching the board, he wrote, with a confident, broad stroke, the letters of his name: A-C-A.
The chalk squeaked faintly against the stone, leaving the letters white against the black, crisp and perfect. He returned to the center of the stage. He carefully untied the knots of the cloth around his bundle, let it fall at his feet, and pulled out a flat, thin board, dark-colored on one side, matte, without shine.
He held it high so everyone could see it.
Then, without another word, he took the same piece of chalk and wrote his name on it as well.
The three white letters appeared on the dark surface, just as clear as those on the stone, just as clean, with the same trace of fine dust falling toward the edge.
.
----
.
[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hi everyone.
Sorry for the slight delay; I was busy and also waiting for a reply regarding a comment on the previous chapter.
Someone told me to check the chapter, but I'm not sure what went wrong.
I re-read it online to see if it was okay or if the AI I use for translation was messing things up again, but I didn't find any errors. At the very least, I don't think anything crucial to the chapter was altered.
By the way, the delay for this chapter was also due to my hesitation about whether to post it or not. While it contains important implicit information—along with more natural interactions and settings (like in recent chapters)—I technically could have reverted to my old style and summarized a lot of this. However, I found the conversation with Soca that Chuta recalls to be quite revealing, and the subsequent contest also brings a breath of fresh air.]