On the other side of the ocean, in Spain—
The air in Madrid was thin and biting, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of the chambers Pedro had just left.
As they crossed the threshold of the Royal Palace, the heavy oak doors groaning shut behind them, Pedro's pace remained steady—measured, deliberate. It was the stride of a man who had just been entrusted with something far greater than authority.
It was the stride of a man who had been given purpose.
Baltasar de Zúñiga followed precisely two paces behind, his white-gloved hands clasped neatly at his back.
He did not need to look at Pedro's face to understand the outcome.
The faintest lift at the corner of his master's mouth—a shadow of a smile—was enough.
For those who knew the history of the name Borja, even that slight expression would have been enough to inspire unease.
