Ricardo stood before the window of his study, a glass of whiskey in his hand, though it never reached his lips.
He could hear the rain tapping on the roof, on the leaves of the garden trees, on the cobblestone roads outside the palace gates. The same rain that had fallen when he signed the agreement with Brittonia a year ago. The same rain that had fallen when he first entered this palace as a victor.
Now he felt like a loser.
Not defeated in war. But defeated in something more important. Last night's dinner argument still pulsed in his head.
Isabella's tear-streaked face. Sofia's voice, broken but not shattered. Mateo's eyes—that child had seen too much. That child knew too much. And Ricardo didn't know what to do about it.
He set the glass on the desk. Whiskey wouldn't help. Nothing would.
At half past six in the morning, his adjutant knocked on the door.
"General, the Military Council meeting begins in thirty minutes."
Ricardo nodded. He'd been in full uniform for an hour already, despite not having slept all night. His collar felt tight against his neck. He loosened his tie slightly, then tightened it again. Appearance always mattered.
He walked down the hallway toward the conference room. Outside Isabella's door, he heard muffled crying. Not Isabella—Isabella wouldn't cry audibly. It was Eleanor, still crying since last night. Ricardo paused for a moment. His hand reached for the door handle, but then he heard Sofia's voice inside. Soft, soothing.
He didn't go in. He kept walking.
***
The main conference room was already full when Ricardo entered.
The long table with twenty-three chairs, but today there were more seats. Several new officers he'd never seen before sat at the far end. Young faces. Sharp eyes. Polished uniforms.
Carlos Mendez was already seated to the right of the head chair. He smiled when Ricardo entered. The same smile as always—friendly, respectful, slightly mysterious.
"General," he said, standing briefly then sitting back down. "We're waiting for your decision on today's agenda."
Ricardo sat. His gaze swept the room. Admiral Sebastián at the far left, in his wrinkled white uniform—the old man had never looked tidy since being recalled from retirement a year ago. Colonel Adrián beside him, an open folder before him. Antonio in the corner, silent as always, his eyes half-closed.
And the rest—familiar faces, plus some new ones.
"The main agenda," Ricardo began, his voice heavy from lack of sleep, "is military reform. Budget allocation priorities for the next three years."
He gestured. A young officer from the strategic planning division stood and opened a large map on the wall.
"As is known, our current defense capabilities…"
Ricardo listened half-heartedly. He already knew the briefing by heart. Aging patrol boats that were never ready. Ground artillery mostly inherited from the old regime. Inadequate training. Always insufficient budgets.
The problem wasn't the data. It was what would be done with it.
The briefing ended. Ricardo stood.
"My proposal," he said, "is to focus on strengthening the army in the first three years. We have immediate threats from within—insurgencies in the eastern region, guerrillas on the northern border. The army is the backbone of domestic stability."
He paused, looking at each person in turn.
"The navy is important. But to build warships capable of challenging Brittonia, we need ten years, maybe fifteen. Meanwhile, threats on land could erupt at any moment. Our priority now is ensuring no internal force can destabilize the government."
Several officers nodded. Colonel Adrián made notes.
But Carlos Mendez didn't nod.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced over his stomach. His expression was serious, but there was something at the corner of his mouth—not a smile, more like someone who'd had his answer prepared for a long time.
"General," Carlos began, "I agree domestic threats are real. But are we seeing the bigger picture?"
He stood, walked to the map on the wall. His finger traced the eastern coastline—where the Brittonian warships had anchored a year ago.
"The threat from the sea won't wait ten years. It's already here, now. Every day, foreign merchant ships pass through our waters without permission. Every week, we hear reports of our fishing boats being driven from their own waters. Every month, there's a diplomatic incident that ends with us backing down."
He turned to face the room.
"Why? Because we have no ships. Because they know we can't do anything. If we keep ignoring the navy, ten years from now our position won't have changed. We'll still be powerless in our own waters."
He looked at Ricardo. His eyes were sharp, but his voice remained smooth.
"I propose allocating at least forty percent of the defense budget to naval development. Shipyards, personnel training, purchasing patrol boats from friendly allies. Not to fight Brittonia now—but to start building the foundation."
The room buzzed with whispers.
Admiral Sebastián raised his hand. "That's not a bad idea, but forty percent is too large. The army needs—"
"The army has received the largest share for the last twenty years," interrupted a young officer sitting near Carlos. Ricardo had never seen his face before. His rank was captain, but he spoke like a general. "And the result? Insurgencies still exist. Guerrillas still move. Stability hasn't been achieved. Perhaps we need a different approach."
Ricardo stared at the officer. "Who are you?"
"Captain Morales, General. Recently transferred from the eastern regional command."
"Transferred by whom?"
A brief silence. Carlos interjected with casual ease. "I recommended him, General. Morales has good field experience. And his ideas are fresh."
Ricardo didn't answer. He looked at Morales for several seconds longer than necessary. Then his gaze shifted to Carlos.
"So the proposal is to reduce the army budget and shift it to the navy."
"Not reduce. Reallocate."
"An emergency," Ricardo said, "is when people starve because of a naval blockade. But right now, it's guerrillas with long-barreled rifles smuggled across land borders who are burning down village halls in the east. And they won't wait for us to build shipyards."
He pointed at the map on the wall, at the troubled eastern region.
"We have three armed factions there. Two months ago, they nearly captured San Miguel. Our army struggled to stop them. If we reduce their support, we'll lose the entire eastern region within a year."
"But if we don't build a navy," Carlos returned, his tone unchanged, "we'll lose everything in the long term. Not just the eastern region, but the entire country. Brittonia won't stop with one agreement. They'll keep pressing. Every time we're weak, they'll take more. And if we have no ships to protect our waters, eventually they'll control our economy through blockades and pressure."
He walked back to his chair but didn't sit. His hands rested on its back, his fingers pressing into the slightly worn leather.
"This isn't about land versus sea. It's about how we define threats. If we only see the threats right in front of us, we'll always be reacting, never acting. And reacting always means being too late."
The statement hung in the air.
Ricardo felt the room divide. Not physically, but in atmosphere. Some officers looked down, avoiding eye contact. Others stared at Carlos with expressions that—Ricardo realized—were no longer merely respectful. There was loyalty there.
Antonio remained silent in the corner. His eyes were half-closed, as if sleeping. But Ricardo knew he was listening. Antonio was always listening.
"We don't need to decide today," Ricardo said finally. His voice was flat. "This is a major decision that requires further study. I want the planning team to prepare impact projections for both scenarios. We'll discuss it again next week."
Carlos nodded. "Of course, General. We'll await the study."
But his tone said something else. Something that made Ricardo want to reach for whiskey again, even though it was only nine in the morning.
***
The meeting lasted over three hours.
Other topics were discussed. Logistics budgets. Troop rotations on the border. Intelligence reports on opposition movements in the capital.
Ricardo listened, gave directions, signed documents. But his mind remained at last night's dinner table, with Sofia's face, Eleanor's tears, Mateo's eyes that were too calm.
When the meeting ended, the officers filed out one by one. Carlos Mendez was last, as always. At the doorway, he turned.
"General."
Ricardo looked up from the folder he was closing.
"You look tired. Get some rest."
"You don't need to worry about me, Carlos."
Carlos smiled. The same smile. Friendly, respectful, mysterious.
"Of course. See you next week."
The door closed.
Ricardo sat alone in that room. Maps on the walls, the long table with twenty-three empty chairs, porcelain ashtrays unused because no one had smoked today. The sound of rain still came from outside, but softer now. Almost stopped.
He closed his eyes.
Next week. He'd said next week. But he knew Carlos wouldn't wait a week. That man had been moving for a long time already. Placing his people in key positions. Captain Morales, "transferred from the eastern regional command"—Ricardo had never heard his name before. And he was certain there wasn't just one Morales. There were others. Many others.
He opened his eyes.
He realized he'd dozed off for several hours. Outside the window, the sky was beginning to clear. Dark clouds shifted east, revealing pale blue behind them. The rain had stopped. The leaves of the garden trees were wet and glossy.
Ricardo stood. There was still much to handle. A meeting with the finance minister, intelligence reports, and—the heaviest—he needed to talk with Sofia. Calmly, not like last night.
But his legs felt heavy.
He walked to the door. Opened it. The hallway was empty, silent. There should have been an adjutant outside, but there was no one.
This was strange…
Ricardo stepped into the hallway. His footsteps echoed on the polished marble floor. Crystal chandeliers still glowed overhead, even though it was now daylight and sunlight streamed through the large windows.
He'd only taken a few steps when he heard the sound.
Boots. Many boots. At the end of the hallway, from the direction of the palace's main entrance, a group of soldiers entered with quick, disciplined movements. Their weapons were raised—not toward him, but at the ready, barrels toward the floor, fingers on triggers.
Their uniforms were different from the regular palace guards. Dark brown. No unit insignia. The faces beneath the steel helmets were unrecognizable.
Ricardo stopped.
Behind him, from the direction of the conference room, he heard other footsteps. He didn't need to turn. He already knew.
They were surrounding him.
The soldiers stopped three meters away. An officer—without a helmet, short-cropped hair, a face that was not unfamiliar—stepped forward. Captain Morales.
"General Guerrero," he said. His voice was firm, formal, like he was reporting the weather. "By this order, you are being detained in the interest of national security."
Ricardo didn't move. His eyes looked at Morales, then at the soldiers behind him.
"Did Carlos Mendez order this?" he asked calmly.
Morales didn't answer. "You are requested to come without resistance."
"Answer my question."
Morales was silent for a few seconds. Then: "This action was decided by the Military Council in a closed session. General Mendez is leading."
Ricardo exhaled. A long breath, like the one he'd taken a year ago in his study, after signing the agreement with Brittonia.
"He didn't dare do it in the meeting this morning," Ricardo said. Not a question. "He waited until I was alone."
Morales neither confirmed nor denied. "You must leave immediately, General."
Ricardo looked down the hallway. At the far end, in the east wing, were Sofia's room, Isabella's room, Eleanor's room, Mateo's room. His family. They might not yet know what was happening. Or they might already have heard these boots from a distance.
He looked back at Morales.
"I'll come," he said. His voice didn't rise or fall. Just flat. Like someone too tired to argue. "But don't touch my family."
Morales nodded. "They will remain in the palace with appropriate security."
"Security, or house arrest?"
Morales didn't answer. But Ricardo already knew the answer.
Two soldiers approached from the sides. They didn't touch him—not yet. Just stood beside him, waiting. Ricardo stepped forward. One step, two steps, passing through the line of soldiers with their weapons still raised.
He didn't look back. Didn't look toward his family's rooms.
But in his head, he saw Mateo's face. That child—that child would know. That child always knew.
He only hoped his son could protect his sisters and his mother while he was gone.
***
Mateo was sitting in his room when the door opened without a knock.
Not Mother. Not Isabella. Not a servant.
Antonio Guevara.
The colonel with the lined face and eyes that always seemed to be calculating something stood in the doorway. His uniform was neat, but something was different. Perhaps the way he stood—more tense than usual. Or perhaps the fact that behind him, in the hallway, stood two fully armed soldiers who had never entered the family wing before.
"Mateo," Antonio said. His voice was soft but firm. "You need to pack quickly. Bring important things, only what you truly need."
Mateo didn't ask why. He'd already guessed it since hearing the boots in the hallway five minutes ago. Since hearing the main gate open wide at an unusual hour. Since feeling something in the air—a vibration invisible but perceptible to someone who had lived more than once.
"Where is Mother?" he asked, standing. Fantasma, who had been sleeping on his lap, jumped to the floor, meowing softly.
"She's being gathered. Along with Miss Isabella and Eleanor."
"Gathered, or forced?"
Antonio didn't answer. But his eyes—for the first time since Mateo had known him—avoided eye contact.
"Father?" Mateo asked. His voice didn't tremble. He was surprised at its steadiness.
"You should hurry, Mateo. We don't have much time."
"ANSWER ME, ANTONIO!" He shouted loudly enough to make the soldiers in the hallway stiffen, loudly enough to make Antonio blink.
The colonel looked at him for a long time. Then, in a voice so low, so soft, as if not wanting to be heard by anyone including the soldiers behind him, he said: "Your father has been detained by Carlos Mendez. I don't know his fate. I don't know where he is now. I was only ordered to secure you."
Mateo felt something in his chest. Not pain. Not fear. Something colder, heavier, like ice water flowing from the crown of his head to his fingertips.
Something very familiar.
He turned, took a small backpack from the closet, and began packing without thinking. Sketchbook. Pencils. Enough clothes. Fantasma sat on the floor, watching him with sharp yellow eyes.
"The cat," Mateo said without turning.
"What?"
"Fantasma. Bring him."
Antonio hesitated. "Mateo, we can't—"
"Bring him, or I'm not going anywhere."
Antonio stared at him. Then, with a quick, impatient movement, he bent and picked up Fantasma from the floor. The cat meowed loudly in protest but didn't scratch. As if he knew this was no time to argue.
"We're leaving," Antonio said.
Mateo followed into the hallway. There, Isabella already stood in front of her door, face pale, eyes red, but not crying. She gripped Eleanor's hand—Eleanor still half-asleep, hair tangled, cheeks wet with tears not yet dried.
Mother stood beside them. She was still wearing yesterday's dress—she hadn't had time to change. In her hand, she held a cream-colored bag, the same one she'd carried when they were evacuated from the old house, when Father had still promised he would follow.
But now Father wouldn't follow.
Mateo knew that. And from the way Mother looked at him—quick, sharp, then looking away—he knew she knew too.
They walked down the hallway. Two soldiers in front, two behind, Antonio beside them. No one spoke. The sound of boots on marble was too loud in the silence.
Outside the palace, Mateo got into the car waiting in the front courtyard.
The rain had just stopped. The leaves of the trees were wet and glossy under sunlight emerging from behind the clouds. In the garden, the bench where Mateo used to sit with Fantasma was still wet.
A soldier opened the car door. Mateo entered last, sitting beside Eleanor, who had started crying again, softly, as if she had no energy for more than that.
Mother sat in front, beside an unfamiliar driver. Isabella on Eleanor's other side. Antonio took the front passenger seat and closed the door.
The car moved.
The white palace on the hill grew smaller in the rear window. Mateo watched until it became a white dot among the trees, then disappeared around a bend.
"Antonio," he called.
The colonel turned halfway.
"My father… will he be alright?"
Antonio didn't answer quickly. His eyes went to Mother, then to the road ahead.
"I don't know," he said finally. Honestly. "But I'll find out."
Mateo looked at him. Then he nodded slowly. There was nothing to be done now. Not here. Not in this car speeding away from the only place that had begun to feel like home.
Fantasma curled up in his lap, purring softly, indifferent to the power struggle unfolding behind the palace walls.
The car kept moving.
Mateo closed his eyes.