The study in the Sun Palace—the name Father had given to the opulent former residence of Mendez, built over years with funds from untraceable sources—was bathed in the cool glow of new electric lights from Brittonia.

  The light fell across three sets of documents spread over a four-meter-long ebony wood desk.

  Richter from Prussi tapped the contract with his fingertip. "Clause Fourteen. Advanced training for five thousand of your troops. With our instructors."

  "Reduce it to five hundred," Mateo said without looking up from the Brittonia document. "And they will train our officer instructors, not troops directly."

  Sir Alistair Thorne raised an eyebrow. "Five hundred? That's scarcely enough to—"

  "It's sufficient," Mateo finally met his gaze. "We appreciate the assistance. But Venez will train its own regular army."

  Richter gave a thin smile. "A noble ambition, young man. But it takes time."

  "We have time." Mateo picked up a pen, striking through several lines on the ADF document. "And this—the cultural exchange program. We're removing it."

  Robert Dawson from the ADF leaned back. "That's standard in aid agreements. Cultural outreach is part of—"

  "Part of your soft power. I know." Mateo set his pen down. "But our culture is already rich. What we need is technology, not democratic films."

  Dawson looked at him with a strange expression—annoyance mixed with a grudging respect. "Afraid our culture will erode the spirit of your people?"

  "Not worried," Mateo said with a small smile. "I just want to ensure our children learn about our own heroes before they learn about yours. My father is drafting the Latin American Cultural Preservation Act. All foreign cultural content must pass through a local cultural filter."

  A silence hung in the room. The three diplomats exchanged glances.

  They were used to negotiating with aging politicians thirsty for funds or recognition. Not with a teenager who understood their game better than they did themselves.

  They didn't see Mateo as a mere boy, but as a dangerously cunning young mind.

  Sir Alistair broke the quiet. "Very well. But for this concession, we want exclusive rights to build the power grid in your six major cities."

  "Three cities," Mateo corrected. "And Venez retains a fifty-one percent stake."

  "Forty."

  "Fifty-one. Or not at all."

  Sir Alistair's eyes gleamed—not with anger, but with amusement. "You bargain like a merchant in a bazaar."

  "A nation is a marketplace, Sir Alistair. Only the currency is different."

  ***

  Three hours later, the agreements were signed. A version far more favorable to the Republic of Venez than what had been initially proposed.

  It would seem strange to outsiders—a teenage son leading negotiations, not the President himself. But Father's health had not fully recovered since his imprisonment under Mendez.

  After the three diplomats left—each with a mix of frustration and admiration—Mateo stood by the window, looking out at the palace gardens illuminated by new garden lights.

  The Sun Palace. A name chosen by Father to symbolize a new dawn.

  But the building itself was a monstrosity of marble and granite that Mendez had constructed over the last eight years, starting when he was still the Defense Minister.

  The architecture was an overblown imitation of Ancient Rome—thirty-foot Corinthian columns, domes painted with mythological scenes altered to feature a sun goddess and a moon goddess, mosaic floors depicting military triumphs.

  The palace sat on 55 hectares of land. It was already like a giant palace with neoclassical architecture. Mendez's had truly been mad.

  The most puzzling part was the funding. No official records. No state budget. Just a silent construction, piece by piece, like a secret temple to his own ego.

  And its secrets... only a handful knew them in full.

  Mother Rosa entered carrying a tea tray, her footsteps nearly soundless on the marble.

  Since being rescued from the tunnel, she had resumed her role as head housekeeper—and was the only person besides the Guerrero family who knew the building's hidden truths.

  The others were all dead...

  "Young Master Mateo," she whispered, setting the tray down. "The library study... there is something you must see."

  Mateo followed her through the quiet corridors. Electric light was still a luxury in most of Caraccass, but here, every room shone brightly

  "Here." Mother Rosa pressed a seemingly ordinary wooden panel on the library wall. With a soft groan, part of the bookshelf swung inward, revealing a narrow passage.

  Inside was a windowless room. On the wall, a map of the Republic of Venez dotted with colored pins. On the desk, documents—intelligence reports, lists of names, photographs.

  "Mendez's secret room," Mother Rosa said. "As far as I know, there are seven such rooms throughout the palace. I... found this one while cleaning."

  Mateo approached the desk. A photograph made him freeze.

  Maya.

  The woman who had helped him infiltrate the palace communications room. Who had risked everything to send that message.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  The photo showed her bruised face, eyes swollen shut, but her mouth set in a tight line of defiance. A date was noted—two days after they had escaped the palace.

  Beneath the photo, a handwritten note from Mendez. "Will not talk. Execute. Bury north garden."

  "The north garden," Mateo whispered. "Where exactly?"

  Mother Rosa shook her head. "I do not know, Young Master. But... there is an old gardener. He might."

  Mateo picked up the photo, folded it, and placed it in his pocket. "Tell no one about this room. Or the others."

  "Of course"

  As they exited, the bookshelf sealed itself shut perfectly. No trace remained.

  ***

  The next day, in his new office at the Ministry of Security, Mateo met with Vargas.

  The Colonel sat with an air of confidence, his new uniform with the red armband looking almost natural on him.

  "Mr. President," Vargas greeted, saluting not only Father, who sat behind the large desk, but also Mateo standing by the window.

  "Colonel." Father smiled—a genuine, warm one. "Mateo tells me you have rendered great service to the nation."

  "Just doing my duty, Mr. President."

  Mateo turned from the window. "Father, Colonel Vargas has a proposal. For a new special unit."

  "Oh?" Father raised his eyebrows. "Explain."

  Vargas stood, walking to the map on the wall. "The old regime has fallen. But its roots remain. Former Mendez loyalists, corrupt officials, foreign spies..." He pointed to several spots on the map. "They are like cancer cells. They must be cleansed before they spread."

  Father frowned. "We have a judicial system."

  "Which is slow. And vulnerable to corruption." Vargas glanced at Mateo, then back to Father. "I propose a special unit. one thousand strong. Specially trained. Not for conventional war, but for... internal cleansing. They will be the nation's guard dogs."

  The term made Father uncomfortable. Mateo could see it in the crease of his brow.

  "Guard dogs," Father repeated. "That sounds... repressive."

  "Protectors," Mateo corrected gently. "Like guards who watch the house while the family sleeps. So you can focus on building schools and hospitals, not worry about traitors."

  Father looked at him. "And who would command this unit?"

  "Colonel Vargas," Mateo said. "With a new rank: Head of the National Loyalty Unit. Directly under the Ministry of Security."

  "Under you," Father said, not as a question.

  "Under us," Mateo corrected. "With your direct oversight."

  Father was silent, considering. He looked at Vargas—a man whose face bore the marks of too many battles, too many compromises.

  "And if this unit... abuses its power?"

  "We will have an oversight system," Mateo promised. "And Colonel Vargas understands this trust is fragile. Once broken, it cannot be mended."

  Vargas nodded, his expression grave. "My oath is to the nation, Mr. President. And to the family that freed it."

  The wording was perfect. Mateo saw Father soften—'family' was always his emotional trigger.

  "Alright," Father said finally. "But on conditions. No executions without trial. No arrests without evidence."

  "Within reason, Mr. President." Vargas said.

  Mateo knew it was an empty promise. But Father needed to believe it.

  After Vargas left, Father looked at Mateo. "He makes me uneasy, son."

  "Our enemies make me uneasy too. But we need men like him to deal with men like them."

  "Does that make us like them? With secret units? With 'guard dogs'?"

  Mateo stepped closer. "We become what we need to be to protect what we're building. For Eleanor. For all the little girls like Eleanor in this country who want to sleep without fearing a kicked-in door at midnight."

  Father sighed, a sudden weariness showing on his face. "Sometimes I wonder... if all this is worth the price we pay."

  "Ask Mother Rosa," Mateo said. "Who almost died as a hostage. Or the families whose children disappeared. They would say it is."

  But in his heart, Mateo wondered the same thing.

  ***

  The inauguration of the National Loyalty Unit took place on the palace parade ground a week later.

  One thousand men—mostly former Liberation Front fighters, some "rehabilitated" former Mendez soldiers—stood in perfect formation.

  They wore plain black uniforms without rank. Only a badge on the chest: an image of the sun, but with two crossed swords behind it—a new symbol Mateo had designed.

  Vargas, now a Brigadier General, walked before the ranks. His eyes scanned the faces—some young and eager, some old and cynical.

  "You are not soldiers!" he shouted, his voice carrying on the morning air. "You are scalpels! Scalpels that will cut the cancer from our nation! You will work in the shadows so others may live in the light!"

  Mateo observed from the balcony, standing behind Father who was giving a speech. Isabella stood beside him, silent.

  "It's frightening," Isabella whispered. "They look like... robots."

  "They are tools," Mateo replied. "Like all soldiers."

  "But tools for what? Vargas will use them to purge his enemies. Real or imagined."

  "And we will use Vargas." Mateo looked at her. "This is a game of chess, Bella. Every piece has a purpose."

  "He's not a pawn. He's a queen that can move anywhere. And one day, he might decide to take the king."

  Mateo didn't answer. Because he had already made plans for that day.

  ***

  That night, Mateo found the old gardener Mother Rosa had mentioned. His name was Hector, seventy years old, who had worked in the palace gardens since Mendez's time.

  "Maya?" Hector nodded, his eyes growing misty. "A brave girl. She lasted three days. Didn't say a word."

  "Where is she buried?"

  Hector led him to a corner of the north garden, under a blooming jacaranda tree with purple flowers. "Here. Mendez ordered this tree planted over her. Said... said it would make it pretty."

  Mateo knelt, touching the soil. "Are there others? Other graves?"

  Hector nodded, fear in his eyes. "Twenty-three. Scattered throughout the gardens. Under the large rocks. By the fountain. Everyone who opposed him."

  "Make me a map."

  "Master"

  "Make the map. And you will have a comfortable retirement. Outside the city. Far from here."

  Hector's eyes widened, then he nodded.

  When Mateo returned to the palace, he walked through corridors he was now coming to know intimately.

  Every day, he discovered new secrets—hidden passages, listening rooms, even an underground tunnel leading to the military headquarters across the city.

  This new palace was a perfect machine of surveillance and control. And now, the machine was theirs.

  In his room—formerly a lavish guest chamber, now furnished simply—Mateo took out Maya's photograph. He stared at her bruised face, her final act of courage.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered to the image. "But your sacrifice won't be in vain."

  He burned the photo in an ashtray, watching it curl into ash.

  Then he took out another document—a report from Felix about the final cleanup. All former high-level Mendez officials had been "dealt with." All compromising documents secured.

  All except one: Vargas himself.

  There was a thick file on the Colonel. Abuse of power. Theft. Even alleged killings before the coup. But that file was safely locked away. A weapon for later use.

  The phone on his desk buzzed. A coded line from the communications room.

  "Master Mateo? A call from Puerto Cabellon. A problem with the monument."

  "What problem?"

  "The sculptor... he wants to make the family's faces too realistic. Too much like... like your family."

  Mateo almost smiled. "Tell him to proceed. Our faces."

  "But the President said—"

  "Father will understand. Do it."

  After hanging up, Mateo stood on his balcony. From here, he could see part of Caraccass—a city slowly healing, with lights beginning to flicker on again at night.

  In the distance, the headquarters of the National Loyalty Unit—the former Special Forces headquarters of Mendez—shone with new lights. Vargas was already at work. Already cleansing.

  The system was in motion.

  But Mateo couldn't shake the feeling that he was building a house on graveyard soil.

  That every time he ordered a purge, every time he approved an execution, he was adding another body to the foundation of this new nation.

  And that one day, those bodies would rot, and the foundation would crumble.

  But until that day, he had to keep building. For Eleanor. For his promise to the dead Maya. For everyone who had died to get them here.

  He went back inside, sat at his desk, and began writing again. Plans for new schools. For hospitals. For roads that would connect remote villages.

  Good things. Things that would make a difference.

  And in the margin, in handwriting so small only he could read it: "Monitor Vargas. Prepare neutralization options. Ensure Mother Rosa's safety. Strengthen Felix's loyalty."

  Two lists. One for the nation. One for survival.

  Sometimes, they were the same thing.

  Sometimes, that was exactly the problem.

  Outside, the moon rose over the Sun Palace, illuminating the white marble built from blood and secrets. And inside, Mateo Guerrero—the boy who had become the voice, the hand, the brain of a nation—kept planning, kept balancing, kept building.

  Because it was the only thing he knew how to do.

  And because to stop would be to betray all that had been sacrificed to bring him here.

  https://paypal.me/ArdanAuthor)