The afternoon sun in Puerto Cabellon felt different from Caraccass. Sharper, salt-tinged, carrying the scent of the sea mixed with construction dust.

  Mateo stood on the balcony of the temporary Governor's office, watching the distant harbor where Prussi cranes chewed on old steel like giant insects. The family monument was still under construction.

  Two months wasn't enough time to heal the wounds of a city, let alone a nation. But it was enough for the scabs to harden, become part of the new topography.

  It wasn't in vain for him to personally help stabilize this city. But going forward, he'd need to appoint a trusted person to lead it.

  Thoughts of Vargas, of the documents demanding "decisive action," still lodged in his mind like shards of glass. Then, the telephone on his desk rang.

  His mother's voice on the line. Not the tone of a First Lady, but Sofia Guerrero's voice, broken, trembling, sounding terribly small.

  "Mateo. You must come. Now. There's... there's a miracle."

  ***

  Caraccass.

  The Palace of the Sun felt silent, too silent, as if holding its breath. Mateo found his mother in the southern pavilion, a seldom-used sitting room. She wasn't alone.

  Two male figures stood near the window, facing away from the door. One was old, his frame still large but seemingly shrunken, evident in the slumped shoulders and drooping clothes—a linen shirt that was once expensive, now worn and too loose.

  The other was younger, vaguely familiar, standing straight and stiff as bamboo, fists clenched at his sides.

  When they turned, Mateo saw faces erased by time and suffering, yet still holding familiar molds.

  "Roberto," his mother whispered, tears now flowing freely. "Roberto, you're alive."

  Uncle Roberto. His mother's brother. The formidable tobacco merchant whose name once adorned warehouses in Puerto Cabellon. Officially reported dead in Mendez's early purges of "parasitic capitalist elements." His body never found.

  Back then, Mother… we refused to help. The circumstances were impossible.

  The old man took a slow, limping step. His face was a map of wrinkles and eyes that had seen too much.

  He didn't hug his sister. He just took her hand, pressing it to his own forehead in a gesture heavy with burden.

  "Sofia," his voice rasped, like rusted iron being scraped. "They took everything. Warehouses, house, cars. Lina... they took my wife Lina for 'interrogation'. She never came back."

  Mother pulled Roberto into an embrace he couldn't resist. Mateo looked at the young man behind Roberto.

  He stared straight ahead, jaw hardened. His eyes—the same eyes as his mother's, as Mateo's—were full of wounded pride and a smothered fire.

  "And this," Roberto said, extracting himself with effort, "is Diego, my son. The only one left."

  Diego gave a curt nod, saying nothing. His gaze shifted to Mateo, measuring, full of unspoken questions.

  I had known, somehow, that this must be Diego.

  "They were hiding," his mother explained, eyes slightly damp, voice struggling for steadiness. "In the mountains, in small villages. Doing odd jobs. Roberto fell gravely ill a year ago, barely survived. They only dared come out after... after Mendez fell."

  "We heard your family was in control," Roberto finally spoke, looking at Mateo. His voice was flat, but there was a desperate tremor of hope beneath it. "We tried contacting old business associates. In Acoria, in Santa Clara. They wouldn't take the call. Or said they couldn't help." He took a deep breath. "We have nothing left, Mateo. Not even to pay for medicine for the ribs I broke escaping. Last night's bed was a storage shed."

  His mother looked at Mateo. In her eyes was a plea, but also a painful understanding.

  She was the First Lady, the President's wife. But here, now, she was a sister seeing her once-powerful brother reduced to a hungry shadow.

  She had refused once; she wasn't strong enough to do it a second time.

  Mateo was silent for a long moment. He observed Roberto—the trembling hands, the shattered confidence. He observed Diego—the anger wrapped in silence, the rigidity that was almost a last line of defense.

  Seeing mother's reaction, they probably know the decision lies with me. A boy younger than both.

  Helping them was a debt of blood. But how to help was politics.

  "Our family owes you our lives," Mateo finally said, his voice calm and clear. "I heard your grandfather on mother's side was also plundered, Uncle. And you protected mother, sent her to Caraccass when things got bad. That's a blood debt. It will be repaid."

  Roberto let out a sigh of relief that sounded like a sob. Diego looked at him, his stiffness thawing slightly.

  "But," Mateo continued, and that single word tightened the air again, "I will not give you high positions, a villa, or special contracts. That would backfire. For you, and for this administration. People would cry nepotism. They'd say we replaced Mendez's oligarchs with our own."

  Diego exhaled sharply through his teeth. "So what? Charity? A cot in a refugee barracks?"

  "Diego!" Roberto snapped.

  Mateo raised a hand, calm. "I will offer work. An entry-level position. In the port reconstruction oversight office in Puerto Cabellon. A third-tier administrative staff position. The salary is enough for a simple room rental and food. Basic health coverage."

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  Diego gave a short, bitter laugh. "Administration? You know my father used to manage fifty hectares of plantations and a shipping fleet?"

  "I know," Mateo said softly. "And that's exactly why he'll know how to organize construction material shipping documents, calculate logistical needs, and ensure there's no theft. That experience isn't lost, Diego. Only the context has changed."

  He turned to Roberto. "That is my offer, Uncle. A start. A foothold. Not a gift, but a ladder. You must climb its rungs yourselves. Merit, integrity, hard work—that will determine how far you rise. The system must see you succeed because you deserve it, not because you're my mother's blood."

  Roberto looked at him for a long time. His tired eyes narrowed, studying his nephew's face, young yet old in the eyes.

  Then, slowly, he nodded. Not a nod of submission, but of understanding, even respect.

  "You honor us, Mateo," He said, his voice stronger. "Not by giving us fish, but by giving us a rod and permission to fish in fair waters. After being treated like garbage for so long... this is an honor." He glanced at Diego. "We can work. We always could."

  Diego bowed his head. His anger wasn't fully gone, but he saw the logic. He saw a way out that wasn't just pity.

  "We accept," Diego said finally, his voice low. "Thank you."

  "Don't thank me yet," Mateo said, and for the first time, a small, warm smile touched his lips. "The work is boring. Your supervisor might be twenty-five and a fresh graduate. But it's a start."

  Sofia took Mateo's hand and squeezed it. "This way," she whispered in his ear, "we're not just helping them. We're saving their dignity."

  ***

  The next day, after ensuring Uncle Roberto and Diego were settled in temporary worker housing and their documents were being processed, Mateo answered an invitation from Colonel Felix.

  They met not in a grand military headquarters, but in an old coffee shop that had survived the war almost miraculously.

  The place was small, full of the aroma of roasted beans and the hiss of an ancient espresso machine.

  Felix was already there, sitting on a back bench, wearing a simple polo shirt and chinos. Without his uniform, he looked like a civil engineering professor on break—solid build, neatly trimmed silver hair, glasses with thin lenses.

  Only his gaze remained like honed steel: calm, sharp, and holding everything behind it.

  Honestly, it would look strange to an outsider—a young boy holding lengthy conversation with a grown man in a cafe.

  "Colonel," Mateo greeted, sitting opposite him.

  "Mateo. Drop the title here. Just Felix." He gestured for a cup of strong black coffee for Mateo. "This place is one of the few unchanged. The owner refused to pay Mendez's 'protection money'. They sent thugs; he faced them with a pot of boiling coffee. Truly tenacious."

  "We need more people like that," Mateo said, sipping his coffee. Strong and bitter, like truth.

  "Yes. But most people just endure, they don't resist." Felix studied him. "I hear you're cleaning house. Welcoming back lost family."

  News traveled fast. Mateo wasn't surprised. "They are victims. Giving them work, not positions."

  "Wise. But be careful with the young one. Diego. Restrained anger is explosive material. It can destroy the enemy, or himself."

  Mateo nodded. He'd seen the same. "We'll watch him. Give him a channel."

  Felix leaned slightly closer, his voice low. "Vargas is moving too fast. Executions without trial, arrests based on 'reasonable suspicion'. He's building his own kingdom within the state you—we are trying to build."

  "And he's popular with the most fanatical troops," Mateo added. "They see him as the guardian of revolutionary purity. The cleaner."

  "A revolution isn't about endless cleansing, Mateo. A healthy revolution is about building. About what you erect, not just what you tear down." Felix rotated his cup. "Vargas sees enemies in every corner. That's the sickness of power. And it's contagious."

  "Will you confront him? Openly?"

  Felix gave a short, humorless laugh. "I'm a soldier, not a politician. My influence comes from the fact that I don't want a minister's chair. I have no ambition for office. I only want a professional military, one that serves the constitution, not a personality. That makes my words... more listened to by some, and deeply suspected by others."

  "Including Vargas."

  "Especially Vargas." Felix looked at Mateo. "You are different from your father. He was an idealist forced to become a realist. You... you are a realist trying to find an idealism that can survive the real world. That's more dangerous."

  Felix was somewhat afraid of the boy before him, who possessed abilities surpassing those of an adult.

  "Why dangerous?"

  "Because idealists can be defeated by reality. A realist who still believes in ideals? He will change reality itself." Felix replied. "What is your vision for the Republic of Venez, Mateo? Beyond toppling Mendez, beyond rebuilding the port."

  Mateo was silent, watching the steam from his coffee cup. "I want a country where my bankrupt uncle can rise again because of his ability, not his connections. Where soldiers can retire quietly without feeling they must keep killing to prove loyalty. Where our history is taught—with all its bloodstains—so children like my little sister never have to laugh nervously amid gunfire again."

  "A broad vision. But its foundation?"

  "The foundation is institutions. Law. Process. The boring things that never look heroic." Mateo looked at Felix. "Like a third-tier administrative job for my uncle."

  Felix smiled, this time genuinely. "You're building from the bottom up. Brick by brick. While Vargas builds towers from skulls. Both can reach heights, Mateo. But only one will still be standing when the strong winds come."

  "And that wind will come," said Mateo. "From the Prussi wanting influence, from the Brittonia wanting contracts, from the remnants of old factions not fully dead."

  "You can't fight all those winds alone. And your father... the President is a symbolic unifier. But the operational burden falls on you and men like Vargas." Felix sighed. "My men and I will ensure that when the inevitable fight between the law and the bludgeon comes, the battlefield is level. That's what I can promise."

  It wasn't full support. It was more valuable: a commitment to a neutrality that sided with the constitution. And a constitution could be amended depending on the situation to maximize advantage...

  "Why?" Mateo asked. "Why choose a side now?"

  The colonel took off his glasses, rubbing his tired eyes. "I have a daughter, Mateo. About your sister Eleanor's age. I don't want her growing up in a country where Vargas is the policeman, judge, and executioner. I've seen that world. It's a world with no future, only recurring fear."

  Their conversation shifted to technical matters: officer training, procuring non-Prussi equipment to reduce dependency, intelligence service reform. Felix spoke plainly, analytically, without patriotic fluff. It was refreshing. A true soldier.

  As they were about to part in front of the coffee shop, the golden afternoon light fell on Felix's face. "About your uncle," he said suddenly. "That lowly position is a bronze coin. Worthless to those who see only the surface, but it can buy bread for the hungry. And sometimes, it's from bronze coins that true wealth is rebuilt. Vargas won't understand that. For him, only gold and bullets have value."

  Mateo shook his hand. The grip was strong, firm. "Thank you, Colonel Felix."

  "Don't thank me, young man. Do your job. And be ready. Vargas already considers you a threat. He's just waiting for a reason."

  ***

  That night, in his office, Mateo wrote two letters. The first was the official confirmation of Roberto and Diego Guerrero's employment as administrative staff in the Port Reconstruction Authority.

  He signed it with his official title: Senior Presidential Advisor for Security and Institutional Reform (a position not publicly announced).

  A nonsensical title for a boy his age, if announced.

  The second was a personal letter, handwritten, for Diego.

  Diego,

  The position you accept today is a foothold. Nothing more. The burden is on you to prove that the results you achieve are not privilege.

  Your anger is fuel. But direct it into the task, into the details, into excelling at the work they will deem beneath them. That is how you honor your mother, and insult those who dismissed you.

  We are not asking back what was lost. We are building something new from the rubble. It is harder. But also more permanent.

  - Mateo.

  He sealed the letter, then stood by the window. Below, Caraccass glittered, a mix of oil lamps and new electricity, shadow and light.

  He thought of broken Roberto, clutching the offer of a lowly job like a trophy. He thought of Felix, whose neutrality was a finely honed weapon. He thought of Vargas, who was surely plotting something.

  Then he thought of his sister, Eleanor, laughing uproariously as the mischievous cat—Fantasma—chased its own shadow in the garden.

  Debts of blood had to be repaid. But not with blood. With opportunity. With bronze coins in a sea of gold and bullets.

  And sometimes, the lowest foothold was the strongest foundation from which to rise again.

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