The Captain marched Miguel straight into the Council Chamber—the place where the fate of the province was decided. Under normal circumstances, the room determined taxes, garrisons, and appointments. Tonight, it felt as though it might determine the fate of all New Granada, perhaps even ripple outward to the other colonies of the Spanish Empire.
Miguel barely had the strength to take it in, yet the chamber left a deep impression on him.
It was a long, cold hall built to humble. Thick stone walls swallowed sound, making footsteps echo too loudly and voices feel smaller than they were. The air smelled of wax, old paper, and iron—ink mixed with the faint tang of rust from armor that had passed through the room over decades. Narrow windows high on the walls admitted little light, and what entered was weak and pale, filtered through dust and the late-afternoon haze.
