Breakfast at the Sun Palace was usually a warm affair. The gentle clink of spoons against porcelain, Eleanor's chattering laughter, Isabella's occasional interjections, and Sofia's faint smile at the head of the table.

  This morning was different.

  The long table felt more expansive, emptier. At its end, Ricardo's chair sat vacant. Sofia occupied her usual place, but her gaze was fixed on the window, seeing nothing. Isabella stared down at her porridge, stirring without eating. Eleanor was silent—her small face troubled, lost in thought.

  Mateo sat beside Eleanor, as always. Before him sat a cup of black coffee that had long gone cold.

  Fantasma, the old cat, dozed beneath the table. Coco the cockatoo perched near the window with his soul mate.

  Five minutes passed. Then ten. No one spoke.

  Finally, Sofia set down her spoon. The tiny clink echoed in the silent room.

  "I can't eat..."

  Isabella looked up, her eyes red and swollen. "Mother, you need to eat. To stay healthy."

  "Healthy?" Sofia let out a small, bitter laugh—humorless and hollow. "Your father lies in a hospital bed, has been there for days, and may never wake again. And you speak to me about health?"

  Isabella dropped her gaze once more.

  Eleanor clutched her cat plushie tightly, her eyes glistening.

  "Big brother," she whispered. "Father... Father will wake up, won't he?"

  Mateo looked at her. Eleanor's face still held remnants of the little girl she'd been. But her eyes now carried something older, more knowing.

  "..."

  Eleanor began to cry. Not hysterically, but softly—shoulders trembling, tears falling onto her plushie.

  Isabella rose and crossed to embrace her. "There, there. Don't cry. Father will wake up... He's strong!"

  "The doctor said... the doctor said he might not..." Eleanor's voice trailed off.

  Mateo remained seated, motionless. His hand rested on the table, wrapped around his cold coffee cup.

  Sofia fixed her gaze on him. "Have you nothing to say, my son?"

  Mateo lifted his head. His mother's eyes—sharp, weary, yet still full of questions.

  "Father asked me to take care of you all."

  "We are not objects to be guarded."

  "No."

  "He asked you to take care of us. Not to lock us away."

  Mateo was silent.

  Sofia exhaled slowly. "You've taken control of the government. You've announced it to the public. Now you're off to face Congress—five hundred officials, half of whom probably despise you."

  "Don't worry. I'll handle it."

  "And you're not afraid?"

  Mateo considered this. Afraid? Perhaps. But fear had never stopped him.

  "Fear is irrelevant, Mother."

  Sofia studied him for a long moment. Then she rose and walked toward him. Her hand—soft, warm—touched his cheek.

  "You're just like him," she whispered. "Your father. Equally stubborn. Equally incapable of showing what you truly feel. But inside—" she gently patted his chest. "—inside, he was afraid too."

  Mateo didn't respond. It wasn't entirely wrong.

  "He was afraid of failing. Of disappointing the people. Of losing us." Sofia offered a faint smile. "And he never said it. Just like you now."

  She turned and walked toward the door. Before exiting, she glanced back.

  "Be careful in Congress. And when it's over, come home. Eleanor needs her brother."

  The door closed behind her.

  Isabella still held Eleanor. Mateo sat, staring at the coffee cup he would never drink.

  Fifteen minutes later, he rose. Approached Isabella and Eleanor.

  "I have to go."

  Eleanor looked up, her face tear-streaked. "Don't go, big brother..."

  "I'll come back."

  "Promise?"

  Mateo looked at her. Remembered his promise to their father. Remembered his mother's words.

  "I promise."

  He patted Eleanor's head, then walked out. Behind him, Isabella murmured, "Be careful."

  ***

  The Congress Building.

  This structure had once been an ancient temple, later converted into a city hall, then extensively renovated into the congressional building.

  High ceilings. Stained glass windows depicting the sun—the republic's emblem. Wooden benches arranged in a semicircle, facing the platform where ministers usually sat.

  Today, every seat was filled. Five hundred people. Ministers, deputy ministers, high-ranking officials, mid-level bureaucrats. From every corner of the nation, they had come—summoned urgently overnight.

  The room buzzed with noise. People talked, debated, questioned. Some looked anxious, some angry, some watchfully silent.

  On the platform, the ministers' seats were occupied. Only one chair in the center—the president's chair—remained empty.

  A side door opened. Mateo entered alone.

  The noise subsided, replaced by whispers. He walked through the rows of seats, ascended the platform. Behind him, Felix, Cruz, and Raúl Mendoza entered and positioned themselves by the door. They didn't follow him up.

  Mateo stood at the podium. No microphone—just his voice in this vast space. But he needed none, for everyone had fallen silent.

  "Good afternoon."

  His voice echoed.

  "You all know why you're here."

  A man in the front row—a former minister from the early years—rose to his feet.

  "We know the President is ill. But frankly, we don't know why we've been summoned like this." His voice was loud. "And we don't know why you're speaking, and not the Vice President."

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  Mateo regarded him. "The Vice President resigned several days ago. There is no replacement."

  "Then the President of Congress."

  "The President of Congress is also ill."

  The man laughed—a cynical laugh. "So you're exploiting the vacuum to—"

  "What is your name?"

  The man looked startled. "Ignacio Fuentes. Former Minister of Trade."

  "Se?or Fuentes, you were dismissed five years ago for corruption. You survived the cleansing operation because someone in the courts ruled you innocent. But everyone knows you're guilty."

  Fuentes paled. Those around him began to edge away.

  "Please sit down, Se?or Fuentes. Or—" Mateo glanced toward the door behind him. "—please leave."

  Fuentes sat, his face flushed red.

  Mateo returned his attention to the room.

  "The President is ill. He may wake. He may not. No one knows. But the nation cannot wait."

  A woman in the middle row stood. In her fifties, white-haired, her face stern.

  "I am Rosa Villa, congressional representative from the southern district of Caraccass City. I don't doubt your abilities, Se?or Mateo. But the question of legitimacy remains. Who gave you this authority?"

  "The constitution doesn't address emergencies like this."

  "Precisely. So you're acting outside the constitution."

  Mateo paused. Then, "Outside the constitution, but in accordance with necessity."

  Necessity. The word hung in the air.

  Rosa stared at him. "Whose necessity? The people's? Or your need for power?"

  Several people murmured in agreement—softly, but audibly.

  Mateo remained unmoved. "The people need stability. The people need certainty. If we allow this vacuum to persist, who will suffer? Me? Or the people whose livelihoods depend on government decisions—the merchants in the markets, the children in schools?"

  Rosa fell silent. But her eyes still challenged him.

  "For the past five years, who designed the military reforms? Who controlled the cleansing operation? Who built the factories, grew the economy, made people unafraid to walk at night?" Mateo looked from face to face. "Not the Vice President who resigned. Not the President of Congress who lies ill. Me."

  He paused. The room was silent.

  "I don't need power. I already have more influence than anyone in this room. But I need legitimacy—legitimacy to act, to make decisions, to protect this nation from the threats lurking beyond our borders."

  Fuentes rose again. "What threats? The ADF? They're our trading partners. Brittonia? They're our business investors. No one threatens us!"

  Mateo fixed him with a cold stare. "Se?or Fuentes, do you know how many ADF weapons were seized from terrorist groups five years ago?"

  Fuentes said nothing.

  "Three hundred rifles. Fifty grenades. Homemade bombs used to blow up a market and Korps headquarters. And you call them friends?"

  The atmosphere shifted. Several people shifted uncomfortably.

  "I have intelligence reports. ADF ships still patrol the waters north of the republic. Their agents remain active in our port cities. The insurgent groups in Valverde and elsewhere—they receive money, weapons, training from abroad." Mateo's voice rose slightly. "And if we're busy squabbling over legitimacy, they will strike again."

  An elderly man in the back row rose. His face was lined, his white hair thin.

  "I am General Gonzalo. I don't know you personally, Se?or Mateo. But I knew your father. He was a good leader—honest." He paused, coughing softly. "He once told me, back when I was still active: 'If anything happens to me, trust my son. He's smarter than I am.'"

  Mateo was surprised.

  Gonzalo continued, "I don't know much about constitutions or legitimacy. But I know that if this nation is to survive, it needs a decisive leader. And from what I've observed these past five years—" he pointed at Mateo. "—you're that person."

  He sat down. A smattering of applause began—tentative at first, then spreading.

  Fuentes shot to his feet again, his face crimson. "This is orchestrated! It's all been arranged! That general must have been paid—"

  "Se?or Fuentes." Cruz had materialized beside Fuentes—silently, without warning. "We have evidence that you received money from criminal networks in Valverde. A transfer three months ago. One hundred thousand Bolívars."

  Fuentes's eyes bulged. "That—that's slander! I never—"

  Cruz produced an envelope. Papers inside. "Transfer records bearing your signature on shipping documents. Witnesses who saw you meeting with their emissaries at the port two weeks ago."

  The room erupted in murmurs. Fuentes stumbled back, ashen.

  "I—I'm being framed! They—they—"

  "Silence." Cruz gestured. Two men in black uniforms appeared as if from nowhere, escorting Fuentes from his seat.

  "YOU CAN'T DO THIS! I—"

  His voice faded down the corridor. The door closed.

  Mateo hadn't glanced in that direction. He remained at the podium, his expression unchanged.

  "Anyone else wish to protest?"

  Silence. Profound silence. Some looked down, some stared at the floor, some sat frozen.

  A man in the middle row stood. Thin, bespectacled, nervous. But he stood.

  "I... I'm Enrique. Congressional representative from the eastern district. I... agree with Se?or Fuentes. This is illegal. This—"

  Cruz was already beside him. Another envelope. "Se?or Enrique, you also received money from the same source. Fifty thousand, four months ago. Witnesses placed you at Fuentes's house a week afterward."

  Enrique trembled. "I—I didn't know... they said it was campaign donations—"

  "What campaign? You're not running for reelection."

  Enrique had no answer.

  He was led out. The door closed again.

  Mateo waited. Ten seconds.

  "Anyone else?"

  Silence.

  "I asked: anyone else wish to protest?"

  Stillness.

  Mateo nodded. "Good. Now I'll explain what happens next."

  He withdrew a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket—a long list, dense with names.

  "The National Security Corps, under the command of Major Cruz, has conducted an investigation over the past six months. The results: 138 people in this room—including the two who just left—are implicated in receiving illegal funds from groups seeking to destabilize the nation."

  A collective gasp. Several people shifted uneasily; others paled.

  "I will read these names one by one. When called, please stand and accompany the officers. No resistance is necessary—the evidence against you is already documented."

  He began reading.

  "Julián Martínez."

  A man in the front row rose, his face ashen. Two black-uniformed men escorted him out.

  "Roberto Miles."

  "Lucia Pérez."

  "Pedro Gutierrez."

  "Valentina Rodríguez."

  One by one, they stood. Some attempted to protest—"I'm innocent! This is slander!"—but evidence was shown, and they fell silent. Some wept. Some walked with heads held high, as if they'd known this day would come.

  Thirty-seven. Fifty-two. Eighty-one.

  In the back row, a middle-aged woman—Rosa Villa, who had protested earlier—rose before her name was called. Her eyes were sharp, unafraid.

  "I know my name must be on that list. But before I go, I want to speak."

  Mateo nodded.

  Rosa walked to the center aisle. Her voice was strong, clear.

  "Do you see this? This isn't a trial. This is an execution. With evidence—perhaps true, perhaps not—but without any chance for us to defend ourselves. And you're all silent. You're all afraid."

  She gestured around the room. "You think this is victory? This is the beginning of tyranny. Today he removes us. Tomorrow he'll remove you. And you won't be able to protest because you consented to this today."

  Mateo didn't respond. Cruz stepped forward.

  "Se?ora Villa, the evidence against you is substantial. Three transfers, totaling one hundred twenty thousand, to your personal account. Witnesses placing you in meetings with armed group emissaries in Valverde."

  Rosa laughed. "I went to Valverde on official business. That money was donations for last year's flood victims—I raised it from businesses. If it went to my personal account, it's because I was distributing it directly. There was no foundation account at the time."

  Cruz hesitated. "That can be explained later. In the appropriate venue."

  "Interrogation?" Rosa's smile was bitter.

  Mateo raised a hand. Cruz stopped.

  "Se?ora Villa."

  Rosa looked at him.

  "I know your reputation. Congress's most vocal member. Most critical. Cleanest. That's exactly why your name is on this list."

  Rosa frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "The groups in Valverde want to bring down the government. The easiest way: target people the public trusts. They transferred money to your account—without your knowledge, without confirmation—then spread rumors that you'd taken bribes. If we arrested you, the people would be angry. If we didn't, they'd have ammunition to accuse us of favoritism."

  Rosa was silent, her expression shifting.

  "You're innocent, Se?ora Villa." Mateo's voice remained flat. "Please sit down."

  Rosa didn't move. "This was a trap?"

  "This was their operation. Those groups wanted to destabilize us, but we have informants inside their organization." He looked at her. "Sit down. We won't trouble you."

  Rosa studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she resumed her seat.

  Mateo continued reading the list.

  One hundred three. One hundred twenty. One hundred thirty-eight.

  The final name was called. A man in the corner—unremarkable, forgettable—rose with resignation. No protest. No tears. He simply walked to the door.

  The door closed. Now the room felt emptier, quieter.

  Mateo set down the paper.

  "Three hundred sixty-two of you remain. You are the clean ones—or at least, not yet proven to be involved."

  He paused, his gaze sweeping the chamber.

  "But being clean isn't enough. I need loyalty. Not blind loyalty—I don't want slaves. But loyalty to this nation. To the stability we've built with blood and effort."

  A man in the front row—a sitting minister—rose.

  "I support you, Se?or Mateo. Fully."

  Others followed. One by one, they stood. Some with enthusiasm, some with hesitation, some with resignation.

  Mateo waited until all were standing. Except Rosa Villa—she remained seated, gazing out the window.

  "Anyone wish to comment?"

  Silence.

  "Anyone object?"

  "Good." He stepped back from the podium. "This meeting is adjourned. Ministers, return to your duties. Everyone else, await further instructions."

  He turned and walked toward the side door. Felix and Raúl Mendoza followed. Cruz remained behind, watching the room.

  In the corridor, Felix spoke. "One hundred thirty-eight. That's a lot."

  Mateo didn't answer.

  "You're sure they're all guilty?"

  "Of those, one hundred twenty-one have solid evidence. The remaining seventeen—" he paused. "—we'll find evidence later."

  Felix exhaled. "And Rosa Villa?"

  "She's clean. Those groups used her name as a trap." Mateo kept walking. "Protect her. If anything happens to her, the people will blame us."

  They exited the building. The sun was high, hot. On the steps, journalists had gathered, cameras ready.

  Mateo paused. Glanced toward them. Then, without comment, he entered his car. The door closed. The vehicle pulled away, leaving the building behind, leaving the bewildered crowd behind.

  Inside, Mateo leaned back in his seat. Closed his eyes.

  "Home," he said. "To the Sun Palace."

  The driver nodded.

  Mateo's thoughts drifted to Eleanor, crying that morning. To Isabella, saying "be careful." To his mother, touching his cheek and saying, "You're just like him."

  To his father, lying in a hospital bed, who might never wake.

  The car sped on. Behind them, the Congress building shrank in the distance. Ahead, the palace awaited. And within it, his family waited.

  He had promised to return.

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