“DON’T TOUCH HIM,” THEY WARNED YOU. YOU BOUGHT HIM ANYWAY… AND THAT NIGHT YOU LEARNED WHY MEN WOULD RATHER BURN THEIR SILVER THAN KEEP HIM CLOSE.

The courtyard goes quiet, the way rooms do when an unexpected rule is introduced. Nahuel looks at you without flinching, and you see intelligence there, sharp as a blade and just as controlled. “Hard work doesn’t frighten me,” he says, voice steady, neither humble nor aggressive. “But unjust cruelty… I won’t accept it in silence.” Baltasar’s hand drops toward his whip instinctively, like a reflex that has been trained by years of getting away with it. “No one speaks without permission here,” he snaps, and his eyes flick to you, waiting for your approval. Something in you stiffens, a memory of Aurelio’s cold rules and your own learned quiet. “Enough,” you say, and the word is small but final. “In my hacienda, no one is punished for telling the truth.” Baltasar’s jaw tightens, and for the first time you feel, clearly, that your enemy might not be the debts alone.