“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.

Baltasar is arrested before noon, and the courtyard fills with stunned silence, the kind that comes when a powerful man is finally named what he is. He shouts about loyalty, about betrayal, about how you’ll regret letting officials into your home. He tries to meet your eyes, searching for fear, and you refuse to give it to him. Men like Baltasar survive by convincing women like you that you can’t manage without their brutality. As he is dragged away, you notice something else: the workers are watching you, not with superstition now, but with cautious evaluation. They want to know if you’ll fold, if you’ll replace one tyrant with another, if your kindness was temporary. You open your mouth to speak, but the words stick because what do you say after you’ve been part of the system that broke them. Then you realize you can’t fix everything with one speech. You can only choose what you do next, and let your actions argue for you. You turn to find Nahuel, and he’s gone.