One year.

  Time enough for a port city to change its hue, for new faces to appear and vanish, and for a family to disappear into the shadow of an information broker.

  Don Miguel accepted my terms with an almost imperceptible nod at Café del Puerto, a year ago.

  A thin smile lifted the corner of his mouth when I named my price—fifty thousand Bolívars upfront, complete identity documents, and a retired Prussi doctor for Eleanor.

  "You bargain like a seasoned coffee trader, Mateo," he'd said, sipping his thick coffee. "Not like a boy."

  "I am what the world has made of us, Don Miguel," I'd replied, sipping the same bitter tea as our first meeting.

  The terms were accepted. All of them.

  Our home was no longer the ammonia-stinking tannery warehouse, but a two-story building on Calle Moránn.

  The name was melodramatic, but the location was perfect. Narrow streets like a labyrinth, iron-barred windows, neighbors who knew better than to ask questions.

  Eleanor had her own room. The walls were painted a pale yellow, like butter. The Prussi doctor, Dr. Vogel with his wise blue eyes and gentle hands, came every week.

  Eleanor's cough hadn't disappeared entirely—the sea air of San Marcos was too harsh for her delicate lungs—but her cheeks had regained the pinkish hue that had faded during our flight.

  "Look, Mateo," she whispered one morning, pointing to the canary in a small cage by her window. "He sings even though he's caged. Like Coco."

  I stroked her hair, holding back something that lodged in my throat. We're all in cages, El. This one is just prettier.

  ***

  Working for Don Miguel was a crash course in realpolitik I'd never have gotten in a palace library.

  It started simple. Watching shipments at the docks, noting ship names and cargo, identifying new faces who took too keen an interest in goods that weren't their business.

  Don Miguel never explained why the information mattered. He just gave instructions and expected results.

  "That Prussi man," he said one afternoon in his dark office on the second floor of an unnamed building. The room smelled of old tobacco and damp paper. "Captain of the steamer Berlim Star. He met with Mendez's representative at warehouse number seven yesterday. What was the content of their conversation?"

  "Not the content, sir," I replied, standing across his cluttered desk. "But the rhythm. They argued for the first fifteen minutes. Then the Prussi man gave something—a small wooden box. After that, the tone shifted. A deal was struck."

  Don Miguel raised his greying eyebrows. "You didn't try to get closer? To hear?"

  "That would have made me visible. And as you've said, being unseen is more valuable than knowing guessable details."

  He made a low sound, almost a hum. Approval. "Guessable details?"

  "Mendez needs weapons. Prussi has weapons to sell. They argued over price or delivery time. The Prussi offered a bribe—perhaps a gold watch or documents—to speed the process. The Mendez man accepted. The pattern matches last month's transaction with the Brittonian agent."

  Don Miguel was silent a moment, his eyes—still like a dead fish watching from the depths—fixed on me. "You have a talent for seeing patterns."

  "That's what you're paying for, isn't it? Not just eyes, but a brain that connects dots."

  In a year, those dots began to form a terrifying map. A map of foreign interests gnawing at Venez like maggots on a corpse.

  Brittonia wanted railroad and mining contracts. The ADF wanted political influence and a naval base. Prussi wanted a market for their machinery and weapons.

  And Mendez, selling off pieces of the nation's sovereignty to the highest bidder, just to fill his own pockets and maintain his tenuous grip.

  Father...

  De jure, he was still President of the Venez Republic. Mendez's propaganda called him "gravely ill," forced to convalesce at his country estate, "reluctantly" handing temporary power to his loyal deputy.

  It was a lie so thin it was nearly transparent, yet held up by rifle strength.

  But father was alive. That was the most valuable piece of intelligence I'd managed to gather, bit by bit, from fragmented conversations, discarded documents, from a former aide now working as a servant in a Mendez official's house.

  He was imprisoned somewhere in the mountains, likely the heavily guarded Loos Nevados. Not executed because Mendez still needed that sliver of legitimacy. A tattered flag to hide behind.

  ***

  Isabella, in a year, had become a highly valued assistant at the ADF Store—or rather, at the offices behind the ADF Store.

  Her work had moved beyond translation. She now helped compile analytical reports, assessments of popular sentiment, of remaining opposition strength.

  One night, in our small casa's dining room, she set her fork down carefully. "Don Miguel asked me to evaluate a report on the labor movement in the northern tin mines."

  Mother, who was spooning a little soup into Eleanor, froze. "That's dangerous."

  "Everything is dangerous, Mother," Isabella replied, her voice flat. But her eyes were tired. "He wants to know if the ADF will support the strike, or pressure Mendez to suppress it. To gauge... investment stability."

  It's insane Miguel ask child as young as Isabella to do that.

  "And what will you say?" I asked.

  She looked at me. "I'll say the ADF will support it quietly—enough to shake Mendez and make him more dependent on them, but not enough to actually change the system. They want dependency, not revolution."

  Her sharp intelligence made me proud and horrified. She was learning too fast, seeing too clearly. But it's useful so let it be.

  "Good," I said. "That's what Don Miguel wants to hear. Because it's also what Brittonia wants—measured instability. And Don Miguel will sell your analysis to Brittonia as 'independent prediction.'"

  Isabella nodded, but there was a restlessness in her tense shoulders. "Sometimes, Mateo... I feel like we're building our own trap. The deeper we get, the more they know about us. The more they can use against us."

  "We're building a bridge," I corrected gently, though I felt the same unease. "From one cliff to another. And one day, when we're strong enough, we'll burn that bridge and stand on our own ground."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  But which ground? That was the question haunting me on quiet nights, when San Marcos slept and only the waves were company.

  San Marcos was Don Miguel's cage. And the world outside? A giant chessboard where we were mere pawns.

  Unless... we could change the game.

  ***

  My plan began to take shape after a meeting with a Prussi agent.

  His name was Klaus Richter. A man built like a boulder, with precisely cut blonde hair and a handshake that was too strong, as if testing your strength.

  Don Miguel arranged the meeting at a quiet nightclub. Cigar smoke hung in the air like fog.

  "Mr. Richter," Don Miguel said in his manufactured friendly tone. "This is Mateo. My eyes and ears at the port. He's the one who told me about... your ship captain's special interest in warehouse number seven."

  Richter shifted his cold grey gaze to me. Assessing. "You're young. Very young."

  "Age makes one less noticeable, Mr. Richter," I answered, keeping my gaze steady. "And in San Marcos port, being unnoticed equals being omniscient."

  A thin smile appeared on his face. "Wise. Don Miguel says you have something for me?"

  Don Miguel nodded to me. This was both a test and an opportunity. I took a deep breath.

  "Your ship captain, Bauer, didn't just meet with Mendez representative. He also met separately with a colonel from Mendez internal troops. A second, smaller, more secret transaction. Machine guns, five units, to be shipped via a different route. Without the knowledge of Mendez superiors in the capital."

  Richter didn't move, but his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Motive?"

  "That colonel, name's Vargas, is building his own power base. He doesn't trust Mendez. He's looking for... alternative foreign partners. Just in case."

  The room was quiet for a moment, only the clink of glasses from the distant bar. Don Miguel watched me with an unreadable expression.

  "Very interesting information," Richter said finally. His voice was flat. "And valuable. How did you obtain it?"

  "I saw Colonel Vargas arrive in disguise. I recognized his walk—he used to be an instructor at the military academy. I followed his servant to the inn where Captain Bauer was staying. And I have ears among the dock... children who aren't considered a threat."

  Richter nodded slowly. Then he turned to Don Miguel. "The boy is good. Too good to just be a dock watcher."

  Don Miguel shrugged. "Every tool has its appropriate purpose. Mateo understands his purpose."

  But on the ride back, in the dark of Don Miguel's enclosed carriage, he said, "That was a risky move, Mateo. Giving the Prussi too much at once."

  "It wasn't for the Prussi, sir," I replied, watching the faint outline of his face. "It was for us."

  "Explain."

  "Richter now sees value in your intelligence network—and in me specifically. He'll want more. And to get it, he'll offer something. Something he might never have offered you directly."

  Don Miguel was silent. I could hear the carriage wheels creak over the cobblestones.

  "You're playing a game within the game," he said finally, his voice a mix of admiration and wariness.

  "It's the only game there is, sir."

  Honestly, over this past year he had become something of a mentor to me, I learned a lot from Don Miguel.

  ***

  Two weeks later, Klaus Richter requested a private meeting. Not with Don Miguel. With me.

  We met at a secluded dock, near a stack of crates containing broken machinery. The sea wind blew strong, carrying the smell of fish and oil.

  "Don Miguel doesn't know we're meeting," Richter said, getting straight to the point.

  "Then it must be important."

  "It is. For you." Richter lit a cigarette, shielding the flame with his large hand. "We—Prussi—are dissatisfied with Mendez. He's unstable. Too greedy. Too many domestic enemies."

  "What do you want?"

  "Stability. A reliable partner. Someone with... legitimacy."

  My heart beat faster, but my breathing remained even. "Mendez is the de facto president."

  "And your father is the de jure president." Richter grey eyes pinned me. "Don't waste time denying it. Don Miguel thinks he's very clever at hiding your identities. But we have archives. And photographs."

  I said nothing. Let him talk.

  "We know he's alive. Imprisoned. We know you want to rescue him." Richter exhaled smoke. "We can help."

  "At what price?"

  "A special relationship. When your father is restored to power—with our help—Venez grants Prussi exclusive rights to build an east-west railroad from the Republic Venez, to Colomba then to Ecuad. And a port at Parian Bay."

  The price was steep. Steep indeed. Giving control over the nation's transport backbone and major maritime gateway.

  "And Mendez?"

  Richter made a small motion with his hand, as if swatting a fly. "He could... disappear. Or be put on trial. That's up to the Venez people." His voice was sarcastic. "What matters is a peaceful transition back to legitimate rule. Supported by... its international friends."

  I looked out to the sea, to the grey waters stretching to the horizon. This was what I'd been waiting for this past year.

  A way out of Don Miguel cage. A path to restore Father, to save the country from Mendez's grip and foreign predators.

  But it meant betraying Don Miguel. And it meant making a pact with another devil.

  "Don Miguel will know," I said.

  "Let him know when it's done," Richter countered. "By then, you'll be in the capital, beside your restored father. And Don Miguel... is an information broker in a port city. What can he do?"

  Plenty, I thought. Don Miguel wasn't a man to underestimate. But Richter was right about one thing: this was an opportunity. Perhaps the only one.

  "I need proof my father is alive. And that you have the capability to free him."

  Richter nodded, as if expecting this request. From his pocket, he produced a folded black-and-white photograph. Held it out.

  The photo was grainy, taken from a distance with a telephoto lens. But the figure was clear. Father. Sitting in a walled garden, reading a book.

  He was thinner, his hair whiter. But he was alive. The date in the corner: three weeks ago.

  "The location is on the back," Richter said. "Loos Nevados, as you probably suspected. Guarded by fifty of Mendez loyalists. We can insert a small team. Extract him."

  "When?"

  "As soon as we have an agreement. Signatures on paper."

  The sea wind suddenly felt bone-chillingly cold. "I need to think. To speak with... my family."

  Richter tossed his cigarette butt, crushed it under his sturdy boot. "You have one week. After that, this offer will be discussed with other parties who might be... less ideal."

  A veiled threat. If not me, maybe they'd seek a compromise with another faction within Mendez's forces. Or with Don Miguel himself.

  "I'll give you an answer in one week."

  ***

  The house on Calle Moránn felt like a museum that night. Too quiet. Too neat. A gilded cage that suddenly felt cramped.

  I gathered them in the sitting room—Mother, Isabella, and a sleepy Eleanor.

  The fire in the hearth danced, giving warm light but not enough to warm the chill I felt in my bones.

  I told them everything. The meeting with Richter. The Prussi offer. The photo of Father.

  Isabella covered her mouth with her hand, tears falling. Mother just sat, her face like a statue, her eyes fixed on the fire. Eleanor yawned, laying her head in Mother's lap.

  "It's a betrayal of Don Miguel," Isabella whispered. "He'll kill us."

  "Or we'll be far from him when he finds out," I countered. "In the capital, with Father restored."

  "And the price?" Mother's voice broke for the first time. "Handing our country to Prussi on a silver platter?"

  "Better than letting it be torn apart by everyone, piece by piece, under Mendez." My voice was louder than I intended. "This is a choice between two poisons, Mother. One will kill us slowly. The other... we can learn to find the antidote later."

  "You sound like a politician now," Mother said, and it was a condemnation.

  "We are politicians!" Isabella burst out suddenly, tears streaming down her face. "Or we were... And look where we are! Hiding, spying, afraid of our own shadows! Mateo is trying to find a way out!"

  Eleanor woke fully at their raised voices. She looked at us all, her little face crumpled in confusion and fear. "Why are you shouting? Is Don Miguel angry?"

  I crouched before her, taking her small hands. "No, sweetheart. We're just... debating the future."

  "Are we going away? I like my room. And my bird."

  That's what finally broke the dam. Made the tears fall. From my eyes. I hugged her, smelling her clean hair. "You'll have a more beautiful room, El. And many birds. And Father..."

  I couldn't finish.

  That night, I stood on the small balcony of my room, watching the full moon hang over the rooftops of San Marcos.

  This city had become both home and prison. Don Miguel had become both savior and jailer.

  One year. I had learned his way of working. His network. His weaknesses. He thrived on uncertainty, on imbalance.

  On the fact that everyone wanted something, and he was one of the few who knew how to connect those wants.

  But my move with Richter... it required certainty. A definitive step in one direction. And that scared me.

  Yet, the photo of Father... his gaunt face in the confined sunlight... that was stronger than fear.

  I heard footsteps behind me. Mother.

  "You've decided," she said, not a question.

  "I have to."

  She stood beside me, her shoulder touching mine. "I didn't raise you to be a traitor, Mateo."

  "And I didn't raise myself to be a pawn in someone else's game, Mother. This is the only move that gives us the power to determine our own fate."

  She let out a long sigh, a sound full of all the hardships of the past year. "Do what you must. But also remember: when you deal with foreign powers, you're not just selling your future. You're selling the future of everyone in this country."

  "That's why we have to be the ones signing it, Mother. Not Mendez. Not anyone else. Us. So we decide the price, and when the payments end."

  She looked at me, and for the first time since we fled, I saw something like hope in her weary eyes.

  Not bright hope, but a hard, unforgiving hope, like a plant growing between stones.

  "Then we'll do it together," she whispered. "As always."

  When she left, I looked back at the moon. Tomorrow, I would tell Richter we agreed. Tomorrow, a new conspiracy would begin.

  And Don Miguel?

  I would tell him later. When it was too late to stop. And I would offer him something more valuable than just information on the Prussi: a position in the new government.

  Because Don Miguel, like everyone, wanted something. And now, finally, I would be the one setting the price.

  The moon looked pale and distant, like a silver coin lying on black velvet.

  One year in the gilded cage had ended. Now it was time to spring the door—even if it meant singeing our wings a little in the process.

  https://paypal.me/ArdanAuthor)