*Luca*
The tavern’s dim light glows against the rough-hewn walls as I lean on the worn oak table, the wine warming my chest. Around me, allies and old friends murmur low, their voices heavy with suspicion. They talk in hushed tones about the shifting tides of power.
The Catholic Monarchs are tightening their grip, and there are whispers of Moorish resistance crumbling, and of courtiers scheming beneath gilded masks. Here, politics isn’t a game. It’s a double-edged sword, and tonight, every word feels like a move in a deadly dance we can’t afford to lose.
I keep my face still and my answers careful. Too much depends on silence. My lineage is better left unspoken, a truth buried beneath titles and loyalty pledges.
I swirl the wine in my cup and listen to Ramón, red-faced and angry in the
