The Andes Dream-Chapter 246: Carlos Backstory

After spending some time with his daughter, Carlos returned to his office.

Though calmer thanks to Isabella and Krugger’s words, the conflict within him had not disappeared. It lingered—quiet, persistent—waiting for an answer that had yet to arrive.

He waited.

Anxiously.

For his son’s letter.

Two months later, it finally came.

The moment Carlos saw the seal, his face went pale.

Krugger, upon hearing that a letter from Francisco had arrived, did not hesitate. He made his way immediately to Carlos’s office.

By now, Krugger was a well-known figure within the government of Antioquia. The burly Prussian general had played a decisive role in shaping Carlos’s army—eliminating threats, suppressing unrest among hostile groups, and deterring Spanish advances.

Opinions about him were divided.

Some hated him for centralizing military power.Others respected him.A few even revered him.

Several influential families from Río Negro and Antioquia had sent their sons to train under him. At first, Krugger had wanted to refuse, but Carlos convinced him otherwise. It was a calculated move—by placing their heirs under Krugger’s command, those families were choosing a side.

If Spain reconquered Antioquia, those same families would fall with Carlos.

In a way, they were binding themselves to his cause.

"What happens after..."

That, however, was a problem for the future.

"Is Carlos in his office?" Krugger asked one of the secretaries stationed at the door.

The young man hesitated before answering.

"He is... but he is not receiving visitors," he said carefully. "The letter affected him deeply. He has been drinking since he read it."

Krugger’s expression hardened.

"Good. Tell the bureaucrats to take the afternoon off—or work outside the mansion. Only the guards are to remain. I will handle Carlos."

The secretary nodded quickly and hurried away, passing the order through the building.

Krugger then turned to his men.

"I am going in," he said. "There is a chance I will end up just as drunk as him."

His tone remained calm—but firm.

"Do not let either of us leave. If we try, you have permission to stop us... by force if necessary."

The soldiers exchanged glances, then nodded.

"And bring Doña María," he added. "She may be old, but she knows how to deal with broken men better than any physician."

With that, he stepped forward.

Two of his most trusted guards took position outside the door.

Krugger entered.

His boots echoed softly against the stone floor.

Then he stopped.

The air inside the office was wrong.

It wasn’t the usual mix of tobacco smoke and gunpowder—it was something heavier. Stagnant. Suffocating.

Sadness.

Carlos did not turn.

He sat by the window, a half-empty cup of aguardiente hanging loosely from his hand, his eyes fixed on the darkening valley beyond.

On the desk lay the letter.

Or what remained of it.

The parchment was no longer neatly folded—it had been crushed, twisted, almost torn apart. Francisco’s elegant handwriting barely survived beneath the creases.

Krugger didn’t need to ask.

Carlos spoke first.

"My father is dead, Krugger..." he said, his voice hollow. "Murdered."

A pause.

"By my brother."

Silence filled the room.

Carlos let out a broken laugh—one that carried no humor, only disbelief.

"The bastard thought there was a conspiracy... that my father had sent me to New Granada to build a new state for the family... leaving him behind as a scapegoat."

His grip tightened around the cup.

"So he killed him... to make sure that ’conspiracy’ would never come to light."

He laughed again.

This time, tears followed.

Krugger’s pupils shrank in shock.

Without a word, he stepped forward and picked up the letter.

As he read, his expression hardened.

Francisco explained everything in careful detail.

After the attempted kidnapping, the director of Göttingen had begun deploying intelligence agents across Europe—quiet observers tasked with watching anyone who might pose a threat to Francisco.

One of those agents had been assigned specifically to the House of Lerma.

What he reported...

Was damning.

Carlos’s brother had traveled to the royal court and held a private audience with the King of Spain. Shortly after, he returned to the family estate—where the old duke lay confined to his bed.

That very night...

The duke died.

Officially, nothing was declared.

But the servants—loyal, observant—were not fools.

In the days that followed, the heir tightened control over the castle. Access to the duke was forbidden. The physicians were dismissed under the excuse of incompetence, replaced by a single "specialist" no one recognized.

Orders began to circulate under the duke’s name.

But something was wrong.

Two weeks later, the truth could no longer be hidden.

The smell of decay spread through the halls.

The heir had no choice.

The body was sealed in a coffin and removed quietly, almost in secrecy. Many saw it—but none dared speak. Fear sealed their mouths more effectively than any decree.

There was no official proof.

No accusation.

But the conclusion...

Was undeniable.

Krugger lowered the letter slowly.

Even as a man familiar with noble intrigues, betrayals, and ruthless struggles for power... this was something else.

It wasn’t just murder.

It was erasure.

To kill a man—and then hide his body like refuse—

Even among nobles, that crossed a line few dared approach.

At the end of the letter, Francisco added one final detail:

The same "kind" uncle had invited him to Spain—urging him to visit the duke before his supposed death.

A trap.

An obvious one.

The brother had never imagined that Göttingen’s director would be watching... or that Francisco would have eyes inside the castle.

He had assumed the boy was blind.

Isolated.

Easy to manipulate.

Krugger exhaled slowly.

Now he understood.

He moved forward and sat beside Carlos. Without asking, he took the bottle from his hand and poured himself a drink.

For a while...

Neither spoke.

After several long minutes, Carlos finally broke the silence.

"My mother was never treated well in that place..." he murmured.

His voice was distant, as if he were speaking to the past rather than the man beside him.

"She was just a servant when she arrived. Before that... she had a fiancé. A man from her village."

He let out a dry laugh.

"He had debts. Inherited from his father. Her family refused the marriage until those debts were paid."

Carlos leaned forward slightly, staring at nothing.

"So when she was offered work at the castle... she accepted. Eight hundred reales. Enough to pay everything. Enough to build a life."

He paused.

"She was happy. Hopeful."

Another drink.

"She told him. And at first... he hesitated. Everyone knows the stories about servants in noble houses. Abuse. Jealousy. Death."

Krugger remained silent.

"But when he heard the money..." Carlos continued bitterly, "he smiled. Told her to endure it. To work hard so they could have a future."

Carlos’s grip tightened around the bottle.

"So she did."

His voice hardened.

"She worked. She endured. And like a fool—or maybe just someone desperate to believe—she gave him everything she earned."

He let out a hollow breath.

"She thought he was saving it. For their home. For their land."

Carlos shook his head slowly.

"When she finally had enough... when she decided to leave..."

His expression darkened.

"The head maid—a venomous woman—assigned her to the night shift."

A pause.

"Maybe out of jealousy. Maybe cruelty. Maybe both."

He took another long drink.

"And that night... my father saw her."

Silence fell again.

"He was young. Restless."

Carlos laughed, but there was no warmth in it.

"And he took her."

Krugger’s jaw tightened slightly—but he said nothing.

"I doubt he expected her to become pregnant from a single night," Carlos added.

"The next morning, she left. She ran to her fiancé, hoping to escape what had happened."

His voice turned cold.

"But he wasn’t any better."

Carlos leaned back, exhaustion settling into his bones.

"He had followed his father’s path. Gambling. Drinking. Squandering everything."

A bitter smile appeared.

"All the money she earned... gone."

Krugger listened in silence.

Now he understood.

Carlos’s obsession with strength—his insistence on raising Isabella as someone who could fight, resist, and endure—was not born from ambition...

But from memory.

He had watched his mother suffer under the will of two men.

And he had sworn, consciously or not, that his daughter would never share that fate.

Still, something did not quite fit.

Krugger frowned slightly.

"Then how did your father discover her pregnancy... if she had already left the castle?"

Carlos fell silent.

For a moment, it seemed as if he might not answer.

Then he spoke, his voice heavy.

"He became obsessed with her... after that night."

A bitter pause.

"He searched for her. Found her. And decided to make her his mistress."

Krugger’s expression darkened, but he said nothing.

"It wasn’t until months later," Carlos continued, "when the pregnancy became visible... that things changed."

His fingers tightened around the bottle.

"At first, he provided for her. A small mansion in Barcelona. Money. Enough to live comfortably."

A hollow laugh escaped him.

"But he had no intention of recognizing us."

He looked down.

"Then... something shifted."

Carlos frowned slightly, as if even now he didn’t fully understand it.

"Perhaps he feared his enemies would use me against him. Or perhaps he was thinking of the laws of overseas service..."

He shook his head.

"In the end, he took me from her."

Silence.

"He raised me in his household. Taught me everything he considered useful... only to send me away to New Granada."

Krugger exhaled slowly.

"And your mother?"

Carlos’s expression went still.

"She died before we ever reached this land."

A pause.

Krugger’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"Killed?"

Carlos shook his head.

"No."

His voice softened—but not with peace.

"With emptiness."

"Depression."

He stared at the floor.

"She stopped eating. Stopped smiling."

Another pause.

"And one day... she simply died."

Krugger clenched his jaw.

Carlos continued, quieter now.

"The duke’s wife hated her. Despised her."

His tone hardened.

"She sent servants—again and again—to humiliate her. To break her."

A faint tremor passed through his voice.

"She didn’t dare touch me. I was still the duke’s son."

A bitter silence followed.

"But my mother..."

He closed his eyes briefly.

"She had no such protection."