Life in the palace had a rhythm of its own. Like a heartbeat forced into calm, it throbbed behind marble ribs and tall windows.

  Ten days after Father returned from the south, that rhythm settled back into place—or at least pretended to be normal.

  I spent my mornings in the library, studying patterns. Not economic or military patterns, but something far more human: the routines of the household staff.

  Every morning at 7:15, Rosa walked from the kitchen to Mother’s room carrying a breakfast tray. Exactly 120 steps.

  At 9:00, Manuel the gardener swept the western garden path, always starting from the crane statue that had long since lost its elegance.

  At 11:30, the scent of warm sponge cake crept out from beneath the kitchen door—Isabella would come downstairs five minutes later, as if guided by her nose alone.

  Rhythm. Order. The illusion of control.

  “You look like you’re watching a puppet show,” Isabella said one morning, catching me behind the window curtain with a small notebook in hand.

  “Not puppets,” I replied. “A clock. Life ticks in predictable rhythms, like a clock.”

  “And that’s boring,” she snorted, grabbing an apple from the table. “I prefer it when Eleanor tries to teach squirrels how to dance. At least that’s unpredictable.”

  Ah…

  Eleanor and the squirrels. That had become her latest project after the complete failure of animal languages.

  So far, the results were three terrified squirrels, one nearly bitten finger, and Eleanor’s unshakable belief that she was “almost successful.”

  “A boring life is a luxury,” I said, closing my notebook. “In some places, uncertainty is the only certainty.”

  She looked at me, then crunched her apple loudly. “There you go again. Sometimes you sound like a cynical old grandfather.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. It was a compliment, in its own way.

  ***

  That afternoon, randomness was once again supplied by the duo of Eleanor and Coco.

  The bird, having successfully mastered “Very good coffee!” and “Fair trade!”, had now developed a personality—or more accurately, an attitude.

  Rosa decided Coco needed a “bath” to clean the dust from his feathers. The process was simple: gently spray him with water, then dry him with a soft towel.

  Eleanor, of course, appointed herself official assistant.

  “You have to be clean, Coco! Clean is healthy!” she shouted, holding a small spray bottle.

  Coco, perched high, eyed the bottle with deep suspicion. “No. No bath.”

  “Come on, don’t be naughty!”

  “Very good coffee!” Coco shouted, as if invoking a protective spell.

  “Coffee won’t save you if your feathers are dusty!”

  Isabella and I sat on a garden bench, watching two strange creatures argue. It was better entertainment than any theater.

  Eleanor sprayed a little water. Coco fluffed his feathers in defiance.

  “Bad bird!” Eleanor yelled.

  “Bad girl!” Coco shot back, using vocabulary he had learned from who-knows-where.

  Isabella choked on her laughter. “He learns fast.”

  “Too fast,” I muttered. The bird was absorbing not just words, but tone and context. He was smart. And intelligent creatures that couldn’t be fully controlled were always liabilities.

  After five minutes of futile water warfare, Eleanor gave up. “He’s too stubborn!”

  “Just like his owner,” Isabella whispered to me.

  Coco, sensing victory, puffed out his chest. “Victory! Victory!”

  Rosa appeared from the doorway with a towel and snorted. “Victory today, defeat tomorrow. Next time, we’ll use a different strategy. Perhaps sunflower seeds as bait.”

  “Corruption!” Coco shrieked.

  We all froze—then burst out laughing. The bird had even learned the word corruption. The world truly was full of irony.

  ***

  The calm rhythm began to crack, almost imperceptibly. The first crack came through Diego.

  He arrived not with a broad smile and gifts, but with a serious face that felt like a poorly fitted mask. “There’s troubling news,” he said, refusing Mother’s offer of tea. “From the east. A textile factory in Nueva Esperanza. A strike.”

  “A strike?” Mother set her cup down carefully. “Isn’t that common in an economy?”

  “Usually, yes.” Diego lowered his gaze, fiddling with the edge of his gloves. “But this one is different. They’re not just demanding higher wages. They’re demanding the repeal of Presidential Decree No. 17.”

  Decree No. 17. I knew it well. An emergency decree granting regional military commanders extra authority to “maintain order” in industrial zones. A decree Father had signed a month ago at Mendez’s insistence.

  “Repealing a decree is a political issue,” Isabella said calmly. “Not a normal labor negotiation.”

  “Exactly,” Diego replied, looking slightly surprised. “And more concerning, the strike leader isn’t a traditional union figure. He’s a former sergeant, discharged for ‘insubordination’ last year.”

  The air grew colder. A former soldier. Leading a strike. Challenging a military decree.

  This was no longer simple labor unrest. It was a direct challenge to authority—and perhaps a personal vendetta against the military institution.

  “Does Father know?”

  Diego nodded. “He’s been informed. But he’s focused on the pilot project in the south. Colonel Mendez is handling this.”

  Mendez. Of course. He had pushed the decree, and now he would “handle” its consequences. I could already imagine his methods—hard, fast, and bloody.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Any casualties?” Mother asked flatly.

  “Not yet. But the factory is surrounded by sympathetic demonstrators. Military police have been deployed.” Diego stood. “I thought, as a family, you should know. The atmosphere in the capital is becoming… tense.”

  After he left, Mother sat silently for a long moment, staring at her clasped hands. “A crack,” she whispered. “Did he come to warn us, or to frighten us?”

  “Both,” Isabella replied. “Diego is an opportunist. He smells change in the air and wants us to know he’s the messenger.”

  I agreed. But the warning was real. The strike wasn’t random. It was organized, politically targeted, and involved former military personnel.

  This wasn’t just a crack.

  Father came home that night with a face like fractured granite. He tossed his uniform onto a chair—not in anger, but in deep exhaustion.

  “They’re challenging me,” he said over dinner, attended only by the immediate family. “Not directly. But through strikes, pamphlets, and… symbolism.”

  “Symbolism?” Eleanor asked, spooning soup into her mouth.

  “They’re using the old flag,” Isabella explained calmly. “The one from before the coup.”

  “Oh.” Eleanor frowned. “But our flag is nicer. Gray and blue are prettier.”

  Father almost smiled. “Yes, dear. More elegant.” But his eyes didn’t smile. “Mendez wants to use force. Tear gas, batons, and… possibly more.”

  “And you?” I asked.

  “I want to talk. And listen.” He sighed. “But once they raise the old flag, it’s no longer about wages or conditions. It’s about legitimacy. About who has the right to rule. And in a fight like that, dialogue sounds like… weakness.”

  That was the dilemma. Idealism versus realpolitik. Empathy versus the perception of strength. And Mendez, the realist, waited in the wings for Father to falter.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. I stood at my window, looking down at the city. The lights flickered like misplaced stars. Somewhere in the east, in Nueva Esperanza, people were gathering—perhaps singing old songs, holding forbidden flags.

  Rebellions began with symbols. Then words. And finally, blood.

  I remembered the history of my previous world. It never ended well.

  The next day, the palace’s rhythm changed. Footsteps were quicker. Voices softer. Additional guards appeared at the inner gates.

  Father left early for an emergency meeting with the Military Council. Mother decided we would stay inside—“no outings, no visits.”

  Even Eleanor sensed the tension, though she expressed it by asking whether the “rebels” would come steal her candy.

  Still innocent. Still foolish.

  ***

  Manuel the gardener was trimming the rose bushes when he saw Coco flying free (Eleanor had forgotten to lock the cage) and landing atop the crane statue.

  “Get down from there, you naughty bird!” Manuel shouted, waving his pruning shears.

  Coco replied smugly, “No! My perch!”

  “That’s not your perch! That belongs to the palace!”

  “Public property!” Coco shouted—a phrase he had definitely picked up from political radio broadcasts.

  Manuel, unaccustomed to debating poultry, froze. “You… you communist bird!”

  I couldn’t help laughing as I walked over. Manuel turned red. “He’s insulting the statue, Young Master!”

  “The statue isn’t complaining,” I said. “And Coco just wants a high place. It’s instinct.”

  “But he’s talking nonsense! Public property! What’s next—he demands voting rights?”

  “An interesting idea,” I murmured. “But let’s take small steps. Coco, down. Sunflower seeds.”

  Coco tilted his head. “Bribe?”

  “Negotiation,” I corrected.

  The bird considered, then descended gracefully onto my shoulder. “Deal.”

  Manuel shook his head and returned to the roses, trimming them with slightly aggressive movements. “The world’s gone mad. Talking birds, workers striking… what’s next? Cats declaring a republic?”

  “Possibly,” I said seriously. “We should be alert for feline independence movements.”

  He stared at me, unsure if I was joking, then chuckled. “I’ll stick to plants, Young Master. Simpler.”

  That was what we all wanted. Simplicity. But the world was never simple.

  ***

  News from Nueva Esperanza came like a rising tide—each hour brought a new report, and each was darker than the last.

  Midday: The number of protesters increased. Barricades were erected.

  Afternoon: Military police confronted them. Stones were thrown.

  Evening: Warning shots were fired.

  Father didn’t come home. Mother sat in the music room, but no piano sound emerged. Isabella read the same page of a book for an hour.

  Eleanor, finally realizing this wasn’t a joke, sat on the floor near the window, drawing with crayons—dark pictures filled with red and black.

  I didn’t know what was going on inside my sweet little sister’s mind.

  I decided to do something that might be foolish. I went to Father’s office—not to steal documents or slip in proposals, but to use the internal communication line—the phone directly connected to headquarters.

  The guard outside, a young soldier with the face of a lost child, looked at me. “Young Master Mateo, I was ordered not to allow any interruptions.”

  “I won’t interrupt. I just want to know if my father is safe.”

  He hesitated. “I… I can ask the aide.”

  He went inside and returned moments later, looking slightly relieved. “The General will call in ten minutes. He wants to speak with the family.”

  More than I’d hoped for. Back in the family room, I told Mother. Color returned faintly to her face.

  The phone rang exactly ten minutes later. Father’s voice sounded distant, static humming behind it.

  “Is everyone all right there?” he asked.

  “We’re fine,” Mother replied, gripping the receiver. “And you?”

  “I’m trying.” A pause. “They refuse to negotiate. Their leader—the former sergeant—has a list of demands. Repeal of the decree, release of political prisoners, even… dissolution of the Provisional Military Council.”

  That wasn’t negotiation. It was an ultimatum.

  “Is there a middle ground?” Mother asked.

  “Listen,” Father’s voice dropped, as if he leaned close to the phone. “Things may become… uncontrollable. If something happens, if you hear worrying news, remember the emergency plan. The underground room. You know.”

  The emergency plan. A safe room beneath the library, stocked with food and water for a week.

  We’d practiced once, like a fire drill at school. I never thought we’d really need it.

  “We understand,” Mother said, her voice thin as steel. “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  The line went dead. The room felt emptier than before.

  Isabella broke the silence. “What does ‘uncontrollable’ mean?”

  “It means Mendez may take over,” I said without thinking.

  Mother looked at me but didn’t deny it. It was her fear too. Father sought a peaceful path, but if he failed, Mendez and the hardliners would have their excuse.

  And once they acted, Father might lose control—of the situation, of the military, even of his own safety.

  ***

  That night, the city did not sleep. From the balcony, I could see points of fire in the east. Smoke rose under the moonlight. Occasionally, faint explosions reached my ears—maybe exploding tires, maybe something worse.

  The palace became a guarded fortress. Double shifts. Dim lights. The air of waiting for a storm.

  Eleanor finally fell asleep on the sofa, her head in Mother’s lap. Isabella fetched a blanket. “She drew the rebels as monsters,” she whispered. “But in her drawings, the monsters are crying.”

  An unintended metaphor from a child. Even rebels, in my sister’s imagination, were wounded creatures.

  I returned to my room—not to sleep, but to write. I took my notebook, now thick with maps, names, and analysis. On the last page, I began:

  Symptoms of Systematic Rebellion:

  1. A unifying issue (military decree) affecting multiple groups (workers, civilians).

  2. Charismatic leadership with military background (credibility, tactical knowledge).

  3. Use of old symbols (alternative legitimacy).

  4. Measured escalation (strike > barricades > confrontation).

  Possible Scenarios:

  A. Father succeeds in negotiation; minor concessions granted. (Probability: low—demands too extreme.)

  B. Mendez intervenes; military suppression. Rebellion crushed, Father’s legitimacy destroyed, Mendez gains power. (Probability: high.)

  C. Rebellion spreads; nationwide instability. (Probability: moderate; worst consequences.)

  Our Position: Hostages to circumstance.

  If B occurs, we become liabilities to Mendez.

  If C occurs, we become targets.

  I closed the notebook. My thoughts raced, searching for an opening, an advantage—something to do. But sometimes, there was no clever move. Sometimes, there was only waiting and hoping.

  Then, just before dawn, the sound came.

  Not an explosion—but something deeper, more resonant. A boom that rattled the windows. One. Then two. Then several more, like angry thunder.

  I jumped from my chair and ran to the window. In the east, an orange glow flared brighter than before. Not a small fire. An explosion.

  The hallway phone rang, slicing through the tense silence. I heard Mother’s quick steps, then her calm, emotionless voice answering.

  Moments later, she stood in my doorway. Her face was smooth marble, but her eyes were deep, dark lakes.

  “It was the military police headquarters in the eastern district,” she said, each word measured and heavy. “Attacked. With… improvised explosives.”

  A counterstrike. The rebellion was no longer passive.

  “And Father?” I asked, my voice strange to my own ears.

  “He’s safe. Still at headquarters.” She paused. “But Mendez has taken operational command. With the approval of… most of the council.”

  There it was. The tipping point. Violence had given Mendez the excuse he needed. Father was now sidelined—perhaps reduced to a symbol without real power.

  The rhythm was shattered. Calm was gone.

  From downstairs came Eleanor’s cries, awakened by the blasts. Isabella tried to soothe her. Coco shrieked, “Danger! Danger!” like an unnecessary siren.

  Mother looked at me, and in her eyes I saw not fear, but cold acceptance. “Prepare yourself, Mateo. The storm we knew was coming… has finally arrived.”

  I nodded and turned back to the window. The city awakened under a grim dawn, painted with smoke and sirens.

  The palace’s steady heartbeat had been replaced by a new rhythm—the rhythm of fear, violence, and uncertainty.

  And somewhere out there, the former sergeant and his followers, along with Colonel Mendez and his troops, were dancing to that same rhythm—a rhythm that ended only one way.

  Today, we were no longer spectators. We had become part of the stage. And the performance had just shifted from drama to tragedy.

  I drew a breath, tasting ash in the air and the end of an illusion.

  A new game had begun.

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