The air inside the cloister was thick with the scent of old wood, beeswax, and the faintest trace of incense that clung to the heavy stone walls.
Beyond the high, narrow windows, the Manila sun burned white against the horizon, but inside the friary, the world was cool, dim, and heavy with silence.
Alonzo de Salazar sat straight-backed in a carved wooden chair, his hands folded neatly on his lap.
Across from him, Father Ignacio, a man whose age hung on him like a worn cassock, skimmed through a set of letters tied together with a red ribbon. His movements were slow, deliberate, the way a man handles something with consequences.
"You've served well these past three years, Brother Alonzo," Ignacio said at last, his voice low but firm. "It is not unnoticed."
Alonzo inclined his head respectfully, the corner of his mouth lifting in a modest smile.
"It is my duty, Father."
"Duty," Ignacio repeated, almost amused. His thumb tapped lightly against the letters. "There are those who perform their duties to the letter, and those who exceed them. You fall into the latter."
The words warmed Alonzo's ears, but he gave no outward sign. Inside, however, he felt a ripple of satisfaction.
They see it. They see I am no mere servant of God. I am a builder of futures.
"You are to be reassigned," Ignacio continued, sliding a sealed parchment across the heavy desk. The wax bore the imprint of a bishop's ring. "A town further inland. Small. Poor. Forgotten by most."
Alonzo took the letter but did not open it. His mind had already begun to work.
"A challenge," Ignacio said, eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. "But a necessary one. For you—and for them."
"Of course, Father. I am honored by the trust." His voice was steady, but behind his chest, something coiled and tightened.
This was not punishment. No, for him this was an opportunity.
Ignacio studied him for a moment longer. "You are young, Alonzo. Many would see that as a flaw. I see ambition in your eyes. Temper it with patience, and you will rise far. Perhaps farther than even I have."
Alonzo bowed his head, hiding the gleam in his eyes.
"With God's grace."
Ignacio chuckled, dry as old leaves.
"God's grace... and a strong back. You'll definitely need both."
He stood, signaling the end of the meeting.
Alonzo rose, accepted the elder friar's blessing, and left the room with steady steps. The moment the heavy door closed behind him, he allowed himself a breath—a long, slow exhale that tasted of iron and dust.
The hallway stretched before him, empty but for a few novices hurrying about their tasks. Outside, the bells of San Agustin tolled the afternoon prayer, echoing off the stone courtyards. Alonzo passed them by without kneeling, his mind already racing ahead.
His chambers were small, bare save for a narrow bed, a cracked basin, and a single trunk of possessions. He knelt before the trunk and opened it carefully. Folded within were robes, papers, a worn book of prayers—and at the bottom, hidden beneath a false lining, a slim, leather-bound journal.
He took it out and turned to the latest page.
"To build a house that no time nor storm can tear down, one must first lay its stones in blood and soil."
Alonzo traced the words with his finger.
He was a third son, born with neither inheritance nor estate. His older brothers would wear the title, hold the lands, command the wealth of their house. For him, there would be only scraps—unless he made something for himself. The Church was a path. Power beyond the feeble limitations of noble blood. Influence that reached from altar to throne.
And legacy. A son—his blood, his will made flesh.
The Church forbade such ambitions.
But the Church was made of men, not saints.
He closed the journal and stood. Tomorrow, he would leave behind the narrow streets of Manila, the crowded churches, the endless murmurs of politics.
Tomorrow, he would ride inland, to a place where he could shape his future unchallenged.
A forgotten town.
A fertile ground.
He smiled as he packed.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
The morning of his departure, Manila was wrapped in mist. Down by the docks, the fishermen shouted and bargained, their voices muffled by the heavy air. The small caravan arranged for his journey waited just beyond the friary gates: a simple cart, a pair of oxen, and two native servants assigned to him.
One of them, a boy no older than fourteen, bowed low when he saw Alonzo approach.
"Padre," he said in a soft, careful voice.
Alonzo barely nodded in return. His eyes were on the horizon, where the jungle swallowed the road in green.
Ignacio had come to see him off. The old friar leaned heavily on his cane but managed a faint smile.
"Remember, Alonzo," he said, voice low enough that only they could hear. "A shepherd must be gentle with his flock—but firm when needed."
"I will remember," Alonzo replied.
Ignacio clapped him on the shoulder, a father's blessing without words. Then, without further ceremony, Alonzo climbed into the cart.
The oxen trudged forward, hooves splashing through the muddy road. As they passed the edge of the city, the stone walls gave way to fields and forests. The sky grew wider. The world itself seemed to open, stretching vast and wild before him.
Alonzo leaned back against the rough wood of the cart and closed his eyes.
He imagined it clearly.
A church, built high atop the town's hill, its cross gleaming against the sun. Villagers kneeling, obedient, fearful and adoring.
A son, strong and intelligent, bearing his blood and spirit, destined to rise even higher.
His legacy.
His true house.
No, this was not exile.
This was providence.
He smiled to himself, a small, secret smile.