The governor's hand hovered over his sword. The scribe's quill trembled. For a long moment, no one breathed.
Her name was Huara.
One morning, a figure appeared on the ridge. A woman, dark-haired and silent, carrying a bundle of firewood. She was native to the land, her face painted with the ochre of the mountains. She didn't run. She stared at him as if he were the ghost. El Fundador
"And yet," Alonso replied, "people pray beneath it." The governor's hand hovered over his sword