DIAGO

it from its control. And that's the curious thing: it wasn't just a matter of punishment, but also of sending a message. Everyone who entered or left the city saw it there, a stark reminder of the consequences of crossing certain lines. A young man, about 22 to 25 years old, wandered the streets of Trujillo, trying to make a living. He came from humble origins, and it seemed that being illegitimate didn't make things easy for him. His name was Francisco Pizarro. In the far reaches of their lands, where the air smelled of hot mud and that dust that clings to your throat, hardly a drop of rain fell. Yet, in the darkened halls of the mansions, pacts were sealed without words. A glass of robust wine, a lingering gaze, and a thick silence—the kind that forces you to swallow without realizing it—were enough. There, amidst the smoke slowly rising from the chimneys and the orange light of the sunset, the powerful didn't need to shout. They understood each other… or they warned each other.