Santiago Valverde's page

Santiago’s pen paused mid-flourish. He looked up, the faintest curve of a smile playing at his lips. The official’s words were meant as reassurance, but to Santiago they were a reminder: the Crown’s grip was loosening, its attention fixed across the ocean. Here, in Buenaventura, shadows had room to grow wings.

"I think a cool drink is in order." he says as he walks back down the docks towards the town.

Finding a modest cantina in the Stilt House region of the town, Santiago opens the door. His boots were polished, his coat cut in the Spanish style, yet his gaze carried something sharper than noble arrogance.
He approached the bar, removing his gloves with deliberate calm.
“Señorita,” he said, voice smooth, “a glass of your strongest. The sea has been unkind today.”

The humid air of Buenaventura clung to Santiago Valverde like a second skin as he stepped onto the creaking planks of the dock. The scent of salt and tar mingled with the sharp tang of coffee beans spilling from burlap sacks, a reminder of the trade empire he now commanded. His boots were polished, his coat tailored in the latest Spanish fashion—every inch the loyal son of the Crown. Yet beneath the silk cravat, his heart beat to a different rhythm.

He paused to watch a group of stevedores wrestle with a stubborn crate, their backs bent under the weight of goods destined for men who would never know hunger. Santiago’s dark eyes softened. These were his mother’s people—the Quechua blood that ran in his veins tied him to their struggle as surely as the Falcon’s wings tied him to the night.

“Señor Valverde!” A port official hurried toward him, ledger in hand, sweat beading on his brow. “The shipment from Cartagena—delayed again. Pirates, they say.”

Santiago smiled faintly, the kind of smile that could mean anything. “Then we shall pray for calm seas,” he replied, voice smooth as aged rum. He signed the ledger with a flourish, the nobleman’s son playing his part to perfection.

But as the official scurried away, Santiago’s gaze drifted to the narrow alleys beyond the plaza, where shadows pooled like ink. Tonight, those shadows would be his cloak. Tonight, the Black Falcon would strike again.