CHAPTER 72: THE EMBERS OF FLAME

Ilocos Colony – Outskirts of Vigan

Governor Emiliano Argüelles stood at the edge of a newly dug canal, the early morning light bathing the wet soil in gold. A line of barefoot farmers moved in rhythm, passing buckets of muddy water along a chain. The canal was supposed to bring irrigation to three barangays that had gone dry during the last monsoon. Instead, it had become a symbol of something far more dangerous: division.

"Get that trench reinforced," Argüelles barked. "The walls are too soft."

A foreman saluted and ran down the embankment.

Behind the governor, a junior administrator whispered, "Sir... the delegates from Bacarra are waiting in the town hall. Again."

Emiliano exhaled slowly. "Of course they are."

He wiped his gloves clean, brushed mud from his boots, and turned toward his horse.

"Tell them I’m on my way. And warn the town guard—not armed, just present."

He didn’t need another protest turning into a standoff.

Vigan Town Hall – One Hour Later

The stone building was packed. The delegates—six farmers, one priest, and a merchant—stood on the tiled floor, facing a semicircle of colonial officials seated behind polished desks. Emiliano entered through a side door and took his place at the center.

A balding man with a rosary around his wrist stepped forward first.

"Governor Argüelles," he began, bowing respectfully. "We speak on behalf of those who have not been heard. The reforms... they favor the south."

Murmurs rose behind him.

"Our villages have no tractors. No paved roads. No subsidies. Yet we pay the same taxes and follow the same quotas. Kareya promised balance. Instead, we carry the burden while others reap the fruit."

Emiliano laced his fingers on the desk and leaned forward.

"Father, I hear your concerns. But the south received tractors because they met the cooperative target. Five barangays submitted joint land-use plans. Yours submitted none."

The merchant stepped in. "Because we don’t own the land, Governor. We till it. But the titles—those still rest with old families who lease them at whim. When we requested redistribution, your clerk told us to file paperwork. We did. Three times. No reply."

"That’s a serious accusation," Emiliano said.

"It’s not an accusation," the priest replied. "It’s a fact."

Two Days Later – Vigan Archives Office

Emiliano stood in a cramped room filled with steel filing cabinets. Dust hung in the air, disturbed only by the turn of yellowing papers. He had ordered a quiet review of the land redistribution applications. The first cabinet yielded nothing. The second, nothing. On the third, he found them—three full applications from the Bacarra cooperatives. Stamped. Dated.

Unprocessed.

Buried beneath unrelated documents.

He closed the drawer slowly, his expression unreadable.

That Night – Governor’s Residence.

In his study, Emiliano poured himself a glass of local rum and stared at the reports. Beside them sat a sealed envelope from Firewell containing education and industrial output targets for Ilocos Province.

He didn’t open it.

Instead, he stared out the window. Below, the lights of the town flickered. At the edge of sight, he could see torchlight moving down the ridge—too many to be just travelers.

A knock broke the silence.

"Enter."

His aide stepped in. "Sir, there’s trouble. A large group from the Bacarra basin is marching to Vigan. They’re unarmed, but—"

"But they’re angry," Emiliano finished.

"Yes."

The governor closed his ledger. "Ready the public square. I’ll meet them there. Personally."

Vigan Town Square – Midnight.

A thousand voices filled the plaza. Farmers, their families, and sympathetic townsfolk crowded under the pale moonlight. Children held woven banners that read "Land for those who work it."

Governor Argüelles stepped onto the stage built for town festivals. He was alone, save for a torchbearer at the base of the steps. The crowd grew quiet as he raised his hand.

"I owe you an apology."

The words stopped even the murmurs.

"Three petitions were filed. All valid. All buried by bureaucratic negligence. That is not your failure. That is mine."

Whispers ran through the crowd.

"I can offer only this," he said. "Starting tomorrow, every cooperative in Bacarra and beyond will be reassessed. Land title audits will be conducted under third-party oversight. And you will not leave Vigan without a written plan, with timelines, signed by me."

A man from the crowd shouted, "And if you break that promise?"

Emiliano’s voice did not waver. "Then you have every right to bring this crowd back—twice as loud."

There was no applause. Just silence. And then, one by one, the people began to nod.

The Next Week – Ilocos Highlands.

The reforms began immediately. Survey teams were dispatched to remote villages. Clerks were reassigned. Three officials were dismissed, one charged with obstruction. New training centers were opened for title transfer procedures. For the first time in decades, Bacarra’s farmers began seeing paths to ownership.

But beneath the progress, something simmered.

Not all old landowners took the reforms lightly.

In the town of San Ildefonso, an hacienda-owner refused entry to the surveyors and accused them of forgery. In Laoag, a clerk was found dead in the river, his documents missing.

In private letters, Emiliano warned the Civic Council:

"We may have avoided a firestorm this month, but the embers remain. The inequality is structural. If we don’t act faster than resentment grows, Ilocos will erupt."

Firewell – Juliette’s Office.

Juliette skimmed Emiliano’s letter and placed it alongside others—one from Mindoro, one from Bataan, all echoing the same warning: the reforms were working, but not fast enough.

She turned to the window, where children were playing outside a new school funded by the Kareya Doctrine.

A courier entered with a dispatch: the new budget was approved. Cuts to the mainland’s manufacturing subsidy. Increases to colonial infrastructure.

Juliette sighed.

They were building a ladder, rung by rung.

But the ground beneath it still shook.

Ilocos – Remote Village of Piddig.

Three weeks later, the rebellion that hadn’t begun with fire or sabotage—began with a song.

A young girl sang outside a rice granary. Her voice was sweet, but the lyrics stung.

"We harvest for gold we do not hold,

They measure our sweat but not our soul..."

By sunset, the song had spread to five towns.

By week’s end, it was banned in two municipalities.

And when the militia in Batac arrested the girl’s father for inciting unrest, her village blockaded the road.

No weapons. Just bodies. Men, women, and children.

Emiliano received the message at dawn.

He rode out immediately.

Piddig Crossroads.

The soldiers stood in two lines. The villagers formed a human wall.

In between them, Governor Argüelles dismounted and walked forward alone.

The crowd parted.

He knelt before the young girl and handed her a book.

"Your song has more truth than most speeches I’ve heard this year," he said.

She blinked, confused. Her mother clutched her arm, afraid.

"Your father will be released," Emiliano continued, rising. "And starting tomorrow, I want the lyrics printed in the local papers. Let the empire see them."

A commander hissed behind him. "Governor, that’s—"

"A reflection," Argüelles said, cutting him off. "One we need to see."

The soldiers lowered their rifles.

***

Journal Entry of Emiliano Argüelles

Ilocos will not rebel in flames. It will rebel in silence. In songs. In slow, building truths.

We have introduced justice like rain in a dry field—too little at first, then too much too fast.

The old world will not go quietly, and the new one is afraid to speak. My job is to listen for both.

I was sent here to govern.

But perhaps what I must become... is a gardener.

***

The printing press hissed and groaned as fresh sheets flew off the rollers. At the top of each was a headline no one expected:

"We Harvest for Gold We Do Not Hold" — The Song of Piddig

Below it were the lyrics, printed in full. The editorial by Governor Argüelles followed, brief and direct:

"A song is not a threat—it is a mirror. Let us not fear the reflections, but improve the faces we see."

In the back of the office, the editor-in-chief leaned against a wooden beam, arms crossed. "This’ll stir the pot."

His assistant glanced at the stacks of printed papers. "Better a stirred pot than a scorched field."

That Evening – Vigan

Across the city, the song echoed from open windows and quiet alleys. Played on bamboo flutes, hummed by children, recited like prayer. It had become more than a protest—it was now a lullaby, a hymn, a memory.

At the governor’s residence, Emiliano stood beneath the eaves, rain trickling from the rooftop. A courier handed him a sealed note from Firewell.

He broke the wax seal and unfolded it slowly.

We commend your response in Piddig. Your discretion and speed reflect the core principles of Kareya. A formal review of title reform policies will begin within the month, using Ilocos as our pilot province.

Keep listening.

—Juliette

He smiled faintly.

Behind him, his wife stepped out with a shawl over her shoulders. "You haven’t slept."

"No," Emiliano said. "But Ilocos has."