After a couple of long, suffocating hours, Grandma María finally stepped outside.

The wooden door behind her creaked softly as it opened, and every voice in the courtyard died at once. Even the cicadas seemed to quiet, as if the heat itself were holding its breath. The old woman wiped her hands on her apron, still faintly stained with blood and crushed herbs, and straightened her back before speaking.

"I was able to save him," she said.

A collective gasp rippled through the gathered servants and family members. Miguel's shoulders loosened for the first time since the shot rang out at the estate gates.

"But," Grandma María continued, raising a finger before hope could bloom too wildly, "it is impossible to remove the bullet. It is lodged too close to an artery. Taking it out would risk damaging the arm further—perhaps killing him outright. I judged it wiser to leave it where it is."

Silence followed. Heavy, dense silence.

Miguel stepped forward, his jaw tight. "But… can he survive?"

Grandma María nodded firmly. "Of course he can. I cannot tell how the bullet will affect his daily life. Some veterans carry lead in their bodies for decades and live normally. Others suffer pain, weakness, or fever with the seasons. Only God knows what consequences it may bring. But for now, he is stable. Strong, even."

The tension finally broke. Several people sighed openly. A woman crossed herself. Another leaned against the wall, her knees weak with relief.

Isabella, who had been standing stiffly near the well, her small hands clenched into fists, suddenly burst into quiet sobs. She wiped her face with her sleeve and looked up at Grandma María with red, swollen eyes.

"Can I see him?" she asked in a trembling voice.

The old woman smiled gently, her deep wrinkles softening. "Not yet, niña. He is exhausted—more from the pain than the wound itself. He needs rest. Let him sleep for now."

Isabella nodded, though reluctance clouded her expression. She turned away slowly and walked toward the library, her steps hesitant on the stone floor.

As she disappeared down the corridor, no one noticed the moment of resolve that settled in her young heart—a determination that would shape not only her future, but the lives of hundreds of women across New Granada. But that story would be told another day.

Miguel exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. Relief had come—but it was bitter, incomplete. His eyes hardened, and without another word, he turned and strode toward the wing where Amelia was being kept.

The butler noticed immediately and followed after him, sighing deeply. "Miguel," he murmured, quickening his pace, "calm yourself. Acting without thought will only worsen things."

Miguel stopped abruptly, his fists clenched. "Sir, I respect you as the right hand of the patron," he said coldly. "But that woman nearly cost him his life. Do you understand what would have happened to us—and our families—if he had died?"

The butler said nothing.

Miguel continued, his voice rising. "And Isabella—" He glanced toward the corridor where the girl had vanished. "Can you imagine the life that would have awaited her? A dead father at the estate gates, a brother studying in Europe, gone for a year at least. Alone. Completely alone."

The butler's face darkened. He understood. The consequences were clear.

Still, he spoke carefully. "She possesses information that may save the Gómez family from being accused of murdering Don Aurelio. If you harm her, threaten her, or worse… it may destroy the master's reputation."

Miguel clenched his jaw and nodded sharply. "I know."

Then he pushed open the door.

The servants inside flinched. Amelia, pale and trembling, recoiled instinctively, her eyes wide with fear.

Miguel stepped forward. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice low and dangerous, "who wants you dead?"

Amelia hesitated, her lips trembling—but she said nothing.

Miguel leaned closer. "Tell me," he repeated, colder now. "Or I cannot answer for what happens to you."

The servants moved at once, stepping protectively in front of her.

Miguel froze. Insult burned through him.

Without warning, he swung his fist and struck one of the servants hard across the face. The man fell back with a cry, crashing into a chair. Instantly, chaos erupted.

Shouts echoed through the room. Fists flew. Another servant lunged at Miguel, only to be tackled by one of Miguel's men. Furniture overturned. A vase shattered against the wall.

The butler drew his pistol and fired into the ceiling.

The deafening crack froze everyone in place.

"Stop!" he roared. "What do you useless fools think you are doing? The master is still bedridden with a bullet in his arm, we have no answers, no culprits—and you choose now to brawl? What if one of you dies? What if you kill each other?"

Miguel wiped blood from his knuckles and spat to the side. "Ungrateful bastards. We save their lives, and they don't even have the courage to name the man who attacked our patron. He should have let her be shot—at least the master would be unharmed."

The butler glared at him. "Enough. Leave. You are in no state to speak."

Miguel hesitated, then nodded stiffly and stormed out.

Amelia whispered, "Thank—"

The butler raised a hand, silencing her. "He speaks harshly," he said quietly, "but not falsely. My master risked his life for you. He has two children—one far away in Europe, and a little girl who depends entirely on him. I cannot blame you for his wound; that was his choice. But I can accuse you of lacking his courage."

He bowed slightly. "And of protecting the real killer."

Then he left the room.

Amelia remained frozen, tears slipping silently down her face. The servants exchanged uncertain glances, unsure what comfort they could offer. The butler's words were cruel—but not untrue.

But How does one accuse their own blood? How does one condemn a nephew for patricide?

For the next two days, the estate remained on high alert. Guards patrolled constantly. Lanterns burned through the night. The near loss of the master had shaken everyone deeply.

Their vigilance paid off. Several suspicious men were discovered lurking near the outer lands. Three were injured during capture—and each took poison before they could be interrogated.

Desperados.

The estate fell into a solemn, fearful mood.

Amelia spent those days sitting motionless, staring at the wall. The weight of grief, fear, and guilt fractured something inside her.

On the third day, Isabella entered the room.

Her eyes were red, her expression fierce.

"I hate you," she said bluntly. "You almost took my father from me. That hatred may never disappear."

Amelia looked up, startled.

"But," Isabella continued, her voice trembling with resolve, "the man who hurt him is still free. If you don't tell us who he is, he might come back. I don't understand your pain—but I refuse to grow up without my father. So please… tell us."

Amelia broke.

She sobbed, pulling Isabella into a tight embrace. "I swear," she whispered, "I won't let him make you suffer as I did."

She stood suddenly, seized a knife, and cut her long hair in one swift motion.

"Take me to Carlos," Amelia said firmly. "I need to speak with him."

Behind the door, one of her servants hesitated. His fingers tightened around the handle, uncertainty written across his face. After a brief pause, he nodded.

Without another word, they walked through the estate's long corridors. Oil lamps flickered against the whitewashed walls, their light trembling with every step. The air smelled of wax, sweat, and gunpowder—an estate still reeling from violence. At last, they reached the room where Carlos was resting.

Before they entered, his voice carried through the partially open door.

"So they kill themselves every time they are about to be captured," Carlos was saying. "Desesperados. An old term from Spain. People raised to die while completing their missions. I never thought I would find such madmen here."

Miguel answered grimly, "That's correct, sir. We still don't know who sent them. Do you think it could be the Spanish Empire… or perhaps another faction with grievances against your father, the Duke of Lerma?"

Carlos frowned. "I doubt it. If that were the case, they would have come directly for our estate—not for the Gómez de Castro family. What grievance could they possibly have against the viceroy and a small religious household in New Granada?"

Miguel fell silent, unable to answer.

At that moment, Amelia stepped into the room.

"Because they don't want to kill you," she said quietly. "They want to destroy your family—and your reputation."

Miguel stiffened at the sound of her voice. Instinctively, he rose from his chair and raised his weapon toward her.

Carlos frowned sharply. "Lower it," he ordered. "I understand you are tense, but we are inside this estate."

Miguel hesitated, jaw tight, then reluctantly lowered the weapon.

Carlos turned his attention back to Amelia. "Miss Amelia," he said calmly, "may I ask what I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

She let out a faint, humorless chuckle. "I can help you," she replied. "It's the least I owe. But may I ask something in return?"

Miguel sneered under his breath. "Ungrateful. Even now, she wants something in exchange."

Carlos's expression hardened. His voice dropped, cold and sharp. "I did not give you permission to speak—least of all in that manner."

Miguel bristled. "But sir, she is the one asking for—"

"I told you to go outside," Carlos interrupted, his voice colder still.

Then, turning to the butler, he added, "Help him leave my room."

The butler nodded at once, assisting Miguel as he slowly exited. Once outside, he carefully closed the door and returned inside alone.

Carlos looked back at Amelia. His tone softened slightly.

"My apologies, miss. My men are… strained by recent events. I hope you take no offense."

He gestured toward a chair. "Please, take a seat. I would very much like to hear what you have to say."

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