The days passed, heavy and restless.

Word began to spread among Carlos's servants, carried quietly from corridor to courtyard, from stable to chapel. They spoke of the attempted murder of Amelia at the Gómez estate, of how she had been rescued at the very gates of death, and of how she now lived under the protection of Carlos's household. The story grew with each retelling, acquiring new details—some true, others embroidered by fear and rumor.

Though the whispers did not fully erase suspicion toward the Gómez family, they dulled its edge. The people of Antioquia became more cautious, more restrained. After all, if a secret army truly existed, then those who rushed too eagerly to accuse the Gómez family might themselves become suspects. In uncertain times, silence was safer than outrage.

Carlos understood this well.

To further lower the vigilance of the authorities—and to redirect their attention—he sent Miguel, accompanied by several trusted servants, to the governor's office. With them, he sent the rifle taken from the attackers: undeniable proof that something far larger than a family feud was unfolding.

Despite the lingering pain in his arm, Carlos made his way to the entrance of the estate to see them off.

Miguel stood ready, mounted and armed, the rifle wrapped carefully in cloth. The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and horse sweat. Mist still clung to the distant hills.

"Be careful, boy," Carlos said, his voice firm. "You will likely be attacked. Watch your surroundings closely. Send cavalry ahead and behind—anyone who behaves strangely is a threat. Shoot before you ask questions."

Miguel stiffened slightly.

"It is better," Carlos continued, "for you to apologize later than for me to ask forgiveness from your families."

Miguel nodded solemnly. "Do not worry, sir. I will make sure this rifle reaches the governor's hands."

Carlos exhaled slowly. "There are thirteen hours at full speed to Santa Fe de Antioquia. You might arrive before nightfall. If you cannot, do not camp in the open. Rest only in towns, only where there are witnesses. We do not yet know how many men they have—or how far they can reach."

Miguel smiled faintly, confidence tempered by respect. "I know what I'm doing, sir."

Carlos nodded, then turned briefly and returned with another rifle. Its metal bore small scratches, the stock cracked near the grip.

"This one is damaged," Carlos said, handing it over, "but Ogundele swore it still functions at two hundred meters. Take it. If you encounter men carrying similar weapons, you'll know at once what you're facing."

With a sharp command, the group mounted.

Hooves thundered against the dirt road as they rode out, disappearing into the fog toward Santa Fe de Antioquia—the capital of the province,

Carlos remained still, watching until they vanished into the distance. He crossed himself slowly.

Behind him, the butler did the same.

"May God be with you," they murmured.

Then Carlos turned back toward the estate, the weight of uncertainty pressing heavily on his shoulders.

Far across the ocean, the situation was no better.

Across the ocean, matters were no calmer.

Krüger stood on the deck of a transport ship, the Atlantic stretching endlessly before him. The wind was sharp, carrying the smell of salt, tar, and damp rope. The ships moved in tight formation—too tight for comfort, too loose for safety.

For weeks, his fleet had traveled under uneasy escort—The British ships that had sworn to protect them until they reached the americas.

Once they left europe vanished as those promises.

Now, trouble had found them again.

"Commander," a sailor shouted, "the French patrol is signaling us to stop. They demand to inspect our ships."

Krüger narrowed his eyes and turned to the British captain beside him. "If we fight them," he asked calmly, "what are our chances?"

The captain—a weathered man with sharp features and a scarred knuckle—raised an eyebrow. "If you truly wish to fight the French?" He paused. "Twenty to thirty percent, at best. Enough damage to frighten them—but we'd lose at least half the fleet."

Krüger fell silent.

Half the fleet was unacceptable.

"Let them approach," Krüger said. "We are not their enemy."

"And if they betray you to the Spanish?" the captain asked.

Krüger shrugged. "The Spanish will laugh. An army appearing overnight in New Granada? Their arrogance will blind them."

The captain gave a dry laugh and ordered the sails lowered. Flags were raised, signaling parley.

Signals were exchanged. Sails were adjusted.

The French frigate loomed closer, its cannons black and open-mouthed. Muskets were raised on both sides. The sea was suddenly very quiet.

After a tense pause, a French lieutenant called for Krüger to come aboard.

Krüger went without hesitation.

As soon as he stepped onto the frigate's deck, guards moved to search him. He drew his pistol and leveled it calmly at the lieutenant's chest.

"If you don't mind," he said evenly, "I will keep this. I have already shown my sincerity by coming alone."

Weapons were raised instantly.

The standoff lasted several agonizing minutes—until a voice echoed from within the cabin.

"Let him inside, Bêtes allemandes, Sauvages de l'Est."

Krüger's jaw tightened. He kicked the door open and stepped inside.

"Do not think I don't understand French," he snarled. "You French trash."

The captain inside rose slowly, his eyes filled with contempt. "You savages only know how to cause trouble. Why are so many soldiers and ships gathering in the Pacific? Are you planning to aid the slaves of Haiti? Or is Germany seeking colonies now?"

Krüger, irritated at being denied a seat, kicked a French soldier out of his chair and sat down, propping his boots on the desk.

"And what would you do if that were the case?" he asked lazily.

The captain sneered. "We would shoot you until you slept beneath the sea—but I know those are lies. If that were truly your objective, you wouldn't send such numbers. New Caledonia, Vanuatu… perhaps even all our Atlantic colonies. Though without a proper navy, they wouldn't be worth much to Prussia, would they?""

Krüger shrugged. "Believe me, I would gladly kick the French out of a few more places. But this time, your country is not my objective—nor do I serve Prussia. I am acting in a personal capacity."

The captain frowned. "Personal capacity? Who are you, then? No one recruits two thousand men so easily—least of all elite Prussian troops."

Krüger raised an eyebrow. "So you recognized them. That simplifies things. I won't tell you who I am, but I can tell you this: you are not our target. And it would serve both your interests and your nation's to let us pass."

The French captain's lips curled in disdain. "Do you think you can threaten us, beast? We French are prepared to fight to the death."

"Perhaps," Krüger replied calmly. "But I doubt it would be worth the cost—especially with your war against Britain still unresolved, and Spain watching closely. Losing a patrol now, or weakening it, would be… inconvenient."

The captain clicked his tongue. "Tch. You may be right. Very well. We will escort your ships until you are beyond our waters. Now go—I don't want your savage boots fouling my deck, you uncultured brute."

Krüger rose, seized the chair, and kicked it aside until it splintered. "There's your fine furniture, you fragile piece of trash."

He turned and strode back to his boat. After warning the British captain, the convoy resumed its course, the French frigate following close behind.

Inside the frigate, the officer Krüger had kicked clutched his side and spat bitterly, "Why let that savage go, sir? We could have destroyed those ships."

The captain narrowed his eyes. "Did you notice who were the captain of those ships?"

"The British?" the officer asked, startled.

The captain nodded. "And judging by their heading, they are likely bound for Spanish or Portuguese colonies in the Americas. It matters little which empire they bleed—either way, France profits." He paused, his gaze lingering on the horizon. "Still, I am curious which faction they truly support. If chaos spreads in the south, we could prepare accordingly. Disorder there would benefit us as well."

The officer sneered. "The British always betray their allies. But I doubt we can truly profit from it, not with France in such a state." He glanced around, then lowered his voice. "I've heard that madman Robespierre has carried out a full purge of the government."

The captain frowned, then slowly exhaled, turning his eyes back toward the vast Atlantic. in the direction of france and mumbled " what future awaits our country now?, is there truly no hero in the whole of france that can carry our future "

The officer fell silent. Fear weighed on him—he had family in Paris. With that fanatic Robespierre tightening his grip, he dreaded that they, too, might suffer some terrible misfortune.

Seeing the fear on his face, the captain lowered his voice. "I would advise you to send a letter home. Tell your family to leave Paris—at least until the situation becomes clearer." He hesitated, then added softly, "And send one to my family as well."

The officer nodded without a word and turned toward the captain's cabin.

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