Once they reached the beach, they began walking along the shoreline, circling the island at an unhurried pace. Krüger could not help but stare in disbelief.

"You weren't exaggerating," he muttered. "There truly are turtles everywhere in this godforsaken place."

The sailor walking beside him chuckled softly. "That's right, sir. This island has always been a favorite stop for smugglers. I've passed through with other crews before—though the last time was five years ago, or so."

Krüger nodded, absorbing the words as his boots sank lightly into the sand. The beach was dazzlingly white, almost painful to look at under the Caribbean sun. It reflected the light so fiercely that even the sea breeze seemed warm, thick with salt and the faint scent of rotting seaweed.

Most of the journey through the Caribbean had been spent confined to his cabin—sleeping, writing plans, reviewing supply lists, thinking endlessly of logistics and men. This was the first time since leaving Europe that he had allowed himself to simply look.

He exhaled slowly. "Now I understand why Britain, Spain, and France tear at one another over this place," he murmured. "It is beautiful—no matter where one looks."

The sailors nodded, falling briefly into silence. The struggle for the Americas was older than memory itself, stretching back to the first Spanish landings. Gold, sugar, land, and slaves had turned Iberian kingdoms into global empires. Even Portugal, once little more than a narrow strip of land at Europe's edge, had carved itself into history through these waters.

Krüger felt a faint bitterness rise in his chest. He had fought for Prussia for decades—against Austria, against coalitions, against men who spoke his language and shared his customs. And yet, a single colonial settlement here was worth more than a thousand victories on the continent.

After some time, figures emerged from between the palms.

Two white men stepped forward, muskets raised, their posture tense and wary. "Identify yourselves!" one of them shouted. "This is Spanish territory."

The sailors instinctively raised their own muskets. Krüger, armed only with pistols at his belt and the sword at his side, did nothing.

One of the sailors called out loudly, "British merchants! We seek assistance guiding our ship into port. We also request an audience with the governor."

The colonists examined them carefully, their eyes lingering on skin color, clothing, posture. After a moment, one of them lowered his weapon and sighed.

"Forgive us. Some slaves escaped recently. They murdered a family of white settlers. We've been tense ever since." He gestured inland. "Come with us. Until we know where they fled, it's safer to stay away from the jungle."

Krüger felt a flicker of curiosity. Slaves—he knew of them, of course. Black slaves were a reality of the Americas, spoken of openly in courts and whispered about in Europe. Yet he had rarely seen any, save for the occasional figure at royal functions or exoticized musicians in military bands.

The settlement revealed itself gradually. It was built almost entirely of wood, perched atop coral foundations. No stone, no brick—only pine structures raised against the damp ground like birdcages. The architecture was crude yet strangely intelligent, shaped by necessity rather than tradition.

What shocked Krüger most, however, was the people.

Nearly eighty percent of the inhabitants were Black slaves.

For the first time in his life, he felt himself to be a minority.

He turned to one of the colonists and asked quietly, "How do you maintain control when your numbers are so small?"

The man studied Krüger more closely, his expression shifting. "You're German, aren't you?"

Krüger inclined his head. "Prussian."

The colonist chuckled. "That explains it. We own them. Control is natural. Some escape. Some die. Others vanish in the jungle—sickness, animals, savages." He shrugged casually. "Only the obedient survive."

Krüger frowned slightly. Something in the colonist's words unsettled him—not enough to provoke outrage, but enough to leave a faint, nagging discomfort he could not yet name. Before he could dwell on it, they reached a larger structure at the heart of the settlement.

The house stood elevated above the rest, broad and imposing, its wide porch wrapping around the building like a defensive embrace. The overhanging roof cast deep shade, shielding its occupants from the merciless sun. Beneath it sat a woman in a high-backed chair, attended by two servants who gently fanned her with large palm leaves, their movements slow and practiced.

She was undeniably beautiful.

Her pale complexion and delicate features bore unmistakable Irish traits, strikingly out of place amid the tropical heat and wooden surroundings. In a land that felt forgotten by God himself, her presence seemed almost unreal—like a fragment of Europe stubbornly refusing to fade. One could easily understand why envy followed her wherever she went.

A colonist noticed Krüger's glance and let out a low chuckle. "That is our First Lady—Miss Luisa Lynch. The most beautiful woman on the island." His tone shifted, edged with warning. "Beautiful, yes—but fiercely loyal to her husband. Best not let your thoughts wander. A man once tried to seduce her. Disappeared the following week."

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Some say the governor had him killed in the jungle. Others say he sold him to slave traders. Either way, Governor O'Neill is… protective."

Krüger gave a short, dry laugh. "I am far too old for such foolishness," he replied calmly. "Though I won't deny her beauty. Still, I swore myself to my wife long ago—and even in death, I keep that oath." He paused, then gestured subtly toward the sailors behind him. "If anyone here is cause for concern, it would be those two."

The colonist followed his gaze and cursed under his breath. One of the sailors was staring openly, his restraint worn thin by months at sea.

The colonist stepped forward and struck him sharply across the back of the head. "Look away, you idiot! Do you want to die here?"

The sailor flinched and lowered his eyes, muttering an apology. Shame flushed his face, though the temptation had been difficult to resist. After weeks of salt air and isolation, even a modest smile would have drawn his attention—let alone a woman like her.

Behind them, a man approached.

Thomas O'Neill.

He had evidently heard the exchange. A faint smile curved his lips, though his eyes were far less amused. "Thank you for the compliment," he said lightly. "Though it seems I must be more careful about my visitors. A beautiful wife is always a curse."

At the sound of his voice, the sailors went pale.

"Sir—sir, forgive us," one stammered. "We're just fools who've spent three months at sea. We meant no disrespect."

O'Neill regarded them coolly, then turned his attention to Krüger. "And you are?"

"Johann Friedrich Krüger," he replied.

The governor paused, clearly surprised by the German name. He recovered quickly. "Then Mr. Krüger will remain here as our guest," he said smoothly. "While someone guides your ship into port." He glanced back at the sailors. "Take these two with you."

The colonists wasted no time escorting the sailors away. They obeyed without protest, silently praying their captain might later soften the governor's displeasure.

Krüger watched them go without comment. Youth, he reflected, often mistook desire for courage—and admiration for entitlement.

Once the nuisance had been removed, O'Neill's demeanor shifted. His smile became warmer, more inviting. "Come, sir," he said, gesturing toward the house. "I am pleased to meet you. Though I must admit, I'm curious—what brings a Prussian officer to the Caribbean? The last Germans we saw here wore British uniforms during the American rebellion. As a loyal subject of His Majesty, I must naturally be cautious."

Krüger chuckled softly. "You are a perceptive man, Governor." He lowered his voice slightly. "I would speak plainly—but only if we are not being overheard."

Servants moved quietly nearby, pouring drinks and arranging chairs.

O'Neill waved a dismissive hand. "They are my slaves. Loyal, well-treated. Betrayal would not serve them."

Krüger shrugged. "My grandson has established himself in New Granada. Unfortunately, the viceroy has taken an interest in ruining him. His father—my son-in-law—has asked for my assistance. I intend to teach the viceroy a lesson. For that, I require a transit point."

O'Neill frowned, adopting a look of righteous concern. "Sir, as a subject of the Crown, I cannot support actions against the viceroy—His Majesty's representative."

Krüger smiled faintly. "Naturally. Which is why we would compensate you. Monthly payments in gold. Additional resources from New Granada. And should the region gain greater autonomy…" He paused. "You would find yourself well-positioned with the new authorities."

O'Neill's eyes widened slightly.

He exhaled slowly, then smiled. "Of course," he said. "As loyal subjects of His Majesty, we are always eager to correct those who abuse his name. How admirable our devotion is."

Krüger suppressed a laugh. Shameless—but understandable. This island survived not on virtue, but on opportunity.

They settled into conversation. O'Neill poured a generous measure of dark amber liquid into a crystal glass and handed it to his guest.

Krüger took a cautious sip.

The effect was immediate.

This was no schnapps. No clean, sharp burn from a Prussian barracks. This rum was chaos—sweet and brutal, thick with burnt sugar and overripe fruit, heavy with the damp breath of swamps and heat. It coated the tongue, oily and aggressive, leaving fire in its wake.

"It has… a certain strength," Krüger managed, his throat tightening.

O'Neill laughed, dry and knowing. "In this heat, General, the beer of your homeland would sour within the hour. Here, we drink fire—if only to survive the sun."

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