O'Neill and Krüger spoke until the afternoon bled slowly into evening, the Caribbean sun sinking behind the horizon in bands of crimson and bruised purple. The humid air cooled only slightly, thick with the scent of salt, damp wood, and distant smoke from cooking fires. At last, long after dusk had settled, the merchant ship reached the port, its lanterns bobbing like tired stars upon the black water.

O'Neill, ever the courteous host, offered Krüger a bed in his own house.

Krüger declined without hesitation.

"My soldiers and I have endured too much together on the ocean," he said calmly. "I cannot, in good conscience, sleep beneath a solid roof while they rest in tents or on bare planks. To do so would tarnish my honor as a general—and worse, it would cheapen the sacrifices of my men."

O'Neill could only sigh, shaking his head with faint admiration. "There is a reason Prussian soldiers are feared across Europe," he replied. "A general willing to suffer alongside his men inspires loyalty that no gold can buy. With leaders like that, low morale would be the true anomaly."

The captain, on the other hand, attempted to request lodging as well—only to be denied outright. As punishment for the sailors' earlier behavior, he ordered the two offenders tied at the bow for two days, exposed to sun, salt, and humiliation. Discipline at sea, Krüger knew, was often brutal—but necessary.

They remained on the island for a week.

Ships trickled in slowly, battered and diminished. In the end, only eighteen of the original twenty-five vessels reached the port. Of the ten troop transports, just nine survived the storm. The fate of the last ship remained unknown—lost to sea, reef, or something worse.

Disease followed swiftly.

Scurvy, fever, and tropical infections tore through the ranks. Nearly half the men fell ill, forcing a delay. By the time the soldiers began to adapt to the climate, the toll had become undeniable. At least fifty men were buried in shallow graves beneath palm trees and coral-strewn soil, their bodies claimed not by battle, but by heat and sickness.

Krüger wished to allow the survivors more time to recover.

Fate did not permit it.

A letter arrived from Antioquia.

O'Neill, who prided himself on his network of informants across the continent, handed it over without ceremony. He enjoyed news—especially bad news. Krüger unfolded the paper, his brow furrowing as he read.

A civil war has begun in Antioquia.

The identity of the invading army remains unclear, though witnesses describe them as European—possibly Italian.

The Church has declared its intent to seize power, aiming to establish a theocracy.

The Gómez family has been attacked twice.

The garrison in Antioquia has suffered heavy losses.

Santa Fe de Antioquia has fallen. The city is entirely under enemy control.

For two months, fighting has been constant.

Italian soldiers have begun arresting civilians for unknown reasons.

I escaped by chance. Casualties are unknown.

I will attempt to gather further intelligence from Cartagena. The viceroy is rumored to be there.

Krüger's hands trembled.

The paper crumpled in his grip.

He stormed outside and roared orders across the camp. "Prepare the men! Something has happened in Antioquia. We move immediately—before it is too late. Weapons! Supplies! Now!"

An attendant hesitated, his face pale. "Sir… we don't have enough. Most of the ships carrying weapons were lost in the storm. We only have arms and ammunition for three hundred men."

Krüger's jaw tightened. "Then prepare those three hundred. I will lead them myself." His voice dropped, cold and absolute. "I must save my granddaughter. And my son-in-law."

The attendant swallowed. "And if… if he is already dead, sir?"

Krüger turned slowly.

The look he gave was enough to silence the air itself.

"Then," he said quietly, "I will turn Antioquia into a river of blood. Every man responsible will die. And if they hide behind God, I will drag them out myself."

The attendant said nothing more.

It struck him then that Krüger—who had spent years buried in Prussian politics—had rediscovered something long forgotten. Not ambition. Not duty.

Family.

The general who had risen from common birth under Frederick the Great had not grown weak with age—only dormant. Now, awakened, he was once more the man who had carved his way upward through sheer will and violence.

Whoever you are, the attendant thought grimly, pray you did not lay a hand on Carlos… or Isabella. Because not even God will protect you.

A month earlier, in New Granada, Carlos could not calm himself.

After sending his men to deliver the rifle to the commander of the garrison, he began pacing the estate, walking back and forth beneath the tiled corridors like a caged animal. The butler followed at a cautious distance, murmuring words meant to soothe, but none of them reached him. The rifle alone was proof enough—there was a secret European army gathering in Antioquia, and no amount of denial could erase that fact.

"No," Carlos said suddenly, stopping in his tracks. "I cannot continue like this. Call Ogundele and the other blacksmiths. We must begin arming ourselves with the steel they produce. If this is a European army, then they will carry steel weapons. We must be able to defend ourselves." He inhaled sharply, then added, "Call the mayor as well. Medellín must be prepared. We do not know what an army that has been gathering in secret will do once its existence becomes public."

The butler stiffened, visibly startled. "Sir, we cannot do that. If we arm the servants with steel, the viceroy may learn of the armory—and of our ability to produce steel."

Carlos turned toward him, his voice cold and steady. "So we should wait until that army arrives and spills our people's blood before we act?" He shook his head. "No. I will not accept that. If my men die because their weapons are inferior, then all of us may die in the end."

The butler fell silent. After a moment, he spoke with difficulty. "And gunpowder, sir? Even with steel weapons, without sufficient ammunition many of our servants would fall before they ever reach the enemy."

Carlos frowned, the weight of the problem pressing down on him. Though his reserves were ample, they were not endless. At last, he spoke.

"Then we produce it ourselves. There is no other way. If, when all of this ends, we must destroy the factory to erase the evidence, I will accept that risk. But until then, we need our own supply."

The butler closed his eyes briefly, pain crossing his face. He knew there was no alternative. Drawing a deep breath, he nodded. "Very well, sir. I will send men to search for bat caves and others to the stables and corrals to collect saltpeter. I am not entirely certain how to refine it, however—"

At that moment, Ogundele and the three blacksmiths entered the room.

"Do not worry, Mr. Butler," Ogundele said firmly. "We can handle that part."

With a heavy sigh, the butler nodded and hurried outside. Servants were summoned and given instructions. A reward was announced: ten pesos for every discovered cave, and one peso for every two pounds of saltpeter. He carefully explained what the substance was and how to recognize it.

Relief followed swiftly. Sulfur would not be difficult. The estate already controlled several pozzolana mines near Popayán, where sulfur deposits had been found long ago. Because sulfur was a monopoly of the Spanish Crown, Carlos and Francisco had chosen never to report it, fearing the loss of their mining rights. It seemed that caution had been wise. Charcoal, at least, could be produced locally.

Letters were dispatched to Popayán at once, requesting the discreet transport of sulfur to the estate. Still, the butler could not help but worry whether it would arrive in time.

Anxiety spread like smoke through the estate.

The children of the servants were sent into the mountains, where the armory stood hidden among stone buildings made of Roman cement. In the event of an attack, they could shelter there until the fighting ended. Only women, a few trusted men, and the blacksmiths accompanied them.

Isabella resisted.

Carlos knelt before her and met her gaze. "You must go," he said gently. "If you stay here, I will worry too much to think clearly. The children are frightened—they need someone strong to guide them. A general must protect his soldiers."

She sobbed softly, then wiped her tears and straightened her back. "Do not worry, Father. I will make sure everyone is safe. But you must promise me something." Her voice trembled. "Promise that you will survive… and win whatever this is."

Carlos smiled and nodded. "I swear."

Then, turning to the butler, he added, "Send cavalry patrols immediately. I do not want enemy scouts discovering where the children are going. Once the area is clear, move them without delay."

The butler bowed deeply and began issuing orders at once.

Left alone, Carlos stared toward Antioquia—then toward the distant heart of New Granada—wondering what future awaited this land, and whether any of them would recognize it when the storm finally passed.

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