Carlos would later prove to be right.

Miguel's journey to the Spanish garrison in Antioquia was not unopposed, but neither was it the ambush Carlos had feared. Along the road, they faced several small raids—poorly organized, more probing than decisive. Men appeared briefly at the edges of the jungle, muskets raised but rarely fired, testing reactions rather than committing. Each time, Miguel's group drove them off with discipline and speed, refusing to pursue. The road itself was the greater enemy.

They traveled hard for three days.

To reach Santa Fe de Antioquia in that time required changing horses at least once, sometimes twice. The animals steamed under the tropical sun, their flanks dark with sweat, hooves cracking against stone and hardened mud. Every stop was brief: water, a mouthful of dried meat, a quick tightening of straps. To linger was to invite exhaustion—or worse.

When at last the whitewashed buildings of Santa Fe came into view, Miguel ordered the group to dismount before entering the city proper. Weapons were checked, cloaks adjusted, expressions hardened. The cuartel lay in the central plaza, as was customary throughout the Spanish colonies—a deliberate reminder that royal authority stood at the heart of civic life.

Their appearance caused immediate unease.

A dozen armed men, dusty, bloodstained, and visibly exhausted, were not a reassuring sight. Shopkeepers paused mid-transaction. Mothers pulled children closer. A church bell rang in the distance, its tone sharp in the afternoon heat. Within minutes, Spanish soldiers emerged from the plaza, muskets leveled.

A squad surrounded Miguel's group.

"Who are you?" the sergeant demanded. "And why do you enter Santa Fe armed?"

Miguel raised both hands slowly, palms open. His voice was hoarse from dust and fatigue, but steady.

"We are servants of the Gómez family of Medellín," he said. "We carry evidence that an army of unknown European origin is operating within Antioquia—and possibly all of New Granada."

The sergeant studied them carefully. Their clothes were worn but well-kept, their weapons clean despite the journey. Hunger and exhaustion were written plainly on their faces.

After a moment, the soldier nodded. "You may present your evidence. But your men will remain outside. Too many armed strangers unsettle the city."

Miguel inclined his head. "Understood."

He turned and selected two men, then leaned close to his second-in-command and whispered urgently.

"Take the others into the matorrales beyond the road. Wait for me there. Send two men to purchase supplies—food, bandages, water. We leave the moment this is done." He hesitated, then added quietly, "Something here feels wrong."

The servant nodded and obeyed without question.

As Miguel turned back, the sergeant frowned. "Is it necessary to bring two men?"

Miguel gestured toward the wooden box they carried between them. "It contains a weapon—European manufacture. We cannot risk damaging it before the governor inspects it."

The soldier shrugged and motioned them forward.

They walked through the plaza under escort, soldiers surrounding them in a loose ring. The air smelled of horse dung, incense, and sweat. Miguel's eyes flicked constantly from side to side, reading the crowd, the soldiers, the rooftops.

Then he saw it.

One of the soldiers behind them moved unnaturally stiff. Slowly—too slowly—he drew a pistol.

Miguel did not think. He reacted.

"Shooter!" he roared.

He slammed both servants to the ground as the soldier screamed, "For the purification of this land!" and fired.

The shot cracked through the plaza. The bullet missed Miguel entirely—but struck the captain of the guard walking ahead of them. The man collapsed instantly, blood spreading across his uniform.

For half a heartbeat, the world froze.

Then chaos erupted.

Several guards reacted instantly, firing on the attacker. He fell screaming, riddled with bullets. But before the soldiers could regroup, more weapons were raised—not against the assassin, but against their own comrades.

Miguel barely had time to understand what was happening before gunfire exploded from all sides.

Fanatics.

More than anyone had expected.

Shots rang out. Civilians screamed and scattered. A cart overturned as a horse reared in terror. Miguel dragged himself behind it as splinters tore from the wood. One of the radicals fired wildly and caught Miguel in the arm. Pain burned white-hot, but he stayed conscious.

"Support the guards!" Miguel shouted to his men.

They returned fire, disciplined, controlled—unlike the fanatics, who fired with zeal and fury.

Still, they were losing.

There were too many radicals embedded within the guard.

The gunfire and screams reached the cuartel.

Moments later, the ground itself seemed to shake.

Twenty-five Spanish dragoons burst from the barracks in perfect formation, steel cuirasses gleaming, sabers drawn, pistols primed. These were not militia. These men moved like a single organism, cold and precise. Civilians fled instantly; those who did not were shoved aside without hesitation.

Their loyalty was not to the city, nor even to the people.

It was to the King.

They thundered into the plaza, horses forcing space through bodies and debris. A few unlucky souls were trampled before they could escape.

When the dragoons reached the center of the chaos, confusion flickered briefly across their faces.

"Captain," one called out, "the guards are fighting each other. Who do we fire upon?"

The captain drew his pistol and aimed it at a guard mid-reload.

"Enough!" he roared. "I am Captain of the Dragoons! Lower your weapons immediately, or be treated as enemies of the Crown!"

The loyal guards froze. Miguel and his men lowered their weapons as well.

The fanatics did not.

One screamed, voice shrill with madness. "Kill the army of the pagans! Purify this land of traitors to God!"

They opened fire on the dragoons.

The captain's expression hardened.

"You have your enemy," he said coldly. "Crush them. In the name of the King."

"In the name of the King!"

The dragoons advanced.

It was not a fight. It was an execution.

Within minutes, the radicals lay dead or dying. Silence fell over the plaza, broken only by the whimpering of the wounded and the snorting of horses.

The guards stood frozen.

They could not explain what had happened—could scarcely comprehend it themselves. Men they had grown up with, men who knew their wives and children, who only that morning had joked about sharing a drink at the tavern, had suddenly raised their weapons and fired without hesitation.

At them.

The captain studied their silence with visible displeasure. Then his gaze shifted—to Miguel and the two servants standing beside him.

"You," he said coldly. "You are the only unknown factor here. Considering that they attacked the moment you arrived, I find it difficult to believe this is coincidence. Speak. Why did those fanatics turn their weapons today?"

Miguel swallowed hard.

The dragoons were unlike ordinary Spanish soldiers. Even elite troops usually carried some trace of bravado or bluster. These men did not. Their discipline was absolute, their expressions carved from stone. They existed only to obey orders—and to carry them out without hesitation.

Steeling himself, Miguel drew a slow breath.

"Sir," he said, "we are servants of the Gómez family of Medellín. We came to Santa Fe to deliver evidence that a European army is operating within New Granada. Upon our arrival, the city guards ordered our men to remain outside while we were escorted through the streets."

He continued, recounting the ambush—the sudden accusation, the betrayal from within the guard, the first shot fired in the name of 'purification.'

The captain listened without interruption. When Miguel finished, the officer's eyes shifted to the wooden box the servants were carrying.

"What are you hiding in there?" he asked.

The servants hesitated, their grip tightening.

Miguel nodded once.

They opened the box.

The captain leaned closer—and stiffened.

The rifle inside required no explanation.

Its construction was far too refined to have come from any workshop in New Granada. No colonial forge possessed the tools, the skill, or the steel necessary to create such a weapon. Every mechanism fit together with surgical precision, each movement smooth and exact, mocking the crude, roughly hammered muskets carried by militias across the colonies.

The balance was perfect. The marriage of wood and metal so seamless it appeared almost organic.

This was not a weapon born of colonial necessity.

It was a product of European industry.

A weapon made for kings.

"Did your master say anything else?" the captain asked quietly.

Miguel nodded and stepped forward with a folded letter.

Before he could reach the officer, one of the dragoons seized the document from his hand and shoved Miguel back, placing himself between the wounded servant and his captain. The officer ignored the scuffle, unfolding the letter and reading it in silence.

When he finished, his jaw tightened.

"Protecting the daughter of Aurelio?" he said sharply, slamming the letter back against his horse. "Or holding her hostage?"

Then his eyes returned to the rifle.

"But this steel…" he continued, more slowly. "This is not sold in the fairs of Cartagena. This kind of manufacture serves only the crowns of the Old World."

His expression darkened.

"And if Ezequiel Castro has raised a so-called Catholic army armed with European weapons, then we are no longer speaking merely of rebellion." He paused. "We are speaking of treason—and possibly of the Vatican and the Papal States involving themselves in war against Spain."

The captain straightened.

"This matter is far too grave to delay. Come with me. The Governor must hear this immediately."

He mounted his dragoon without another word. Two soldiers lifted the box and followed him toward the plaza, moving directly toward the Palace of Government.

Miguel staggered after them, blood still seeping from his wounded arm. The servants exchanged anxious glances—if the wound was not treated soon, he might collapse. But Miguel clenched his jaw and pressed on. He knew better than to disobey the dragoons. If he reached the palace, someone—anyone—would see to his injury, if only to avoid staining the floors.

They reached the great doors of the Gobernación.

The captain dismounted and turned back toward them.

"Come," he said curtly, his eyes flicking to the blood dripping onto the stone. His frown deepened, the disorder offending him almost as much as the wound itself.

Inside, beneath the high ceilings and heavy oak beams, he strode toward a trembling bureaucrat.

"We are to see the Governor immediately," the captain barked. "Summon the officers. Call a Toque de Rebato. I want every man of the high command in the council chamber—now. The province is under threat."

He paused, gesturing dismissively toward Miguel.

"And find someone to tend to that wound," he added. "He's dirtying the palace."

The bureaucrat nodded frantically and fled down the corridor to obey.

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