Christian spoke first, his voice calmer now that the contract was signed, though his tone still carried the weight of responsibility.

"You should speak with your faculty and with the people in metallurgy," he said. "They must inspect the weapons personally. Given the blueprints you are providing, I doubt the Company will risk supplying low-quality arms—but it is better to be cautious. Once the crates reach New Granada, you will not be there to judge their condition. And by the time complaints return across the ocean, they may already be producing your designs in their own factories."

Francisco nodded seriously.

"Thank you, Director," he said. "I know I would never have reached this agreement without your support. I will dedicate myself even more fully to the encyclopedia. And I promise you—if I return to New Granada in victory—I will send a complete copy of the Royal Botanical Expedition of Mutis."

At that, Christian's eyes lit up with a brightness no pound or peso could buy.

"That is my student," he said proudly. "You have no idea how valuable such a work would be here."

Then, curiosity overtook him. "And when do you intend to return?"

Francisco stared at him, momentarily speechless. Finally, he muttered, "Sir… this is my first year in Göttingen. At least five more remain."

Christian laughed awkwardly. His obsession with knowledge was well known, and Francisco took no offense. For men like Christian, knowledge outweighed fortune, titles, even nations.

They took a carriage back toward Göttingen, the wheels creaking over frost-hardened roads. November had already settled in fully. The countryside lay gray and bare beneath a low sky, the fields stripped and waiting. Breath fogged the air inside the carriage, mingling with the faint smell of leather and oil.

During the journey, Francisco heard news from home for the first time in months—news carried not by letters, but by French pamphlets and translated gazettes. The French, eager to humiliate Spain, had published reports of chaos in Antioquia. According to them, a group of Jesuits—expelled by the Crown in 1767 and exiled to Italy—had somehow returned to New Granada with armed followers. Even now, King Carlos IV and his ministers could not explain how such a force had appeared so suddenly.

Rumors pointed to Urabá, a notorious smuggling port where Spanish control had long been weak. But there was no proof. Only confusion.

Across Europe, Spain had become an object of ridicule. An empire that could not account for an army within its own colonies was an empire in decay.

The reports claimed the Jesuits had seized Medellín—then contradicted themselves, stating they had been driven back by the "mighty armies of Spain." The truth was impossible to discern. What unsettled Francisco most was what was not mentioned.

There was no word of his family.

That absence gnawed at him. Either his family had avoided the conflict—which he doubted—or they had fought and survived, or they had fought and fallen. Some reports implied Spanish troops had been rushed to Medellín. Others suggested local militias had held the city themselves.

He did not know which possibility frightened him more.

There was no information about his grandfather either. No mention of the valleys he knew so well. Only silence.

Catalina noticed his tension at once. She was worried too—about his grandmother, about little Isabella. The news offered no comfort. Independence had begun too early, forced into motion by the Jesuits rather than planned carefully by the Creole elite.

There was, at least, one small relief. Spain and Britain had sent troops to Toulon. For now, they appeared to be winning. As long as that front demanded attention, Spain could not spare forces to crush New Granada outright.

But Francisco knew how fragile that hope was. If Spain decided that avenging a Bourbon cousin mattered less than securing its colonies, the troops would sail west. Everything depended on calculations made in distant courts by men who had never seen the land they ruled.

At last, some good news arrived.

The shipment of arms Francisco had purchased from the East India Company was ready to depart. The only problem was that it was still in London. That meant he would have to go there himself—along with a small group of students from the faculties of philosophy and metallurgy—to inspect the weapons personally and ensure they were not second-hand castoffs from colonial stockpiles.

With the conflict already raging in New Granada, there could be no compromises.

"We're going to London," Francisco said firmly. "We must review the weapons ourselves. We need to be certain of their quality."

Catalina nodded, though she seemed distracted.

"I know," she said quietly. Then, after a pause, "Do you still have your visions? Do you know how this war will end?"

Francisco frowned. He lowered his gaze before answering.

"I don't," he admitted. "As I told you before, my visions only appeared two years ago, and the future I once saw has changed because of my presence. This war was never there. I don't know how the world will unfold from now on."

Catalina sighed, frustration slipping through despite her restraint. Seeing the look on Francisco's face, she immediately softened.

"I'm sorry," she said, forcing a small smile. "I know this must be even harder for you. Everything feels… unstable right now. It's difficult to think clearly."

She stepped forward and embraced him, her apology carried more in the gesture than in words.

The comfort only deepened Francisco's unease.

This war should not exist. Its very presence meant history itself had shifted. If events here had changed, then what else would unravel? Would the man future generations called the Little General still rise in Europe? Would the mustached tyrant in Germany ever come to power? Would Britain fall—or endure? Would the United States rise again?

He had no answers.

For now, Europe might remain familiar for a few years. But beyond that, the future was becoming something entirely unpredictable.

That night, exhaustion finally claimed them both. They slept deeply, the kind of sleep born not of peace but of complete depletion. The next morning, Francisco convinced Catalina to accompany him to London. In her current state, remaining near wounded soldiers would be dangerous—distraction could cost lives. She agreed without argument.

They traveled north by carriage toward Hamburg, the cold biting through wool coats, the roads stiff with frost. From there, they boarded a ship bound for London. Several of Francisco's classmates followed as well, drawn by curiosity, duty, and the generous salary he offered.

The sea was restless. Gray waves struck the hull with dull force, and salt spray crusted the rails. The air smelled of tar, coal smoke, and damp rope. The sky hung low and colorless, pressing down on the world.

Catalina slept in Francisco's arms during the voyage. Neither of them had rested properly in days. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her breathing was shallow but steady. Watching her, Francisco clenched his fists.

For the first time, he truly grasped how vital technology was—not merely for profit or progress, but for connection. If only he could speak across oceans. If only he could fly, as Leonardo had once imagined. If he could reach New Granada faster—or at least know whether his family lived—the uncertainty would ease.

The uncertainty was the worst part.

So he wrote.

By candlelight, by lantern, by the dim glow of the ship's lamps, he filled page after page with frantic sketches and calculations. Most were useless. Steam engines were still too weak, too heavy. But he could not stop.

"If steam can move a piston," he whispered into the darkness of the cabin, "why could it not carry a voice—or a man?"

He sketched a Pneumatic Courier System: iron pipes stretching impossibly across the Atlantic, letters propelled through vacuum at the speed of thought. The mathematics betrayed him. Friction, leakage, imperfect seals—it was a fantasy.

Then he drew a Steam-Powered Glider: canvas wings, brass gears, coal-fed ascent. He named it The Andean Condor. As he calculated the fuel required, the ink smeared beneath his trembling hand.

Throughout the journey, he wrote relentlessly, trying to suffocate his anxiety with ink. Most ideas collapsed under scrutiny. Steam engines, at least for now, simply were not powerful enough.

Late one night, he muttered to himself, "Why do those machines work in the future? Is it better steam… or something else entirely?"

The answer came with painful clarity: it did not matter. He was still too inexperienced. Knowledge alone was not enough.

Catalina watched him silently. The floor was littered with discarded sketches. One drawing caught her attention—a half-forgotten design of a steam piston pushing a flat wooden platform on rollers, meant to move heavy stone.

Catalina, seeing the frustration etched on Francisco's face and the hundreds of scattered sketches, paused and studied them more carefully. Then something caught her attention.

It was a discarded drawing, half-hidden beneath an overturned inkwell—a rough sketch of a steam piston connected to a flat wooden platform mounted on rollers, clearly intended to move heavy stone blocks.

She gently placed her hand over the paper, her fingers following the drawn path of the wheels.

"Francisco," she whispered, her voice cutting through the frantic scratch of his pen. "You are trying to conquer the sky and the silence… but you are forgetting the ground beneath us."

She pointed at the crude figure sketched atop the platform, a man standing over the heart of the engine. "If the engine were more efficient—if it didn't have to fight the wind or the waves—this wouldn't be madness. Look. Instead of a boat on water, why not a boat… on a road of iron? If the path is fixed, the machine only has to do one thing: move forward."

Francisco stopped writing.

He stared at the drawing again, but this time through her eyes. In his visions, he had seen the sleek, silver bullets of the future rushing across the land—but Catalina was showing him the skeleton beneath the dream. She wasn't imagining a train; she was imagining a land-ship that did not need the sea.

"A road of iron…" he murmured.

In his mind, the image of the future machine aligned with a simpler form: a small wagon, bound to rails, pulled not by horses but by steam. The realization struck him so suddenly that he sprang to his feet, scattering papers across the floor.

He took Catalina's face in his hands and kissed her, breathless with excitement.

"It won't reach New Granada," he said, almost laughing, "but with something like this… the land itself could be shortened."

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