The young man nodded. He had only offered his advice, nothing more. He owed much to the tribes scattered across these mountains—they had sheltered him, fed him, and taught him things no European doctor ever could. Because of that, he felt a natural empathy toward them. Still, he knew better than to push further. Krugger was a general, not a diplomat, and more importantly, not the true power behind this expedition.

That authority rested with the old patriarch, Carlos.

"Okey," the young man said after a brief pause. "Let's go. I know one of their settlements. They helped me when I was younger."

Krugger studied his face for a moment, then nodded. He turned to one of his aides and spoke in a low but firm voice.

"Wait here. I'll take two soldiers and speak with them directly. Prepare the weapons just in case. I've heard too many reports of indigenous attacks on Europeans to be careless."

The aide glanced at the young man and leaned closer to Krugger, lowering his voice.

"Do you think he might betray us, sir? He looks like a good boy."

Krugger shrugged slightly. "Maybe. But I cannot trust the lives of my men to a good boy. I need to know whether they are a threat."

The aide hesitated. "Then you should stay, sir, and let me go. If something happens to you, the situation could turn grim very quickly."

Krugger let out a short, humorless chuckle. "There's no need to worry. You already know young Carlos is in Medellín. If something happens to me, you can find him. He'll manage."

Then his lips curved faintly. "And besides, I know you. If I sent you instead, your arrogance would likely cause more damage than we could repair."

The aide chuckled, embarrassed, but his smile faded as his gaze drifted toward the tent where the sick soldiers lay. Beyond it, further down the slope, stood the rest of the men—keeping their distance, frightened, whispering among themselves.

He sighed. "Maybe after this, those boys won't be so arrogant anymore. One out of every seven nearly died just from climbing a mountain. Even if they still boast against the armies here, nature has taught them a lesson they won't forget."

Krugger's smile turned bitter. "A harsh lesson," he agreed. "But I'm more concerned about what will happen when the thousand men arrive later. If a seventh of them fall sick as well, the chaos alone will break discipline. Morale would collapse."

The aide fell silent at that. After a moment, he spoke again, more carefully.

"Then maybe we shouldn't send them all at once. Smaller groups, like ours. That way, if sickness appears, we can react quickly."

Krugger nodded. "A good idea. I'll keep it in mind."

He turned back to the young man, who was already adjusting the strap of his satchel, and exchanged a brief farewell with his aide before setting off.

The mountain path narrowed into a treacherous ledge as they walked, the horizon dominated by grey, jagged peaks that seemed to pierce the sky. The air was thin and sharp, carrying the scent of cold slate, wild lichen, and the distant, acrid smoke of a peat fire. Every step uphill demanded a battle for oxygen. Krugger's boots slipped on the loose shale and the slick, grey moss that clung to the precipice like a dying hand.

After a time, Krugger spoke, partly to distract himself from the climb.

"So," he said, "what is your name, boy? I don't recall hearing it before."

The young man gave a small, bitter smile. "Mateo, sir. My parents worked for Doctor Johnson—a British physician sent to look after the families in this region. When they died, he took me in and raised me as his apprentice. Those were hard years. Learning English was… difficult."

Krugger nodded. "I can imagine. And why did you choose to come with us?"

Sweat ran down Krugger's brow, stinging his eyes. The climb was taking its toll. Mateo, by contrast, seemed almost unaffected, breathing evenly as if the mountain itself welcomed him.

"I've lived here all my life," Mateo said. "It's peaceful, but I grew tired of seeing only these mountains. I wanted to leave. Going alone was too dangerous. When I heard about you, I begged the doctor to let me join. He was reluctant… but when he learned you were German troops, he agreed."

Krugger nodded. "I can imagine. And why did you choose to come with us?" he asked, wiping his brow. Small beads of sweat ran down his forehead from the effort of climbing through the mountain range.

The young man, by contrast, looked almost comfortable in the heat. "I've lived here my entire life," he said. "It's a peaceful place, but I grew tired of seeing the same mountains every day. I wanted to leave. Going alone was far too dangerous, though. When I heard about you, I begged the doctor to let me come. He didn't want to at first—but when he learned you were German troops, he finally agreed."

Krugger took a deep breath and raised a hand. "Wait. Let this old man rest for a moment."

He sat down on a large rock, its surface slick with moss. "I must say," he added, catching his breath, "your courage impresses me. How old are you?"

The young man looked out toward the distant, cloud-shrouded ridges. "Sixteen, sir."

He fell silent for a moment, then stiffened. His eyes, accustomed to the shifting shadows of the heights, locked onto a movement above them. "Sir… I think they're coming."

He pointed ahead, toward a sharp outcrop of grey rock that jutted over the narrow trail like a broken tooth.

A group of armed men emerged from the swirling mist and the stunted, wind-bent shrubs of the high paramo. They moved with quiet, predatory purpose, their silhouettes sharp against the pale sky. Some carried bows and heavy macanas—war clubs of dark palm wood that looked like extensions of the mountain itself. Others, standing slightly behind on the higher ledges, held long, slender tubular objects in their hands, their eyes fixed on the Europeans through the thin mountain air.

One of Krugger's soldiers frowned, squinting against the biting wind. He tightened his grip on his musket, his breath hitching in the thin atmosphere.

"Is that a spyglass?" Krugger asked, confused.

The young man chuckled softly. "No, sir. A blowgun. It's a very lethal weapon. They poison the darts—strong enough to bring down a bear in two minutes."

Krugger felt a chill despite the heat. As the men drew closer, he noticed the one in front carried a steel weapon, shaped like a broad-bladed cleaver. It looked heavy enough to split a man in two, yet balanced like a tool meant for the forest rather than the battlefield.

The group stopped a short distance away. Their leader stared at Krugger and his soldiers, his expression cautious and openly hostile.

"¡Ka! ¿Kai bú nã bʉ, surara uru?"(Boy, who are these soldiers?)

The young man stepped forward."Achi surara Europa-deba chebʉ, Antioquia-de pãrã k'aripade."(They are soldiers from Europe, here to support Antioquia.)

The leader voice rose sharply.

"¿Surara Europa-deba dachi uai-dee anee-bʉ?"(You brought soldiers from Europe into our territory?)

The reaction was immediate. Weapons came up in unison—bows drawn, blowguns raised, clubs tightened in their hands.

Krugger stiffened. "Mateo," he hissed, "what the hell is happening? Didn't we come in peace?"

Mateo swallowed hard. "Sir… I told them you were European soldiers. That's why they're reacting like this. As you can imagine, they don't have a good impression of Europeans."

Krugger felt his jaw tighten. "Then explain to them that we did not come here with hostile intentions."

Mateo translated carefully.

The leader sneered and answered at length. When Mateo turned back, he looked unsettled, almost ashamed.

"He says," Mateo replied hesitantly, "that centuries ago, the Spanish arrived saying those exact same words."

For a moment, Krugger had no answer.

Then, more slowly, he said, "Tell them we have men suffering from Mal de la Cordillera. We heard they might be able to help us heal them. We are willing to pay—with money, or food."

Mateo translated, choosing each word with care.

The leader fell silent. The forest seemed to hold its breath. After a long moment, he finally spoke.

"Wait here. I will ask the Nokko. If he refuses, you must leave and seek help elsewhere."

Krugger nodded.

Standing there with half-naked warriors aiming poisoned weapons at him made his skin crawl, but he endured it. After all, he was the one asking for help.

After a moment, he leaned toward Mateo. "Ask them if we may eat."

Mateo translated. The warriors exchanged glances, then nodded.

"They say we may eat," Mateo said, "but we cannot hunt here. Only what we brought with us."

Krugger let out a quiet breath of relief. He signaled his men to unpack the salted meat, and they ate in tense silence while they waited.

After some time, the leader returned—this time accompanied by another figure.

Krugger immediately assumed this was the Nokko.

The man's chest was protected by heavy plates that gleamed faintly, as if made of silver. Krugger felt a brief, instinctive flicker of greed before suppressing it. The Nokko wore a crown of feathers, jaguar patterns painted across his body, his presence commanding and unsettling all at once.

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