During the waiting days, anxiety slowly spread through the camp.

Sending wounded comrades into the hands of an unknown tribe was enough to unnerve even the bravest men. Whispers passed from tent to tent, carried by the cold mountain air. Some spoke in low voices about the stories they had heard since childhood—that the Americas still hid cannibal tribes, that men disappeared into the jungle and were never seen again.

Even Krugger was not immune to doubt.

Each morning he woke wondering whether his decision had been the right one. If his men were to end their days in the stomachs of indigenous warriors, perhaps it would have been kinder to let the sickness take them quickly. At least that death would have been familiar.

Mateo tried to calm those fears. He insisted, again and again, that the Embera-Katio were not cannibals. They were warriors, disciplined and proud. Among Spanish troops, their reputation was not one of savagery but of venom—masters of poison and ambush, feared even by seasoned soldiers. A people with laws, with memory, and with a long history of resisting conquest.

Still, fear does not fade easily.

Five days passed before the tension finally broke.

That morning, a group emerged from the forest path. At the front walked several Embera-Katio warriors, followed by familiar figures—German uniforms stained with dirt and sweat, but upright, alive.

Krugger exhaled slowly, a weight lifting from his chest as he counted them. Most of the men were there. Pale, thin, but standing.

One of the Embera-Katio stepped forward and spoke through Mateo.

"The others are still being treated," he said. "They were in worse condition. Some may die."

Krugger's jaw tightened.

"These men," the warrior continued, gesturing to those returned, "were strong enough after the treatment. To preserve our food, we were instructed to bring them back to you."

Krugger nodded solemnly. The words some may die echoed in his mind, but the sight of his soldiers—breathing, walking—quieted his fear.

He ordered one of the men to follow him into his tent.

Inside, the air smelled of damp canvas, leather, and unwashed bodies. Krugger studied the soldier closely. His face was still drawn, his eyes sunken, but the tremors were gone.

"Do you remember the treatment?" Krugger asked.

The soldier hesitated, then shook his head weakly.

"Sorry, sir. I slept most of the time. They gave me herbs, bitter ones. Every day until yesterday. That's all I remember."

Krugger nodded, disappointment flickering across his face. Knowledge was power, and this mountain had already taken too much from them.

Even though Antioquia was now close, there was no guarantee others wouldn't fall sick before they arrived. They could not rely on finding another tribe every time a man collapsed.

He exhaled heavily.

"This place is hell," he muttered. "One mountain range… and we almost lost thirty percent of the troops."

The soldier nodded slowly. He understood that fear well.

One day he had been marching, joking with friends. The next, he had been lying in a tent, barely conscious, his body burning and freezing at the same time. When he opened his eyes again, he was surrounded by painted faces and unfamiliar voices. The suddenness of it all still left him dizzy.

Krugger waved him away gently.

After the soldier left, Krugger sat alone, staring at the rack of muskets resting against the tent wall. The wood was worn smooth by countless hands. Reliable weapons. Life and death bound in iron and powder.

He hesitated, then muttered to himself.

"Should we ask for medicine in exchange for muskets?"

The thought lingered—dangerous, tempting.

Then another idea took shape.

No, he thought. Not yet.

He leaned back, rubbing his temples.

"Let's leave it to God," he whispered. "When the dead are counted… perhaps then."

Weapons from fallen men could be traded. Cruel, perhaps—but practical. Better that their arms save the living than rust beside corpses. Still, how much gunpowder and ammunition would such knowledge cost? That was another headache entirely.

His gaze drifted back to the muskets he saw the tribesmen carry, Something about them bothered him They looked British.

The same pattern used by Spanish forces in the port.

"Strange," he murmured. "Don't the Spanish have their own weapons?"

The mountain gave no answer.

The long wait in the mountains began to claim new victims.

Several soldiers fell ill from the rarefied air. At such altitude, the apothecaries explained, the air thinned until breathing itself became labor. Men who had marched through gunfire now gasped for breath after only a few steps, their lips turning pale, their chests heaving as if an unseen hand pressed upon them.

Some were forced to descend the mountain for several days before attempting the climb again. The delays fractured the column, spreading men across great distances and making the march slower, lonelier, and far more dangerous.

Krugger came to dread the mountain range of New Granada.

In front of his men, he maintained a composed expression—measured steps, calm commands, no sign of weakness. But inside, anxiety gnawed at him without rest. Each night he lay awake listening to the wind scrape against the tents, wondering whether this land itself rejected them.

At times, he caught himself thinking of the jal the indigenous spoke of—spirits of the mountain, ancient and unseen. He hated the thought, yet the idea crept into his mind all the same. Perhaps they were angered by the presence of foreign boots and iron. Perhaps this suffering was a warning.

When he realized he was beginning to curse his own men for bringing such misfortune, he forced the thoughts away, ashamed of himself.

Nearly two weeks passed before the remaining soldiers returned from treatment.

Most survived—but five did not.

The losses weighed heavily on Krugger. Worse still, when he attempted to negotiate with the Nokko—offering ten muskets in exchange for medicine that could treat the illness—the response was firm.

The Nokko shook his head.

"There is a rite required for healing," Mateo translated. "It is not merely herbs. It is a secret of the tribe."

A secret they would not sell.

Krugger left the meeting disheartened. There was nothing more to be done. No bargain to strike, no leverage to apply without violence—and violence here would mean annihilation.

So he gave the order to march.

They left the mountain peaks behind, but the descent proved even worse than the ascent. There were no roads, no trails worthy of the name. The men were forced to carve their own path through the land.

Krugger jumped down from a rock slick with moss and looked around.

The vegetation rose higher than his head, thick and tangled. Trees stretched upward until their crowns vanished into darkness. Though it was midday, the forest floor lay in perpetual twilight, the sun strangled by leaves and mist.

"This place could swallow an army," he muttered.

"Call Mateo—the apothecary—and the guide," Krugger ordered. "Now."

Moments later, the two men arrived. One spoke in Spanish; the other translated, his voice thin and strained by the cold air and altitude.

"What do you need, sir?"

Krugger rested a hand on the pommel of his sword and stared into the green wall ahead.

"I find this place unnaturally dark," he said. "We're losing our sense of direction. If we continue blindly, this jungle will eat us alive. Where do we go from here?"

The guide turned toward the jagged horizon, where mist clung to the trees like a damp burial shroud.

"Sir, we must descend until we reach the Urrao Valley," Mateo replied after listening. "It is a hollow in the earth, shielded by peaks. From here, the land drops sharply."

He gestured downward.

"The ground will be treacherous—more mud than stone. Men will slip, and the thin air will make their legs feel as heavy as lead. But once we reach the valley floor, the air will thicken, the heat will rise, and the water will run clearer."

Krugger closed his eyes briefly.

A descent into mud, darkness, and exhaustion—but also, perhaps, survival.

"Then that is our path," he said at last.

The mountain loomed behind them, silent and indifferent, as if watching to see whether they would escape its grasp.

Krugger squinted, trying to pierce the gray haze that clung to the mountainside like damp wool.

"And how long until we see the first signs of a road?" he asked, irritation creeping into his voice. "A real road, Mateo—not these goat tracks."

Mateo studied the land for a moment before answering, his eyes tracing the jagged horizon where mist wrapped itself around the trees. "In this country, Colonel, the mountains decide the distance, not the map. If the rain holds, we may reach the Vale of Urrao by dusk. But do not expect cobblestones. The only road we will have is the one we carve with our own feet."

Krugger exhaled sharply. For a brief, treasonous instant, he wondered if it might be easier to march straight into the territory of the fanatics and surrender, rather than continue bleeding men to mud, sickness, and invisible dangers. He pushed the thought aside as several soldiers struggled to free a mule whose hooves had sunk deep into the earth, its load of supplies threatening to spill.

That was when the guide suddenly stiffened.

"Sir," Mateo whispered urgently, his face draining of color, "do you hear that?"

Krugger raised a hand, halting the column, and listened. The men froze where they stood. He frowned. "I don't hear anything."

Mateo swallowed. "That is exactly the problem. There should be sound—birds, insects, howler monkeys. This jungle is never silent. But listen, sir. There is nothing."

A cold sense of foreboding crawled up Krugger's spine. He did not know what stalked them, but every instinct screamed that they were being watched.

"Prepare your weapons," he ordered in a low, firm voice. "Muskets forward. Aim toward the jungle. If something jumps—shoot first and ask questions later."

The soldiers obeyed at once. Some moved with practiced discipline, others with trembling hands, but all raised their muskets. No sound came from the trees. Minutes dragged by, each one heavier than the last. Sweat trickled down backs despite the chill air. Even the mules fell silent, ears flattened, refusing to move as if guided by some ancient instinct.

Half an hour passed. Then forty minutes.

At last, the jungle exhaled. A bird called. Insects resumed their low, constant hum. Somewhere deep in the forest, a howler monkey roared, its voice rolling through the canopy like distant thunder.

Krugger lowered his musket slightly. "What in God's name was that?"

The guide released a long breath. "The jaguar, sir—the true King of the jungle. He was watching us, waiting for someone to fall behind or wander off. But we did not move. We stayed together. That likely made him lose interest—for now."

Krugger let out a bitter chuckle. "I was taught that the lion was king of the jungle."

Mateo shrugged faintly. "We have lions in New Granada, sir, though they lack the manes you see on banners. Still, I would rather meet a thousand lions than a single jaguar in a jungle. Lions flee. Jaguars hunt."

"Perhaps the mane makes the difference," Krugger muttered dryly. "Like Samson."

The guide managed a nervous smile. Krugger raised his hand again, signaling the column forward. "Move," he ordered. "Before the jungle decides to test us again."

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