That night, the group was finally able to sleep well and eat their fill. A couple of cows had been slaughtered, and for the first time in weeks, the camp smelled not of damp cloth, sickness, or fear, but of roasted meat and wood smoke. Krugger considered staying in the valley for a few more days to buy additional cattle. From what he had seen and heard during his travels, cattle were far more abundant in the Americas than in Europe. With fewer people and vast open land, cows were often raised freely, grazing on native grasses. They were leaner than European cattle, with less fat and less meat per animal, but they were far cheaper to feed—and far easier to acquire in numbers.

For the local settlers, this way of life was both a blessing and a burden. Cattle made survival easier, but driving them to slaughterhouses was risky work. Animals could escape, be stolen, or fall prey to jaguars and other predators along the road. Losing two cows at once could ruin a family. Slaughtering only a few at a time reduced the danger, even if it meant more work in the long run.

"Have you noticed anything unusual about the priest?" Krugger asked his aide as they sat near the embers of the fire.

"More or less," the aide replied carefully. "He doesn't seem to have any direct contact with the fanatics. Of course, we can't be completely certain. But he works openly here, and no one in the valley has seen him meeting strangers. Even if he were sympathetic to them, he would likely be someone they've already abandoned."

The aide spoke respectfully, his voice heavy with fatigue—but also contentment. After so much meat, he was as full and satisfied as the rest of the soldiers. This kind of abundance was almost unheard of in Prussia. Back home, they were lucky to receive a small ration of meat; here, two hundred men had eaten an entire cow in a single day. The luxury lifted spirits across the camp, and for the first time since entering the mountains, some soldiers began to imagine what life here might be like once the marching ended.

"Still," Krugger said, frowning, "we should warn him. If he sends information to those fanatics, he might gain something from it—promotion, protection, favor."

The aide hesitated before answering. "Shouldn't we… deal with him, sir? If he's dead, there's no chance of him betraying us."

Krugger fell silent.

His gaze hardened as memories rose unbidden—campaigns in Europe where obedience mattered more than mercy. His men had burned villages, slaughtered settlements, erased entire communities without hesitation when ordered. There had been no room for humanitarianism then. If command demanded blood, blood was given.

But this was not Europe.

He thought of the Embera-Katío, who had saved his sick soldiers without demanding weapons or gold. He thought of the criollos and mestizos of the valley, who—despite their fear—had chosen to help instead of treating his men as outcasts, as they would have been back home. His resolve softened further when he thought of Francisco, his grandson—half Spanish, half German. If he allowed the same ruthless logic here, what would stop others from turning that cruelty against his own family one day? The chance was small, but it was not zero.

Krugger let out a long, heavy breath.

"No," he said at last. "Forget it. If everything ends well, these people will become our neighbors—maybe even our families. If we start killing indiscriminately, fear will take root. And fear will push them to drive us out."

He stared into the fire, watching fat drip and hiss onto the embers.

"Our men didn't cross an ocean and a mountain range just to be sent back to Germany," he continued quietly. "They came here looking for a new life. I won't poison that future before it even begins."

The aide's eyes flickered for a moment, but he still nodded. "We don't need to kill everyone. Just the priest. I've heard the people here are wary of him already. Some would even be glad to see him disappear. Most believe the Crown will eventually return, and they don't want to be associated with it when that happens."

Krugger shrugged lightly. "I wouldn't recommend it—unless they ask for it themselves, and kill him with their own hands. You see, people like to talk about what they wish someone else would do for them. But when you actually act on those wishes, they often end up hating you for it… or fearing you."

The aide nodded, clearly frustrated. "Then what should we do? I doubt a warning alone will be enough to deter the man."

Krugger thought in silence for a moment. Then his eyes lit up. "I know. We take him with us until we reach Medellín. Once we're there, it won't matter whether he truly works for the fanatics or not—it will already be too late for him to warn anyone. And after that, we can continue helping the valley. When he returns, people will trust us more."

The aide considered the plan and slowly nodded in approval. It wasn't the most efficient solution. The priest could escape, or even injure a soldier. He might die on the road, which would only deepen suspicion among the locals. But as long as word didn't reach Santa Fe, that risk was acceptable.

"Go and bring him to us," Krugger said coldly. "He will travel with our group for the rest of the journey. If he cooperates and follows willingly, you may relax around him. But if he becomes hostile, you have permission to knock him out—or take part of his body, if necessary."

The aide nodded and carried out the order.

Fortunately for the group, the priest accepted without resistance. He was already a pariah in the valley. People feared him—not because he belonged to the faction stirring war over symbols and clothing, but because of what he represented. Remaining behind meant isolation and quiet hostility. Following the mercenaries to Medellín, uncertain as it was, offered at least the possibility of peace.

And so, with little more than his worn clothes and his faith, the priest joined the column, hoping that somewhere beyond the mountains, suspicion would loosen its grip.

On the other side, in Medellín, events unfolded very differently for Carlos once his movement began. He had naïvely believed that the indigenous peoples would support him, along with the mestizos. In Medellín itself, this assumption proved mostly true. But in other regions, reality was far less cooperative.

For now, Carlos had not formally declared independence. Still, anyone with eyes could see that his intentions had little to do with fighting for the Spanish Crown. The Aburráes—an indigenous group that had long benefited from royal protection and was known for its loyalty to the Crown—began attacking supply lines, searching for ways to weaken Medellín without provoking open war.

Inside the government building, Carlos received reports one after another.

"Sir, another attack," one officer reported. "This time at El Paso. Three wounded. All supplies stolen."

Carlos sighed deeply. "Another one… they're persistent." His voice hardened. "The cruelest part is that they don't kill anyone. That prevents us from responding with force. If we massacre them, we risk terrifying the other tribes—and that would only make things worse."

"That's correct, sir," his aide replied carefully. "Are you going to do what they're asking? Publicly recognize the Spanish Crown?"

"Impossible," Carlos said at once. "Leaving aside the fact that the viceroy tried to have my son killed, it's already too late to turn back. Everyone knows about our armories in the mountains and the gunpowder factories here in Medellín. Even if the Crown spared my life—which I doubt—they would confiscate everything I own."

He clenched his jaw, frustration visible. "Honestly, I never expected our greatest enemies wouldn't be the Spanish who took these lands from the indigenous—but the very people we're trying to liberate, those we claim to be fighting for."

The aide hesitated, then spoke. "Sir, I believe they oppose you precisely because the independence movement speaks of equality. Under the Crown, these groups enjoy certain privileges—recognized lands, autonomy, and protection. Once a new nation is formed, they have no guarantee that the new government will honor those arrangements. And even if we promise to protect their lands, they won't believe us. Not after what happened in the north."

Carlos let out a bitter chuckle. Everyone knew the story by now. The founders of the United States had promised indigenous nations recognition and land rights—only to turn muskets against them once the British were gone.

"And yet," Carlos said slowly, "surrendering to Spain is impossible. So we must try another path." He looked up. "We offer them a place in the government."

The aide stared at him as if he had just heard something absurd. "Sir… that sounds even less believable than promising to protect their lands."

Carlos nodded calmly. "I know. But if we grant them official positions—mayors of their respective tribes—and gradually integrate them into the new nation, it might work. And in the worst case, we can offer them limited autonomy, much like the Spanish did."

He leaned back in his chair, eyes heavy with exhaustion. "It's not ideal. But revolutions are never clean. And nations are never born without compromise."

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