The Captain was a ghost held together by leather and iron.

Blood soaked the yellow facings of his coat, dark and tacky where it spread from the musket wound torn through his left arm. Another wound, worse, gaped beneath his cuirass where the ball had torn flesh and cloth alike before lodging somewhere inside him. Every breath felt like inhaling broken glass, sharp and burning, scraping his lungs raw. His vision pulsed at the edges, narrowing with each heartbeat.

Still, he refused to fall.

Not yet.

The horse beneath him trembled, its flanks slick with sweat and foam, the smell of iron and animal fear thick in the air. The Captain leaned low over the saddle, his good hand locked around the reins, knuckles white beneath dried blood. The leather creaked under his weight. His boots—once polished to a mirror sheen—were now caked with mud and ash, the spurs dulled by impact and grime.

Then it came.

BOOM.

The sound did not roll like thunder. It tore.

The canyon shuddered as if the earth itself were being split open. Birds erupted from the cliffs in black clouds, their cries swallowed instantly by the roar. The Captain felt the vibration pass through his horse's bones, through the iron plates strapped across his chest, through his teeth.

He twisted in the saddle and looked down toward the Tonusco.

Where once the river had been a thin, silver thread cutting through the canyon floor, it now surged outward in a violent bloom. The dam—stone and timber forced beyond its limit—had given way at last. Water exploded forward in a towering wall of brown fury, choked with uprooted trees, shattered beams, and chunks of earth the size of wagons. The sound was not merely loud; it was alive, a continuous scream of water and stone grinding itself into ruin.

"My men…" he wheezed.

Too late.

He had failed to warn about the flood in time.

Then—another sound.

Not water.

Hooves.

The rhythmic clatter reached him through the chaos: disciplined, relentless, iron-shod. He turned his head westward, squinting through dust and spray.

They were coming.

The Iron Lancers emerged from the haze like specters of steel, their breastplates catching the sun in cold flashes. Their helmets bore no plumes, no ornament—only function. Lances angled forward like a forest of spears. They did not hurry. They did not need to.

They were not here to fight an army.

They were here to butcher survivors.

A low, feral sound crawled up from the Captain's chest.

"I will not let you have them," he hissed.

He knew he could not reach the camp. His horse would never outrun the flood, and even if it could, his body would not survive the effort. Every jolt sent white pain lancing through his gut, and the world swam with each breath.

Instead, he turned.

He guided his horse toward the highest precipice overlooking the riverbed, a jagged outcrop of stone that thrust over the chaos below. Loose shale skittered beneath the hooves as they climbed. The air smelled of wet earth, black powder, and blood. Somewhere behind him, a musket cracked—too distant to matter now.

At the edge, he halted.

With his good hand, he drove his spur into the horse's flank one last time. The animal surged forward, then reared as the cliff dropped away beneath it. The Captain steadied it with his knees, every muscle screaming in protest.

He drew his sword.

It was a heavy cavalry blade, broad and straight, its fuller darkened with old stains. The edge was nicked from bone and iron, the hilt wrapped in worn leather slick with blood. Still, the steel caught the sun, bright and defiant.

"¡POR EL REY!" he screamed.

The roar of the flood devoured his voice.

So he struck.

The sword came down against his own breastplate.

CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

Down in the riverbed, the soldiers turned toward the river after hearing the deep, unnatural sound. What they saw froze them in place.

On the heights above, a lone, broken rider stood silhouetted against the sky—his figure smeared with fire and blood, raising his arm again and again like a man possessed. He looked less like a living officer and more like an omen, a warning carved in iron, pointing toward the shadow descending from the West.

"Isn't that the captain of the dragoons?" one soldier asked, squinting toward the cliffs.

A second later, his face drained of color as he noticed the water behind him. "The river—! The river is coming!"

Alarms erupted across the camp. Men shouted. Officers screamed orders that were immediately swallowed by the growing roar of the flood.

General Anastacio stared as the first shockwave of water tore through the lower encampment. His breath caught in his throat, his face turning pale.

"What in God's name is this?" he muttered.

His mind raced. A flood? Impossible. There had been no heavy rain for weeks. The Tonusco did not behave like this.

Human-made?

The realization struck him like a blade.

"Where are the dragoons?" he roared. "Where are the scouts?!"

His shout cut through the panic, startling nearby soldiers. An officer hurried toward him, his voice tense, his face slick with sweat.

"Sir… I informed you earlier. They marched west after hearing reports from civilians in Santa Fe. They said the fanatic army was moving in that direction."

Anastacio's blood ran cold.

"Damn it," he hissed. "They must be dead."

He clenched his jaw, scanning the chaos around him. "Go. Organize the troops. If I'm right, we're about to be attacked."

Nearby, a soldier who had barely escaped the flood looked back toward the cliffs where the captain of the dragoons had stood.

There was nothing there.

No rider. No signal. Only empty stone and drifting spray.

For a moment, the soldier wondered if exhaustion or fear had played tricks on his eyes. But the certainty gnawed at him. He swallowed hard and hurried to his officer, speaking in a low, urgent voice.

The officer listened, stiffened, and immediately turned away. He pushed through the mud and confusion until he reached General Anastacio and repeated what he had been told.

The general did not hesitate.

"Everyone!" he shouted. "The fanatics will attack from the west! Redirect all defenses immediately—now!"

One of his attendants stepped forward, unable to keep silent. "Sir… are you certain? Perhaps the captain was seeking help, not warning us of the direction of their advance. Sending all defenses west is risky—especially after the river's impact. Our troops are scattered. They could have forces behind us as well."

Anastacio frowned.

The man had a point.

But the image of the dragoon captain—alone, wounded, striking his armor until his strength failed—burned in his mind. He refused to believe that such a sacrifice was meant to signal anything less than the full weight of the enemy.

He was about to dismiss the attendant when the man spoke again, more urgently this time.

"Sir, remember—General Giuseppe is European. You cannot see this army the same way you would an indigenous rebellion in the Americas. He is Italian, according to the intelligence we gathered. That alone tells us he is highly trained and experienced."

The general's expression darkened.

"You must think carefully about every decision," the attendant continued. "We cannot underestimate them anymore—not after what they did to the river. Not after we lost the artillery."

Silence hung between them, heavy as the smell of wet earth and black powder.

Upon hearing those words, the general snapped upright, visibly startled. His face flushed green, then drained to a sickly pale.

"Damn it… you're right," he muttered. "Those traitors of the King."

He forced himself to breathe, his mind racing as the reality of their situation closed in around him.

"Our priority now is to save as many troops as possible," he said sharply. "After this flash flood, the river cannot be crossed. The banks will be unstable—quicksand will swallow anyone foolish enough to try."

He turned to the attendant. "Send orders to the artillery immediately. They are to retreat the way we came and reach the nearest Spanish settlement as fast as possible. If the cannons slow them down—if they become a liability—then they are to destroy them."

The general's jaw tightened.

"Better they rest at the bottom of the river than fall into the hands of those traitors."

The attendant nodded deeply and departed at once.

Left alone, Anastacio surveyed the chaos before him. Men were still regrouping, coughing up muddy water, dragging the wounded to higher ground. Officers shouted, trying to impose order where fear had already taken root.

He clenched his fists.

If they waited, it would take at least a full day for the river to return to its natural course—assuming it ever did. But the fanatics were already at their doorstep. Every moment they delayed gave the enemy time to close in.

Marching was no better.

The army was far from home, deep in hostile territory. Supplies had been light from the beginning; river crossings were usually where reinforcements and provisions arrived. Now those routes were gone. Advancing meant moving with low morale, scattered formations, exhausted men, and an enemy pressing from behind.

They would be slaughtered.

Anastacio's gaze drifted eastward.

Toward Santa Fe.

Something clicked.

He straightened, the fog in his mind lifting just enough for a plan to form.

"Get my attendants," he ordered quietly. "All of them."

As they hurried toward him, the general continued staring toward the distant settlement, already weighing risks, sacrifices, and the price of survival.

The situation had changed.

And he would have to change with it.

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