"Look at them," one of the Frenchmen sneered, his Spanish thick and unsteady with drink. He pointed openly toward Hans and Willi. "Carlos's little poodles. They march like clockwork, but drink like old women."
A few of his companions laughed.
"Tell me, Prussians—are you not too far from home? Do you require your General's permission even to swallow? Or does he pull a lever in your backs?"
Hans's hand stopped midway to his mug.
Willi's jaw tightened, though he did not move. His eyes shifted, almost instinctively, toward Isabella. He was a soldier first. Action, without command, was not his habit.
Isabella did not look up from her cup.
"Pay them no mind," she said quietly. "They are drunk."
For a moment, it seemed the matter might end there.
But the Frenchman rose.
Unsteady, but determined, he crossed the room and leaned over their table. Without asking, he reached for the bottle of aguardiente.
"This," he declared, "is wasted here. Too strong for children… and lapdogs. We shall take it—for the honor of the Republic."
The shift in the room was immediate.
Conversation died. Chairs scraped softly as men began to rise—not to intervene, but to leave of course the majority stayed in the outside of the tavern wanting to see what happened some even took their mugs to drink while they saw the conflict.
Hans stood.
He did not rush. He simply rose to his full height, his presence alone forcing a measure of distance between them.
"Return the bottle, Monsieur," he said, his voice low, controlled, clearly he tried hard to make the situation go without conflict.
The Frenchman laughed—and pushed him.
"Or what?" he replied. "You will polish my boots?"
Behind him, the other Frenchmen rose as well. Hands moved toward the hilts of their briquet sabers. The tension sharpened, quick and unmistakable.
The tavern keeper retreated toward the back.
"Willi. Hans."
Isabella's voice cut through the moment.
It was calm—too calm.
She lifted her gaze at last, and for a brief instant both soldiers recognized something in her expression. It was not anger, nor fear.
It was something colder.
Measured.
"Do not kill them," she said, her voice calm and deliberate. "They may yet be of use in the mines. And we have already left the camp without permission—my grandfather will see to our punishment soon enough if we give him further cause."
A brief pause.
"But ensure they do not forget themselves again."
That was enough.
The first blow came without warning.
Willi moved before the Frenchman could turn, bringing his clay mug down with force against the man's jaw. The lead-lined vessel shattered on impact, sending fragments and blood across the table as the man collapsed.
Hans stepped forward at the same instant. He seized another by the throat and drove him backward, slamming him through a heavy oak table. The wood cracked beneath the force, splintering as both bodies struck the ground.
The room erupted—briefly.
Then it ended just as quickly.
One of the remaining Frenchmen, seeing his companions fall, drew a narrow stiletto. His gaze fixed not on the soldiers—but on Isabella.
The perceived weakness.
He lunged.
She did not retreat.
As the blade came forward, Isabella pivoted with controlled precision—movement refined through months of disciplined instruction. Her hand caught his wrist mid-strike. She twisted sharply.
There was a crack.
The knife fell.
In the same motion, she seized a glass decanter from the table and brought it down against his temple. The impact was blunt and final. The man collapsed at her feet.
She did not step back.
Instead, she moved forward.
Her boot came down against his throat, firm enough to hold him in place as he struggled for breath. She leaned slightly, lowering her voice so that only he could hear her.
"If you miss your Republic so dearly," she said, almost conversationally, "you may return to it."
A faint pause.
"But within my father's territory, there is only one thing that matters."
Her eyes did not leave his.
"Order."
She straightened.
"And I am the daughter of the man who enforces it."
The man beneath her ceased struggling.
Around them, the tavern had fallen silent. The people who had not fled watched from a distance, uncertain whether the violence had truly ended.
Isabella stepped back at last.
Her gaze moved slowly across the tavern—the broken tables, the scattered glass, the groaning men still being dragged to their feet. The damage was unmistakable. Excessive.
She understood, without needing to be told, what would follow.
For a brief moment, the composure in her expression faltered. She raised a hand to her temple, pressing it lightly as if to steady her thoughts.
The first time they had slipped away from the camp—
—and they had managed to turn it into a spectacle in the middle of Medellín.
A quiet exhale escaped her.
She adjusted the lace at her collar with composed precision, as though concluding some minor task rather than a confrontation.
Across from her, Hans and Willi stood breathing heavily, their knuckles bloodied, their posture still tense—waiting.
"Finish your drinks," Isabella said quietly, as though nothing of consequence had occurred. "My father's men will be here shortly… and we are likely to be in some difficulty."
Hans and Willi exchanged a brief glance—resigned more than surprised. Without further comment, they raised their mugs and drained the aguardiente in a single, steady motion.
Barely five minutes had passed when the door opened again.
A patrol entered.
They were mestizo guards—uniformed, composed, and silent. At the sight before them—the broken tables, the injured Frenchmen, the scattered glass, and, at the center of it all, Isabella seated calmly with her companions—their formation faltered for the briefest instant.
One of them spoke, almost reflexively.
"Miss Isabella… what are you doing here?"
The question carried no accusation. Only confusion.
The Frenchmen sprawled across the floor were not his concern. That much was evident.
In truth, with the steady arrival of European immigrants from every corner of the continent, such altercations had become almost routine. Taverns like this saw their share of disputes—pride, language, and drink often proving a volatile combination. Breaking up brawls was no longer an exception, but part of the daily order.
But Isabella—
That was another matter entirely.
As the daughter of Carlos, she was not meant to be here at all. She was supposed to remain within the discipline of the training camp, under watch and instruction—not in the middle of a tavern, surrounded by broken men and spilled blood.
The leader of the patrol stepped forward. Sergeant Mateo—a man marked by a scar across his cheek, earned during training rather than battle—moved with measured caution. His eyes did not linger on the wounded men. Instead, they fixed upon the silver eagle pinned at Isabella's lapel—the unmistakable emblem of Krugger's authority.
Behind him, six guards stood in disciplined formation. They neither whispered nor shifted. Unlike the old colonial militias, these men had been shaped by German instruction—silent, efficient, and bound by a loyalty that was both personal and institutional.
"Miss Isabella," Mateo said, his tone respectful, though burdened with the weight of the situation, "may I ask what has occurred here?"
Isabella rose slightly in her seat and, with composed precision, wiped a small trace of blood from her sleeve using a silk handkerchief.
"The French gentlemen," she replied evenly, "appear to have misunderstood the local customs regarding respect, Sergeant. Hans and Willi were kind enough to provide a… practical clarification."
Mateo glanced briefly toward the fallen men.
One clutched a broken wrist. Another lay unconscious amid the remains of a shattered table. The others groaned or struggled weakly under the watch of the guards now moving to secure them.
In another time—under another authority—such an incident might have provoked serious consequence. European officers, humiliated and beaten, would not have been dismissed lightly.
But here—
Matters were different.
Mateo gave a small signal. His men moved at once, lifting the Frenchmen not with care, but with the firm, efficient handling reserved for unruly cargo.
"With all respect to the General's household," Mateo said, inclining his head slightly, "this matter extends beyond a simple tavern dispute. These men are French engineers. Francisco requires their skills for the construction of bridges. If they are incapacitated, the General will wish to know the cause."
His gaze shifted to Hans and Willi.
"And you," he added, his tone hardening. "You were assigned to guard her—not to accompany her in disorder. Your hands are bloodied, but it is your backs that may answer for this, should the General take issue."
Hans let out a low grunt and finished the last of his drink with deliberate defiance.
"They insulted us," he said. "We were only defending isabella and our honor"
"Then you will explain as much to the General," Mateo replied without hesitation.
He turned back to Isabella. His voice softened slightly, though it retained its firmness.
"My lady, for your safety—and for the sake of record—I must ask that you accompany us to the Guard House. I cannot permit the daughter of Carlos to walk freely while injured men may yet seek revenge."
A brief pause.
"I have already dispatched a runner to inform your father."
The room, though quieter now, still carried the weight of what had occurred.
And the consequences yet to follow.
