Isabella and her two guards were escorted through the streets toward the Guard House. The patrol moved in tight formation, their pace steady, their presence enough to part the flow of the crowd. Ahead of them, the Frenchmen stumbled under firm restraint, their injuries slowing their steps.
During the walk, Isabella's composure returned, though her curiosity remained.
"Tell me," she said at last, her tone measured, "who are these men, that they should draw my father's attention so readily?"
Her eyes lingered on them as they walked—their condition, the way the guards handled them. Not with kindness, but not with the indifference shown to common troublemakers either.
There was a distinction.
Sergeant Mateo, walking at her side, lowered his voice before answering. He understood the nature of the question—and the weight behind it.
"It is… a complicated matter, Miss Isabella," he began, glancing briefly toward the battered engineers. "These men arrived months ago, sent by the Committee of Public Safety—the Jacobins."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"They were meant to serve as a bridge between the French Revolution and our own faction. They brought with them knowledge—designs for artillery, fortifications, bridges. Useful things."
A faint sigh escaped him.
"But the world does not remain still. The ships from Europe now carry different news. The wind has changed in Paris."
He shook his head slightly.
"The men who sent them—the ones who spoke of the Republic, of the guillotine—they have fallen to it themselves. Executed. Hunted. The Jacobins are no more."
Isabella's gaze returned to the Frenchmen.
"So they serve… no one?" she asked quietly.
Mateo inclined his head.
"They represent a government that no longer exists."
For a moment, Isabella said nothing. As she watched them struggle forward, a brief flicker of understanding crossed her expression.
It explained the drink. The recklessness.
Men unmoored from purpose often sought noise to silence their thoughts.
By the time they reached the heavy iron doors of the Guard House, Mateo continued.
"They are, in truth, men without a country. If they return to France, they may be judged traitors by whatever authority now holds power. If they remain here…" He gestured slightly. "They are foreigners in a land not yet fully formed."
He paused.
"They drank because they feared they have nowhere left to go."
Isabella's expression hardened again, the moment of sympathy passing.
"And their attack on Hans and Willi?" she asked.
Mateo gave a small, knowing look.
"Old rivalries do not fade easily, Miss. In Europe, the French and the Prussians have fought for years. To those men, your guards were not merely soldiers—they were reminders. Of the Rhine. Of defeat. Of enemies not yet forgotten."
A brief silence followed.
"Their Republic may be dying," he added, "but their pride remains."
The doors of the Guard House opened.
Inside, the air was thick—not only with heat, but with tension. The place was alive with movement. Guards passed through with purpose, bringing in detainees or escorting them out. It was less an institution of order than a vessel containing disorder.
At one side, a group of Irish laborers stood under watch, their knuckles split, their heads wrapped in rough bandages—the aftermath of a violent dispute, likely over dock space.
Nearby, a cluster of Genoese sailors argued loudly in a rapid dialect few could follow, their clothing torn from a recent street fight with local apprentices.
The noise rose and fell in uneven waves.
This, Isabella realized, was the true face of the city her father was building.
Not the ordered vision spoken in halls—
—but the friction beneath it.
"You see this, Miss Isabella?" Mateo said, gesturing toward the crowded hallway.
Men argued, guards intervened, and somewhere in the distance a scuffle broke into shouted curses before being quickly suppressed.
"Every day, the population of Medellín grows," he continued. "We have men here who once fought for the Crown, others who fought for the Republic… and some who fight simply because they have nowhere else to go. This city—" he paused briefly, searching for the right word, "—it is a powder keg of loyalties."
Isabella followed his gaze in silence.
"Truthfully," Mateo added, lowering his voice as another disturbance rose near the intake desk, "we are only just managing. We lack men. Your father and Mr. Krugger… they must have recruits who did not meet the standards for the elite units. Men who lack the discipline for the front lines, perhaps—but who still possess the basics."
He hesitated, then spoke more carefully.
"If you could speak on our behalf… we would be grateful. If matters worsen, the peace here will not merely crack—it will break."
Isabella watched as a battered Irishman was pushed into a cell, his resistance weak but persistent. She understood then that Mateo was not speaking idly. This was not conversation—it was a request.
An appeal.
And he had chosen her as its messenger.
Before she could respond, movement stirred near the entrance.
The doors opened again.
Carlos entered.
His presence alone shifted the room. Conversations quieted. Even the guards straightened with renewed attention. He spoke briefly with those at the entrance, his tone controlled, his questions precise.
Then his gaze found Isabella.
For a moment, he said nothing. But the look he gave her—sharp, restrained—was enough.
After a short exchange with the guards, he reached into his coat and produced a sum of money, placing it firmly into the sergeant's hand.
"For the treatment of the Frenchmen," he said. "They remain of use."
Mateo inclined his head at once and signaled his men. Orders were passed quietly. A runner was dispatched for physicians.
The matter, at least in appearance, was settled.
Carlos turned without further comment.
The heavy air of the Guard House followed them as they stepped back into the night. The humidity of Medellín pressed in, but the silence between them was heavier still.
He did not speak.
That silence carried more weight than anger openly shown. It was controlled, deliberate—and unmistakable.
Hans and Willi, sensing it, slowed their pace, falling several steps behind. Neither wished to stand too close to what was about to unfold.
They passed beneath a broad stone archway, the shadows offering some distance from the activity of the plaza. There, Carlos stopped.
He turned.
For a brief instant, he was no longer a general, nor a statesman.
He was simply a father.
His hand moved to his waist. With practiced ease, he unfastened the heavy leather belt. The sound—sharp and precise—cut through the stillness.
"So," he began, his voice low, controlled, though strained with contained frustration, "while your grandfather and I lose sleep over the thousand problems of this nation—while we work to keep the Spanish from hanging us and the English from buying us—you choose to spend your time in taverns?"
A pause.
"Drinking. Brawling. As though you carried no name. As though you had been raised without discipline."
Isabella opened her mouth to answer—
—and stopped.
The words did not come.
Because he was not wrong.
She lowered her gaze slightly.
She had left the camp without permission. Krugger had entrusted her training alongside the recruits, instructing her not only in combat, but in strategy. She knew the expectations placed upon her.
And yet—
She had grown tired. Restless.
She had wanted to see the city her father spoke of so often.
She had not expected it to end like this.
A faint breath escaped her, controlled, quiet.
Hans and Willi shifted uneasily behind her. For a brief moment, it seemed they might speak—offer an explanation, or perhaps take part of the blame upon themselves.
Carlos turned his head sharply.
The look he gave them was enough.
"You will not speak," he said, his voice low but firm. "Not a word."
They froze.
"Your captain is already waiting," he continued, his tone hardening. "And he will see to it that you remember your duties. You were assigned to stand beside Isabella to prevent this kind of disorder—not to assist in it."
Hans swallowed, his grip tightening at his sides. Willi lowered his gaze without protest.
They understood.
Whatever awaited them that night, it would not be lenient.
Isabella drew a breath, gathering herself.
"But—"
"Not one word," Carlos cut in sharply, turning back toward her.
For an instant, the restraint in his voice faltered. There was something more beneath it—something closer to where he had come from, something less polished than the officer he had trained himself to be.
"Do you believe," he continued, "that your grandfather and I invest time, effort, and discipline into your training so that you may wander the streets and brawl with engineers?"
He stepped closer, his voice still controlled, but edged now with unmistakable frustration.
"The men you struck tonight are not common drunkards. They are the ones building the bridges your soldiers will depend upon. Every injury you gave them—every moment you delayed them—affects more than your pride."
A brief pause.
"It delays the campaign."
The words settled heavily between them.
There was no anger left in his tone now—only consequence.
Clear. Direct. Unavoidable.
