For a moment, Christian even wondered if the dogs truly came from hell itself. Of course, as a man deeply shaped by the Enlightenment, he knew such thoughts were nothing but ignorance. Reason rejected them outright. And yet, standing before those gaunt creatures, he could not entirely silence the unease crawling up his spine.

"Come, let's go—to the hotel. Someone is guarding the door," Catalina said firmly.

At once, the servants moved. Those who had horses mounted swiftly; those who did not remained behind at the inn, tasked with guarding their belongings and waiting for their companions' return. Within moments, a column of armed Hispanics was riding through the streets at a hard gallop.

The sight unsettled the Germans nearby. Armed men, riding fast, their faces hard with purpose—many feared the servants of Francisco were about to storm the town hall or even the university, demanding answers. Whispers spread quickly. Fearing unrest, perhaps even open violence, civilians fled the streets.

Guards preparing to follow the trail of the fleeing carriage spotted them and immediately raised their weapons, convinced they were facing an imminent attack.

Catalina reined in her horse sharply. Her eyes burned red with fury as she leveled her own pistol and roared,"What—are you not even going to let us look for my husband? I am not afraid to die. If you dare to stop us, we will die here, in this place!"

The guard swallowed hard.

What he saw before him was not mere anger—it was the fierce resolve of people with nothing left to lose. He did not understand it. To him, servants were simply workers bound by coin. If a master died, they found another employer or returned to ordinary life in town or colony.

What he did not understand was the Gómez household.

Carlos Gómez did not treat his servants as expendable labor. He fed their families when they starved, paid their debts, protected them when local authorities threatened them. To the parents of these young men, the debt they owed the Gómez family was greater than any sum of money.

If their young master vanished, those parents would not welcome them home—they would cast them out in shame. That fear, combined with rage and loyalty, forged men willing to fight to the end.

Christian, riding just behind them, realized the situation was spiraling toward bloodshed. He spurred his horse forward.

"Wait!" he shouted. "I am Prorector Christian. Explain why you are stopping us."

The officer in charge lowered his weapon slightly but did not relax.

"Sir Christian," he said carefully, "it is not that we wish to stop them. After your intervention at the town hall, we were ordered to search for Francisco ourselves. But we found you like this—armed, numerous, and foreign. We cannot allow a group from outside Hanover to ride armed through the city. If they decide to attack the town hall or any major institution, the consequences would be disastrous."

Christian understood immediately. It was most likely a coincidence: the guards had set out to hunt the kidnappers, only to encounter a group of armed Hispanic men riding through Göttingen. Panic among passersby explained everything. No matter the reason, such a sight was bound to cause alarm.

He exhaled in relief and raised his voice calmly.

"We want to find Francisco as well," Christian said. "We have no intention of attacking anyone. Since our goals align, why don't we proceed together?"

The officer hesitated, then nodded. Convincing these people to stand aside was clearly impossible—they already distrusted the authorities after days of inaction. At the same time, the law did not allow him to simply let a foreign armed group roam the city unchecked.

Still, something bothered him.

"But why are you heading that way?" the officer asked. "The carriage escaped in the opposite direction."

Catalina sneered.

"What's the point of following a trail that's already been trampled by dozens of carriages?" she snapped. "You didn't even close the city gates to preserve the trail. Any trace is useless now."

A few of the guards chuckled awkwardly. They all knew the truth: the governor had deliberately refused to close the gates, ensuring the kidnappers' trail would be lost. There was nothing they could have done.

Christian sighed helplessly.

"Our friends from New Granada brought trained dogs," he explained. "They claim the animals can capture a person's essence and follow their trail. For that, they need the person's clothes—which are still at the hotel. Come with us. That way, we avoid misunderstandings and prevent further conflict."

The officer stiffened. If those dogs truly possessed such an ability, they could revolutionize the handling of disappearances across the Electorate. He remained doubtful—but as a guardsman, he also knew that in desperate situations, disbelief was a luxury.

And they had no better lead.

He nodded.

The Göttingen guards moved into position, surrounding the Hispanic group led by Catalina, and together they made their way toward the hotel.

Inside, the building felt abandoned. After the kidnapping, no one wished to stay there. The innkeeper had fled with her daughter to another town, unwilling to remain connected to the incident. Only a single caretaker—sent by the bourgeois owners—remained.

The hotel itself had known many rises and falls. Built decades earlier by the mayor of Göttingen, it had declined, passed through several commercial houses, and only recently turned a profit—largely thanks to Francisco's continuous stays during his academic terms.

Now, after his kidnapping, its fortunes had collapsed once more.

The merchants who owned it were likely cursing the situation even more bitterly than the governor himself.

Catalina stepped forward and spoke firmly."Give them to me. No one else is allowed inside the hotel—especially not our bedroom."

She moved upstairs. At the door, one of the armed servants sat with his chair pressed against it, blocking anyone from entering. When he saw Catalina, he stood and moved the chair aside.

"Miss," he said quietly, "at least three people tried to enter. I sent them all away. But—" He glanced around and lowered his voice. "One of them claimed he was sent by the military governor. As you instructed, I pretended not to understand German. When he started shouting, I pointed my weapon at him. In the end, he left."

Catalina's face darkened. The thought that the bastard had even tried to enter their bedroom made her urge to kill him surge—but she forced herself to focus.

"Thank you," she said coldly. "Now leave everything to the dogs. I hope we can find him with their help."

The servant nodded and stepped aside.

Inside, Francisco's clothes lay scattered on the floor. Exhausted, he hadn't bothered to organize anything—he had gone straight to the bath, then directly to eat. The chair lay overturned, the food still untouched on the table.

Catalina knelt and studied the room. Faint marks scuffed the wooden floor.

She took one of the dogs and pointed toward the footprints, ordering it to follow the trail. Then she guided the others to Francisco's clothes, hoping they could distinguish between his scent and that of his captors.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then one of the dogs lifted its head.

Slowly, deliberately, it began to move.

Catalina's breath caught.

The dog followed the kidnappers' path, nose low, tail stiff. Excitement surged through her as she followed. At the rear of the hotel, where the carriage had waited, she called the others forward. Together, they pressed on.

Then the dogs hesitated.

They had reached a crossroads—one trampled by hundreds of feet each day.

Catalina felt her stomach drop. This might be where it ends, she thought. She closed her eyes briefly and forced herself to breathe.

Christian, standing behind her, had been amazed by the dogs' precision. Seeing them stop, he feared the worst as well. After a moment, he spoke carefully.

"What if we take them to the city gate?" he suggested. "Perhaps the scent will be clearer there."

Catalina considered it, then nodded, tension tight in her jaw.

They moved toward the entrance.

Suddenly, the dogs reacted.

Heads snapped up. Bodies tensed. Without hesitation, they surged forward again.

A murmur of surprise rippled through the group—followed by cautious joy.

The trail led beyond Göttingen's walls.

Hope ignited in their hearts.

Still, doubt lingered. None of them had ever heard of dogs tracking people through a city—only of hounds hunting prey in forests.

Yet here they were.

And the hunt had begun.

The dogs pulled them northwest, away from Göttingen's gates and into the suffocating depths of the Solling Forest. The trees closed around them quickly, their branches weaving a dark canopy that swallowed the light. The path grew narrow and treacherous, leading toward the marshlands of Westphalia.

The guards suddenly reined in their horses.

"Wait," one of them said sharply. "That direction… that's Westphalia, isn't it?"

The others nodded, frowning.

Catalina glanced at them, unease creeping into her voice."What is that place?"

One of the guards answered grimly.

"Westphalia isn't a single land," he said. "It's a fragmented region—dense forests, old marshes, and little authority. In these years, it's a corridor for anyone moving toward the Dutch ports. Smugglers, deserters, spies… they all vanish there."

He looked toward the darkening woods.

"The law there is thin—thinner than the fog. If someone wanted to disappear, that's where they'd go."

The dogs strained at their leashes, growling low, eager.

Catalina followed their gaze.

Then she tightened her grip on the reins.

"Then that's where we're going."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.