The guards stared at the determined Catalina, momentarily speechless.No, miss, some of them thought inwardly, didn't you hear? That place is where all the scum of Europe hides. You may not fear death, but we do.

Silence followed.

Catalina's servants, however, were visibly excited. This was the kind of terrain they were accustomed to—forests, hills, uneven ground. During the past months, they had occasionally trained with the Germans, but most of those drills had taken place on the plains, where they always lost. It had been frustrating, humiliating even. Their strength lay elsewhere—in mountains, forests, and chaos.

Now, seeing a land where their expertise truly mattered, their blood stirred.

The officer was conflicted. He knew fighting in the forest was dangerous. But if he chose to withdraw now, his position could easily be taken from him, and that cursed governor would likely make him the perfect scapegoat—to explain everything to the world and to the Hanoverian electorate.

On the other hand, if he advanced… even if they found nothing, the governor would probably avoid complicating matters and look for someone else to blame.

He looked at his men—their worried faces—and realized he had to step forward. If he hesitated, they would either retreat or remain frozen in place.

"Men," he said sharply. "What are those faces? Are you afraid?"

They remained silent.

"Look at her," he continued, pointing toward Catalina. "A woman from New Granada, determined to march into danger. And you—a group of trained soldiers—tremble?"

Some shifted uncomfortably.

"So what if smugglers and criminals hide there? Weren't you trained by the Electorate to fight scum like them? Or will you let a woman and a group of outsiders make a mockery of you?"

His voice hardened.

"And what if tomorrow France decides to march on Hanover? Will you cry then too? Will you hide?"

The soldiers exchanged glances. The words stung—but they were true. Catalina, a woman, stood more resolute than any of them. If they stayed behind now, Göttingen would laugh at them. By the time they returned home, even their wives might mock them.

"What is your excuse?" the officer roared. "I, as a man, am ready to march! And look—those you call weak are already leading the way. A girl walks first into the darkness, while you—who call yourselves soldiers—shake behind her skirts!"

He paused, then thundered:

"Are you willing?!"

A few scattered voices answered weakly. "No…"

"I didn't hear you!" he roared again, so loud it sent birds flying from the nearby trees. "Are you willing to hide behind a woman's skirts and become a joke in Göttingen?!"

"No, sir!" the soldiers shouted at once.

"Good," the officer said, drawing his sword. "Then follow me. It is time to show those criminals that we are the law—and the justice—of Hanover."

"Yes, sir!" they answered, their morale rising sharply as they marched forward.

Deep within Westphalia, Francisco slowly opened his eyes. His head throbbed, his thoughts heavy and slow. A coarse bag covered his face, blocking his vision.

"Is… is someone there?" he asked hoarsely.

Silence.

Francisco frowned beneath the fabric and began to move, testing his restraints. The ropes bit into his wrists as he struggled harder, rocking the chair back and forth. With a final desperate push, the chair toppled over.

"Auch!"

The noise echoed through the structure.

Outside, voices stirred. Footsteps approached, followed by the creak of a door opening. A group of armed agents entered the room, followed by a man who carried himself differently—upright, confident, dressed far too finely for a forest hideout. A noble, without doubt.

"You did well," the nobleman said calmly. "You and your group clearly represent British intelligence with distinction."

His gaze swept the room—and stopped abruptly at the overturned chair and the struggling figure on the floor. His expression darkened.

"Didn't you leave someone guarding the objective?"

The agent in charge broke into a sweat. He hadn't expected Francisco to awaken so quickly. Leaving a man alone with an unconscious captive had seemed unnecessary.

He gestured sharply to two men. "Put him back."

They lifted the chair and forced Francisco upright again.

The nobleman folded his hands behind his back. "Remove the bag. I want to see what makes this boy so valuable that the Crown is willing to risk Hanover just to take him."

The men hesitated and looked to the agent. The agent frowned, irritation flashing across his face. This foolish noble clearly didn't understand the danger. If Francisco escaped later—and recognized him—the Crown would face serious complications.

Still, thinking of the family backing this operation, he sighed and waved his hand in permission.

If things go wrong, he thought coldly, we'll simply kill the boy.

The agents nodded and pulled the bag from Francisco's head.

Blinded by torchlight, Francisco squinted, his eyes struggling to adjust. He barely had time to focus before the nobleman spoke again.

"Hm," the noble muttered. "Perhaps slightly attractive… but nothing remarkable. Is this truly the one behind the steam machine?"

He turned toward the agent. "Or did Göttingen lie—placing a child in the spotlight to protect the real genius?"

The agent rolled his eyes internally.You think we didn't investigate before kidnapping him?

Outwardly, he kept his tone neutral. "Those are the Crown's orders, sir. We do not question them."

The nobleman waved dismissively. "Very well, very well. Leave two men here to guard him."

He turned toward the exit. "We are awaiting another team. They were sent to abduct Lichtenberg as well. It seems he played a role in the steam machine project—helping this boy refine it."

The agent stiffened. "Sir, isn't that extremely risky? Lichtenberg is no minor figure. Kidnapping Francisco—a young man of Spanish descent with limited public achievements—is one thing. But abducting the director of Göttingen University…"

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

"He is considered one of the greatest physicists and natural philosophers in Europe."

The nobleman sneered.

"You can blame the boy," he said coldly. "If not for his machine, the Crown would not be panicking like this. Do you even understand what he did at that university? He shattered one of the pillars of our control over steam technology."

He turned sharply toward the agent.

"If we fail to fix this mess, tomorrow France, Russia—or even the Holy Roman Empire—may reach our level and push us out entirely."

The agent fell silent. He knew little about steam machines, but he understood power. And he understood fear. The Crown was desperate to slow Europe's progress—and this boy had ruined one of their methods.

This won't be the last kidnapping, he thought grimly.

"Come," the nobleman said suddenly, his tone lightening. "I received some Göttinger Mettwurst. I'll share it with you."

Proudly, almost mockingly, he turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Two British agents entered the room and took positions near Francisco, sitting calmly, weapons close at hand. From the first glance, Francisco understood—these men were professionals. If he made the slightest wrong move, they would shoot first and ask questions later.

So he waited.

Days passed, and then, one night, torches flickered outside, their light casting restless shadows against the wooden walls. Hours later, the agent who had overseen the kidnapping returned, bringing food and drink for the guards like every night.

They accepted it respectfully. The agent glanced briefly at Francisco, confirmed everything was in order, and left again.

The guards began to eat.

Minutes passed.

Then one of them rubbed his eyes. The other swayed slightly, blinking as if struggling to focus.

Francisco noticed immediately.

Something's wrong…

The first guard tried to stand—and collapsed back into his chair.

The second cursed under his breath, his words slurring, before his head dropped forward.

Francisco's heart began to race.

The kitchen… someone poisoned the food.

Using the moment, he rocked the chair carefully toward the nearest guard. Slowly. Quietly. He reached for the man's sword—

The body shifted suddenly and slid off the chair, the sword clattering loudly onto the floor.

"Damn it," Francisco whispered.

He froze.

No footsteps came.

Holding his breath, he moved again—this time toward the second guard. Inch by inch, painfully slow. His fingers closed around the sword's hilt.

Success.

Using the blade's tip, he sawed at the ropes binding his wrists. His arms burned, sweat dripping into his eyes. Finally—

The rope snapped.

Free.

He searched the guards quickly, finding two pistols and spare ammunition tucked beneath their coats. Relief washed over him. Firearms were his strength.

Without hesitation, he ended their lives swiftly. There was no room for mercy—not now.

Then—

BOOM.

An explosion shook the camp.

Shouts erupted outside—angry curses in English, mixed with other accents. Scottish, perhaps.

Francisco moved to the door and opened it carefully.

Chaos.

Torches lay scattered on the ground. Smoke drifted through the trees. Men shouted orders, some firing blindly into the darkness. Horses screamed, rearing in panic.

Francisco stepped outside, pistols drawn, keeping to the shadows.

Then he heard it.

"Find the objective!" someone roared. "We are not leaving without him!"

Francisco's blood ran cold.

He ducked behind a wagon as musket fire cracked through the night. A man ran past him—Francisco fired once.

The body fell.

He moved again, low and fast, using the confusion. Another agent emerged from the smoke—Francisco fired twice. The man dropped without a sound.

More shouting.

"North side! He escaped to the trees!"

Francisco cursed silently and sprinted.

Branches tore at his clothes as he plunged into the forest. The darkness was thick, but the shouts behind him grew more frantic than coordinated.

A shot whistled past his head.

He didn't look back.

He ran until his lungs burned, until the camp's light vanished behind him, swallowed by the forest.

Only then did he stop—leaning against a tree, shaking, alive.

Who helped me escape?Were they coming for me… or did that group anger the wrong people?

He muttered the thought under his breath. After a moment, he steadied himself and prepared to move.

Suddenly, a shadow burst from the darkness.

It slammed into him with brutal force, sending him crashing to the ground.

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