The aftermath of the ambush hung heavy over Fort Nueva Castilla. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and damp earth. Wounded men lay on makeshift beds, their low groans punctuating the uneasy silence that had settled over the camp. Soldiers moved in hushed tones, avoiding each other's gazes as they dressed wounds and sharpened blades. The camaraderie that had once defined the Black Battalion felt like a distant memory, replaced by an atmosphere thick with suspicion and fear.
Outside his tent, Miguel Salazar stood with arms crossed, his face unreadable as he watched his men work. The burden of command weighed on him now more than ever. They had been betrayed—someone among them had delivered their plans to the Spanish, and the price had been paid in blood. The faces of the fallen haunted him, their eyes staring back at him in his mind, demanding justice.
Beside him, Rafael Ibarra let out a slow breath, his brow furrowed with concern. "Morale is crumbling, Miguel. The men are scared. And if we don't find the traitor soon…" He let the sentence trail off, but the meaning was clear. Suspicion was spreading like wildfire. If they didn't root it out, trust would collapse, and with it, their chances of survival.
Miguel's gaze remained on the men tending to the wounded. These soldiers had trusted him to lead them—to protect them. And yet, men had died in a trap meant for them all. The weight of their trust felt like a shackle around his heart, tightening with every passing moment.
Inside the command tent, the atmosphere was even heavier. Captain Herrera, his face dark with fury, slammed a knife into the wooden table with a sharp thunk. "We were fed to the wolves!" he spat, his voice rising with anger. "Someone in this camp is working with the Spanish!"
His words sent a ripple through the officers. A tense silence followed, but the weight of accusation thickened the air. No one dared to speak, yet all eyes flickered from face to face, searching for cracks, for guilt. Miguel scanned the room, taking in the anger, confusion—but also fear. His gaze settled on Emilio Vargas, who sat stiffly, his hands clenched into fists. The young soldier looked pale, his breathing quick, his eyes darting from one officer to another, as if he were a cornered animal.
Something about his stillness made Miguel uneasy. He had seen that look before—fear that could turn to desperation.
"Enough," Miguel said at last, his voice quieter but no less commanding. "We will not tear each other apart based on suspicion alone. We will find the truth—but until then, no one is to act without proof."
Herrera exhaled sharply but gave a curt nod, though the tension in the room remained palpable. The meeting ended, but the doubt lingered like a storm cloud, ready to unleash its fury.
That night, Emilio lay awake on his cot, his mind racing. His stomach twisted with guilt, a heavy knot that refused to loosen. He had sent another message to the Spanish, but each time he did, the weight of his betrayal grew heavier. He could still feel the blood on his hands, even though he had never fired a shot in the ambush. The faces of his comrades haunted him, their trust now a ghost that whispered in the dark.
Would his mother and father understand why he had done it? Would they forgive him for the choices he had made to protect them? The thought gnawed at him, a relentless torment that kept him from sleep.
A shadow moved outside his tent. He barely had time to react before a voice whispered his name. "Vargas."
His heart leaped into his throat. He shot up, hand reaching instinctively for the knife beneath his cot, ready to defend himself against an unknown threat.
But it was only Mateo, a fellow recruit. The young soldier's face was tight with concern, his eyes darting around as if he feared being overheard. "Come with me."
Emilio hesitated, his pulse hammering in his ears, but he followed. Mateo led him away from the tents, to a quiet corner of the fort near the crumbling outer wall. The jungle loomed beyond, thick and impenetrable. The only sound was the distant crackling of a dying fire, the flickering light casting eerie shadows on the ground.
"I know what you've been doing," Mateo said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might summon the very demons they feared.
Emilio felt the blood drain from his face, panic rising within him. "You—"
"But I also know why," Mateo interrupted, his expression softening.
Emilio's throat closed up, the truth clawing at his insides, desperate to be released. Mateo's expression wasn't one of anger—it was pity. "The Spanish have your family, don't they?"
Emilio swallowed hard, the truth a bitter pill lodged in his throat. "They'll kill them if I don't cooperate."
Mateo exhaled sharply, running a hand through his short, sweat-damp hair. "You have to tell Miguel. He'll find a way to help."
Emilio shook his head violently, the fear of what that would mean overwhelming him. "I can't. You don't understand. It's too late."
"Not yet," Mateo insisted, his voice firm. "But if you wait any longer, it will be."
The urgency in Mateo's voice struck a chord within Emilio, but the fear of betrayal held him back. He felt trapped between two worlds—one where he could save his family and another where he could save his soul. The weight of his choices pressed down on him, suffocating.
In Manila, the Governor's Palace was alight with activity. Candles flickered along the grand hall, illuminating the polished wood floors and the towering maps spread across the war table. Governor-General de la Cruz stood at the head, studying the latest report from his informant. His lips curled into a satisfied smile, a predator savoring the scent of victory.
"The rebels are unraveling," he murmured, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Now is the time to strike."
Colonel Velasco, standing at his side, nodded, though his brow furrowed with concern. "They may be weak, but desperation makes men dangerous."
De la Cruz waved away the concern, his confidence unwavering. "It won't matter. We have their plans, their weaknesses. Tomorrow, we march. Fort Nueva Castilla will fall."
Velasco remained silent, his gaze lingering on the parchment in front of him. The reports had been accurate so far, but something unsettled him. What if the spy's information was compromised? What if they were walking into a trap of their own making?
Still, orders were orders. He turned to his officers, his voice steady. "Send word to the troops. We move at dawn."
Back at the fort, Emilio sat by the dying embers of the campfire, Mateo's words ringing in his ears. Tell Miguel. Could he? The moment he did, his fate would be sealed. The rebels had little mercy for traitors, no matter their reasons. And yet… keeping the secret meant more men would die. He clenched his fists, staring into the embers, the flickering light reflecting the turmoil within him. Tell Miguel. The thought echoed in his mind, a relentless drumbeat urging him forward.
He forced himself to his feet, each step toward Miguel's tent feeling like a march to his own execution. His legs felt like lead, heavy with the weight of his decision. He hesitated outside the flap, his breath shaky, the fear of what lay beyond almost paralyzing. But before he could change his mind, he pushed inside.
Miguel was seated at his desk, pouring over maps by the dim glow of a lantern. The lines on the parchment blurred together in the low light, but Miguel's focus was unwavering. He looked up sharply, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, yet they held a spark of determination.
"Vargas?" Miguel's voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of concern.
Emilio's throat tightened, the words he had rehearsed in his mind now tangled in his chest. His palms were slick with sweat, and he felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him.
"I need to tell you something," he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.
Miguel studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He didn't speak—just waited, allowing the silence to stretch between them, thick with unspoken truths.
The weight of his betrayal was finally too much to bear. Emilio took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage he had left. "I was the one who told them."
For a long moment, there was only silence. The air felt electric, charged with the gravity of Emilio's confession. Miguel's expression shifted, a storm of emotions crossing his face—shock, anger, betrayal, and something else that made Emilio's heart race with fear.
Then, slowly, Miguel stood, his posture rigid, his eyes narrowing as he processed the revelation. "Explain," he commanded, his voice low and steady, but the tension in the air was palpable.