Iloilo, 1898 — The Gamboa Estate
The scent of burnt rice drifted faintly from the kitchen, but no one commented. The household was too tense, too alert. Servants moved with quiet urgency, their eyes flicking toward the grand sala where Don Vicente Gamboa stood like a storm tethered in silk.
He gripped the cane he rarely used, his knuckles white against the polished wood. Though his age was beginning to show, there was nothing frail about the man who once brokered trade between Spanish generals and Filipino merchants. A man who commanded respect, and whose daughter—his pride—had now become his greatest concern.
"She left before dawn," said Tanya, the younger maid, her eyes lowered. "She didn't say where she was going."
"That was two days ago," Don Vicente said sharply. "And no word since?"
The head butler stepped forward. "None, Don Vicente. But the stable boy said she borrowed one of the faster horses. Took the south trail toward Santa Barbara."
Murmurs rippled among the gathered staff.
"That trail is rebel country," one of the men muttered.
Don Vicente's face tightened. "Silence."
He turned to his steward. "Gather three riders. Trusted men. Not those fools with loose mouths in the plaza. Find my daughter. Bring her back—discreetly.No confrontation. If she is with rebels, I want her out before she becomes their symbol."
"Sir," the steward said cautiously, "if she is with them willingly—"
"Then she will come back under escort," he said coldly. "And if she resists, you remind her that her name—our name—is not a banner to be trampled beneath revolution."
Upstairs, Patrocinio's younger cousin Ana sat beside a half-written letter, pen trembling in her hand. She'd seen the bundle of cloth—the colors of the revolution folded tight and hidden away. She had heard whispers from the old gardener about checkpoints, Spanish soldiers, and the Gamboa girl who dared to play courier.
She considered writing a warning. But to whom?
Outside, the winds shifted.
And across the hills, the riders departed, their orders sealed by the weight of a father's pride—and fear.
-----
Meanwhile, miles away, Patrocinio and Andres found themselves slowing at a secluded hut nestled between towering bamboo trees and overgrown anahaw. The trail had grown narrow, and the sun dipped low behind storm-gray clouds. It was here they were told to meet a contact—someone from General Delgado's camp.
Andres eyed the path warily, hand instinctively resting near the blade tucked beneath his borrowed coat. Patrocinio, still holding the reins with practiced calm, surveyed the clearing with a soldier's stillness.
From the shadows emerged a man in a worn camisa de chino, eyes sharp and steps light. He bore no weapons visibly, but there was no mistaking the readiness in his stance.
"You're late," he said.
"Road was unfriendly," Patrocinio replied. "Checkpoints, mud, and a husband with too many opinions."
Andres looked at her with mock offense, then turned to the man. "You're with Delgado?"
The man nodded. "Coronel Javier Peña. I was told to expect a woman with fire in her tongue and a flag under her skirt." He gave Patrocinio a small, respectful bow.
She didn't smile. "We're running out of time."
Javier motioned them toward the hut. "We rest here until nightfall. Then I'll guide you through the final stretch. There's another checkpoint near the river, heavily patrolled. But we've arranged a way around it."
"And the flag?" Andres asked.
Javier's voice dropped. "General Delgado wants it raised at the proclamation ceremony. He believes its presence will unite the factions. But more than that—he believes in symbols. And you, Señorita Gamboa, have become one."
Patrocinio looked away, jaw tight.
Behind them, the wind carried distant hoofbeats—riders moving quickly.
Too quickly.
And the night ahead promised more than just passage—it promised consequences.
---
They rode again at dusk, the trail growing darker beneath the canopy of trees. Javier led with silent confidence, while Andres and Patrocinio followed close behind. They had barely spoken since the hut—each lost in their own thoughts.
From the clearing, they followed Javier deeper into the trail until a new figure stepped forward. Dressed in a Spanish military coat, yet bearing no formal insignia, his presence struck an uneasy chord.
"This is Captain Esteban Ruiz," Javier introduced. "He's the one who'll get us through the next checkpoint."
Esteban nodded, but it was Andres who narrowed his eyes, his instincts bristling.
"You didn't say we'd be trusting a Spanishofficer," Andres eyed the officer.
Esteban replied with calm indifference, "I may wear their uniform, but I bleed the same as you."
"You expect us to believe that?"
Patrocinio stepped between them. "We don't have time for this."
Andres didn't budge. "He's a risk."
"So are you," she shot back.
Their eyes locked, tension thickening the space between them. Patrocinio's voice cooled. "You said you're from a different time. I'm supposed to trust that without question, and yet you question him?"
Andres drew back slightly but held her gaze. "I didn't say trust me. I said trust your instincts. Something about him—about this—is off."
Patrocinio looked toward Esteban, then at the path beyond. "Then I'll trust my instincts now. And they're telling me this is our only way forward."
Javier broke the silence. "If we hesitate, we lose the window. Esteban's route is the only one not watched by Spanish reinforcements or your father's riders."
Andres lowered his voice. "Just keep your eyes open, Patrocinio."
She said nothing.
And with that, the four disappeared into the fog, each step toward freedom echoing with the quiet threat of betrayal.
---
They made a short stop before reaching the garrison. As Javier tended to the horses and Patrocinio took a few quiet moments by a stream, Andres took the opportunity to pull Esteban aside.
"You and I need to talk," Andres said, voice low.
Esteban didn't flinch. "You don't trust me. I get it."
"I don't need to trust you," Andres replied. "I just need to know you won't get us killed."
"You think I'd risk my neck helping rebels if I were loyal to Spain?"
Andres crossed his arms. "You blend too well. You act like a man who's worn both masks too long."
Esteban's expression sobered. "You think I'm comfortable wearing this uniform? Watching their cruelty, reporting from inside walls built to crush our people?"
"I think comfort has nothing to do with it. You're good at playing both sides."
"I'm good at surviving," Esteban said. "And if you really are who you say you are, you should understand that better than anyone."
Andres stepped closer, voice tighter. "I'm not here to play games. I don't know your past, and I won't pretend to guess it. But if you endanger her—"
Esteban's eyes darkened. "You think she's not already in danger just by breathing? By carrying what she does? I'm here because I believe this flag might change everything. Because she—" he paused, jaw clenching, "—she reminds me of the mother I never got to fight for."
They stood in tense silence for a long moment.
Finally, Esteban stepped back. "You don't have to like me, Lieutenant. But you'd better keep your head in the game. Because if either of us fails her—she won't be the only one to pay."
Andres nodded once. "Then let's get it done."
They returned to the trail where the others waited—faces unreadable, the fog rolling in.
The checkpoint was still ahead, and the night was only beginning to test them.