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 Marina, 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.
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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.