They drank late into the night, talking about everything — childhood, family, regrets, and dreams. Their voices mingled with the sounds of Kingston's taverns until midnight.

When morning came, Francisco woke with a pounding head and a heavy sense of dread. He turned over — and froze. Beside him, Elizabeth was sleeping soundly.

His blood ran cold. "W–what happened last night?" he whispered to himself. "I remember drinking and then…" He went silent, panic crawling up his throat.

Elizabeth stirred, catching sight of his horrified face. Amusement flashed in her eyes. She stretched lazily and said with a teasing smile, "Oh, Francisco… you were quite good last night."

He turned ghostly pale. "We—we did something?"

Elizabeth put on a pitiful expression, barely holding back laughter. "What? Are you planning to escape responsibility already?"

Francisco swallowed hard. "No, I just… didn't expect something like that to happen. I'll tell Catalina and ask her what she thinks."

That earnest answer broke her composure — she burst into laughter. "Alright, alright, no more teasing. Nothing happened. Look at your clothes — they're the same. You passed out drunk, and with the owner's help, I dragged you here. We just slept."

Francisco let out a long sigh of relief. "You shouldn't joke like that. I nearly had a heart attack."

Elizabeth watched his expression soften and, for a moment, felt something unfamiliar — envy. The first thing he thought of wasn't hiding what might have happened, but taking responsibility… and telling Catalina.

She smirked faintly. "Maybe I should've done something with you. If Catalina ever left you, I'd have my chance to steal you away."

Francisco chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. "Sorry… but for now, the only person in my heart is Catalina."

Elizabeth sighed and said, "Let's go. Let's get out of this place quickly. Honestly, after seeing how relaxed things are in Spain's colonies, I don't want to stay here any longer."

Francisco nodded, sharing her unease. "This place feels too tense — too heavy. Hard to bear for anyone with even a spark of empathy for the Black people here."

They paid the bartender, who gave them a silent look of understanding, and left for the docks. The morning air was thick with salt and humidity, the cries of gulls echoing over the port as they boarded their ship.

Once aboard, Francisco went straight to Catalina's cabin and told her everything that had happened. She didn't appear angry, but in the days that followed, she quietly did everything she could to keep Francisco and Elizabeth apart.

A few mornings later, in the captain's cabin, Francisco asked curiously, "How long until we reach Mexico?"

The captain frowned. "Mexico? Why would we go there?"

Francisco blinked, confused. "Weren't we supposed to stop in Mexico first—to stay low and avoid being tracked by Viceroy Ezpeleta's navy?"

The captain chuckled, as did Elizabeth. "That was only if the order to kill you had come from the Crown," she explained. "Now that we know it was just Ezpeleta's doing, we've no need to hide. By now, he should've already received a letter from Spain warning him off."

Francisco groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Right… forgive me. It's my first time traveling outside New Granada."

The captain waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry. Your father had even wilder ideas when he first sailed with your grandfather. I remember—"

Boom. A thunderous crash cut him off as the ship lurched violently. The air turned thick and the sea roared to life. Francisco nearly lost his footing as a massive wave struck the hull.

"What happened?" he shouted, excitement and fear mixing in his voice. "Are we under attack?"

Ramiro rushed to the window, his face draining of color. "Something far worse," he muttered. "Nature."

The first mate burst into the cabin, soaked with spray. "Captain! We're sailing straight into a gale—possibly a squall. We need to strike the topmasts!"

Ramiro cursed under his breath. "Damn it. What's the nearest port?"

"São Miguel, in the Azores—Portuguese waters," the mate replied quickly.

Ramiro nodded sharply. "Prepare to change course. We'll head for Portugal for repairs. How are the men holding up?"

"The first mate reported, 'We lost two brave men to the last wave, Captain. The rest are already securing the ropes.'

Ramiro's jaw tightened, but he nodded grimly.

Francisco suddenly spoke up, his tone solemn. 'I need to be with Catalina. She's been getting better, but this storm will surely make her worse. I just hope we can get through this… and that God protects us.'

He pushed open the cabin door and stepped out. The sky was black and heavy, thunder rolling across the sea like cannon fire. Lightning flashed in the distance, briefly illuminating the churning waves that slammed against the ship's hull. The stairway down to the cabins wasn't far, yet with the ship pitching violently beneath him, it felt like miles.

Behind him, shouts cut through the wind—the first mate barking orders, sailors scrambling to obey. Ramiro took the wheel himself, his hands steady on the wet wood, his presence a silent effort to keep his men's courage intact.

Francisco was just a few steps from the stairs when another massive wave crashed into the ship. The impact threw him sideways into the wall. His head struck the wood hard; pain exploded through his skull. As his vision blurred, he heard a woman's voice calling his name—then darkness swallowed him.

He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. When he finally stirred, everything felt heavy. The cabin creaked softly around him. Catalina lay beside him, her hand gently holding his. Feeling his movement, she woke with a start.

'Francisco—are you all right? How do you feel?' she asked, her voice trembling with relief.

From the sofa came a muffled, sleepy groan. 'Can you two keep it down? I'm trying to sleep,' muttered Elizabeth, eyes still closed.

Francisco turned his head toward her, startled but quickly understanding. He gave a faint smile. 'I have a lot of questions,' he said quietly to Catalina, 'but first… could I have some water?' His voice was hoarse, almost reverent. He already suspected who had saved him—and didn't want to disturb her rest.

Catalina nodded and hurried out. On deck, the sunlight streamed faintly through the battered planks above. The sea had calmed. Francisco stared toward the cracks of light, realizing the storm had passed. He touched his head and hissed softly at the pain—bandages wrapped neatly around his brow.

Catalina soon returned with a tin mug of water. As she sat beside him, she carefully changed the damp bandage. Francisco exhaled slowly, then asked, 'Do you know what exactly happened—and how long I've been out?'"

Catalina nodded, her eyes red and swollen, likely from crying through the night."After you lost consciousness, the waves kept throwing your body around," she said softly. "You were lucky—Elizabeth had gone out too, trying to see if she could help somehow. When she saw you out there, she panicked. You weren't even using a rope."

She gave him a small punch on the arm.

Francisco winced. "Ouch…"

"You deserved it," she muttered, looking away. "After she reached you, she dragged you below—here, to my cabin. We bandaged your head as best we could. We were terrified, honestly. The doctor was upstairs in the captain's office, helping the marines. There were too many wounded."

Francisco frowned. "That bad?"

Catalina nodded gravely. "More or less. Almost ten injured… and four dead."

Francisco drew in a sharp breath. "That's… a lot."

"Yes," she whispered. "The captain said he'd come check on you later—once he's tended to the rest."

Francisco nodded slowly. His expression was calm, but inside, a quiet fear lingered. He understood now how fragile the human body could be—how close he'd come to dying, simply for walking on deck in the middle of a storm. The thought left him silent for a long while, listening to the creaking of the ship and the distant murmur of the sea.

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