The first boat scraped against sand.
No one moved. Time hung suspended, filled only with the endless whisper of waves against sand.
Then the sound of oars being slammed down. Boots splashing into shallow water. The soldiers formed their own line, maybe thirty feet away. More boats landed. More bodies in blue uniforms. They outnumbered us. Three to one, at least. Far, far more men than last time.
And the rifles. So many of them. Firearms were almost impossible to come by outside the cities, their ammunition even rarer, yet almost all of these men seemed to possess one.
A man stepped forward from their ranks. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar cutting through his left cheek. He surveyed us with the detached interest of someone taking in scenery.
“Smart move,” he called out. His voice carried across the beach, calm and conversational. “Standing your ground. Shows spirit.”
No one answered.
“Here’s how this works,” he continued. “You give us what we came for, nobody dies. You fight, and we take what we want anyway. Only difference is how many bodies we leave behind.”
Tomás, standing at the front, spat into the sand. “Not a chance. Get back on your boats.”
The scarred man smiled. Not a pleasant expression. “Didn’t think you’d make it easy.”
He raised his hand.
The soldiers surged forward.
Elena screamed—not in fear, but in rage—and charged. The rest of us followed. The lines collided in a crash of metal and flesh and shouting.
A soldier swung at me with a club. I dropped low, drove my sword up toward his gut. The blade brushed against thick leather armor. No good. He brought the club down. I twisted left, sand scraping my face, and slashed with the knife in my other hand.
The blade bit into his forearm. He jerked back with a curse.
Around me, chaos. Mason fired his rifle, the crack splitting the air, and a soldier dropped. Elena’s spear punched through someone’s shoulder. Old Carlos swung his axe like he was felling timber, roaring with every blow.
But there were so many of them.
I drove my sword through the gap in the soldier’s armor. Hot blood sprayed across my hands as he crumpled.
A fist connected with my jaw, stars exploding across my vision. I hit the sand hard, gasping, as boots kicked it into my eyes. I rolled blind, knife slashing wildly. The blade caught something—fabric, skin, I couldn’t tell. Someone screamed.
I blinked furiously, clearing the grit. A shadow loomed over me. I brought the sword up just as a baton crashed down. Metal shrieked against metal. My arms shook from the force.
Another gunshot. Closer this time.
Just to my right, I caught Mason going down, clutching his leg. Blood pooled dark beneath him, soaking into sand that reeked of gunpowder and death. The waves kept their steady rhythm, indifferent to the slaughter.
“No!” The word ripped from my throat.
I kicked up, catching my attacker in the knee. He buckled. I rolled to my feet and drove the knife into his neck.
“Fall back!” someone screamed. “Fall back!”
But there was nowhere to go. The soldiers pressed forward, driving us up the beach toward our homes. I stumbled over a body—one of ours or theirs, I didn’t know. My eyes couldn’t help but frantically scan for Antonio’s tall frame, Tobias’s red hair, to no avail.
A hand grabbed my shoulder, and I spun, blade raised.
Tomás Verus. The governor’s face was split open above his eye, blood streaming down his cheek.
“They’re taking prisoners,” he gasped. “Get to—”
Two soldiers slammed into him from behind. He crashed forward, taking me down with him. My sword flew from my grip, disappearing into the sand. I scrambled for it, fingers clawing through wet grit.
