Corazon Valiente -

The rain stopped. The clouds broke open, and a single beam of gold light touched the water.

When they emerged, the harbor was a gray smear in the pre-dawn light. The ship— La Libertad —was a dark silhouette against the silver water. The captain, a one-eyed man named Vargas who owed Graciela a life-debt, gave a sharp nod.

The old woman, whose name was Graciela, looked up with eyes the color of smoke. “And?” Corazon Valiente

“Hey!” one of the guards shouted, pointing.

The sound of boots splashing through the square sent her heart into her throat. Two guards, torches hissing in the downpour, their shadows stretching like long, accusing fingers. They were looking for her. The letters detailed a conspiracy between the crown and the slavers of the eastern ports—a betrayal of the very people the king had sworn to protect. If she was caught, she would not see a trial. She would see the bottom of the river. The rain stopped

For a moment, the old Ana would have run. The old Ana would have hidden in a cellar, burned the letters, and spent the rest of her life whispering apologies to the ghosts of those she failed to save.

“They are coming,” Ana whispered.

Ana turned to Graciela. “They will come for you.”