Chapter 1: The Ocean Does Not Judge

It was the year 1720 – or rather, it was sailing – and the sun of the Caribbean was beginning to rise over the Atlantic. Its warm light fell on the deck of the Albatross, a dark and sturdy ship that cut through the sea with the weight of its history. Formerly a slave transport, silent and brutal, it now sailed under the black flag, claimed by men without master or law, reformed by fire and blood.

From the top of the main mast, lookout Tomás Griffin gave the signal just before dawn. With barely five feet seven inches, he moved as if he were floating between the yards. The silhouette of a Spanish merchant ship had just appeared on the horizon, and his cry cut through the morning silence like a knife. On deck, the men rushed to their posts like trained beasts. The white sails, deliberately stained with soot at their ends, unfolded in the wind like the wings of a sea bird.

The Albatross was not just any ship on the Caribbean routes. Its fame preceded it like a vessel of fierce justice: it never fired on a ship that flew the white flag, and no captain or first mate was known to contradict that rule. On board, it was said that its captain, Edward Blackridge, preferred respect to fear, and that a surrendered enemy had more value alive than dead. That's why, when the Albatross was seen on the horizon, many lowered their arms before feeling the powder.

This time, the white flag flew quickly. From the deck, the sailors of the Spanish merchant ship raised their hands, surrendered their sails, and retreated to the stern. No shots were fired. No resistance was offered. It seemed that everything was going to be resolved quickly. The order was clear: board without violence, requisition the cargo, maintain control.

The Cartagenero Diego Herrera was one of the first to cross. Born in the New Kingdom of Granada, on American soil, but since childhood, he never felt like he belonged to any place. He jumped over the bow with his axe at his belt, but left it sheathed. His gaze was firm, but not hostile. He descended to the hold accompanied by a few comrades. The air there smelled of salt, damp wood, and fermented fruit. He walked among barrels and sacks, attentive. And then he heard it. A first cannon shot, dry and close. Then screams. Splinters, fire, confusion. The sound came from outside. The world had ignited again without warning. The surrender had been a trap.

It was just at that moment, in the midst of the darkness of that treacherous enclosure, surrounded by crates, when a body collided with him from the side, knocking him down with controlled violence. The wood hit his back. A blade grazed his throat. He felt the weight of another man on top of him, the hot breath, the contained muscular tension. He didn't move. He didn't raise his hands. The assailant remained there, pressing barely, without finishing the gesture. For a long moment, neither the cries of his comrades nor the shrapnel seemed to exist.

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