The morning was grey and humid as Elijah and Isa set out from the camp at San Ildefonso. A patrol of seven accompanied them—veterans mostly, men who had fought in the hills of Cavite and the trenches of Tarlac. They carried their weapons quietly, alert to the tension that had settled over the army like smoke.
Elijah led on horseback, scanning the narrow jungle path ahead. Isa rode just behind him, her eyes on the treeline, finger tapping against the safety latch of her rifle. None of them spoke. Each man understood the weight of the mission—not just to scout the American lines, but to prove Elijah's loyalty, usefulness, and survival.
By midday, they reached the outer edge of Candaba Swamp. The wetlands stretched in every direction, filled with the chatter of birds and the croak of frogs. But beneath the natural sounds, something felt off.
A stillness.
Elijah raised a fist. The column halted.
"I don't like this," Isa muttered, already dismounting.
Elijah scanned the horizon. "Neither do I. Pair up. Move through the trees. Eyes open."
They dismounted and proceeded on foot. Elijah moved with Isa and two others through a thicket of tall cogon grass.
And then—the shot rang out.
A scream followed. One of the scouts fell, chest torn open.
"Ambush!" someone shouted.
Gunfire exploded from the trees.
Elijah ducked, pulled Isa to the ground. Bullets tore through the underbrush.
"Circle around the left!" he barked to the nearest men. "Push them back!"
He caught a glimpse of their attackers—Filipinos. Uniforms mismatched, weapons American.
Isa gritted her teeth. "They're not American soldiers."
Elijah's face darkened. "No. They're collaborators."
The Battle in the Swamp
The firefight dragged on for twenty minutes. Elijah directed his men from behind a fallen tree, flanking the attackers with swift maneuvers. The gunmen were trained but lacked discipline.
One by one, they fell. Two surrendered. One tried to flee but was cut down by Isa with a single, cold shot.
When the smoke cleared, Elijah stood over one of the wounded.
"Who sent you?" he demanded.
The man coughed blood, eyes unfocused. "Orders… from the north… not Americans… revolutionaries… your own…."
He died before he could say more.
Elijah stood slowly. Isa was beside him, silent.
He turned to the others. "Bury the dead. Burn the bodies of the traitors. And keep your eyes open. We're not safe even among our own."
Malolos
The town was still beautiful despite the war—white stone churches, bamboo homes, and wide avenues lined with mango trees. But it was crawling with Americans. Marines patrolled openly, speaking in harsh English, rifles at the ready.
Elijah watched from a hill just beyond the town limits with his spyglass. Isa sat beside him, sketching troop positions on parchment.
"Two camps," she said. "One on the old train station, another near the plaza. A third... near the cathedral ruins. That's too much for a scouting party."
"They're digging in," Elijah said. "Malolos is their next staging ground."
He noticed something else—a group of prisoners, lined up near the train tracks.
Revolutionaries. Dozens of them. Shackled. One of them looked up.
Elijah's breath caught.
He knew that face.
"General San Miguel," he said aloud. "They caught him. Damn it."
Isa lowered her spyglass. "We can't save them. Not with this few."
"No," Elijah said. "Not now. But we can learn everything we need. When Luna sees this…"
He turned to her. "We'll break them out. But not yet. We'll need a plan, reinforcements, explosives, disguises. Everything."
Isa gave a wry smile. "You had me at explosives."
The Return to San Ildefonso
They arrived four days later, dirty, exhausted, but alive. Elijah carried the sketches, notes, and names of officers he had seen. Luna met them in private.
When Elijah showed him the maps, Luna's expression grew grim. "They're preparing a full occupation."
He tapped the prisoner camp with his finger. "San Miguel was our only link to the resistance in Nueva Ecija."
Elijah nodded. "We'll get him back. But there's more. We were ambushed—by our own. Trained, well-equipped. Somebody high up wants me dead."
Luna's eyes hardened. "I will root them out. One by one."
"But we must be careful," Elijah said. "If we start a purge, morale will shatter. We need proof. Leverage."
Luna considered this. "You'll have it. Just stay alive, Elías. Too many are betting on your failure."
That Night
Isa found Elijah in the training yard, alone, striking a wooden post with a practice sword.
"You were right," he said without turning. "The real war isn't out there. It's in here."
She stepped closer. "Then let's make sure we survive both."
He lowered the sword. She placed her hand gently on his cheek.
"Not yet," he said softly. "But soon."
Isa smiled faintly. "I know. I just wanted to make sure you're still human."
"I'm afraid of what I'll become if I keep pretending I'm not."
She stood beside him, both looking out into the quiet night.
The revolution was splintering. Enemies were within and without. But Elijah had seen the future once, and now he was ready to reshape it—no matter the cost.