Juan Castillo Fabronas had never been a man of stillness. Even as a boy, he was a creature of movement, darting through the narrow streets of Seville, dancing when the musicians played in the town square, running from the butcher whose apples he had stolen. His mother, Isabel Castillas, often prayed that he would grow into a respectable man, a man like his father, John Fabronas, a soldier of Spain with unwavering duty and discipline. But Juan was neither unwavering nor disciplined.

  His youth was a storm of laughter, drunken nights, and whispered confessions in the alleyways of his hometown. He danced with whoever would take his hand, drank with whomever would raise a cup, and gambled with any fool willing to lose a coin. Life was to be tasted, savored, taken in great, reckless gulps. Responsibility was a chain he refused to wear. His charm was a currency of its own, buying him favor with friends, merchants, and lovers alike. Pride was his closest companion, and risk was the only god he feared.

  But in Spain, duty came before passion. At seventeen, Juan's world shifted. His father, a man of firm hands and a colder heart, sat him down and told him he was to be wed to Maria Sesto, the daughter of a nobleman whose fortune had been dwindling. The marriage was not about love, it was about preserving a legacy, merging houses, securing land. Juan had laughed at first, thinking it a cruel joke. But there was no humor in his father's steel gaze, nor in his mother's tired silence.

  "Maria is a good woman," Isabel had said softly, resting a hand on her son's. "You will learn to love her."

  He hadn't.

  Maria was kind, patient, and far too gentle for a man like Juan. She spoke of duty, of responsibility, of the home they would build together. Juan listened but did not hear. He stayed out late, returning home only when the stars had begun to fade, reeking of wine and bad decisions. He could charm the devil himself, but he could not bring himself to love a woman who represented everything he tried to run from.

  But the child, the child changed everything.

  He was there when his son was born, his hands trembling as he held the small, wrinkled thing in his arms. He had no name for the boy. Perhaps because he refused to accept the weight of what the child meant, that he, Juan Castillo Fabronas, was now a father. A man who had never taken life seriously was now responsible for another.

  Fear settled in his bones.

  For a time, he tried. He stayed home, worked his father's lands, kissed Maria's forehead each morning. But he was not a man made for stillness. He had hoped to live out his days as he always had, drifting from tavern to tavern, throwing dice, stealing kisses. But life was not kind to men like him. Every night, when Maria looked at him with quiet expectation, he felt the walls of his world close in.

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  When the Spanish Crown needed more soldiers to maintain control over Orovia, they turned to conscription. Juan had no say in the matter. His name was called, and his father did nothing to stop it. Perhaps John Fabronas thought it would make a man out of his wayward son. Perhaps he believed it was the price of their family name, their land, their honor. Or perhaps, Juan sometimes thought bitterly, his father simply wanted him gone.

  The night before he left, he stood in the doorway of Maria's house, looking at the life he was leaving behind. She did not beg him to stay, nor did she cry. She simply looked at him and whispered, "Come back to us."

  But Juan did not know if he ever would.

  He was given a musket, a uniform, and a promise of glory. He wanted none of them.

  Orovia was not the dream they had painted. It was a brutal, ruthless place, where men died as quickly as they set foot on its golden shores. There was gold yes, but it was buried beneath blood and suffering. The Spanish enslaved the natives, forcing them to mine, breaking them under the weight of their greed. And Juan. Juan, who had been forced into this war, found himself a cog in the machine of conquest.

  He fought. He plundered. He drank himself to sleep on stolen wine and danced with women who did not know his name. He told himself it was just another game, just another gamble. But war was not a thing one could laugh away. It was a churning machine that swallowed men whole, spitting out only ghosts and regret. Every night, he heard the screams of those who labored beneath Spanish whips. Every day, he saw men executed for resisting. And yet, he remained. Because to run was to die, and Juan had no intention of dying for Spain.

  He rose in the ranks, not through skill, but through luck and charisma. Juan had always been good at talking his way into fortune. He was a soldier, but not a great one. He survived, not because he was strong, but because he was quick, quick to run, quick to bargain, quick to slip through the cracks when death came knocking.

  But he was still Juan Castillo Fabronas. Still reckless. Still a gambler. Still a man who lived by chance, by risk, by the roll of the dice. A fool who thought he could cheat fate.

  He had his vices. The wine, the gambling, the dancing, each was a sanctuary, a moment of reprieve from the world's weight. Nights were spent in revelry, fleeting and hollow, the taste of cheap rum on his tongue, the scent of perfume lingering on his skin. Yet every morning, as the sun bled over the horizon, reality returned like an unwelcome guest. There was no escape from duty, only distractions.

  Chaotic good, some might say. A man who never intended harm but always found himself at the edge of disaster. An quick-witted and reckless, pushing boundaries just to see what lay beyond them. A forever running, forever craving, forever unsatisfied.

  Then came the rebellion. The natives and the enslaved Africans rose against their Spanish oppressors, forming a new faction. Orovia burned. Juan, ever the reluctant soldier, found himself marching into battle once more.

  The night before the march, he wandered the Spanish encampment, watching men prepare for war. Some prayed, clutching rosaries between bloodied fingers. Others drank in silence, steeling themselves for the slaughter to come. Juan did neither. He sat by the fire, tossing a coin ??etween his fingers, staring into the flames. Heads, he lived. Tails, he died.

  The coin landed on its edge.

  Fate had other plans.

  Juan Castillo Fabronas would soon learn that not every gamble could be won.

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