We have marched across half a continent, it seems, and still the land does not end. Forests thick as fortresses, rivers that twist and flood — and still, De Soto drives us forward.
It has been over a year since we left La Florida. No gold. No empires. Only people who know these lands better than we ever will.
De Soto is no ordinary captain. He earned his fortune in the Indies and rode with Pizarro in Peru, where the Inca fell and gold flowed like water. He believes this land holds the same — though more and more of us have begun to wonder if he’s right.
Now we near the lands of a great chief named Tuskaloosa. His messengers met us two days ago — tall men in fine cloaks, proud and quiet. They bring no tribute, only a message: we are being watched.
I have seen their warriors waiting in the tree line — still as stone, painted for war.
I do not know what lies ahead for us down the road. But I am no longer sure it will bend to our will.
To Be Continued…
