Íñigo Arriola The Battle of Ormaiztegi

A few words before you begin

Context, factions and key terms

This novel is set during the First Carlist War (1833–1840), a Spanish civil war between two irreconcilable visions of the country. The following notes will help you follow the story with ease.

The two sides

The camp of pretender Don Carlos is referred to interchangeably as Carlist or Royalist. His soldiers are simply «the Carlists».

The opposing camp, defending Queen Isabel II and her mother the regent María Cristina, is known by three names, depending on who is speaking: Liberals (by ideology), Isabellines (after the queen) or Cristinos (after the regent). All three appear in the novel — they mean exactly the same thing.

Key terms

• La Española The mountain where the entire story takes place — also known historically as the action of La Española. It rises above Mutiloa and Ormaiztegi. It is the same mountain you will see, walk beneath, or cross during your stay at Troi Landetxea.
• Caserío / Baserri Traditional Basque farmhouse — a stone building with its own land, home to a single family across generations. In this novel, caseríos are where conspiracies were whispered, gunpowder hidden and the wounded brought back to survive.
• Fueros Ancient laws and self-governing privileges of the Basque Country. For many, this war was not really about who sat on the throne — it was about defending a way of life that liberal reforms from Madrid threatened to dismantle.
• Goierri «High land» in Basque. The comarca in the interior of Gipuzkoa where the novel is set — and where you are. Mutiloa and Ormaiztegi are part of it. This territory was deeply Carlist: the war here was not fought by outsiders, but by neighbours.
• Barrenero A miner specialised in drilling rock and laying explosive charges. Íñigo's trade before the war — which is why he reads terrain like no one else, and why the mountain is not just a battlefield to him, but something almost familiar.
• Mosquete The standard firearm of the period — a muzzle-loading musket that had to be reloaded after every single shot, taking thirty seconds or more. It explains why the fighting so quickly became hand-to-hand, and why discipline and terrain mattered more than firepower.
• Zumalacárregui Carlist general and the most celebrated military figure of the war. Born in Ormaiztegi — the village below La Española — he knew every path, every ridge, every shadow of these mountains. He died of a wound in June 1835, just months after this battle. Pronunciation: Thu-ma-la-CA-rre-gui.

The kingdom, the law and the spark that lit a war

They said that the history of a country could be bent by a paper signed in an office, by a royal seal stamped at just the right moment. Sometimes that was true. In 1830, in the salons of the Royal Palace in Madrid, Ferdinand VII took up his pen and signed the Pragmatic Sanction — that document which abolished the old Salic Law and opened the throne to a woman. He did it thinking of his wife, María Cristina, and of the child she was expecting: a daughter. A girl named Isabel.

With that signature, the king not only unleashed a succession dispute; he tore open a rift that cut through the very flesh of the country. Where he saw dynastic continuity, others — and not few — saw a betrayal of the laws of old. For them, the throne had a rightful owner: Don Carlos María Isidro, the king's brother, a man of the rosary, of daily Mass and strict absolutism. A king «as God intended», they said in the farmhouses, in the mountains and in the old chartered provinces.

When Ferdinand died in September 1833, leaving Isabel barely three years old, the Crown fell to her mother, who became regent. And almost at once, Carlos raised his own standard, claiming what he considered his by natural right. There was no shortage of arms ready to follow him: peasants, rural priests, village hidalgos, impoverished nobles, artisans… All of them weary of reforms, of taxes, of new ideas brought from cities that felt distant. The mountains of the north, the Basque and Navarrese valleys, the villages of Cantabria and La Rioja filled with whispers, oaths and gunpowder hidden beneath the bread.

Spain, once again, was split in two.

Those who looked to the future — liberals, merchants, young officers — and those who wanted to preserve what had always been theirs: fueros, customs, religion, tradition. The countryside against the city. The past against what was yet to come. Two visions of one and the same homeland, irreconcilable and at war.

The year 1834 advanced like a lit fuse. The liberal decrees, the new Royal Statute, the military reorganisation… all of it fed the resentment in the north, where suspicion travelled faster than the post from Madrid. There was plotting in farmhouses, secret recruiting, loyalty sworn to the Carlist pretender by candlelight. The country seemed calm on paper; in the mountains, the war was already walking on leather boots.

And so came 1835.

A year that did not begin with hope, but with cold, mud and gunpowder. In the lands of Gipuzkoa, among the forests surrounding Ormaiztegi, something had been stirring for weeks. Troops coming and going, bands slipping through the shadows, rumours of an imminent clash.

And then it happened.

In the first days of the year, on the mountain known as La Española, war ceased to be a veiled threat and became a brutal thunderclap. That skirmish — swift, bloody, unadorned — would set the tone of the conflict in the north.

Because civil wars do not begin with bugles or unfurled flags: they begin with fear, with hunger, and with men who have no other choice but to pick a side.

Here the story begins.

New Year's Eve on Mount La Española

31 December 1834

The 31st of December 1834 hit Gipuzkoa with a cold that sank its teeth like a wild dog. Snow covered the paths between Mutiloa and Ormaiztegi — silent, treacherous — leaving only the muffled sound of boots driving into frozen mud. It was a New Year's Eve without church bells or sweet wine in the farmhouses. A night that smelled of damp firewood, of stored gunpowder, and of a war breathing too close.

At the edge of the forest, beside the old oak the locals called Arlutz-zaharra, a man kept watch over the hillside. His name was Íñigo Arriola, native of Mutiloa, twenty-seven years old, a blaster in the mine before the war tore away the life he might have had. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a black beard and eyes always braced for the next blow. Son of a Carlist blacksmith and a mother who died too young, he had grown up knowing that loyalty was the only thing a man could have without someone taking it away.

That night he carried his musket on his shoulder and an unsettled heart. Not from fear. Íñigo Arriola did not fear the enemy; what frightened him was the certainty that something vast was drawing near — something he might not survive to tell. But he would not admit that, not aloud, not in front of his companions.

He was warming his hands over a small fire — a small flame, so as not to give away their position — when he heard the ground creak behind him.

—You are always awake, Arriola, said a deep voice, with that distinctive accent.

Íñigo smiled without turning.

—And I always hope it will be you, General.

Tomás Zumalacárregui stepped out of the darkness wrapped in his cape. Tall too, but leaner, all lean angles and discipline. His moustache was damp with frost and his eyes had the brightness of men born for war. Under his command the Carlist cause had stopped being a rural uprising and become a real army.

—The reports say the liberals are on the move, murmured Zumalacárregui, gazing at the dark outline of Mount La Española. Espartero and Carratalá have received reinforcements from Vitoria. Iriarte has also left Tolosa. They are preparing.

Íñigo nodded.
—To come here?

Zumalacárregui did not answer. The silence was enough.

In the camp, the fires were few and small. The men waited in clusters, rubbing their hands, swapping stories or praying in low voices. There were veterans from Navarre, young men from Bizkaia who barely knew how to hold a rifle, priests who wore cassocks with cartridge belts. And all of them obeyed Zumalacárregui as if he were a shepherd leading his flock toward an inevitable sacrifice.

Íñigo, however, had something else on his mind. Inside his greatcoat he kept a folded letter, written in clumsy but clean strokes. He had received it two weeks earlier. It came from Ane Garmendia, the girl he had grown up with in Mutiloa, the green-eyed girl who had once promised to wait for him, whatever happened. In the letter she told him the winter was hard, that snow covered the fields, and that her heart — she wrote it without shame — was always with him.

Íñigo was not a man of words, but that letter kept him alive on the cold nights.
Because the war was long, and love was brief. And he knew he might never see her again.

Near midnight, Zumalacárregui called him again.

—Arriola, tomorrow you will come down with me toward Ormaiztegi. I want men whose nerve holds at the first shot.

—At your command, General.

Zumalacárregui studied him for a long moment.
—You fight well… but not for King Carlos. I can see that.

Íñigo swallowed.
—I fight for my people, for my land… and to stay true to myself.

The general smiled faintly.
—That is dangerous. Those who fight for ideas die sooner; those who fight for love, sooner still.

Íñigo did not reply. There was no need.

In the distance, lost somewhere in the valley, a bugle sounded like an iron lament. The farmhouse dogs barked. It was a warning: the liberal troops were moving on the Beasain road.

Zumalacárregui turned toward the dark line of the horizon.
—The new year will come with blood, he said. Be ready, Arriola. What happens in the next few days will decide the course of the war in Gipuzkoa.

And there, amid the snow and the silence, with Ane's letter against his chest and the frozen musket between his fingers, Íñigo Arriola felt fate brush his shoulder.

He did not know it yet, but Mount La Española would be the stage where he would face not only the enemy, but his own story.
The one he would never live to tell.

Dawn of 1 January 1835

The day that began in silence

The early hours of 1 January 1835 broke open with a strange silence, as if winter itself were holding its breath. The sky over Ormaiztegi dawned leaden, heavy with low clouds dragging a grey, metallic light — the kind that makes you feel the day will be good for no one.

Snow had fallen in the night and now lay in uneven sheets across the meadows, the hillsides and the tracks. The trees wept frost, and every branch seemed a needle ready to snap at the slightest sound.

Íñigo Arriola was awake before the first sliver of light touched the valley. He had barely slept — though none of the men in that camp had fared any better. Nerves hung in the air like thick smoke. Everything smelled of the eve of something irreversible.

Zumalacárregui moved among the men without a sound, wrapped in his black cape. He acknowledged each man with a brief nod, checked the muskets, pressed his boot into the snow to test its firmness. The general spoke little and saw much — and that morning he studied the horizon as if reading a book only he could understand.

—There will be no rest today, he said as he drew near Íñigo. The liberals moved before dawn. Espartero wants to take position at Ormaiztegi before we do.

Íñigo frowned.
—And will he manage it?

Zumalacárregui let out a short, dry laugh.
—Not while I'm still breathing.

In the distance, on the road climbing from Beasain, the Isabelline columns advanced amid the smoke of their own field kitchens. Íñigo could sense — if only by instinct — the discipline of a regular army: muffled drums, curt orders, mounted officers. Among them came the names that would shape the day:

Espartero, the most tenacious of them all.
Carratalá, inflexible and hard as a bayonet.
Iriarte, seasoned and swift, as at home among these passes as if he had been born among them.

The liberals were neither clumsy nor careless. They came prepared, with modern weapons and iron discipline.
But they did not know these mountains.
And in Gipuzkoa, that was almost as decisive as having more men.

In contrast, the Carlist army looked like a strange mosaic: peasants in berets and blankets, Navarrese veterans with steel in their eyes, armed priests, young men who barely knew how to load a rifle. They were not a regular army. They did not need to be. They were something else: a blend of faith, tradition, fury and unbreakable loyalty. And at their head, a general who knew how to turn the terrain into his finest ally.

Zumalacárregui gathered his officers beneath a great yew tree, almost as old as the village itself.

—The enemy will take the riverbank if we are late, he said. They want to control the approaches to Segura to cut off any retreat. We will not allow it. Íñigo Arriola — he added, pointing — will come with me in the advance along the northern flank. He knows the ground, and I need eyes that will not be deceived by the snow.

Iriarte, the liberal, was advancing from Tolosa.
Espartero was climbing from the south.
Carratalá was manoeuvring in support.

All of them hunting for an advantage before the clash. None of them knowing yet that they were walking toward the same point of iron and fate.

As they moved toward Mount La Española, Íñigo felt a brief twinge in his chest. Not fear. Something deeper: the instinctive certainty that this day would mark his life in an irreparable way. He gave a gentle pat to the inner pocket of his greatcoat, where Ane's letter still rested.

The footsteps rang on the frozen snow like drumbeats. The icy air cut through the nostrils like tiny blades.

When they reached the crest of the hill, Zumalacárregui raised his hand.
Silence.
Only the murmur of the wind slipping between the oaks and pines.

—From here on, said the general, we move like shadows.

Íñigo swallowed. He looked at the grey sky.
It was the first dawn of the year, and it looked as though it had been cast from lead.

Far away, almost imperceptible, two detonations rang out.
They were not New Year's greetings.
They were the first muskets opening a path through the morning.

Zumalacárregui narrowed his eyes, like a wolf that has caught the scent of blood.

—It begins, he said quietly. There is no turning back.

And so, with the snow crunching beneath their boots and the valley of Ormaiztegi waking to the approaching thunder, Íñigo Arriola took his first step toward the battle that would decide not only the course of the war — but his own.

The eve of the clash

Men, shadows and premonitions

The 2nd of January dawned without dawning.

The sky hung so low that one could almost touch it with the tip of a rifle. A thick fog covered Mount La Española like a premature shroud, and the air carried that peculiar smell that precedes ill-fated days: a mix of damp, turned earth and something metallic, like blood not yet spilled.

Íñigo Arriola advanced in silence, keeping close to Zumalacárregui. The men walked in single file, driving their boots into the fresh snow, trying not to speak. Not out of discipline — but because something in the air made every word feel dangerous.

They halted halfway up the slope. The general turned to his officers, who gathered around him like shadows. There were Iturralde, Aguirre, Goikoetxea… hard men, seasoned by skirmishes and ambushes, but none of them comfortable with the sticky stillness that enveloped the valley.

—Espartero has split his forces, said Zumalacárregui, his voice low but steady. Carratalá has advanced toward the riverbank. Iriarte is manoeuvring to the east. They want to trap us between two fires when we leave the forest.

A tense murmur ran along the line.

—And what will we do, my General? asked Aguirre.

The general smiled — not openly; a sly, almost fierce expression.
—What we always do: make the mountain our army and force them to fight where they do not want to.

Inside his head, however, there was another battle.

Ane's letter weighed more than the musket. He read it over and over in his mind, like a prayer he did not know the words to. He imagined her small hands writing it, her lips pressed together over the things she could not bring herself to write. It was the only warmth in that frozen world.

Halfway up the ascent, Íñigo felt someone approach from behind. It was Juan Tellería, a boy of barely eighteen, from Bizkaia, only three weeks with the unit. His beret was crusted with frost and his hands shook more from nerves than from the cold.

—Arriola, he whispered. Do you think… today…?

He did not finish the sentence. There was no need.

Íñigo looked at him, steady.
—Today, those who still have something left to do in this life will not die, he said at last.

Tellería swallowed.
—Do you have something left to do?

Íñigo tightened his fist inside his glove, feeling the folded paper against his chest.
—Yes. More than I would like.

The boy nodded and moved away, satisfied with that half-answer.

But Íñigo knew it was not true.
He knew that war understands nothing of unfinished business, nor of love, nor of promises.
War understands only opportunity and gunpowder.

By mid-morning, the fog began to lift slowly. And with it came the first sounds of an approaching army: steps sinking into the snow, distant voices, the clink of iron against iron.

They were not Carlists.

Zumalacárregui raised his hand.
—Everyone still!

The fog tore for a moment and, between the bare trees, figures emerged, darkened against the light. They formed a long, disciplined line, far too straight to be armed peasants.

Íñigo knew before anyone said a word.
—Cristinos, he murmured.

The general narrowed his eyes.
—Iriarte, he said. That dog has moved ahead of us.

The liberals were fanning out in a wide arc, advancing toward the foot of the mountain. They had not spotted the Carlists yet, but it was a matter of minutes.

Zumalacárregui looked at his officers with cold, swift resolve.
—We do not attack today. Today we let them come… and tomorrow we crush them where I choose.

—Silent withdrawal, he ordered. Nobody fires, nobody speaks. We are smoke. We are wind.

The Carlists began to melt into the forest, invisible in the mist. The liberals kept advancing, uneasy, searching for an enemy they could not yet see.

By the time they reached the position the Carlists had held minutes before… they found nothing.

Only blurred tracks in the snow and a fire that had just been put out, still smoking.

Safe in the shelter of the forest, Íñigo breathed deeply. Zumalacárregui glanced at him sidelong.

—Does what is coming frighten you, Arriola?
—No, he answered, without thinking.

The general shook his head slowly.
—It should. What happens tomorrow at La Española will not be a skirmish. It will be a lesson. And lessons, son, are always paid for dearly.

Íñigo set his jaw.
—I am ready.

Zumalacárregui studied him a moment longer, as if he could see right through him.
—The trouble, he said at last, is that sometimes a man is ready for war, but not for his own fate.

And he walked on.

Íñigo stood still for a moment.
He did not know whether the general was speaking of him, of the battle… or of the letter he carried next to his heart.

For the first time in a long while, he felt afraid.
Not afraid of dying.
Afraid of not coming back.

In the distance, from the road coming from Beasain, a cannon fired.

Tomorrow there will be war.

3 January 1835: La Española burns

The morning of 3 January 1835 broke without silence.
The whole valley seemed to breathe heavily, as if bracing for disaster. In Ormaiztegi, dogs barked without cause, farmhouses shut their doors, and from the slopes of Mount La Española the echo of a liberal drum split the air like a repeated threat.

Íñigo Arriola pulled his beret down over his forehead and clenched his teeth to still the trembling of his hands. It was not fear. It was that bitter mixture of clarity and fatalism that every soldier recognises on the day death seems to be staring straight at him.

Around him, Zumalacárregui's men were taking position following an exact, carefully calculated plan. The general had studied the terrain the night before with a surgeon's coldness: three lines of resistance, using the rugged terrain and dense forests of the mountain.

—Today we do not let them climb a single metre, said Zumalacárregui, pointing at the slope with his staff.

Íñigo was in the front line, the most exposed. With him were Tellería, the Elizagarate brothers and a one-eyed sergeant who chewed tobacco as if it were gunpowder.

By mid-morning, the roar of the first cannon shot rang out. A blast that made the earth tremble.

—Here they come, Íñigo whispered.

Espartero and Iriarte advanced with mathematical precision:

• Two columns: one frontal, attacking the main track up to La Española.
• A lateral force, climbing through the forest in an attempt to envelop the Carlists.
• Light artillery at the rear, ready to breach the line.

Carratalá pushed from the riverbank, forcing the Carlists back toward the mountain. The movement had one clear objective: to break Zumalacárregui's defence and divide his forces.

But the Carlist general knew that terrain as if he had shaped it himself. And he was determined to turn every tree and every rock into one more enemy for the liberals.

It was nearly eleven when the first liberal column emerged from the mist. A blue mass, perfectly aligned, climbing the hill with a discipline that inspired dread.

The Carlists held until they had them within range.

—Now! roared Zumalacárregui.

And the mountain erupted.

Concentrated volleys from hidden positions, as if the trees themselves were firing. The leading liberal line broke apart; men rolled back down the hillside, others sought cover, some kept advancing on pure instinct or stubbornness.

Íñigo fired, reloaded, fired again.

Beside him, Tellería trembled but did not retreat. The one-eyed sergeant shouted orders that no one heard, covered in smoke and mud.

But liberal discipline was stubbornly admirable. They reformed their line and kept climbing.

And then came the second movement, the one most dreaded: Iriarte's lateral column began to flank through the forest.

Zumalacárregui saw it before anyone.
—Arriola! With me! he ordered, pointing to the flank.

Íñigo nodded, gathered ten men and plunged down the slope toward the densest part of the wood.

There, among pines creaking under the weight of winter, they met the first Cristinos. It was a different kind of combat: no lines, no clear orders, no room for manoeuvre. Close-quarters fighting, brutal and visceral.

Steel against steel.
Clashing bayonets, rifle butts breaking jawbones, smothered cries.

Íñigo drove a liberal soldier against a trunk and brought him down. Another threw himself on top and they rolled together through the snow, biting into it, staining it with mud and blood.

When he managed to break free, he heard the sound he had not wanted to hear: drums approaching from behind.

—They are surrounding us… he murmured.

He was right. Iriarte had achieved what he sought: he had broken the line and forced the Carlists to fight scattered.

Zumalacárregui, from the high ground, understood that the decisive moment had come.
—Withdraw to the second line! Fast! he ordered.

But between the order and its execution lay an inferno of bullets.

Íñigo gathered Tellería and the few who could still run. They climbed the slope slipping, gasping, pursued by dozens of liberals. Bullets whistled past like furious insects.

—Hold on, Tellería!
—I'm coming, I'm coming—

He never finished the sentence.

A liberal volley, less than thirty metres away, tore through the pines.

Íñigo felt a heavy blow to his side, as if a giant fist had driven straight through him. The air left his lungs. His vision blurred.

He looked down. His jacket was soaked in warm blood. A bullet had entered beneath his lower ribs.

He tried to take a step, but his right leg would not answer. He went down on his knees, the white turning red around him.

—Íñigo! shouted Tellería, running toward him.
—Run… he whispered. Don't stop. Run, for God's sake!

The boy hesitated for a second, but another volley sent him scrambling up the mountain. Íñigo was left alone.

The noise of battle roared around him like a wild sea. Shots, shouts, orders, the distant thunder of the cannons.

The snow was cold.
His blood was warm.

He thought of Ane. Of the letter. Of the future he did not know whether it existed.

He closed his eyes. And the world went dark for a moment.

That was how that January day ended for him.
Not the war, not the story, but the light.

Night falls on La Española

The battle faded as evening came, not because either side had truly given in, but because the mountain could take no more. Smoke swirled in the ravines like a shroud. The trees seemed to have aged centuries in a few hours. And the men — Carlists and liberals alike — moved like weary shadows through pools of red snow.

Zumalacárregui, his face blackened with powder, gave the order to fall back in a low voice, almost sorrowful:
—Enough for today. Withdraw to Segura. We will regroup there.

It was not a complete defeat, but it was not a victory either. It was one of those days that the war leaves lodged like a splinter in the memory of those who survive.

Íñigo Arriola came back to consciousness when no light remained. He did not know how much time had passed since he fell. An hour. Or perhaps five. The cold had kept him alive, but barely. Every breath felt as though his lungs were filled with stones. When he tried to move, a sharp pain tore through his side.

—Damn… he whispered, his voice a thread.

With trembling fingers he pressed the wound. It was wet and sticky; blood had mixed with earth and mud. But he was still alive. That, at least, was something.

—I have to get out of here… he murmured.

The battle still rumbled in the distance like a dying echo. But on the hillside where Íñigo lay there was only the whisper of the wind. And, from time to time, a groan. From other wounded men. From the mountain itself.

A group of Carlists advanced with oil lanterns, searching in the darkness for their own. At their head was Sergeant Odriozola, known for never having lost a man without first trying to bring him back.

—Look carefully, he ordered. There may still be some alive.

The wavering light of a lantern stopped on a dark patch in the snow.

—Here! This one's breathing!

They drew near. It was Íñigo.

—Arriola… Odriozola frowned. I thought we had lost you.
—Not yet, answered Íñigo, with a faint, crooked smile that broke at once into a grimace of pain.
—Don't talk, ordered the sergeant. We are getting you out of here.

They lifted him between two men. Íñigo clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. The movement tore at his insides, but he had no strength to protest.

—Mutiloa is close, said Odriozola. Hold on a little longer.

Íñigo thought of Ane. Just her name. And that was enough to keep breathing.

The descent from the mountain was a slow hell. The men moved by feel. The accumulated snow reached their knees and, beneath it, the mud had turned to a treacherous slick that made every step a gamble. Íñigo drifted in and out of consciousness. At times he heard voices. At times he saw strange lights among the trees. Occasionally he believed he was walking himself, though he knew he was being carried.

—Don't fall asleep, Arriola, said one of the soldiers.
—I'm not… not planning to, he murmured.

But his eyelids were heavy as slabs.

Near midnight they reached the Otegi farmhouse, on the outskirts of Mutiloa. The houses had their shutters closed, but when they heard the footsteps and voices, doors began to open one by one.

—Wounded men! shouted Odriozola.

The bullet had entered cleanly, but had not come out. It was still inside. And with every minute it shifted a little further, seeking a path where it should not go.

—It has to come out, said the old man.
—Then do it, answered Odriozola.
The old man looked at him gravely.
—I don't know if he'll survive.
—Do it anyway.

Íñigo, somewhere between consciousness and darkness, heard the exchange. And understood for the first time that his life might be measured in minutes.

They gave him a strip of leather to bite on. The old man heated an iron rod in the fire until it glowed.

Íñigo closed his eyes. A thought crossed him like lightning: Ane.

And then the pain arrived. White, pure, unbearable.

He screamed. Though he had tried not to, he screamed. The world became a wheel grinding him from within.

Then came the darkness. Deep. Silent. Absolute.

Or so he thought. Because deep down, very deep down, he kept hearing voices. Hands holding him. Hurried orders. Laments.

And his own name.
—Íñigo…
—Hold on…
—Don't go…

When at last the night fell quiet, when the mountain was left behind and the blood stopped flowing like a river, Íñigo Arriola was still alive. But barely.

The bells of Mutiloa rang midnight on the 3rd of January without knowing they had just marked the beginning of the end for many men. And that one of them, lying in a damp hayloft, was fighting death alone.

The war, however, continued outside.
Waiting for dawn to reclaim what it had not yet devoured.

Between straw sheets, promises and ash

4 January 1835

The morning of 4 January 1835 arrived with a pale sun, as if it doubted whether to appear. Íñigo Arriola opened his eyes to a sharp pain, like needles of ash driven into his side. He did not know how much time had passed, how long his unconsciousness had lasted. His eyelids were heavy, but the world around him existed: the low ceiling of a farmhouse, the smell of grease and medicinal herbs… and above all, the faint sound of nearby footsteps.

He raised a trembling hand. His fingers closed around something: Ane's letter, still folded, still dirty, still warm. Fragile, like his pulse. He pressed it to his chest, certain it was his anchor to life.

Then the door opened a crack. A figure appeared, hesitant. And their eyes met: his, wide with pain and relief; hers, full of fear, hope and tears.

—Íñigo… she said, barely a whisper. It's you…

He did not answer with words. His mouth was dry, his throat raw with fever. But he let the letter fall and stretched his hand toward her. Their fingers met in a trembling that no words could do justice to.

Ane ran to him, kneeling, taking his hand between hers. She did not cry. Not at first. Perhaps she had no tears. Perhaps she had left them somewhere on the mountain, beside the men who did not come back. She only breathed hard, like someone washing away a stifled cry with air.

—You said you would come back, he whispered.
—And here I am, she answered, holding his hand. I wasn't going to let you die alone.

Minutes later, a soft knock at the door. Zumalacárregui entered with a firm step. His eyes swept over Íñigo's body, then came to rest on the woman at the bedside.

—Good morning, he said, his voice grave. Good to see him breathing.

The general drew close and rested his hand on his soldier's shoulder.
—I expected no less, he murmured. You are one of the tough ones.

—The battle… is over, he continued. And not too badly for either side.

—Those who counted the bodies found more than five hundred dead on the mountain, he said, his voice heavy. Between both sides. The forest was strewn with corpses.

The number hung in the room like a distant shot.

—We fell back toward Segura, he continued. The liberals gathered what they could and took their dead. We did the same with ours, those who could still be carried. Many were left behind.

Íñigo clenched his teeth. He thought of Tellería. Of the Elizagarate brothers. He thought of every face he had watched roll down through the snow.

Zumalacárregui lowered his voice.
—The war has been won by neither side today… but you… have won one more day. One that few deserve.

He turned, drawing his cape around him, and as he left, his shadow brushed Ane's hand. He said nothing more. It was enough.

When night came, they closed the door gently. They placed Ane's letter on the wooden bedside table — creased, dirty, stained. Beside it, a bowl of warm water and a dry cloth. The fire swayed in the hearth, drawing shadows on the beams.

She curled up beside the bed, beneath a worn blanket. He rested his head on her chest. Together they listened to the steady beat of a heart, and let it bring the world back down.

Outside, the war still breathed.
But for one moment, in that farmhouse in Mutiloa, death had lost its hold.

And in its place, one word took root: hope.