It was their first real day in this new land. Miguel O’Hara, not Spanish, but captain of the expedition, led a pack of explorers cautiously forward. Ahead, a group of Indigenous elders emerged, their faces wary, their gestures slow and deliberate.

“We,” Miguel said, sweeping his hand toward the group, “are exploring.” His voice snapped sharper than he intended. One of the younger explorers opened his mouth: “Captain—” but Miguel’s glare froze him mid-word.

Hours seemed to stretch as the two groups struggled to communicate. Miguel’s irritation grew with every misunderstood gesture, every frustrated attempt at explanation. The land felt alive, resistant, and the people before him were equally unyielding.

A brief flicker of eye contact caught his attention—a silent, assessing glance from one of the elders. Miguel blinked, then forced himself back to the task. He let out an impatient huff, and the clearing went quiet. Tension hung thick in the air, and the explorers shifted nervously. Miguel squared his shoulders. They were here to explore—but not to conquer. Not yet.