The wind howled through the rigging of the Spanish carrack, La Estrella del Mar, as it rounded the headland. The sails, taut with the force of the breeze, strained as if the ship itself hesitated before entering the bay. Captain Diego de Estrada stood at the helm, his weathered hands gripping the railing, eyes fixed on the land ahead. It was an unmarked place on the maps, a stretch of coastline that had eluded prior expeditions, hidden behind mist and jagged outcroppings of black rock. Yet now, as the morning sun burned away the shroud of fog, the sight before them was one of striking beauty—a crescent-shaped bay lined with thick jungle, where the trees leaned as if whispering to the sea.

The bay’s waters were calm, a stark contrast to the uneasy murmurs of the crew. There were no signs of human habitation along the shore, no trails of smoke curling from village hearths, no canoes darting over the surface. Only nature’s silence, dense and watchful.

“We anchor here,” Estrada commanded, though even he felt a strange weight in the air, as if unseen eyes were upon them.

The landing party rowed toward the beach, oars dipping rhythmically into the water, their movements careful and deliberate. Sand met their boots with a warmth unfamiliar after months at sea, and the thick air carried the scent of orchids, damp earth, and something unplaceable—something old.

Francisco Navarro, the expedition’s scribe, took in the sight with a mix of wonder and trepidation. He noted the dark stones protruding from the jungle’s edge, arranged in a way that suggested intent, not chance. Carvings marked their surfaces, worn by time but unmistakable in their significance.

“Captain,” he murmured, “this land has its own history.”

Estrada nodded, his gaze lingering on the treeline. The Spaniards, armed and cautious, moved inland just a few paces, their presence disturbing the harmony of the place. The jungle, thick with shadow and life, seemed to breathe around them. Parrots took flight in bursts of green and red, while something unseen rustled the underbrush beyond their vision.

Then, the wind shifted, carrying an eerie, melodic sound from the hills beyond the bay. A voice? A lament? The men stiffened.

High above, on a rocky perch overlooking the bay, a lone figure stood. Cloaked in dark fabric, her long hair lifted by the wind, she watched the strangers below with an expression unreadable. Her presence was neither welcoming nor fearful—she was simply there, observing as she had for so many years, as she would for many more. Her eyes, ageless and knowing, followed the men as they stepped upon the sacred soil of the bay for the first time.

A deep anger burned within her. The bay was sacred to her people, a place of spirits and power. The intrusion of the Europeans upon its sands was an affront, a threat that could not be ignored.

She did not move. She did not speak. But the land itself, the very air around them, seemed to whisper in response to her silent watch.

The Europeans had arrived. And she would protect the bay.