The morning light streamed through the windows of Carlos's office, illuminating the swirl of dust particles dancing in the hot, heavy air. In his hands, the weekly copy of the Jabuticaba Newspaper emitted the characteristic odor of charcoal ink and rough paper. His eyes skimmed the news until they landed, once again, on the official name of the city of the republic: "Mocambo of the Tatu."

  A slight discomfort, familiar for weeks, tightened his chest.

  Tatu, the thought surfaced, acid and clear. What an awful name. It sounds like a small, lowly thing that hides. And we are no longer that. His eyes scanned the text below, which narrated more arrivals of families from the interior, drawn by job advertisements and freed thanks to Tassi's discoveries with the grass gem. "Thanks to the newspaper's propaganda and Tassi's discoveries... the flow doesn't stop. People of all colors, leaving the sugar mills, the farms, the slave quarters. The population is already nearing thirty thousand."

  He paused mentally, comparing. "That far surpasses many colonial cities. Ouro Branco has twenty-five thousand, and our agents say thousands of them are just waiting for a chance to come here. We are becoming a city, not a refuge."

  His finger tapped the newspaper on that name that bothered him. "But it's not just the name that's outdated. We need symbols. An identity. That simple green flag we hoist... is just a piece of cloth. We need something that unites everyone. Whites, Blacks, indigenous, mixed-race... all who are building this with us. We need to create patriotism. A real sense of belonging, that this place is ours, all of ours, not just former slaves. We need something that unites everyone."

  A long, heavy sigh escaped his lips. He set the newspaper aside, the paper making a dry sound on the desk. Instead, his hand went to the top drawer, where he kept the most sensitive correspondence. The paper he took from there was different—thinner, linen, with a broken wax seal. The letter from the Popess.

  Holding it, a different, more complex weight took hold of him. "She really chose our side. Risked everything. And I'm still processing Francisco's secret..." The image of the reserved man, revealing his violent origin, surfaced in his mind. "I've already asked his tribe, through him, to try to invoke a book on advanced chemistry. It's an area I barely master. We need to understand the fundamentals better if we want to go beyond smokeless powder."

  His gaze turned somber. "But they destroyed her laboratory. Everything she built in secret, reduced to ashes and broken glass by that pig Orsini." A wave of helpless anger washed over him. "I wanted to help her somehow. But a frontal assault on the Holy City now... would require the entire army."

  Yet, the other part of his mind, the strategic one, was already working on a paradox. "Although... we will need to attack it sooner or later anyway. And with Paula on the inside, with her allies... perhaps it doesn't need to be a monumental siege. The Church's 'Divine Warriors' must be formidable, but how many are loyal to her, and not to Henrique or Orsini?"

  It was then that the pieces began to fit together. Suddenly, not as a flash, but as a series of gears finding their place. Ships. Ore. Cannons. An attack not from the outside, but from the heart.

  Without a word, Carlos pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a fountain pen. His movements were quick, almost feverish. Lines were drawn—a rough sketch of a ship, with side platforms. Another of a coastal fort seen from the sea. Diagrams of firing angles, rudimentary distance calculations. He wasn't a naval engineer, but he had memories, images from books, documentaries. The idea took concrete form on the paper, stained with ink and sweat from his fingers.

  Hours passed. The morning light gave way to the high midday sun. When he finally lifted his head, the muscles in his neck were stiff, but his eyes shone with focused determination.

  "Márcia!" he called, his voice sounding a bit hoarse from the prolonged silence.

  His secretary appeared at the door almost immediately.

  "Yes, President?"

  "Schedule a meeting with all the ministers. For this afternoon, after lunch. It's urgent and confidential."

  "It will be done," she nodded, jotting it down on her clipboard before leaving.

  Carlos then slowly turned in his chair. The air in the darkest corner of the office, where the window light didn't fully reach, seemed denser, colder. It was a subtle sensation, a chill on the nape of his neck, a shadow stretching an inch further than it should.

  "Shadow," said Carlos, addressing that corner. He had learned to feel Shadow's presence at least a little. "Please, bring Paula here. In absolute secrecy. Tell her... it's about the future of the Holy City."

  Nothing answered. Nothing moved. But the sensation of presence dissipated, like a mist sucked through a crack. Carlos knew the message had been received.

  ***

  The afternoon in the town hall meeting room was stuffy, despite the open windows. The air carried the smell of sweat from previous meetings, mixed with the aroma of freshly brewed tea that an assistant was serving. Around the long solid wood table were all the ministers. The mood was one of tense expectation. And, in a chair slightly set back but still at the table, sat Paula. She wore a simple traveling cloak over her habit, and her face was pale with fatigue, but her eyes, behind her thin-lensed glasses, were sharp as a hawk's.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  It was she who broke the heavy silence, her voice restrained but laden with urgency.

  "Carlos, next time you summon me, I expect more advance notice. Orsini's senses are on high alert. I had to feign a sudden migraine and lock myself in my quarters for prayer and rest. I don't know how long that excuse will hold. I sincerely hope it's worth it. From what I understand, your strategic focus is on White Sand. I don't see how you could dispatch troops for an attack on the Holy City now."

  Carlos leaned forward, elbows on the table, a confident smile on his lips.

  "That's exactly it. We are going to take the Holy City. But we won't need the army for that. At least, not the bulk of it."

  Paula's eyebrows rose. The ministers exchanged intrigued glances.

  Carlos began to lay out his plan, his voice clear and methodical. A small elite team. Infiltration. Shadow, with his powers of darkness and stealthy movement. Tassi, with her new weapon, and her incredible power could cause enormous damage. And the crucial support of Paula's allies inside the city—clerics, guards, servants loyal to her.

  "Well, finally!" Tassi exclaimed, her brown eyes shining with excitement. She stretched her arms, as if shaking off an uncomfortable posture. "I've been missing something more thrilling than debating yam crop rotation. And that gift of yours..." she touched the special revolver Carlos had given her, "...is eager to be used, isn't it?"

  Paula didn't seem so euphoric. She furrowed her brow, her fingers drumming on the arm of the chair.

  "It might work. The logistics are plausible. But why the rush?" she asked, staring intently at Carlos. "We can wait. Consolidate Ouro Branco first. In the meantime, I work behind the scenes, building alternative contacts to move your production, channels outside the Church's network. Haste is the enemy of perfection."

  "Because of iron, Paula," replied Carlos, his tone becoming grave. "Taking the Holy City isn't just a political blow. It's logistical. It means potential access to more ore, more trade routes, more steel."

  Aqua, the Minister of Economy, with deep dark circles under her eyes, interjected with a voice that seemed to drag the weight of budgets.

  "But what good is access if we have no suppliers? The big ore sellers have contracts with the Church or the Crown. Even if we reach General Gems, they won't sell to us. And our contacts in Europe are... practically nonexistent."

  "You focus too much on Europe," Carlos countered, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. "The Caliphate of Morocco is right there, just south of Portugal. I bet they'd love to buy our quality steel. For weapons, for tools. In exchange for iron ore. They would be a natural partner, an enemy of our enemies."

  Fernanda, the Minister of Labor, threw up her hands in a gesture of frustration.

  "President, even if that negotiation were viable—and that's a big 'if'—it would take months. We have weeks, not months!"

  "I know, Fernanda. That's not how we'll solve the immediate crisis," Carlos admitted, calming his tone. Then, he turned to Nia, the Minister of Industry, with her hands in their old gloves and an always-practical look. "Nia. I need you to make more cannons. Many more. Use the steel we have in stock, prioritize that above everything else."

  Nia jotted something down on her clipboard without questioning.

  "How many?"

  "As many as your workshop can produce without compromising quality." He paused, letting the next piece of information hang in the air. "From what our spies report, there is a fleet of cargo ships in White Sand. Ships full of high-quality iron ore. Sitting idle. Just waiting... for someone to come and get them."

  The room fell silent for a moment as the implication of those words sank in. Then, Guaíra, the Minister of Civil Construction, an indigenous man with black hair and a normally serene expression, was the first to connect the dots. His eyes widened.

  "You... you want to take Santa Maria first... to use their ships? Mount our cannons on board and sail straight to White Sand as if they were the Church's fleet?"

  Paula brought a hand to her chin, her expression of skepticism giving way to calculating admiration.

  "There are many ships in Santa Maria's harbor. War ships for pirate defense, merchant ships... but these cannons... are they really that decisive? Would they work on a moving ship?"

  "You read the special edition of the newspaper, didn't you?" Carlos asked, a smile returning to his face. "Ouro Branco fell in a few days, and the fort was reduced to rubble before our infantry even approached. In my world, ships and cannons built empires. The combination is devastating. But it depends on the element of surprise. We take Santa Maria quickly, adapt the fastest ships with platforms for the cannons, and set sail for White Sand before the news spreads by conventional means."

  He paused, his voice lowering.

  "Caetano Velho, from what we know, is intelligent. Cunning. When he learns Santa Maria has fallen, he will expect an attack by land, coming from White Sand. Or perhaps a lengthy maritime siege. He won't expect the blow to come from the sea, and to come with a weapon he doesn't fully understand."

  From the gloom beside the door, a soft, somewhat metallic voice completed the reasoning:

  "And when Specter's land army advances on White Sand, the ships can provide fire support from the bay. Bombard coastal positions, confuse the defenses." Shadow materialized as if he had always been there, his thin lips curved in a rare, almost imperceptible smile of tactical satisfaction.

  "Not only that!" Davi, the young and enthusiastic Minister of Chemistry, jumped in his seat. "We can establish a blockade! Strangle his trade completely!"

  Paula's calm voice cut through his excitement like a blade.

  "Carlos, from what I understand, in your world there is no magic. And all of you, born on land, may not fully appreciate the naval dynamics here." She looked at each person around the table. "The Church's ships, and many important merchant vessels, carry specialized Adepts. Wind, for propulsion and maneuvers. Fire and Ice, for long-range attacks. Water, for sabotage or defense. I trust the power of your cannons, but a prolonged blockade would put us in constant duels with these powers. It's an enormous risk. But..." she conceded, "...a surprise attack, quick, specifically targeting the ore carriers and then leaving? That is possible. Viable, even."

  Nia nodded in agreement beside Paula.

  "The Popess is right. And the ore from those ships would give us a breathing space of months. Time to establish a more stable source through Santa Maria. It wouldn't make sense to spend all that precious ore just to keep cannon-ships on an uncertain blockade. But using part of the steel to manufacture more cannons and ammunition for the land attack on White Sand, coordinated with the fleet? That's pure strategy."

  "Excellent," Carlos summarized, lightly slapping his palm on the table. "So we have an action plan. Nia, prioritize cannon production. Shadow, Paula, Tassi—you three work on the details of taking Santa Maria. Infiltration, support points, neutralizing key figures. Use grenades, explosives, any resource we have." He paused and looked at Paula. "By the way, Your Holiness, you may leave if you wish. We will now discuss internal affairs of the Republic."

  Shadow moved silently to stand behind Paula's chair, a clear gesture. But Paula didn't move. Instead, she rested her arms on the table, her fingers interlaced.

  "Not yet," she said, her voice firm and clear. "You are all planning to take my city, deciding the future of my people. Where do I stand in all this?"