Tinh?o, a skinny, nervous man, hid behind a thick bush at the roadside. The strong midday sun, filtered through the tree canopy, created shifting patterns on the packed earth, and the humid forest air carried the sweet smell of rotting leaves and the distant perfume of wildflowers. From his ambush spot, he watched with anxious eyes the constant flow of carriages going up and down the dusty road. The sound of horses' hooves and creaking wheels was almost uninterrupted.

  Crap, he thought, his sweaty hand tightening on the branch he used for support. The rumors said this place was full of rich merchants who'd be easy targets, but the church folks pass by here almost every day! Those divine soldiers are always armed to the teeth! Whoever said this would be an easy target lied to our faces! And as if that wasn't enough, there are so many carts traveling around that there must be several adepts among them, and they're not easy to rob at all!

  He grumbled under his breath, his frustration growing with every group of well-armed guards that passed. Finally, after a particularly imposing church convoy, the road seemed to empty. A relative silence fell, broken only by bird songs and the buzz of insects. Then, a solitary cart, pulled by a tired horse, appeared around the bend.

  Tinh?o's heart raced. He turned and Whispered into the thicket behind him.

  "Afonso! Afonso, it looks like the church finally stopped sending guards all the time. Look, there's just a single cart all by itself!"

  From within the foliage emerged a large, tall man with broad shoulders and a face marked by scars. He moved with a calm that contrasted with his companion's agitation. Without a word, he took the spyglass Tinh?o handed him and raised it to his eye, examining the approaching carriage.

  He studied the cargo first: the cart was full of sacks, swaying with every jolt. A bad omen. That meant the driver was going to sell at the Quilombo, not returning from there with the profits. Next, his gaze examined the occupants. The driver was an old man with a worn straw hat and shoulders hunched with age. Beside him, however, was a more interesting figure: a dark-skinned youth, wrapped in a shabby cloak. Only one of his hands was visible, skinny and completely bandaged, resting on his lap.

  Afonso lowered the spyglass, a low grunt escaping his throat.

  "Hunf. He probably doesn't have much cash on him, that's true. But since we came here, we've gotten nothing. Our purses are getting empty and our patience is short. Let's take this chance."

  His heavy gaze swept over the rest of the gang, crouching in the vegetation. An almost imperceptible nod, and the men began to prepare in silence, adjusting grips on spears and checking the gems in their necklaces and staves. The air, once filled with the sounds of the forest, now seemed charged with an electric tension.

  ***

  Inside the carriage, the mood was heavy, but for other reasons. Seu Bastos guided the horses with loose reins in his calloused hands, his body swaying to the monotonous rhythm of the wheels. The smell of salt from the sacks behind mixed with the horse's sweat and the road's dust.

  Cough! Cough!

  The young man's harsh, wet cough broke the silence. The old man shot a glance at his passenger, a mixture of pity and mild irritation at his peace being disturbed.

  The youth, catching his breath, spoke in a weak voice.

  "Sir, thank you again, for giving me a ride to the Quilombo."

  Bastos sighed, looking at the road ahead.

  "Boy, you've thanked me so many times I've lost count. You can stop that. Besides, you paid me. Business is business."

  The young man, unable to look him in the eye, began scratching a recent wound on his arm, visible through a tear in his tunic. The skin around it was still red and irritated.

  "But you're taking me for free now... the ride, I mean. The payment was only for the clothes and the food."

  "And as I said before," Bastos replied, with a thread of impatience, "you're in a bad way. Looks like a strong wind would knock you over. And I was already going to the Quilombo anyway, I have to sell all this salt there." He paused, and his voice lowered a tone. "I'm not so heartless an old man as to abandon a dying person in the middle of nowhere."

  The young man shrugged, pulling the cloak around his body as if seeking protection.

  "You are very kind. Back in Gemas Gerais, the white people... aren't like that. When I asked for help, most just tried to rob me of the little I had."

  The conversation hung in the air for a moment. Bastos felt a knot of guilt in his stomach. It was true. Years ago, he would never have accepted a dying black man, a complete stranger, into his cart. But doing business with the Quilombo, sharing tobacco and stories by the fireside, had planted a seed of change in his hardened heart.

  He spat to the side of the cart, trying to seem indifferent.

  "Don't worry your head about it, boy. You know, in the end, money has no color, right?" He gave a light tug on the reins, avoiding a stone in the road. "And, irony of fate, the people currently giving me the most profit are precisely the blacks from the Quilombo."

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  Hearing the word "Quilombo," the young man's eyes lit up with a glimpse of hope, temporarily overshadowing the pain and fatigue.

  "I hope... I hope the people from the Jabuticaba Quilombo are as good as the stories going around say they are..."

  Bastos, hearing this, let out a short, dry laugh.

  "Now it's the Republic of Brazil, at least that's what they shout from the rooftops. Quilombo, crown, kingdom, republic..." He made a disdainful gesture with his hand. "To me, it all seems the same. They're just a bunch of layabouts who take our taxes to party and give orders." He then took aim and spat at an invisible target on the road. "Although... they say that Carlos, the guy leading the place, is different. Maybe you can, in fact, have a good life there."

  "Republic?" the young man asked, confused, his mind trying to decipher the new term.

  The question, however, hung in the air, unanswered. Suddenly, a sharp, violent groan shook the carriage. Thick, green vines, pulsing with a strange energy, sprouted from the ground like snakes, coiled around the wooden wheels, and locked them with brutal force. The horse whinnied loudly, frightened, and the cart stopped abruptly, nearly throwing its occupants forward.

  "SHIT! BANDITS!" shouted Bastos, his face instantly paling as he saw half a dozen men jumping from the woods into the middle of the road, completely blocking the way.

  They were a motley crew: some with rusty spears, another, thinner one, wielding a carved wooden staff from which the vines had originated. And at the front, a large, tall man—the same one who had observed through the spyglass—wore a leather necklace with an embedded amber gem that glowed softly. He held an imposing spear and took a step forward, his face impassive.

  "Good afternoon, sir," said the leader, his voice a low, controlled growl. "You see, I'm not a man who likes to spill innocent blood so close to the Holy City's domain. So, let's make it easy: you just hand over all the money you have, and we go our separate ways in peace."

  "You vermin!" Bastos spat, indignation temporarily overcoming fear.

  The tall bandit moved with frightening speed. In an instant, the cold tip of the spear was pressed against the old man's wrinkled neck, making him lean back against the cart's wood.

  "What was that?!" the bandit snarled, his hot, sour breath hitting Bastos's face. "Say it again. I'm curious."

  The old man trembled, and all bravado drained away. His voice came out as a thread, shaky and broken.

  "M...my apologies. I'll get the money. It's... it's in a box here, behind me..."

  As Bastos turned with difficulty, his body shaking, the young man beside him did not lower his eyes. He stared at the tall bandid with a silent intensity, his dark eyes sparking in a face marked by dozens of old scars.

  The bandit noticed the fixed gaze.

  "What are you looking at, brat?" He then noticed the network of scars covering the youth's face and visible arms. His lips curved into a cruel smile. "But you're a real piece of work, huh? Just stay put there, quiet. Or maybe you don't even need to worry, you're so skinny it's dangerous for the wind to carry you away."

  Coarse, nervous laughter erupted from the other bandits, echoing on the quiet road. The sound was harsh and hostile. Meanwhile, Bastos, with his back turned, tried to insert the key, hanging from a cord around his neck, into the lock of a small metal box attached to the seat.

  The youth, however, did not move. His face remained a mask of contained hatred. Slowly, with deliberate movements, his bandaged hand pulled a short dagger from inside his cloak.

  The dagger was not a conventional weapon. Its hilt was of dark, worn wood, carved with simple runes that looked more like wear marks than any deliberate enchantment. There was no guard, making it raw and direct in its purpose. What made it unique was the blade.

  It was not metal, but a gem as black as ebony, deeply polished to a dull, deadly sheen. It was shaped like the ancient Aztec obsidian daggers—flaked, not forged, with irregular edges that seemed more serrated than sharp, promising a cut that tore and shredded.

  Without hesitation, he pressed the blade against the palm of his other hand, making a deep cut.

  "What the hell are y—" the tall bandit started to say, his expression shifting from disdain to confusion.

  He didn't finish the sentence. At the exact moment the words left his mouth, his head simply vanished from his neck. There was no visible blow, no noise beyond a wet whisper in the air. All that remained was his lifeless body, which stayed upright for a fraction of a second before collapsing heavily to the ground, gushing blood onto the earth.

  "What the fuck!" screamed one of the men with a spear, his eyes wide with pure terror.

  He also lost his head a moment later, just as the youth made a second, quick, deep cut on his own arm.

  It was then that the man with the grass staff understood. His face contorted in a mixture of horror and fury.

  "You damned vermin! You'll see!" he shouted, plunging the tip of his staff into the ground.

  The vines on the carriage came to life, hissing through the air and coiling around the youth's body, tightening like constrictors, trying to immobilize him. The youth, however, didn't even seem to notice the restraint. With a cold, empty look, as if performing a mundane task, he brought the blade to his own chest, making a third cut.

  This time, it was as if an invisible, silent scythe swept across the road. Pop. Pop. Pop. The heads of all the remaining bandits, including the staff-wielder's, simultaneously vanished from their shoulders. Their bodies fell in a macabre synchrony, the sound of their muffled impacts the only noise that remained.

  The silence that followed was more terrifying than any screaming. The dust slowly settled.

  Seu Bastos, still holding the small metal box, was paralyzed. His eyes, wide open, stared at the youth, who now moved with a disturbing calm, taking clean bandages from inside his cloak and starting to wrap the new cuts he had inflicted upon himself—on his hand, arm, and chest. The dark blood quickly stained the white cloths.

  The old man swallowed dryly, his throat as dry as dust. The question burning in his mind finally managed to come out, in a hoarse whisper full of dread.

  "Who... who are you, my God? What... what abominable gem is that you used?"

  The youth finished tightening the knot of the bandage on his chest and raised his eyes to meet Bastos's. His face was exhausted, but his eyes were a deep, dark purple, deep wells of pain.

  "It's Nzambi. And as for the gem I used, do you really want to know?" his voice was soft, but laden with the weight of a terrible secret.

  Bastos looked at the decapitated bodies scattered on the road, then at the youth's scarred face. He shook his head quickly, denying, his whole body trembling. Curiosity had been replaced by a visceral, primordial fear.

  Without saying another word, he took the reins with trembling hands, clicked his tongue at the frightened horse, and pulled it to go around the bodies. The carriage, its wheels now free of the vines, moved on, towards the Republic, carrying a silence much heavier than before.