Nzambi watched Seu Bastos's carriage disappear into the road's dust, his heart still heavy with the loaded silence that had settled between them. He took a deep breath, smelling the distinct scent of this place in the air: wet earth, burning firewood, and a sweet hint of ripe fruit he couldn't identify. He turned and approached one of the guards patrolling the quilombo entrance, a robust man in a simple uniform of raw linen, a spear resting on his shoulder.

  "Good afternoon," said Nzambi, his voice still a bit weak from the journey. "I... I would like to know how I can live here. In the quilombo."

  The guard looked him up and down, his eyes sweeping over the worn clothes, the tattered cloak, and the clean bandages still covering his most recent wounds. The appraisal was quick but thorough.

  "Of course," replied the guard, his voice neutral, without hostility, but also without warmth. "Just follow me."

  Nzambi followed him, his bare feet feeling the firm, even texture of the ground beneath him. He hadn't expected that. The "road" inside the quilombo wasn't a simple dirt path. It was made of a gray material, smooth and solid, that creaked softly under the soles of other people's sandals. He looked around, absorbing the movement. The place was bustling. To his left, an improvised market under colorful canvas awnings: women haggled over fabric prices, the metallic sound of gems being weighed on small scales echoed, and the aroma of smoked fish and roasted cassava made his stomach growl with weakness. To the right, men unloaded logs from a cart, their muscles taut under sweaty skin, shouting short orders to each other.

  It's the same... and yet so different, he thought, involuntarily comparing the organized bustle here to the oppressive chaos of the Gemas Gerais mines.

  It wasn't long before they passed a stretch where the road was still under construction. Men and women, mostly black, worked with shovels and hoes, pouring layers of sand and little stones and after laying down the pre-made gray material.

  The road already reached a cluster of wattle and daub and wooden houses, which seemed emptied out. Many doors were wide open, revealing empty, dusty interiors; broken windows stared at the street like empty sockets. The silence in that section contrasted brutally with the market noise. The air smelled of abandonment and mold.

  Nzambi couldn't contain the question, which came out more as a worried whisper:

  "What... what happened here?"

  The guard didn't even slow his pace, his reply came straight, like a report.

  "Half are cowards. Deserters. When the Republic was formed and Carlos asked for hands to defend it, they took what they could and fled with Ganga Zala, afraid of a war that hasn't even arrived yet." He spat on the ground with contempt. "The other half are patriots. They went to the main camp, near President Carlos's mocambo, to work. To fight, if needed. Each chose their side."

  So they had a choice..., Nzambi reflected, feeling a chill down his spine. But a young, able-bodied man like me... I doubt they left me many options besides fighting.

  Soon after, they stopped before a building that made Nzambi hold his breath. It was a huge, two-story structure, made of that same solid gray material as the road, but cut through with large windows of transparent glass. He had never seen anything like it. It seemed to have been raised by giants, not by human hands. Above the large, solid wood door, black letters formed a word he couldn't read: PREFEITURA.

  The guard, however, didn't take him to the main entrance. He circled the building to a smaller, simpler annex. There was a plain door, and above it, a wooden sign with another painted symbol: an arrow pointing inside and a stylized figure of a person with a bundle on their back. Nzambi understood the idea.

  The guard knocked on the door, two sharp knocks.

  "Good afternoon. An immigrant has arrived for registration."

  From inside, a young male voice answered:

  "Come in!"

  The guard turned to Nzambi and made a head gesture towards the door.

  "This way. Miguel will explain the rules and direct you. Good luck."

  Nzambi swallowed dryly and pushed the door, which creaked softly on its hinges. The room was small, with a single window letting in a dusty square of sunlight. It smelled of ink, old paper. Sitting behind a simple desk was a young black man with an intelligent face, wearing wooden-framed glasses. There was an empty chair on the other side of the desk.

  "Have a seat," said the young man, with a professional smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "My name is Miguel. And you?"

  Nzambi approached, feeling the wooden floorboards creak under his feet. He sat down carefully, as if the chair might break.

  "Nzambi," he replied, keeping his hands resting on his lap to hide the tremor.

  Miguel picked up a quill pen and a paper form.

  "Alright, Nzambi. Let's start with the basics. Where are you from? And what brings you to the Republic of Brazil?"

  Nzambi felt cold sweat on his back. The formality of it all was oppressive.

  "I came... from Gemas Gerais." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I came because... the rumors say this is the quilombo that best knows how to defend itself. I've heard there are others, but only here can you face armies and win. I thought it would be a safer place to live."

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Miguel wrote it down, the quill scratching softly on the paper. His movements were calm, methodical.

  "I understand. Seeking safety is a common reason." He looked at the next item on the list. "Age?"

  "Eighteen."

  "Have you had any trade? Carpentry, blacksmithing, leatherwork? Anything like that?"

  "No, sir. I only know mine work. Carrying, breaking stone... that's it."

  "Can you read? Write?"

  "No."

  Miguel made another note, his face expressionless. Then, he looked up, and his glasses seemed to catch the window light in a strange way.

  "And gems? Are you an adept of any magic gem? Which one do you use?"

  The question fell like a blade. Nzambi felt his fingers involuntarily clench, seeking the hilt of the dagger that was no longer on his belt. His heart raced.

  It's an interrogation..., the thought came fast and sharp. If I tell them about the Summoning Gem... no one knows it. They'll treat me like a freak, a danger. Better they don't know.

  He lowered his eyes to his own hands, to the bandages hiding new and old scars.

  "No... I'm not an adept of any gem." The lie burned his tongue, and he couldn't hold Miguel's gaze.

  Miguel watched him for a second that felt like an eternity. His quill rested on the paper, but he didn't write anything immediately. Instead, he made a thoughtful sound.

  "Hmm. With your background," and he gave a quick glance at his notes, "the area that most needs hands and offers guaranteed housing and sustenance is the Republic Army."He raised his hand quickly, before Nzambi could react. "But it's not a bad fate. Soldiers receive regular pay, clothing, and food. Are you willing to fight for the Republic, if necessary?"

  Regular... pay? Nzambi could hardly believe it. In Gemas Gerais, the "payment" was spoiled food and more work. The idea of receiving something tangible, be it money or provisions, for his effort, was strange and tempting. They'll send me to war anyway. But if I can gain something from it...

  "I am... I am," he said, his voice a bit firmer.

  Miguel sketched a more genuine smile this time.

  "Then, in the name of President Carlos, the Republic of Brazil welcomes you!" He pulled a piece of parchment paper from a drawer and unrolled it on the desk. It was a crude map, with drawings of streets and symbols. "This is our village. We are right here, at the City Hall."

  He pointed with his finger, which traced the map to a small drawn square.

  "Your house will be here, on Rua do Carneiro, number 107. I noted the way for you here. Since you can't read, just follow the symbols: see, I drew a small house here, then a curve in the path, and a triangle which is the tannery shed's roof..." He explained patiently, tracing the route with the tip of the quill. "This cross here is the hospital. I strongly recommend you stop by there. These new wounds need a professional look so they don't get infected." His finger jumped to another point, a rectangle with a sword drawn beside it. "And this is the barracks. Report there tomorrow at sunrise for official recruitment."

  Nzambi looked at the map, stunned. The information was coming too fast.

  I already have an address? A job for tomorrow? The efficiency was frightening. Nowhere he had been did things work like this.

  "Thank you..." he stammered. "Can I go, then? The journey was long and..."

  "One moment, Nzambi." Miguel's voice became a little sterner. "There is one last rule. For everyone's safety, any weapon you are carrying must be placed in the custody of the City Hall. After one month of proven and loyal service, it will be returned to you. It's a standard procedure."

  The air left Nzambi's lungs. He brought his hand to his belt, where the empty dagger sheath was a physical sensation, a flaw in his own body. His fingers clenched into a fist. Handing over the dagger was like handing over a piece of himself, the secret that defined him and at the same time condemned him. But Miguel's eyes, behind those glasses, were implacable. The shadow of the guard outside the door seemed larger now.

  With slow, almost ceremonial movements, Nzambi pulled the dagger from within the folds of his cloak. The ebony gem of the blade absorbed the room's light, not reflecting it. He placed it on the wooden desk, where the dull sound of metal and gem against the surface seemed to echo.

  "I have... only this one," he whispered.

  Miguel picked up the dagger carefully, without touching the blade. He examined it for a moment, his eyes narrowing behind the lenses, before placing it in a desk drawer and locking it with a small key he took from his pocket.

  "Alright. All in order. You are free to go now. Good luck with your new life, Nzambi."

  Nzambi stood up, feeling lighter and, paradoxically, more vulnerable than ever. He nodded, not confident enough for more words, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  The click of the lock sounded like a final period.

  ***

  As soon as Nzambi's footsteps faded down the hallway, a shadow in the darkest corner of the room, where the window light didn't reach, seemed to detach from the wall and take form.

  A figure emerged beside Miguel, silent as a night Whisper.

  "He lied about the gems," said the figure, its voice a rough whisper, like dry leaves being dragged on the ground.

  "I already noticed," replied Miguel, unsurprised. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on the edge of his tunic. "I've guided many who came from the smaller mocambos. I learned to notice when the eye shifts, when the hand clenches." He put his glasses back on, and his eyes, now without the magnification of the lenses, seemed smaller and more tired. "But he surrendered the weapon. With these Vision Gem glasses, I could see the magic aura emanating from it like black smoke. It was the only one he carried."

  Shadow took the small key from the desk and opened the drawer. She removed Nzambi's dagger, turning it under the weak light. The ebony gem didn't glimmer; it seemed to suck in the brightness around it.

  "This gem... isn't of any type I know." Her gloved fingers passed near the blade without touching it. "The lie itself may not harm him. In the army, they'll discover his aptitudes in practice, whether he wants to or not." She raised her eyes, directing a penetrating gaze at Miguel. "What matters is the why of the lie. What is a young miner, full of recent wounds, trying so hard to hide?"

  Miguel shrugged, rearranging the papers on his desk with a bureaucratic gesture.

  "Well, that's the problem of Internal Security now. My part," he tapped his finger on Nzambi's completed form, "is done and filed."

  Shadow cast a last look at Miguel, a flash of something icy and dangerous crossing her hidden eyes. Without another word, she wrapped the dagger in a dark cloth and, with a fluid movement, merged once more with the shadows in the corner of the room, disappearing as if she had never been there. The only evidence of her passage was the slightly open drawer and the sudden silence, much deeper than before.