The dim evening light struggled through the heavy velvet curtains of the office, fighting to illuminate the thick atmosphere that weighed upon the Palace of Two Towers. Each ray of the setting sun carried particles of dust that danced slowly, as if reluctant to move in the stagnant air. The room was steeped in the aged scent of beeswax dripping from the chandeliers, mixed with the damp aroma of old papers and a sharp, new tension that seemed to cut one's breath short.

  Governor Bento Vidal sank into his worn leather high-backed chair, his fingers drumming a nervous waltz on the pile of reports threatening to overrun his heavy jacarandá desk. The muffled sound of skin tapping on wood echoed in the near-absolute silence.

  Across the room, near the window that offered a broad view of the colonial tile roofs of White Sand down to the bustling harbor, Captain-Major Caetano Velho resembled a statue of tranquility. His long, pale fingers slowly rotated an empty crystal glass, where only the amber traces of a long-consumed orange juice and a ring of moisture on the marble windowsill remained. Outside, the distant sound of vendors hawking their wares arrived muted, along with the clucking of chickens and the occasional clatter of hooves on the cobblestones.

  The silence stretched until Bento Vidal could bear it no longer.

  “So, Caetano?” his voice sounded rough, shattering the silence like a gunshot. He wiped his forehead with an already damp handkerchief. “It seems your plans went awry. Your subordinates weren't competent enough to kill Tassi and Carlos. The thieves can't manage to rob the wagons heading to the Holy City.” He paused, swallowing dryly. “Only the peace agreement yielded any result.”

  Caetano Velho continued to look out the window for an additional moment, his eyes following the flight of a vulture circling over the rooftops. Finally, in a firm yet measured tone, he replied:

  “Competent they were, Bento. They just weren't enough.” He slowly twirled the empty glass between his fingers. “It seems I underestimated those firearms of theirs. According to the reports from the battle against the quilombo, they weren't that powerful…” He let the sentence hang in the air, like a thread about to snap.

  Bento leaned forward, the arms of his chair groaning under his weight.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That they obtained more weapons, or improved the ones they already had.” Caetano finally turned partially, his sharp profile outlined against the window light. “If that is the case, this could be a problem. They are evolving while we are stagnating.”

  He brought the glass to his mouth, attempting a non-existent last drop, before picking up a remaining ice cube with his fingers and placing it in his mouth. The crystalline sound of ice being chewed echoed oddly in the quiet room.

  “As for the bandit attacks…” Caetano continued, looking back outside, “from the reports I received, the church trades with the quilombo regularly. Not just the merchants, but the Popess herself visits the place. Furthermore, many merchants are growing so rich they are hiring mercenaries to protect their increasingly large convoys.”

  Bento snorted in disdain, but his eyes blinked rapidly. The term "mercenaries" seemed to touch on a recent, still-painful memory.

  “Mercenaries?” he repeated, his voice a little weaker. “Like the Dutch used to hire?”

  Caetano noticed the change in tone but merely made a subtle gesture with his free hand.

  “Yes. Naturally, simple thieves wouldn't manage to carry out attacks. I even considered sending my men to plunder the route, but I fear that would only make the merchants spend more money on mercenaries. It would create a private army, funded by trade with the enemy itself.”

  The governor huffed, heaving himself up heavily. His leather boots thudded on the noble wooden floor as he walked to the sideboard, where a bottle of still water waited. He filled a glass, drinking with noisy gulps that seemed excessively loud in the silence.

  “And the ships?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “The same goes for the ships they send to the holy cities,” replied Caetano, following the governor's movements with a calculating look. “However, we still need to strangle this republic's economy. And I know that what generates the most money for them is the steel they are producing.”

  He made a significant pause before asking:

  “By any chance, has the Crown responded about this matter?”

  Bento sighed deeply, a sound that seemed to come from the depths of his chest. The water glass trembled slightly in his hand.

  “No. I sent the message by the fastest messenger ship I had, but even so, the response is taking too long.” His voice carried a note of contained desperation. “Meanwhile, the ore ships keep passing through…”

  The governor now fixed his gaze into the distance, directed at the harbor visible between the slightly parted curtains. The ships' masts looked like a petrified forest against the orange sky. His eyes traced the rooftops he knew had been rebuilt after the Dutch attacks.

  “All ships with ores from Gemas Gerais pass through here, don't they?” he spoke more to himself than to Caetano. “We don't need to wait for the Crown's answer. We just need to detain these ships here. I bet the Crown will be happy to hear we prevented trade with a rebel state…”

  Caetano turned completely now, a faint glimmer of interest in his dark eyes.

  “That…” he said slowly, as if savoring the idea, “…isn't a bad idea. A targeted blockade. Yes, it could work.”

  Bento Vidal visibly brightened, his eyes gleaming with a flash of hope.

  “We can start tomorrow! Send two warships to intercept…”

  “Calm down, Governor.” Caetano raised a hand in a moderating gesture. “First, we need documents in order, justifications prepared. But yes, it's a start.”

  He walked to the chair facing the governor's desk and sat down. His gaze, however, remained distant, as if seeing something beyond the office walls.

  “Now, regarding this Republic…”

  Bento slapped his open hand on the desk, making the reports jump.

  “What? That ‘Republic of Brazil’ bravado?” His voice rose in tone, laden with contempt. “A bunch of runaway blacks thinking they're founding a nation? It's pathetic. Ridiculous!”

  But even as he said it, his fingers gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. Caetano noticed the movement, registering it mentally.

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  Finally, Caetano Velho fixed his eyes completely on the governor. His dark eyes, deep as night wells, met Bento's with disturbing intensity. An almost imperceptible smile—more a contraction of facial muscles than an expression of joy—touched his thin lips.

  “Pathetic, without a doubt,” he agreed, his smooth voice contrasting with the governor's outburst. “But it is also, I must say, a gift from the heavens. As ironic as it sounds.”

  Bento frowned, his thick eyebrows almost meeting.

  “A gift? How so, a gift? What's good about it?”

  Caetano leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands interlaced.

  “Ganga Zala was a king. A black king, but a king. A man with whom, ultimately, we could have sat at a table, exchanged threats, and perhaps reached an agreement.” His words came out measured, each heavy with meaning. “A king understands the language of power. It's a familiar dynamic, even comforting in its predictability.”

  He paused, letting the words hang in the charged atmosphere of the office. Outside, a church bell began to toll, marking the Angelus.

  “But a republic?” Caetano continued, the tolling bells serving as a somber counterpoint to his words. “A declared rebel state in the heart of His Majesty's colony? This is no longer a matter of public order, Bento. It's an existential declaration of war.”

  Bento Vidal furrowed his brow, confused for a moment, before understanding began to illuminate his eyes, like a ray of sunlight cutting through the deepening twilight gloom of the room. Slowly, he sank back into his chair, the leather creaking in protest.

  “A declaration…” he whispered, more to himself.

  “Exactly,” confirmed Caetano, standing up and walking slowly towards the desk. The muffled sound of his ebony cane echoing on the stone floor marked his progress. “Before, crushing the quilombo was our local affair, a colonial administration problem. Now, it's a political necessity for the Crown. Lisbon cannot, under any circumstances, tolerate the emergence of a rival state on its lands. Lisbon's hand, which might have hesitated before, will now be forced to support us.”

  He stopped in front of the desk, and his thin fingers tapped lightly on the polished wood, marking each point with surgical precision.

  “Our own hands, once somewhat tied by considerations of diplomacy and economy, are now not only free but obligated to raise the sword.” He made a significant pause, his eyes fixing Bento with intensity. “And more: they oblige Lisbon to raise the sword with us.”

  Bento licked his dry lips. His eyes briefly landed on the portrait on the wall—himself, younger, alongside other plantation lords, all brandishing weapons, all with determined expressions. The image had been painted to commemorate the expulsion of the Dutch just two years prior, in 1654. A victory won by the colonists, practically without help from Portugal.

  “You know what happened with the Dutch, Caetano,” said Bento, his voice containing a note that wasn't there before. “We expelled them. Us. The plantation lords, the settlers. With our own weapons, our own troops. Portugal sent us very little aid until the end.”

  He stood up again, beginning to pace the room with heavy steps.

  “And what if it happens again? If these… these quilombolas become such a great threat that the plantation lords decide to act on their own? If they decide the Crown is too slow, too distant?” His voice trembled slightly. “I would lead them, Caetano. As I did before. But this time… this time it wouldn't be against foreign invaders. It would be against the Crown itself, if it wavers.”

  Caetano observed the governor's agitation with clinical interest. This was the fear he had expected to surface—not just the fear of the quilombolas, but the fear of the very power he once led.

  “Precisely, Governor,” he said softly. “And that is why your next letter to Lisbon must be written not as a request, but as a warning. An urgent warning.”

  He moved closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.

  “Write another letter, Bento. This time, don't just inform about the situation. Ask. Demand, with all due respect, of course. Ask Lisbon to send us more money to reinforce the troops. Recruitment, armaments, ships. And perhaps…” he made a dramatic pause, turning to face the governor, “…even experienced mercenaries. Italians, Germans, those Swiss who fight for money. Men who have no scruples about whom they fight.”

  Bento whistled softly, the sound hissing between his yellowed teeth.

  “Foreign mercenaries? The cost…”

  “Is infinitely less than the cost of another rebellion,” cut Caetano, his voice acquiring a metallic edge. “But there is something specific you must mention, Governor. Something that will make Lisbon understand the gravity.”

  He leaned even further forward, his shadow swallowing Bento.

  “Mention the firearms. Don't just mention—describe them. Speak of the reports of 'muskets' as the quilombolas call them. Of lighter but equally powerful weapons. Of a factory producing quality steel within the Republic.” His words came out fast, urgent. “Portugal knows what happens when a colony develops its own military capability. The Dutch were expelled by armed colonists. Now imagine those same colonists… or worse, freed slaves… with weapons superior to those of the metropole itself.”

  Bento paled slightly. The image was terrible—not just a rebellion, but a well-armed rebellion, forging its own weapons with the ore that should enrich the Crown.

  “Emphasize that part,” insisted Caetano. “Describe the Republic not as an expanded quilombo, but as a growing arsenal. A cancer that, if not cut out now, will spread throughout all of Brazil. Speak of the example they set. Other quilombos, other malcontents may start forging their own weapons, dreaming of their own republics.”

  He approached the desk and placed both hands on the edge, leaning over Bento like a hawk over its prey.

  “Lisbon will understand. They must understand. The last thing the Crown wants is another colony that learned to defend itself… especially a colony that can teach others to do the same.”

  Bento ran a hand over his face, feeling the oiliness of his skin. His gaze returned to the portrait on the wall—to the determined men, the brandished weapons, the victory won without permission. The same fire that had burned in those men's eyes now burned in others' eyes, in White Sand. The same determination, but aimed in another direction.

  The twilight deepened in the office, and the shadows lengthened like dark fingers reaching into every corner. Bento felt the weight of history—not just past history, but the history being written right now, at that very moment, and which he might be forced to repeat.

  “And while that help doesn't arrive?” he asked, his voice weaker now. “It could take months for a ship to go and return from Lisbon, even more with reinforcements. Time that this… this republic will use to produce more weapons, recruit more followers.”

  Caetano stepped away from the desk, and that almost imperceptible smile touched his lips again.

  “While that help doesn't arrive…” he began, but stopped when a servant entered with more candles, suddenly illuminating the room.

  The light danced on the crystals, the metals, in the captain-major's eyes. When the servant left, Caetano completed:

  “…we have other cards to play. But that is a conversation for tomorrow, Governor. Today, write your letter to Lisbon. Describe the weapons. Describe the danger. Make them understand that the Brazil that expelled the Dutch might, with the wrong weapons in the wrong hands, expel the Portuguese.”

  Bento nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the portrait. The determination of the younger man in the painting now seemed a warning, not a celebration.

  “I will write,” he said, his voice finally firm. “I will write as if the future of Brazil depended on it.”

  “It does,” said Caetano simply, picking up his hat. “Until tomorrow, Governor.”

  And as Caetano left, his boots echoing in the dark corridors of the Palace of Two Towers, Bento Vidal sat at his desk, took a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write. The words flowed, laden with the weight of recent history and the fear of the future.

  "To His Majesty, the King of Portugal… I write with extreme urgency about a danger growing in the heart of your colonies… It is no longer about runaway quilombolas, but of a rebel state forging weapons… They have learned to do what we did against the Dutch… Fear, Majesty, that they also learn to do it against us…"

  Night fell completely over White Sand, but the candlelight in the governor's office remained lit until late, as the quill scratched against the paper, writing not just a plea for help, but a warning about the specter of colonial independence itself—a specter that now wore the clothes of a republic of free men, and brandished weapons forged with the steel of its own resistance.