The northeastern sun hammered relentlessly on the dirt road that snaked between endless sugarcane fields and sparse patches of Atlantic rainforest. Carlos traveled in an open cart, the heat a damp, heavy mantle over his shoulders. Sweat ran in stubborn trickles down his temples, mixing with the fine, reddish dust kicked up by the wheels. Two carts made up the Republic's convoy, one carrying the most precious cargo: Tassi, Specter, Shadow, and himself. Behind, another carried an escort of six guards—some wielding the firearms they had obtained from the Church itself, others with magical weapons also acquired through the Church. All were alert, their hands near their weapons.

  Ugh, this heat is inhuman, thought Carlos, adjusting the collar of his cotton shirt, already sweat-stained. I never imagined that, of all things, I'd miss a car with air conditioning. But that will take a while to make. His eyes scanned the uneven road, full of ruts and stones. A railroad would be easier to build and would change everything. But with the future of iron ore uncertain... better to save what we have. Not only is the ore uncertain, but so is our relationship with the Holy City.

  He observed Tassi beside him. She looked at the landscape with a farmer's eyes, assessing the soil quality, the health of the sparse vegetation. Specter, in his habitual silence, seemed a living statue, his senses extended beyond the visible. Shadow, in contrast, was tense, his fingers drumming on the hilt of his dagger.

  The sound of creaking wheels, the smell of dust, horse, and sweat, the dry taste in his mouth—it was a journey that tested patience. Carlos returned to his thoughts. Paula gave me a breather. Time until the official response from Alba. It's the only trump card I have at the moment: time to think, to prepare.

  After hours that felt like days, the familiar profile of the Holy City of Santa Maria began to take shape on the horizon. First, the cathedral towers, imposing against the light blue sky. Then, the pale walls. And closer, the construction site.

  "Look at that," murmured Carlos, pointing.

  Ahead, a new road was being born. Unlike the dusty trail they traveled on, this one was wide, straight, made of a smooth, gray surface. Men—many of them black and mixed-race wearing the simple but intact clothes of the Republic—worked spreading a pasty mixture that smelled of lime and crushed stone.

  "It's concrete," Carlos explained to Tassi, who watched with curiosity. "The road that will connect your port directly to our territory. So trade can flow like a river."

  He didn't voice the rest of the thought aloud: If there's still trade to flow.

  Behind the construction, the city revealed itself in all its feverish activity. Santa Maria pulsed with an energy that rivaled that of Tatu Mocambo itself. What caught the eye most was the clothing: almost all the people in the streets, markets, and docks wore sturdy, well-cut cotton clothes, dyed with the vibrant colors of the Republic's textile factories.

  Trade is still going strong, thought Carlos, a mix of relief and apprehension. Clothes, pots, tools... but when the flow of ore dries up, will clothes be enough? Everything depends on what is decided today, behind those walls.

  Finding their way to the cathedral was easy—the carts with the republic's insignia were known. As they approached the great wooden gate reinforced with iron, a group was already waiting.

  Paula stood at the front, wearing her white work habit, stained at the edges with what looked like paint. Her smile was professional, but her dark blue eyes conveyed a more complex message—a mix of alert and solidarity. Behind her were the usual guards and assistants of Santa Maria, who after months of intense trade no longer displayed the open suspicion from before. But beside her, three men in fine cassocks and sharp expressions watched their arrival with a disdain so palpable Carlos could almost taste it in the air.

  The church envoys, he deduced as he climbed down from the cart, his knees stiff from the constant swaying. Henrique's lookouts. And probably something worse.

  "Good afternoon, Carlos!" Paula's voice cut through the heavy air, clear and a bit too loud. "I imagine it was a long journey! Come in, come in, it's an oven out here!"

  The heat was truly oppressive, even though it was already mid-autumn in the Northeast—a season that, in practice, meant only a slightly less murderous sun and slightly less stifling nights. Carlos nodded in thanks and followed her, his entourage forming a protective shadow behind him.

  They were led to a large room in the cathedral's administrative quarters. A long polished jacaranda table dominated the center. As there were many, smaller tables had been added on the sides, creating a "U" arrangement. The air smelled of aged beeswax, damp wood, and a slight trace of the incense that always seemed to linger in the sacred corridors.

  The "Church side" settled: Paula at the head, Dom Orsini to her right with a serene air, and the three monks sent by Henrique to the left, their faces closed. On the other side, only Carlos and Tassi sat down. Specter, Shadow, and the guards remained standing along the walls, a silent but powerful presence.

  When the last scrape of a chair ceased, Paula spoke. Her voice was formal, the tone of ecclesiastical diplomacy.

  "As I outlined in the letter, Carlos, your... republic's decision to reject the peace agreement mediated by the Church and continue in a state of rebellion against the Portuguese Crown goes directly against the principles of conciliation and order that our Holy Mother Church upholds."

  Dom Orsini, beside her, lowered his head to hide a fleeting smile. Naivety or theater? he thought, his fingers playing with the edge of the table. Anyone who knows the slightest bit of papal history knows that wars are sources of wealth—donations, indulgences, confiscated lands... The problem isn't him waging war. It's waging war without giving us our share. If I had the secret of that steel... the campaigns in Europe, in Africa, would be rewritten. And Alba's coffers would overflow.

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  Paula continued, avoiding looking directly at Carlos.

  "...Given this impasse, and considering the risks the Church assumes by maintaining this trade channel with a group in open rebellion, the Holy See proposes an adjustment to our partnership. In exchange for our continued mediation and diplomatic protection, we ask that the Republic share with us the methods for steel production, as well as the principles behind the advanced machines that, according to reports, operate in your territory."

  Carlos felt a new wave of sweat, this time cold, run down his spine. He swallowed drily, his hands sweaty under the table. Giving speeches to his people was one thing. Negotiating the survival of his nascent nation in foreign territory, surrounded by potential enemies, was something completely different. He took a deep breath, the incense-laden air now seeming suffocating.

  "Your Holiness," he began, forcing his voice to sound firm and measured. "Everything we produce is already sold exclusively through the Church's channels. The taxes, the profits, flow to the holy coffers. You have a monopoly on every pot, every tool, every piece of cloth that leaves here bound for Europe. And now... you also want the secret? The only thing that sets us apart, that gives us some margin of safety?"

  He paused, looking at Paula. I could remind her of all the knowledge I've already shared with you, in confidence, he thought, weighing loyalty against necessity. But no. I won't throw her to the wolves. Not yet.

  Paula, hearing his words, felt a knot of guilt form in her stomach. She knew the truth behind that facade. But her role in that room forced her to continue.

  "We have a partnership, it's true," she replied, keeping the official tone. "But it's a partnership that is putting the Holy City at risk. The Portuguese Crown has already sent formal complaints. It's only a matter of time before there is a naval blockade, sanctions... We will both lose."

  Dom Orsini almost applauded mentally. Perfect, he thought, watching Carlos's face. To an outsider, it sounds like a plausible threat. But any insider knows Portugal is on its knees financially, up to its neck in debt to the Church after its wars against Spain and the fight for restoration. They wouldn't dare even spit in the direction of a papal ship. But he doesn't know that.

  Carlos, indeed, did not know. The information landed like a stone in his chest. It was a variable he hadn't sufficiently considered. The sweat on his hands seemed to freeze.

  Before he could formulate a response, one of the monks beside Paula—Brother Tomás, the one with the narrow face and light eyes—erupted. He slammed his open hand on the table, the bang echoing in the silent room.

  "That's enough!" his voice was a bark laden with contempt. "You blacks should be on your knees, thanking that we are even in the same room as you!" He turned to Paula, his face contorted with anger. "And you, Holiness, should be expelled from the Church for stooping to negotiate with these... these soulless barbarians!"

  Paula's blood rose to her face in a wave of red, furious heat. Her fingers clenched into fists under the table. Across from her, Carlos felt a primitive fury boil in his veins. He opened his mouth to shout, to return the insult, when an idea—cold, calculated, and dangerous—flashed in his mind.

  But it was Paula who spoke first. She stood up, her stature seeming to grow, her blue eyes sparking with a dangerously calm light.

  "Enough!" The word cut the air like a whip. "You have no authority to speak to my guests like that. I am the one who commands this Holy City. And you are no longer in the Old World. Out. Immediately."

  Tomás stood up, trembling with rage.

  "How dare you?! You are just the Popess of this godforsaken backwater! And worse—" his scornful voice dropped to a venomous whisper—"you are a woman who was once a man! That is not holiness, it's sacrilege!"

  "Guards!" Paula's voice left no room for argument. "Help these monks return to their quarters. They seem to need time for reflection and prayer."

  A brief chaos of indignant protests, dragged chairs, and raised voices ensued. Dom Orsini remained seated, motionless, observing the commotion with almost clinical interest. When the last door slam echoed and the tense, electric silence returned to the room, Paula took a deep breath.

  "Carlos... I deeply apologize for that. I assure you you won't see them again."

  "It's alright, Paula," he replied, his voice strangely serene.

  Dom Orsini cleared his throat softly, all eyes turning to him. His expression was one of solemn, almost paternal understanding.

  "Carlos, with all due respect to your position, I understand the depth of your concerns." His voice was gentle, persuasive. "And it's precisely because I understand them that I ask you to consider ours. The Church risks a great deal. We need something more... solid than just a share of the trade. I ask only for the steel methods. The machines, the other secrets... we can leave for future conversations, with more trust built. And, as the Popess already mentioned, it doesn't need to be immediate. We will await the formal response from Alba."

  The room hung in suspense. Tassi looked at Carlos, her eyes pleading caution. Specter, normally a mask of impassivity, slightly furrowed his brow.

  Carlos then did something no one expected. He smiled. A short, professional smile that didn't reach his eyes.

  "Alright. Deal done."

  The reaction was a symphony of silent astonishment. Tassi's jaw dropped slightly. Specter blinked, quickly. Even Paula, who should have been relieved, seemed perplexed. Dom Orsini was the first to recover. His experienced politician's face smoothed into a broad, satisfied smile.

  "Excellent! I see you are a pragmatic man, President. Very intelligent for a... man of your origin."

  Carlos's blood boiled again, but his expression remained placid. Play, don't react, he repeated to himself.

  "Now that that is settled," Carlos continued, turning to Paula, "I would like to discuss a private matter with Your Holiness. Alone."

  Orsini arched an eyebrow.

  "A private matter? And what matter would that be, which cannot be handled in the presence of a representative of the Holy See?"

  "Matters," replied Carlos, looking directly at Paula with a defiant glint in his eyes, "that concern only the ruler of this city. If, of course, she truly rules."

  It was a blatant provocation. Paula received it and returned it with a sharp, almost predatory smile.

  "Dom Orsini, the main agreement is settled. I thank you for your mediation. You may withdraw."

  Orsini did not feel insulted. On the contrary. A spark of genuine interest lit in his eyes. Well, well, he thought, standing up with a nod of his head. The young president has more cards up his sleeve. And the good Popess seems eager to see them. Very interesting.

  "As you wish, Holiness," he said, and left with calm steps.

  The door closed with a decisive click.