The air in the plantation house's surgery room was thick and sweet, the metallic smell of blood mingling with strong medicinal herbs and the perfumed wax of candles. The late afternoon light, filtered through heavy velvet curtains, painted everything in a dirty amber hue.

  Baroness Inês, a figure of wine-colored lace and frills, leaned over the solid wooden chair. As she bent, a necklace with a scarlet gemstone swung. Her slender fingers, adorned with rings, held a polished steel tweezer with almost surgical delicacy. Before her, an enslaved woman, her limbs bound to the chair's frame with leather straps, had her mouth forcibly held open by a brutal iron gag. Her eyes, swollen with terror, followed the lady's every move.

  Inês firmly gripped what remained of a darkened molar. The enslaved woman's ragged breathing, a wet wheeze through her forced-open mouth, filled the room's silence. With a sharp, decisive pull, followed by a horrible, wet crack, the last tooth came loose from the gum.

  A deep, hoarse groan full of agony escaped the woman's throat. Her body twisted against the restraints, making the chair creak on the noble hardwood floor. Fresh blood and strands of saliva spread across her chin and dripped onto the leather apron tied around her neck.

  Inês raised the tweezer, examining the trophy in the candlelight. The smile that appeared on her lips was thin and satisfied.

  "With this, you'll learn not to smile at my husband's portrait anymore, you filth," she whispered, her voice as sweet as poisoned honey. She let the tweezer drop onto a metal tray with a loud, unpleasant clatter.

  At that moment, firm, rapid knocks echoed on the oak door. Before she could respond, the door opened. Her steward, an elderly man with an impassive face and impeccable attire, entered. His pale, experienced eyes rested for less than a second on the scene—the contorted slave, the blood, the Baroness standing—registering no emotion. This was not his first spectacle.

  "Lady Baroness, it is time to depart for the meeting at Castelo Garcia," he announced with a slight bow of his head.

  Inês raised her hands, examining the crimson splatters on her fingers and lace cuffs. She meticulously wiped them on a white linen cloth the steward handed her.

  "Already?" she said with a tone of genuine surprise. "Time really flies when one is enjoying oneself, doesn't it? Is the carriage ready?"

  "It awaits in the courtyard, yes, my lady," the man replied as he took the soiled cloth. "While my lady prepares, shall I… take care of the mess?" His glance flickered to the slave, who now sobbed softly, her head slumped.

  The Baroness walked past him straight to the door and threw a wide, disarming smile over her shoulder.

  "You are ever so reliable, Firmino."

  As she left, her dress swirled, brushing against the doorframe. She walked down a long, dark hallway where portraits of ancestors watched her sternly. She paused for a moment before a painting of a young man with an austere expression, in military uniform.

  "I'm going, my love," she murmured, her finger touching the frame with a gentleness that brutally contrasted with the scene she had left behind.

  The hallway opened into a spacious sitting room. There, her two sons, boys of perhaps eight and ten, dressed in velvet clothes, were amusing themselves. Their "toy" was an enslaved girl, cornered near the cold fireplace. They poked and hit her with thin pieces of wood, eliciting stifled screams and cries with each impact.

  As soon as they saw her, the boys abandoned their prey and ran towards her, their faces lit by smiles that seemed like innocent copies of hers.

  "Mommy! Come play with us!"

  Inês knelt, opening her arms, enveloping them in a hug that smelled of expensive perfume and, subtly, of blood and ashes.

  "Ah, my treasures, I can't today," she said, brushing a curl from the younger one's face. "I have a very important meeting with other important people. But you can go back to playing. I'll be on my way."

  Their faces fell into disappointed pouts.

  "Aww…" they grumbled in unison, dragging their feet back towards the girl, who had shrunk into a corner, waiting.

  The Baroness was already turning to leave when she stopped. Without turning completely, she tossed the warning into the air, her voice still honeyed:

  "Remember, my darlings… you mustn't break the toy. Remember what happened to the other two? Those were special, gifts from Uncle Garcia. And you broke them."

  The boys looked at each other. The older one gave the girl a weaker poke with the tip of his stick.

  "Okay, Mother," they both said, their voices laden with a childish, perverse resignation.

  ***

  The carriage journey was long and dusty. Twilight had already given way to night when the vehicle's lanterns illuminated the high walls and solid silhouette of Castelo Garcia, also known as the Tower Castle. It wasn't a fortress from the Old World, but a robust and imposing construction of local stone, made to impress and intimidate in the colony.

  As she stepped down, Inês felt the colder mountain air. She was received under the archway by a black servant dressed in livery. Her nose twitched almost imperceptibly, and her gaze slid over the man as if he were part of the furniture, an unpleasant but necessary object.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  She was led through cold stone rooms to the main hall. There, the setting changed drastically. A huge fireplace fought off the chill, casting dancing lights on heavy tapestries and on an oak table laden with food. The aromas were opulent: roast meat with herbs, rich sauces, fresh bread, and the sweet scent of fine wines. At the table, only two men waited.

  "Finally! Our leading lady has arrived," announced the man at the head of the table. It was Garcia, the castle's owner, middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair cut with military precision, his eyes lively and calculating. He wore a rich coat, but without the Baroness's excesses.

  The other man, portly, with a monocle fixed to his eye and an air of a bored intellectual, raised his glass. "Now the evening promises to be worthwhile. Cheers, Baroness Inês."

  "Baron Peixoto," she nodded, taking a seat. The hunger from the long journey attacked her. She helped herself without ceremony to a juicy piece of loin, ignoring the protocols for a moment.

  "Baroness, I must say," Garcia began as a servant refilled his glass, "your reputation precedes you. The rumors in town say you've eliminated two of your… 'colored servants' just this month. They're starting to call you the 'Bloody Baroness.'"

  Inês picked up a mother-of-pearl fan lying beside her plate and began to fan herself slowly. A playful smile touched her lips.

  "Oh, Garcia, you know how those blacks are," she said between delicate bites. "They have simple tastes, they love eating dirt. They're so stupid they confuse dirt with flour and end up poisoned. A pity." She made a theatrical pause, bringing the wine glass to her lips. "And I am so sorry, Garcia, for the loss of those gifts of yours. My boys are… enthusiastic."

  Garcia let out a hearty laugh that echoed in the hall.

  "Ha ha ha! It happens in the best of families! Speaking of which, the other day, while seeking inspiration for a new painting… I placed a specimen on an anthill. Honey all over its body, a swarm of bees nearby… its agony was… sublime. Captured a unique facial expression. Pity the model didn't survive to the end of the session. Fragile, so fragile."

  Baron Peixoto, the one with the monocle, shook his head in disapproval, wiping his lips with his napkin.

  "You two are… indulgent. A master must know how to punish with precision. The right amount of lashes to correct, without depreciating the product's market value. I wrote an entire chapter on the economics of punishment in my last treatise."

  Inês cut another piece of meat, the rare blood staining the porcelain plate.

  "You and your books and social experiments, Peixoto…" she said with a tone somewhere between boredom and amusement.

  The conversation flowed for a while longer with gossip of the local elite, harvest reports, and meaningful exchanged glances. Silent waiters refilled glasses and plates. Finally, Garcia placed his empty wine glass on the table with a decisive click. The sound seemed to silence the room.

  "I hope you enjoyed the dinner," he said, clasping his hands on the table, his face losing its relaxed expression. "Because now we need to discuss the matter that brought us together. The letters of marque."

  Peixoto let out a grumble.

  "Hmph! The governor can't handle a few quilombolas and now wants us to solve his problem. As if it weren't enough that I lost six of my slaves in that poorly planned attack he ordered against that Jabuticaba Quilombo."

  Inês's breathing visibly quickened. The gold necklace with the enormous scarlet gem resting on her décolletage rose and fell.

  "You only see losses, Peixoto! Those slaves were disposable. The letters of marque… that is the real opportunity! We can form our own army, attack when and where we want. And the rumors…" she leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with avarice in the candlelight, "say those runaways are hoarding gold. Lots of gold. To buy iron, weapons, things from the Church… Imagine that treasure in our hands. The jewels I could commission from Lisbon…"

  Garcia smiled, a conspiratorial smile.

  "That's the spirit, Inês! I called you here precisely for that. We are the three greatest lords of this region. Alone, we are strong. Together? We'll be unstoppable. More powerful even than old Albuquerque. And speaking of him… I've heard he's already gathering men to attack the quilombo and take the reward for himself."

  Peixoto still resisted, adjusting his monocle.

  "I think you are being… casually optimistic. My contacts say the quilombo doesn't just have gold. They have machines. They produce things. And there's more…" he lowered his voice, even though only the three of them were there. "Have you heard of the attacks? On the small plantations around the mountains, near the quilombo?"

  Garcia gave a muffled, scornful laugh.

  "Ha! Peixoto, you worry about mosquitoes when there are wolves at the door! Those 'plantation owners' were nouveaux riches, without tradition, without knowing how to govern or defend land. My family has cleared this region of Indians and quilombolas for generations. I fought the Dutch! I know how to crush a threat."

  Peixoto watched the two of them, Garcia's arrogant conviction and Inês's sparkling greed. He felt the weight of his solitude in his dissent. He was outnumbered, surrounded by the relentless logic of ambition. A long, deep sigh escaped his lips, laden with resignation and a foreboding he could no longer sustain alone.

  "Very well," he said, his voice more subdued, almost weary. "I will join you. I'll commit my men and my resources."

  He paused, raised the monocle as if seeking clarity on something distant, but merely adjusted it on his eye, a nervous gesture.

  "But, as a matter of prudence that I hope is not mine alone… I must warn you about something." He leaned slightly forward, lowering his tone, forcing them to pay attention. "I've spent the last few days studying maps, tracing routes, not just of trade, but of the attacks. Every plantation taken, each one of them, was not chosen at random. They form a path. A path that leads here, to our region. They converge…" he let the word hang in the room's humid air, "…to the vicinity of Ouro Branco."

  Inês fanned herself, watching the exchange. Her brown curls danced with the movement.

  "What are you implying, Peixoto? That a band of runaway blacks wants to take… the city of Ouro Branco?" She let out a crystalline, affected laugh that echoed through the room. "Ha ha ha! That is delicious!"

  Garcia laughed along, tapping the table lightly.

  "Excellent! Thank you for lightening the mood, Peixoto. But speaking seriously—" his face turned sober again, "—now that we are in agreement, we must prepare. If it's not us, it will be others. And we'll be left behind."

  Peixoto looked at the two of them, at their faces flushed with wine and greed, at the absolute confidence they exuded. He felt the weight of his solitude in this alliance. Perhaps they are just rumors, exaggerations from frightened common folk… he thought, resigned. The logic of power and greed around him was a tide too strong to swim against.

  "Very well," he said finally, his voice contained. "You can count on me and my men. But I insist… we must send scouts first. Know what we're dealing with."

  Garcia raised his glass, which a servant immediately filled.

  "A toast to prudence, then! But also to action! To our venture, and to the gold of the Jabuticaba Quilombo!"

  Inês raised her glass, her eyes sparkling like the gem on her chest. Peixoto reluctantly raised his. The clink of crystal in that warm, shadow-filled room sounded like a bell marking the beginning of something far more dangerous than any of them—perhaps except Peixoto—could imagine.