The air in the bar was a dense, inviting mixture: the greasy smell of frying food, the woody aroma of spilled beer, the sweet-tart scent of mashed fruit for caipirinhas, and the dried sweat of workers ending their shift. Dim lights from fish-oil lanterns created yellow puddles on the rough wooden tables, worn smooth by countless glasses and elbows. The buzz of voices, laughter, and the constant clinking of glasses formed a steady soundtrack.

  Nzambi sank a little deeper into the rustic wooden chair, feeling the rough backrest against his spine through his simple shirt. In his mouth, the fresh bitterness of the craft beer still danced on his tongue. In front of him, on a simple clay plate, a serving of golden, crispy fried potatoes shared space with slices of fried calabresa sausage, releasing a smoky, spicy aroma that made his mouth water.

  Tainá, to his right, dunked an especially long potato fry into a small clay dish filled with homemade ketchup—more tangy and with bits of tomato. She brought it to her mouth with a sigh of satisfaction before speaking, her fingers slightly sticky.

  "This place Whisper recommended really is good," she said, chewing with pleasure. The soft crunch echoed quietly. "The fries are perfect… and don't even get me started on the caipirinha." She took a generous sip of her pale-pink drink, where chunks of mashed strawberry floated. "Speaking of which, where is she? I thought we agreed to meet, didn't we?"

  Nzambi took another sip from his ceramic mug, feeling the cold foam on his upper lip. He wiped it with the back of his hand before answering, his voice a tone deeper than the surrounding noise.

  "She said she had a prior engagement… but didn't give details. Just that she'd come later." He shrugged, picking up a piece of calabresa with a simple metal fork. The meat was juicy with a crispy crust of spices. "You know… during the battle, it seemed like you knew her."

  Tainá smiled, a nostalgic gleam in her eyes that seemed a bit brighter under the influence of alcohol. She grabbed another potato, swirling it in the ketchup.

  "You're new to the Quilombo… to the Republic, right?" She corrected herself with a slight nod. "Almost everyone from the old army knew the trio. Specter, Shadow, and Whisper. They were… legends." Her tone lowered, becoming almost conspiratorial, forcing Nzambi to lean forward to hear. "Every soldier admired them. With the Assassin's Gems, they could do what no platoon could: enter an engenho, make a cruel master disappear, and leave without a single strand of hair as evidence." She took a dramatic pause, having another sip. "Ah, and back then, it was just the Assassin's Gem. No using the Darkness Gem…"

  Nzambi chewed the calabresa slowly, absorbing the information. The spicy, smoky flavor contrasted with his growing curiosity.

  "I see…" he said after swallowing. "But that leads me to another question. Where is the Assassin's Gem? Or the Darkness Gem? They don't wear any visible necklace, no pendant… I saw Whisper's weapon, but there's no shiny stone on it."

  Tainá laughed, a cheerful, open sound.

  "Every recruit asks that!" She pointed her fork at him, a drop of ketchup falling onto the stained, checkered tablecloth. "The strongest rumor is that the Assassin's Gem is invisible. Not just it, but the whole magical artifact it's attached to—be it a dagger, a crossbow, or whatever." She lowered her voice again, her eyes quickly scanning the bar in an old reflex. "And the Darkness Gem… they say it's in the person's shadow. Literally. You'd never see it, because it only exists where there's no light."

  Nzambi frowned, intrigued.

  "Sounds like too much mysticism. It can't be just that."

  "Right!" Tainá agreed, animated. "There was another rumor, that they keep the Assassin's Gem right in the a—"

  Before she could finish the sentence, something changed. The corner of Nzambi's eye caught movement in his periphery. The shadow under the last empty chair at the table—a black, irregular blotch on the packed dirt floor—seemed to stretch and thicken. There was no sound, no gust of wind. Just a sudden chill, as if a door to a cellar had been opened for an instant.

  And then, Whisper was simply sitting in the chair, as if she had always been there. Her black hair, now loose and slightly damp at the ends, fell over her shoulders. She still wore a black dress. A small, slightly mischievous smile played on her lips.

  "So?" Her voice was soft, but it cut through the surrounding buzz for the two of them. "What are you two saying about me, huh? As if starting the party without me wasn't enough, you're also prying into my professional secrets?"

  Tainá, caught by surprise, choked on a piece of strawberry and coughed before answering, with a tone of faux drunken scandal:

  "Who said we were talking about you, miss? We were discussing… doctoral theories on magical mineralogy! Too advanced for you."

  Whisper let out a low, genuine laugh. Her eyes, however, settled on Nzambi, who watched her with a mixture of admiration and caution.

  "Is that so?" she asked, arching a thin eyebrow. "And you, Nzambi? Did you become a gem expert too?"

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Nzambi felt heat rise up his neck. He took a long sip of beer to buy time, feeling the cold liquid go down.

  "I… was just curious." He stared at her. "Don't tell me you were there, listening the whole time?"

  Whisper's eyes shone with amused innocence.

  "Me? Never. Would I eavesdrop on a private conversation?" She made a theatrical pause, reaching out to grab a fry from Tainá's plate, chewing it with delight. "It's just that, from the darkness, I could feel your fun vibe. I got jealous. Wanted to know what the exciting topic was."

  Tainá was torn between laughing and feeling guilty. She looked at Whisper, then at Nzambi, and then her gaze caught salvation: the waiter, a middle-aged man with a stained apron, was passing nearby with an empty tray.

  "Hey, friend!" she called, raising her hand. "Come here, please! Bring a well-made caipirinha, with plenty of cacha?a and lime, for this beautiful, raven-haired lady who has just graced our table! And… bring another strawberry one for me too, please!"

  The waiter nodded with a professional smile and moved away. Whisper looked at Tainá, the mischievous smile still on her lips.

  "Do you really think cheap compliments and alcohol will win me over?" But her tone was light, playful. "You're just lucky I'm in an excellent mood today."

  "Oh yeah?" Nzambi asked, interested. "What happened?"

  "I got a promotion. And a… present, of sorts." She shrugged, but pride was visible in her posture. "Although, between us, a real present would be a nice ring, a new dress… not special bullets for my weapon. That's equipment."

  "A caipirinha is a better present!" declared Nzambi, with a boldness lent by his third mug of beer. "And today, everything you drink is on me! A toast to my heroine!"

  Whisper laughed again, a looser sound than usual.

  "You don't have to pay for anything, Nzambi. Especially since, if I recall correctly, you were the one who destroyed the assassin's arrow. We're even." Her gaze fixed on him, and the playful tone diminished a degree. "But… if you really want to make me happy, there's something you can do for me."

  Nzambi, wrapped in the friendly warmth of alcohol and company, didn't even blink.

  "Of course! Name it. Anything for a woman as impressive as you." He made a broad gesture, almost knocking over the salt shaker. "Never, in my entire life, did I imagine I'd be at a table, drinking and laughing with two warriors so… incredible and beautiful."

  Tainá whistled softly, amused. Whisper ignored the flourish, but a slight blush rose to her cheekbones. She picked up the beer mug Nzambi had just filled for her and took a short sip before speaking, her voice lowering to a more serious, almost confidential tone.

  "Thanks for the compliment. But what I want is simpler. Remember our conversation? When we were being chased, and I said you needed to talk to Carlos about your dagger?"

  The mood at the table changed instantly. Nzambi's smile froze and then vanished. He set his mug down on the table with a drier clack than intended. His fingers around the ceramic handle turned white from pressure.

  "I remember," he said, his voice restrained.

  "Right. He asked me about it again today. And…" Whisper hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "…he was serious, Nzambi. Very serious. It wasn't a boss's idle curiosity. He said it involves the future of the Republic. Everyone's security."

  The air seemed to leave Nzambi. He shrank slightly in his chair, his eyes fleeing to the dark surface of his beer. A barely perceptible tremor passed through his shoulders. Tainá, even with her head light from alcohol, noticed. She reached across the table and gave the back of his hand a light tap.

  "Hey. Look at me."

  Nzambi raised his eyes, reluctant.

  "Listen, Nzambi," said Tainá, her voice losing its drunken lilt, gaining a rough, maternal firmness. "Everyone sitting at this table, everyone in this city, carries a burden. Trauma, fear, scars that aren't just on the body. I have them. She has them." She pointed at Whisper, who nodded silently, her face serious. "But that's in the past. Here, no one will whip you for asking a question. No one will treat you like a disposable tool. And that was already true before Carlos. He just… gave it a name. Republic." She leaned forward. "If he's asking to talk, it's to talk. Be honest. Nothing bad will happen to you. Word of a sergeant."

  Tainá's gaze was intense, convincing. Nzambi took a deep breath, the smell of the bar—the grease, the beer, the wood—filling his lungs like an anchor to the present. He looked at Whisper, who maintained her calm, expectant gaze.

  For a long moment, only the noise of the bar persisted. Then, Nzambi let out his breath in a long sigh, his shoulders sinking, but not in defeat—in relieved resignation.

  "Alright…" he murmured. "I… I'll talk to him."

  "Great," said Whisper, and the smile returned to her face, dissipating the tension. "It's not an interrogation. It's just a conversation."

  At that exact moment, as if timed by a stage director, the waiter reappeared with a tray. On it, two tall glasses: Whisper's yellowish-green caipirinha, another pink one for Tainá.

  "Waiter, get me another beer," said Nzambi.

  It didn't take long for him to bring it, and as soon as he did, Tainá raised her glass.

  "Then, a toast! To being alive! To our victory! Our medals! Our promotions!"

  "To the Republic!" Nzambi raised his glass.

  "And to the hope that Carlos's next present is a dress!" completed Whisper, raising hers.

  The three glasses met in the center of the table with a satisfying clink. The serious moment had passed, dissolved in alcohol and camaraderie. As they took the first sip of their new drinks—Whisper feeling the gentle burn of the cacha?a, Nzambi the bitterness of the beer, Tainá the familiar sweetness of strawberry—the conversation flowed back to lighter topics: exaggerated training stories, the horrible barracks food, rumors about who was flirting with whom in the new militia.

  The shadow under Nzambi's table seemed ordinary again. But for a moment, it had been a door. And in that noisy, lively bar, three people who had known only the darkness of the past drank together, letting the warm light of the lanterns illuminate their smiling faces.