The midday sun beat down strong and vertical upon the Holy City of Santa Maria. The air inside the cathedral was cool and heavy, laden with the smell of old incense, melted wax, and damp stone. Most clergy and staff were in the refectory, where the distant sound of cutlery and muffled voices echoed through the empty corridors. But in her laboratory, the Popess was working.

  "Damn it!" The word echoed softly against the stone walls of the small laboratory, lit only by the faint light entering through a high slit. "Can't find the right fungus that produces penicillin... I know it's a blue-green mold, but hundreds of fungi are like that!"

  She observed a row of glass vials on the worn wooden table. Inside them, agar culture media showed patches of mold in different shades: greens, grays, whites, and cottony growths. The air there smelled sweet and musty, mixed with the acidic aroma of vinegar she used for cleaning.

  "Cultivating this is a nightmare," she grumbled, picking up a vial with tweezers. "No matter how much I sterilize the jars with boiling water and alcohol, they always get contaminated by other fungi or bacteria... It's like trying to catch a single grain of sand in a storm."

  With a gesture of frustration, she dropped the glass back onto the table, producing a dry clink. She sighed, rubbing her eyes. Fatigue weighed on her shoulders.

  "With fire magic, I could sterilize everything perfectly. Or buy reinforced glass autoclaves, purified culture media…" her voice lowered to a bitter whisper. "But Orsini and Pope Henry's thugs are on my back. Dom Orsini even scrutinizes my expenses with a magnifying glass... I have to do my research hidden in my own cathedral, during midday, while everyone is at lunch. And this considering all the good I've already brought to this world..."

  Paula carefully moved the fungi aside and turned to another bench, where a series of shallow trays containing a cloudy pinkish liquid rested. Inside, small structures floated – primitive neural tissue cultures, carefully extracted from test subjects and kept alive with a nutrient solution and traces of mana from the alteration gem.

  "This isn't bearing fruit either…" she murmured, observing the fragile formations. "But I have to be patient. It took me years to master the uses of the alteration gem. It will take me years to figure out how to clone a body along with the mind, or how to isolate penicillin... Science isn't magic; it doesn't happen with a snap of the fingers."

  Discouraged but not defeated, she covered the trays with a clean cloth and left the laboratory, locking the door with a small key she hid in the folds of her robes. Turning into the dark corridor, she bumped into one of her most trusted assistants, Brother Mateus. The young man was pale, and his eyes searched the corridor's shadows.

  "Your Holiness," he whispered, bowing slightly. "President Carlos sent this. Said it was for your hands only, and yours alone. The messenger insisted a lot on that."

  A scroll of parchment, sealed with wine-colored wax and stamped with the symbol of the Republic – a jabuticaba fruit entwined with a gear – was passed from hand to hand with solemn care.

  "Thank you, Mateus." Paula's voice was soft, but her heart sped up a little. "Were you discreet?"

  "Like the night, Your Holiness. No one saw me."

  As soon as the assistant withdrew, disappearing into the corridor's gloom, Paula gripped the scroll tightly. Her hands, still carrying the faint smell of mold and alcohol, trembled a little.

  What could be so confidential? she thought, pressing the roll against her chest. Does it have to do with the divine artifacts? Carlos mentioned a while ago that he found a person with a weapon whose blade was made from a gem that emanated the same dark purple they do...

  Curiosity and a pang of apprehension pushed her. Instead of going to her quarters, she quickly returned to her office, a spacious room with shelves crammed with books and manuscripts. Sunlight streamed in strongly through the stained-glass windows, projecting colored patches onto the worn Persian carpet.

  With quick movements, she closed the heavy velvet curtains, one by one, plunging the room into a cozy gloom. She locked the massive door with an iron key. Finally, she lit a single beeswax candle on the desk. The flame danced, casting swaying shadows on the stern faces of saints painted on the walls.

  Only then, sitting in the high-backed chair, did she break the seal with her nail. The sound of cracking wax seemed loud in that silence. She unrolled the parchment and leaned into the flickering light.

  "Your Holiness,

  I hope this letter finds you in safety. I spoke with a man who escaped slavery in Gemas Gerais, and he told me fascinating and deeply disturbing things about the origin of the so-called 'divine artifacts'…"

  Paula held her breath. Her eyes raced over the following lines, where Carlos detailed, with meticulous clarity, everything Nzambi had revealed to him: the gem of sacrifice, the cost in human lives, the sinister mechanics behind the summonings.

  The air seemed to leave her lungs. The hand holding the parchment turned icy.

  That… who could have imagined? The thought came as a shock. A sick gem, fed by deaths… was that behind all the divine artifacts?

  A wave of nausea swept through her, followed by a cold horror. Her mind raced to the cathedral's cellars, to the locked chests where the Church stored the artifacts confiscated over the centuries. She remembered her own secret collection of "Divine Books," forbidden volumes she studied for knowledge, hidden behind a false wall.

  How many lives were lost to summon each of those objects? Every book, every tool… Perhaps the popular belief is right. Perhaps they truly are 'devil's books'… a temptation with an abominable price written in blood.

  She passed a hand over her face, feeling the weight of the revelation. The candle crackled, throwing off a spark. After a long moment, she forced herself to keep reading.

  "...Francisco obtains many books and even divine artifacts. Does Your Holiness know how he gets them? Does he sacrifice people? And if he doesn't sacrifice, how does he obtain them? I would like you to inform me, as I have in my hands a tool made from the same gem, capable of summoning more artifacts – books that could help your research and myself. However, I solemnly swear that I will never use human lives for this. Hence my question about Francisco."

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  "Francisco…" The name echoed in her mind. The cunning merchant, her contact for years, the man who always got the impossible.

  Would he sacrifice people? No… no, it's impossible. I've known him for a long time. He can be greedy, ambitious, an unscrupulous trader, but a mass murderer? Never. She bit her lip, doubting her own certainty. But what if he's being deceived? What if someone in his network supplies these items, paying the price in blood without him knowing? And even if he doesn't know… it's time for him to reveal all his secrets. Especially if this knowledge can give us ways to save lives, instead of taking them. I left him alone because I didn't imagine one could somehow choose which artifacts to summon, but if I can summon a book about fungi, or neuroscience…

  The decision formed, clear and urgent. She had to find Francisco. He had just returned from a trip to the Republic; he was probably still in the city, in his house or his discreet warehouse.

  With renewed determination, Paula stood up. She carefully folded the letter and hid it inside her robes, against her heart. Snuffed out the candle with her fingers, plunging the desk into darkness, and headed for the door.

  But upon opening it, her blood seemed to freeze.

  On the threshold, completely blocking the passage, stood Dom Orsini. He seemed to have grown even fatter since his arrival in Santa Maria; his round, sweaty face reflected the faint light of the corridor, and his clerical habit seemed tight on his broad shoulders. His small, penetrating eyes ran over Paula from head to toe, landing on the fold of her dress where the letter was hidden.

  "Your Holiness, why such a hurry?" His voice was a false honey, thick and condescending.

  Paula tried to compose a serene face. "Dom Orsini. I was just… going to check the infirmary supplies."

  "Hmm, of course," he murmured, his eyes fixed on her. "Reading more letters from the Republic in secret from me, aren't we?"

  "No, I…" Paula tried to protest, but he raised a hand, cutting her off.

  "No use lying. Do you think I don't know about your many little secrets?" He took a step into the office, forcing her to retreat. His smell, a mix of sweat, cheap wine, and heavy incense, invaded the space. "The other day, for example, I visited the city's magical craftsman. The Church's craftsmen, supposedly, should only produce artifacts for ecclesiastical use… but that's not what he was doing. He was forging special bullets, using earth and darkness gems. And there's only one place that uses bullets for muskets and other firearms: the Republic."

  Paula felt a knot form in her stomach. She said nothing, but her silence was confirmation.

  "Why that surprised look?" Orsini smiled, showing yellowish teeth. "Even an outsider like me heard about the Republic's weapons. And about your support for them. You know, helping to produce magical weapons for one side in a war… that's not something the Church should do. We should be neutral. At least, in theory. Isn't that right?"

  He made a dramatic pause, savoring her discomfort.

  "Another interesting tidbit… From what I've learned, at the Church's branch in the famous Republic, they lend magical healing tools to a so-called 'hospital.' If the priests and monks sent by Pope Henrique found out, you'd be burned for heresy before sunset. The Inquisition would love to hear about a Popess who gives God's healing tools to secular hospitals."

  Paula felt her legs weaken. The stone floor seemed to sway. Without a word, she went back behind the desk, picked up the snuffed-out candle, and, with trembling hands, relit it with a match. Then, under Orsini's fixed, triumphant gaze, she took Carlos's letter, tore it into pieces, and held the edges over the flame.

  The paper caught fire quickly, curling into black ashes that fell into the bronze ashtray. Carlos's face, his words of warning and hope, turned to smoke that rose to the dark ceiling.

  "I understand now," said Paula, her voice finally found, cold and flat. "You've discovered my secrets. Just tell me: what do you want from me?"

  Dom Orsini smiled, a broad, satisfied expression. He settled heavily into the leather chair in front of the desk, which groaned under his weight.

  "Good that you're a smart woman. That makes things easier." He clasped his hands over his belly. "Well then, I want something quite simple. I wish to become the Supreme Pontiff. The next Pope, not the Pope of a holy city, but the Supreme Pope. And your support in this endeavor would be… fundamental."

  Paula almost sighed with relief.

  Ah, if it's just political ambition… That I can handle. I can support him, pretend loyalty. It's a game I know.

  "I understand," she said, inclining her head.

  "Support for the papacy is the key to the future, of course," he began, in an almost conversational tone. "But a solid future needs material foundations. Spiritual power alone is like a wooden sword: it has the shape, but lacks the edge and weight. Therefore, I also desire wealth."

  He paused, letting the word hang in the damp air of the office. His small eyes gleamed with naked, calculating greed.

  "And to obtain those riches, to forge true power, stealing the Republic's steel production secret wouldn't just be useful… it would be fundamental." The last word was spat out with emphasis, like a nail being driven in.

  "I can consider supporting you. But let one thing be clear: I will not betray President Carlos. I will not steal his production secrets for you," said the Popess in a firm tone.

  Orsini's expression hardened a bit, but not with surprise. He made a theatrical gesture, pulling an official document from within his robe, sealed with the emblem of the Roman Curia.

  "I imagined you'd say something like that. However, things have changed a bit. The response from Alba has arrived."

  "Already?" The shock made Paula lean forward. "I thought we'd have at least another month!"

  "I… have my means," said Orsini with a mysterious air. "An acquaintance, a captain with a powerful wind gem. Allows for fast travel. But that's beside the point." He slid the letter across the polished desk to her.

  With fingers that felt like lead, Paula took the document and broke the seal. The message was short, direct, and brutal. Her eyes ran over the lines, and each word was like a blow.

  "...orders the immediate cessation of all trade and exchange with the self-styled 'Republic of Brazil… until the same delivers, unconditionally, the complete methods for producing high-quality steel… Should they not do so willingly, the local Popess is to immediately withdraw all ecclesiastical presence, including all healing artifacts… and declare total support for the Captaincy of Pernambuco in its conflict against the said Republic… The Holy City of Alba has already established an agreement with the Portuguese Crown: in exchange for our support, we will receive the steel technology…"

  Orsini's voice pulled her from her stupor.

  "The Church will get rich. But me, you see, I'm not a monster. I don't desire unnecessary bloodshed. That's why I want you to convince Carlos to hand over his secrets. You two are smart people," he paused, and the compliment sounded like an insult, "considering you're a woman and he's black. I'm sure you'll make the right decision. Besides, he already promised us he would do it, even though I don't trust the word of a son of Ham."

  Paula sat down, defeated. The weight of Alba's authority, the threat of war, the imminent betrayal of everything she and Carlos were building… it was a perfect trap.

  Her mind, numb, went into autopilot. Without thinking, she pulled out a blank sheet of parchment, took a pen, and began dipping it in the inkwell. The first words began to form: "Dear Carlos…"

  And as the pen scratched the paper, she remembered the choice Carlos had spoken to her about. Now the time had come for her to make a choice, but she wasn't prepared to choose.