The pale, golden morning light filtering through the office's high windows illuminated the cloud of dust dancing over the pile of papers. Carlos was leaning over the desk, his brow furrowed in an expression that, to any outside observer, denoted deep concern with matters of state. But in reality, he wasn't thinking about any of that.

  What can I give as a gift to Quixotina? The thought hammered insistently beneath the presidential facade. A light grenade would be… practical. But it doesn't suit a knight. Something with the strength gem? A reinforced armband? Seems too utilitarian, equipment, not a gift.

  He let out an almost inaudible sigh, the sound lost in the vast silence of the room, broken only by the distant tick-tock of a wall clock. The smell of aged paper and pen ink was familiar, but today it couldn't hold his attention.

  A book, perhaps? A story from my world… but those books don't come here. Only technical manuals, engineering treatises, 'useful' things arrive. Makes sense, when I stop to think. No one would summon a novel, a book of poems. They summon what gives power, what generates wealth. Desire shapes the summoning. It's sad, in a way.

  His gaze wandered to the window, where the placid movement of the square was beginning. Today was Dulcinéia's birthday, and he had a good gift for the girl, in fact more than one.

  For Quixotina, I still don't have a gift. And Nia wants something too. She deserves it more than anyone. From sunrise to sunset, and often beyond, she's at the factory. The attack is only possible because she doesn't sleep, just produces or improves rifles. A pang of guilt pierced him. Well, that will have to wait. After Ouro Branco. Right now, all effort needs to be concentrated on that.

  The soft knock on the door pulled him from his reverie.

  "President?" It was Márcia's calm, professional voice. "Specter is here. Said he needs to speak with you."

  Carlos straightened in his chair, pushing the small personal project into a drawer. His face immediately assumed the expected posture.

  "You may let him in, Márcia."

  Speaking of what I really have to think about… he reflected as the door opened.

  Specter entered with the discretion his name suggested. His dark green uniform seemed to absorb the light, and only his eyes, attentive and tired under the shadow of his hat, denoted his presence. He closed the door with a soft click before sitting in the chair in front of the desk, dispensing formal greetings.

  "The numbers are closing," he said, pulling out a worn leather folder. "Thanks to Nia's effort and everyone at the factory, we will meet the goal of a hundred repeating rifles on time. Only a few units left."

  Carlos nodded, feeling the concrete weight of that achievement.

  "It was only possible because I ordered Fernanda to divert all qualified blacksmiths," he replied, rubbing his eyes. "Pressure cooker projects, agricultural tools, everything took a backseat. I sent them all to the factory, which now works day and night, with different shifts."

  "I'm grateful for that," Specter placed the papers on the desk, aligning them with military precision. "Final numbers: a hundred repeating rifles, seven hundred reliable muskets, two hundred adepts mobilized for combat. The artillery has six light cannons ready, there are also heavy cannons, but they won't be necessary yet."

  He paused, his index finger running down a column of numbers.

  "We have more recruited soldiers, that's true. But we don't have firearms for all of them. And we have more adepts in the Republic, but…"

  "…But they are spread across the factories," Carlos completed, anticipating the argument. "Temperature control in the chemical factory, metal rolling at the foundry, water purification. Removing them would be cutting our own veins."

  "Exactly," Specter confirmed. "I don't intend to reassign them. Our modern army depends as much on the ammunition from the chemical factory as on the weapons. Despite everything, we are lucky. Even with the population near twenty thousand after… the losses, we have a density of adepts above average. Many were already in the army before the split with Ganga Zala."

  Carlos took the sheet of numbers, his eyes running over the figures that seemed so small against the vastness of the challenge. A familiar chill rose in his chest.

  "With this… do you really think we can take Ouro Branco?"

  Specter didn't answer immediately. Instead, he unrolled a map over the desk, overlaying the reports. It was a detailed map of the region, with marks in charcoal and red ink. His calloused, firm finger pointed to the symbol representing the city.

  "The intelligence is clear. The governor is still recruiting, desperately. The city itself is vulnerable. The only organized defense is this fort, here, on the main road." His fingernail tapped on a small fortified square. "They underestimate our ambition. The idea of an army of blacks conquering a city still seems like a delusion to them."

  Carlos studied the map, his mind calculating distances, supply lines.

  "And Albuquerque? His engenho is a thorn in our side."

  "It's our biggest tactical problem," Specter admitted. "Even after the defeat, he fled with the bulk of his adepts. They are wounded, furious, and dangerous. They will be a mobile and vengeful enemy during our advance."

  Carlos's gaze then landed on another marking, further east: a stylized castle.

  "And Garcia Castle? The engenho lords of the region won't sit idly by."

  Specter pulled out another paper, full of handwritten notes.

  "Garcia Castle houses powerful lords, yes. But none have the personal power, wealth, or number of adepts of an Albuquerque." He paused, choosing his words. "But I'm being cautious. They are already moving. Merchants… of less scruple have informed me they've started hiring mercenaries. Still few, nowhere near what Albuquerque gathered, but it's a sign."

  Carlos let out a long sigh, and for the first time that morning, a thread of true relief seemed to emerge. His shoulders, which were tense, lowered a centimeter.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Then… it's all within the planned. The pieces are moving as we expected."

  It was exactly at that moment, when the tension seemed to ease a bit, that the office door opened abruptly. A guard, his face pale beneath his helmet, stood on the threshold, holding a leather cylinder.

  "President! A letter. From the Holy Popess. The messenger… he was covered in road grime, said it was urgent. Life or death."

  The air, which a second ago seemed breathable, solidified. Carlos extended his hand, his fingers suddenly cold. He recognized the purple wax seal even before breaking it. As he unrolled the parchment, his vision focused on the formal lines, and then on the content behind them.

  His hands began to tremble. A fine, uncontrollable tremor that made the paper whisper. The color drained from his face.

  "Time is up," his voice came out hoarse, a whisper laden with a weight that crushed the momentary relief. "The Church… will cut all trade. Unless we hand over the steel manufacturing method. Unconditionally."

  "Already?!" Specter's exclamation wasn't a shout, but a dry blow of incredulity, echoing in the silent room.

  Carlos, lacking the strength to respond, merely extended the letter. As Specter grabbed it, his eyes scanning the text with lethal speed, Carlos sank into his chair. He brought his hands to his head, fingers burying themselves in his hair. The smell of paper, ink, the Popess's wax – everything smelled like an end.

  "Márcia!" his voice sounded muffled against his hands. He raised his face, pale and resolute. "Call all the ministers. To the meeting room. Now. It's a national emergency."

  ***

  The mood in the meeting room was as dense as the smoke of a fire. The large solid wood table, which usually witnessed lively debates, now seemed like a polished coffin. The afternoon light streaming through the windows illuminated the somber faces around it. Carlos had just finished reading the letter aloud, and the words still seemed to hang in the air, like a putrid odor no one wanted to admit smelling.

  Fernanda looked as if she had been physically struck, her teary eyes fixed on the table. Guaíra, the Minister of Construction, had clenched fists, his jaw muscles prominent. Davi, the young Minister of Chemistry, seemed to be trying to process the impossible equation presented to them. The silence was broken only by the panting breath of Aqua, the Minister of Economy, whose mind must have been calculating the collapse with the speed of a machine.

  It was Tassi who broke the ice, her voice surprisingly calm, but with a coldness of tempered steel.

  "So, Carlos. It's time for Plan B, isn't it? Conquer the Holy City."

  The words, spoken so directly, made several of those present shudder. Specter, standing near the wall map, nodded slowly.

  "The logistics would be monstrous, but not impossible. The attack on Ouro Branco hasn't started yet. We could redirect the troops, make a forced march south before they expect…"

  "That would be a betrayal!" Fernanda's voice cut through the air, laden with anguish. "A betrayal of the Holy Popess! She welcomed us, helped us… she's a saint!"

  "And are we saints?" Aqua interjected, her voice practical and hard as stone. "You, as Minister of Labor, know the payroll. I, as Minister of Economy, tell you: we are already bleeding from the partial steel embargo. With no trade at all? No salt, no cloth, no basic gems? The Treasury won't last a month. Chaos will come before the Portuguese soldiers."

  Guaíra pounded his fist on the table, not in anger, but with ancient frustration.

  "And before? Before trade, before salaries, what were we? We fought for survival with our nails and teeth! We can go back to that! The population will understand! It's for our final freedom!"

  Davi, the youngest at the table, raised his voice, not in challenge, but with painful clarity.

  "Minister Guaíra, with all due respect… do you really think everyone will willingly go back to working just for food and shelter? After tasting wages, trade, choosing what to buy… you don't go back to 'basics.' It's like freedom," his eyes met Carlos's for an instant. "After you taste it, no one accepts going back to being a slave. Even if the engenho lord calls it 'protection' and offers a full plate."

  The discussion exploded then, voices overlapping, arguments of necessity against morality, realpolitik against loyalty. Until a voice, hoarse from forge smoke and lack of sleep, silenced them all.

  "You're arguing as if there were only two doors in this room."

  It was Nia. She was leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her leather apron stained with soot. Everyone turned to her.

  "Either we declare war on the Church, or we accept dying in silence. You forget the third option: hand over the secret."

  A murmur of shock ran through the room.

  "That would buy us time," she continued, entering and leaning on the table, her silver eyes scanning each face. "Time to grow stronger. I built the Bessemer converter myself. I know the work it takes. Even with my affinity, it was like taming a dragon of molten metal."

  "And what guarantees the Church will keep its word afterward?" Davi asked skeptically. "That they won't take the steel and still strangle us?"

  "That's it, Nia. You're right." Carlos's voice sounded for the first time since the discussion began. Everyone fell silent. He was standing now, looking at Nia with a strange glint in his eyes.

  "President, forgive me, but I disagree," Specter interposed, his loyalty forcing him to contest. "I agree with Davi. Handing over our biggest trump card is a leap into the dark. They will have access to the same quality steel. It's already dangerous to sell the weapons, even for profit. Giving them the recipe is arming our own executioner."

  Carlos shook his head, a slow, calculated movement.

  "We can hand over a method for manufacturing steel. But it will take them time to master the method, just as Nia took time, besides we—"

  Aqua cut him off; she was the only one with the courage to do that.

  "That would destroy us as an economic power! We'd create a direct competitor, with far more resources!"

  "We wouldn't create one," Carlos said, and now a cold, almost absent smile touched his lips. "Because, as Nia so rightly reminded us, she took a long time to make the converter work. Even with exceptional powers." He paused, letting the implication hang. "They will spend time. Or rather… waste time. After all, we don't need to send the correct method."

  Understanding hit the room like a wave. Glances crossed, some with a sudden glint of hope, others with horror at the duplicity of the plan. Nia was the first to break the ensuing silence.

  "But I can't be the only fire and metal adept in the world! In the Old World, in the Church itself, there may be others. They might discover the ruse faster."

  "Perhaps," Specter admitted, picking up the argument. "But an adept of that level is rare. And between the letter being sent, the method being tested, failing, them investigating why, confronting us… that will be months. Perhaps a whole year."

  "And what guarantees they won't cut trade while they verify?" Davi insisted, searching for the flaw in the plan.

  It was Tassi who answered, with a surprising conviction coming from someone of such a different faith.

  "The Popess will guarantee it. She is on our side. I know her. I saw it in her eyes."

  Fernanda bit her lip, the moral conflict stamped on her face.

  "And when the Church discovers the truth? When they realize we deceived them? Then we will be mortal enemies! The reaction will be ten times worse!"

  Carlos looked at her, and his expression was one of deep, ancient resignation.

  "Fernanda, the Holy Roman Catholic Apostolic Church was never our ally. The Popess, Paula, was. She is a woman in a sea of sharks. It was only a matter of time before the jaws closed." He raised his voice, projecting it across the room.

  He looked at each of the ministers, his gaze demanding not just obedience, but understanding of the precipice before them.

  "So, it's decided." His hand hit the table, a dry and final sound that echoed in the silent room. "Specter, continue preparations for Ouro Branco. The campaign proceeds. I will write the letter to the Popess. A very, very careful letter."

  The fate of the Republic, once again, hung on paper and the solidity of a lie.