When his vision adjusted, he was still under the table, but the world outside seemed distorted, seen through a veil of dark smoke. He could see the bodies, the embers, but everything seemed quiet, distant.

  "What... what was that?" he whispered, dazed.

  "My specialty," Whisper answered, her voice sounding muffled, as if coming from all sides at once. "But we're not untouchable here. I've heard that in Europe, magical weapons made with the Assassin's gem..." she paused, choosing her words. "...can even mask the magical aura of the weapon itself and its user. If that's what we're facing, my detection is blind. And this shadow might not be protection enough."

  Nzambi tried to calm his breathing, tried to sharpen his senses beyond sight. The air in the "shadow" was still, odorless. He closed his eyes, concentrating on what he could hear. Beneath the deafening silence of his own heart, he caught something: a tiny scratching noise, coming from beneath the earth. Skritch-skritch-skritch. Approaching rapidly.

  "Below!" he shouted in an urgent whisper.

  Whisper acted before he finished speaking. The darkness around them dissolved, and they were ejected from the table's shadow, appearing back in the opposite corner of the guard post, nearly crushed against the earthen wall. At the same instant, the arrow erupted from the ground exactly where the table's shadow had been, piercing the air violently.

  But this time, the arrow didn't keep going. It stopped mid-air, as if hovering of its own will, and then, with disconcerting fluidity, spun in place. The obsidian tip, still stained with dark blood, now pointed directly at Nzambi and Whisper, backed against the wall with no way out.

  Nzambi raised his dagger, his eyes desperately trying to focus on the arrow humming like an enraged insect. Whisper prepared to dive into another shadow, but the arrow was too close, too fast.

  A roar of cold filled the air. Not a roar of sound, but a physical sensation, a wave of temperature dropping sharply. In front of them, between the arrow and their bodies, the night's humid air condensed, cracked, and exploded into a solid wall of translucent, bluish ice. The barrier appeared out of nowhere, about five centimeters thick, covering the entire width of the corner.

  CRACK!

  The arrow hit the ice with force—it would have pierced anything else. The tip penetrated the surface, but the dense layer of ice slowed it drastically. Instead of going through, the arrow got stuck, vibrating like a tuning fork, half its length embedded in the frozen barrier. For a moment, it seemed to struggle, trembling, trying to free itself. Then, with a dry snap, it dislodged, retreated in the air, skirted the ice barrier from the side with frustrating agility, and shot out through the hole it had made earlier in the roof, disappearing into the night.

  Silence returned, now broken only by the faint crackling of ice beginning to fracture under the stress of the impact and by Nzambi's ragged breathing.

  The guard post door, which was ajar, swung fully open. Pedro stood there, framed in the doorway, a faint blue glow of magical energy still dissipating from his outstretched hands. His face was tense, his eyes quickly scanning the inside of the cubicle, landing on the bodies, then on Nzambi and Whisper. The smell of ozone, fresh and electric, now mixed with the blood and earth.

  "Are you alright?" His voice was calm, but the urgency was clear.

  Whisper, already on her feet, taking deep breaths to control her heart rate, answered immediately, still eyeing the ceiling.

  "We are. But stay alert. Don't underestimate that arrow. It's intelligent, persistent, and can come back at any—"

  Uooooooooom...

  Uooooooooom...

  UOOOOOOOOOM!

  The sounds of other horns, first one, then two, then a cacophony of them coming from different points along the border, cut through the night, each more desperate than the last. The response Nzambi had hoped for, but which now sounded like a sentence.

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  Pedro's face hardened. He looked at Whisper.

  "We're under a coordinated attack," he stated, the declaration sounding more like a grim oath than an observation. "Whisper, try to reach the other posts, assess the situation, and call for reinforcements from the main camp. I'll cover the retreat of any garrisons that can still move. We meet at the valley rendezvous point."

  Whisper nodded, without hesitation. Her glasses gleamed.

  "Be careful, Pedro. That arrow... there's something wrong with it. It's not a common weapon."

  "Noted," he replied, his eyes already searching the darkness outside.

  Without another word, Whisper took a step back, and the shadows in the deepest corner of the guard post seemed to stretch and wrap around her body like a liquid cloak. In the blink of an eye, she dissolved, becoming a patch of darkness that then faded away, leaving behind only cold air and a sense of absence.

  Nzambi was left alone with Pedro, surrounded by the bodies of his comrades, the sound of alarm horns echoing like funeral bells in a night that had suddenly become alive with invisible dangers.

  ***

  About a kilometer away, on a hill offering a broad view of the border valley, the plantation owner Albuquerque watched through a brass spyglass. A satisfied smile, thin as a knife's edge, played on his lips. He saw the small lights of the campfires in the guard posts go out one by one, or move chaotically, heard the distant, muffled horns.

  Then, a familiar hum approached. His arrow returned, hovering in the air before him before stopping gently, like an obedient bird returning to its perch. The dark wooden shaft was stained and sticky with fresh blood that darkened under the starlight. The wind gem, embedded in the rear of the arrow, glowed with a faint green pulse. The vision gem, at the tip, was transparent. And in the center of the shaft, almost imperceptible against the dark wood, was the Assassin's gem—a dull gray stone that seemed to suck in the light around it.

  Albuquerque took the arrow with the reverence of a father receiving his child. With a spotless white linen cloth he took from his pocket, he began to clean it methodically, removing every stain, every trace of its work. As the blood was wiped away, the gems shone more brightly, especially the wind gem, which seemed to whisper with contained energy.

  One of the bandeirantes beside him, a burly man with a scarred face wearing a wide-brimmed hat, whistled softly, impressed.

  "No wonder that's a family heirloom, sir Albuquerque. It obeys like a well-trained hunting dog. And silent... not even the dogs at the plantations barked."

  Albuquerque ignored the comment, his focus total on the cleaning task. Only when the arrow gleamed like new did he carefully stow it in a reinforced leather quiver hanging from his belt. Then, he turned to the crowd awaiting his orders at the foot of the hill.

  Hundreds of men. Bandits, cruel overseers from other plantations, mercenaries with empty eyes, and slave hunters hardened by life on the frontier. They formed an irregular, menacing mass, staining the clearing with their bodies and weapons. The air smelled of sweaty leather, cheap rum, and greed.

  Albuquerque didn't need to shout. His voice, projected, laden with cold authority, cut through the silent expectation.

  "It's time for you to show what you're made of and what you're being paid for," he began, his gaze sweeping over the front ranks. "The vanguard has already cleared the path, the sentinels are blind and deaf. Go down into those rat Mocambos. Kill. Kill as many runaway blacks as you can find. I'm not interested in slaves, understand? I just want these lands cleaned. Empty. Whatever's on them is debris to be removed. The land is what's valuable. Show me you're worth the money you've been paid."

  A primitive roar arose from the mass of men. It wasn't an organized war cry, but a bellow promising violence and plunder. Then, like a dirty, uncontrolled torrent, they began to run down the hill, weapons raised, their shouts and curses shattering the last peace of the night.

  Albuquerque remained on the hill, watching the human wave spread across the valley below. He stored his composite bow, a piece of fine craftsmanship as valuable as the arrow. The sky to the east was beginning to lighten, streaks of pink and orange painting themselves under a deep blue. The sun would rise soon.

  He watched the sunrise, thinking to himself, satisfaction filling his chest like a heavy wine. These little plantations... those stubborn small farmers. I offered a fair price for their lands. They refused. Thought they could defy Albuquerque. His eyes, cold as the stones of the Assassin's gem, swept over the valley that would soon be his. And look what it got them. All dead in the night, victims of a 'rebellious runaway slave attack.' A tragedy. Divine retribution for their greed, no doubt. He breathed deeply the arriving morning air. In the end, I should even thank this so-called 'Republic' of slaves. They provided the perfect scapegoat. And I get these fertile lands, all the sugarcane already planted... paying only the price of some disposable bandeirantes and mercenaries.

  As the first ray of sunlight illuminated his face, Albuquerque allowed a slow, smug smile to spread. The morning light glinted off one of his teeth, revealing an elaborate gold filling that shone like a sign of his wealth and power. It was the smile of a man convinced he had outwitted fate and charted the perfect course, leaving behind nothing but blood and land ready to be possessed.