Nzambi had already accepted death. The chill of despair had solidified in his chest, and fatigue weighed his limbs like lead. He felt his body sink, not into water, but into the very shadow where he was crouching—a sensation of icy, frictionless vacuum. The darkness that swallowed him was absolute, a pitch black that not only blinded but seemed to absorb sound and air itself. Yet, in the midst of this nothingness, a firm hand grasped his. The skin was rough, calloused, but the pull was decisive. He was yanked from the spot in a dizzying transition between patches of darkness. The world flashed by in disjointed glimpses: the damp smell of earth, the taste of rust in the air, the sudden change in temperature from one point to another. He didn't see the face of the one leading him, but he knew the touch, the silent, efficient presence. It was Whisper.

  Whisper said nothing, just pulled him from one shadow to another. After an eternity—or perhaps only a few minutes—of gliding through the realm of shadows, they emerged. The morning light, golden and dusty, hit Nzambi's eyes like an assault. They were behind the gnarled trunk of a large tree, atop a small hill. The air here was cleaner, laden with the sweet-sour perfume of wildflowers and the mold of dry leaves. Beside him on the soft grass lay a long, advanced weapon—a sniper rifle of dark metal that seemed to drink the light. And, lying beside it, panting, was Tainá.

  Whisper slid to the ground next to the corporal, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His face was bathed in sweat, and his breath came out in small, controlled but forced puffs.

  At least Tainá is alive, Nzambi thought, a wave of relief so intense it made his knees tremble. He leaned against the tree, the rough bark against his back.

  "Thank you for saving me," he said, his voice still hoarse from adrenaline and near-suffocation in the shadows.

  Whisper turned his head toward him, a trickle of sweat running from his temple. A tired but genuine smile appeared on his lips.

  "That's twice already today, huh? You're going to have to buy me two really cold caipirinhas to make up for the service... and the scare."

  Tainá, upon hearing his voice, groaned softly and forced her elbows to push herself up. The movement was slow, full of pain. Her face was pale, the skin under her eyes marked by dark circles. The urge to vomit rose in her throat in waves, and a throbbing pain, like a heat-anvil pressing against her bones, hammered her temples. The excessive mana use had left her essence depleted, her body a nervous rag. The fact she hadn't fainted or died on the battlefield was a testament to her fierce endurance. She vaguely remembered the emergency techniques Carlos had taught—methods to revive a body, bring back a spirit on the verge of departure. But they weren't guarantees. Coming back "100%," as he said, didn't always happen. And fainting in combat... was a signed, delivered death sentence.

  She stared at Nzambi, her eyes focusing with difficulty.

  "Your name is?" The question came out harsher than she intended.

  Nzambi straightened up, military instinct speaking louder.

  "Ma'am, I'm Private Nzambi!"

  Tainá nodded slowly, swallowing dryly to hold back the nausea.

  "Well then, private. Let this be a lesson: in the midst of chaos, tunnel vision is an invitation to the coffin. You need eyes in the back of your head and ears in the ground." She paused, taking a deep breath. "That said... thank you for staying. For saving me. You could have turned your back, disappeared in the confusion. No one would have known I was abandoned. But you planted your feet and fought. Even in the face of certain death." A glint of respect, mixed with exhaustion, appeared in her gaze. "I owe you my life. And, you know what? I liked Whisper's idea. You're going to have to buy me a caipirinha too, and I'll buy you one. When we get back."

  Nzambi was flustered by the proposal, the surprise clearing for a moment the fog of fatigue from his mind. She's inviting me to drink with her? Alone? I don't think a woman... a corporal has ever invited me for something like that. Should I accept right away? Thank her? What should I say? The silence stretched a second longer than was natural as he desperately searched for the right words.

  Perceiving the hesitation, or perhaps losing focus a little, Tainá paused again, longer this time. Her gaze shifted from him and was lost for a moment on the distant horizon, where columns of dirty, thick smoke still rose, marking the battlefield they had left behind.

  "That... if we get back. We're still too close to them..."

  Her eyes turned to Whisper, examining him with the sharp perception of one who knows their companions.

  "It looks like you're also at your limit, aren't you? Going to the Mocambo and rushing back for the rescue... that's no walk in the park."

  Whisper let out a deep sigh that seemed to come from his bones. He closed his eyes for a second.

  "Yeah. My feet feel like lead and the shadow is... heavy. That's why we can't rest for long." She opened her eyes, alert. "Soon the dogs will pick up our trail. The four-legged ones and the two-legged ones."

  With visible effort, she stood up, his joints cracking. Then, she extended a hand to Tainá. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then took it, letting herself be pulled up. Her legs wavered, but she steadied herself.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "That's it," Whisper continued, his voice regaining a thread of urgency. "As much as it hurts, as much as the body screams to stop, we have to move. And you, Nzambi..." He looked at the curious dagger at the soldier's waist. "...I don't know how that beauty works, but I have a feeling we're going to depend on it a lot to reach the others alive."

  Whisper stared intently at the dagger, his expression a mix of curiosity and professional assessment. The dawn light made the runes on the hilt seem to writhe slowly, like shadow-worms.

  "And if we get back alive," he said, not taking his eyes off the artifact, "you're going to have to give some good explanations about how this beauty works to President Carlos."

  Nzambi felt his stomach muscles tighten. Whisper finally raised his gaze to him, and his dark eyes were penetrating.

  "He's very interested in that gem." He paused, letting the information hang in the humid air. "Of course, you're not obligated to answer anything that goes against your oath or your conscience..." he added, with a tone that sounded more like a warning than a guarantee.

  Nzambi swallowed dryly, the rough sound almost audible. Even though he was new to the Republic, he had already developed a deep respect—and, to be frank, a basal fear—for the man responsible for revolutionizing everything around him. Carlos seemed like a good leader, but even so, Nzambi was wary of what he would do if he knew the secrets behind the dagger.

  Will I become a walking blood reservoir again? Living just to be cut, to have my blood used... I wanted to avoid them knowing about it at all costs...

  "But," Whisper continued, his index finger tracing a circle in the air, "I'm going to have to mention its... potential in my reports. In detail. It's procedure."

  "Yes, ma'am," Nzambi managed to reply, his voice a bit deeper than normal.

  I really can't hide it anymore... I hope Carlos is as good as they say.

  Whisper shook his head, and a slight, almost complicit smile appeared on his face.

  "All this 'ma'am,' this formality... it's a military thing with you people." She raised her hands as if surrendering. "In my case, I'm in another department. I'm not with the army. My work is more... discreet. Let's leave it at that.." Her smile widened a bit, showing weariness but also a certain pride. "But, as you can see, I still get by on the battlefield. Even if today the shadows felt heavier than usual."

  Everyone was too tired to even continue the conversation, and they also didn't have time for it. The three exchanged a silent look. It wasn't the look of friends, but of instant allies, a tacit pact forged right there on the crushed grass and in the air laden with dust and tension. It was an agreement of sweat, blood, and pure survival.

  At the limit of their strength, they began to descend the hill. The path was steep, covered in dry leaves that crunched and slipped under their steps. They moved among the tree trunks like wounded ghosts—dragging, hesitant, but moving. Tainá led, her body a tense line of contained pain, each step measured to avoid falling. Whisper came behind, his senses apparently still sharp, eyes sweeping the forest in constant arcs, but the weight of the sniper on his shoulder seemed to increase with every minute.

  Nzambi, at the rear, staggered. Although his mana reserves were still high, his right leg was a problem. The bite he'd taken at the start of the chaos—teeth he hadn't seen, from a creature he barely registered—throbbed with each footfall. It was a hot, penetrating pain, a localized fire that tried to spread through his leg each time he flexed it to take a step. The smell of his own dried blood, metallic and nauseating, mixed with the acrid odor of sweat soaking his uniform and the earthy perfume of the decomposing forest. It was the smell of his own vulnerability, and he struggled to ignore it, focusing on the sound of Tainá's ragged breathing ahead, the rustle of leaves, on anything but the burning pulse in his flesh.

  High above, silent as a thought, a dark wooden arrow with polished metal fittings glided through the air. It didn't follow the common laws of the wind; it hovered with a faint, almost imperceptible vibration. In its shaft, three small milky-amber gems pulsed softly. Everything its "eyes" saw—the three survivors dragging themselves down the hill, the surrounding landscape—was transmitted.

  In the safety of the bandeirante camp, a few leagues away, Albuquerque was relaxing in a camp chair. In his right hand, a mug of unadulterated cacha?a, whose strong, sweetish aroma filled the air around him. His left hand, however, rested with its palm on a sphere that seemed pure crystal but was cold to the touch and had a core that moved like mist—the Vision Gem.

  A satisfied smile played on his lips as he saw the images.

  "Looks like the two little doves escaped the chicken coop..." he murmured to himself, taking a sip. The burning liquid went down smoothly. "But this... this is perfect. I bet my best boots they'll lead us straight to the nest of the other runaways." His eyes narrowed, analytical. "But who would have thought... Escaping that trap. Those... explosive oranges they used. They're more potent than the tavern rumors suggested. Where could forest rats like them get magical weapons of such caliber?"

  He removed his hand from the sphere, and the image inside dissolved into mist. The arrow outside, obedient, began to return. Albuquerque stood up, stretching his back, and turned to the man in charge of the operation.

  "Henrique!"

  The bandeirante in question was a burly man with broad shoulders that strained the leather of his jerkin. His face was a map of past battles, crisscrossed by deep scars. A wide-brimmed hat protected his scrutinizing eyes.

  "Sir?" Henrique's voice was hoarse, like stones dragging.

  "Send dogs to follow the trail of three blacks on the hill to the east. But keep them on a leash, understood? Safe distance. I want them to be shadows, not barking guard dogs. We can't spook the prey now."

  Henrique inclined his head, a slow movement full of certainty.

  "Can do, sir Albuquerque. We'll follow them quieter than a snake in the grass. Until we find the den where the rest of the pack is hiding."

  Satisfied, Albuquerque nodded. When his special arrow arrived, silent, he caught it in the air with a skillful gesture.

  He then headed to his tent, a refuge of relative comfort amidst the spartan camp. As he lay on the cot, a bitter, ambitious thought crossed his mind, while the fatigue from prolonged use of the Gem weighed on his own energy:

  This arrow... is a marvel. An eye that sees all. But using three different gems, four if I count the vision sphere linked to the arrow, drains the user. It's like carrying the weight of three mountains in your mind. If I could wield it for hours on end, without strain... I wouldn't even need these useful brutes. I could kill them all one by one, such is this weapon's power...

  Amidst these thoughts, Albuquerque fell asleep, but his overseers continued to follow the trail.