The scream echoed through the noble wooden walls of the manor house, mixing with the aged scent of beeswax, the mildew of Persian carpets, and the sharp, acidic odor of fear that began to permeate the air.

  "Henrique!"

  The heavy door of dark jacarandá wood opened with a low groan, and the man entered, his silhouette blocking the dim corridor light for a moment. His poorly-trimmed beard, streaked with gray, stood out against his face, dirty with dust and dried sweat. His eyes, red from lack of sleep, darted quickly around the corners of the room—scanning the guards, the pulsating gems, the immobile adept—before fixing on the plantation owner.

  Albuquerque remained standing by the window sealed with heavy wooden shutters, his posture rigid, his back turned, trying to disguise the almost imperceptible tremor running through his hands clasped behind his back.

  The atmosphere in the room was charged, heavy as before a storm. Four guards stood motionless as statues in the corners, their leather armor reinforced with metal plates creaking slightly with each controlled breath. In the four corners of the room, on marble pedestals, gems the size of fists pulsed with intermittent light—two emitted a white light, Divine Defense gems, while the other two seemed to suck light into their darkness, gems of Physical Defense. In the center was a gem the size of a large basket, of a deep pink color—a Storage gem.

  Crouched over a brass tripod, a thin, pale man wore glasses with thick lenses that seemed made of black liquid. He was the Vision adept. His slender, almost skeletal fingers constantly adjusted small cogwheels on the mechanism, and he didn't blink, his eyes dilated by some potion sweeping the exterior through the solid walls.

  "Yes, master?" Henrique's voice came out harsher than he intended, dry from the dust of the rush.

  Albuquerque turned slowly, as if the movement required great effort. The light filtered through the shutter slits cut his angular face into dramatic bands of light and shadow, accentuating the deep wrinkles of worry around his thin mouth.

  "Tell me. What is the situation out there, really? None of that foolish optimism."

  The foreman swallowed dryly, the sensation of sand in his throat.

  "Another group just arrived from the forest, from the north..." he began, his restless fingers twisting the battered leather hat he held. "It's hard to count precisely, master, but in total, there must be over a thousand people now. Their camp is growing like a tumor. Most carry the same weapons we saw at the stream, the repeating muskets that spit fire non-stop. But the worst..." he paused, searching for words. "There are hundreds of adepts among them, master. Hundreds. I clearly saw their auras: Earth, Fire, even some Wind."

  Henrique took a longer pause, his eyes losing focus for a moment as he recalled the chaotic scene. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "And there's more... they bring nine strange carts, covered with green canvas. Under them, you can see metal tubes mounted on large wheels. Three of them are... enormous, master. Monstrous. The wheels sank centimeters into the soft earth. It looks like they dragged those devils for kilometers through dense forest."

  Albuquerque let out a low sound, a mixture of a muffled laugh and a snarl of disdain.

  "Those blacks... those quilombolas... do they really think they can take what's mine?" His voice rose in volume, reverberating in the noble wooden beams of the ceiling. He took a step forward, and the smell of old perfume and port wine emanating from his clothes contrasted with the sweat of the others. "And then what? What do they think will happen? My property is a day's ride from Ouro Branco! It's a matter of hours before the governor's troops march here at the first sign of smoke!" He pointed a bony finger at the window. "And the bounty hunters, Henrique! Hundreds of them, scattered throughout the captaincies. My agreements, my promises of gold... they must already be on their way!"

  He took a deep breath, his chest expanding under the embroidered velvet doublet. The air in the room seemed to grow thicker, now also charged with the metallic smell of the pulsating gems, an odor of ozone and old iron.

  "Henrique," he continued, forcing his voice into a more restrained and practical tone, "order all remaining bandeirantes and bounty hunters to prepare. When the final attack begins—and it will begin," he thought—"I want every man at his assigned post. On the walls, at the upper windows, on the roofs."

  His eyes, a cold steel-gray, narrowed, fixing on the foreman.

  "But if those useless mercenaries fail, if the outer line falls..." He paused significantly, lowering his voice to a threat-laden whisper. "...immediately tell my overseers, the Ice Adepts, to raise the main barrier around the manor house. Without hesitation. The Earth Adepts will do the same, sealing any breach in the ground. Leave no opening, no weak point. This house will be a fortress within the fortress."

  "Understood, master! It will be done!" Henrique bowed slightly, an automatic gesture of subservience, before turning and leaving. The door closed behind him with a dull, final thud, momentarily muffling the distant noises of the encampment.

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  Alone again with his mute guards and the Vision adept, whose only sound was the soft click of his cogwheels, Albuquerque crossed the room. His steps, clad in soft leather boots, echoed solemnly on the waxed ipê wood floor. On the east wall, between faded maps of the captaincy and portraits of stern-faced ancestors, his bow rested on polished bronze supports. It was no common hunting bow. It was a sinister work of art, made of a dark, flexible wood, with three gems embedded in the grip that glowed with a faint, inner light—one of Vision, one of the Assassin, and one of the Wind.

  He stopped before the large oak work table, his hands hovering over the locked central drawer. With a tiny key taken from a chain around his neck, he unlocked it. Inside, on a lining of navy blue velvet, lay dozens of arrows. They were not common arrows. Each one, from the needle-sharp tip to the perfectly cut fletching, was a masterpiece of lethal craftsmanship. And at the base of each one, a small triad of tiny gems, the size of rice grains, was embedded, combining powers in unique ways.

  They must think I'm a decadent aristocrat, the thought arose, cold and clear in his mind, as his fingers caressed the soft hawk feathers. That I rely on a single trick, on a special magic-guided arrow. That I'm predictable. His lips curved into a humorless smile. But I have thirty-seven. Thirty-seven opportunities to kill any commander, any leader, any important piece that dares to show itself on the battlefield. Thirty-seven secrets.

  His gaze shifted, landing on the miniature portrait in a silver frame on the table—his wife, with a serene expression, and the three children, in festive clothes, painted during their last costly visit to White Sand. A sudden, familiar tightness gripped his chest.

  A shame Jo?o insisted on going to the city with his mother and sisters for his cousin's wedding, otherwise he could be here helping me... but it's better this way. They're protected. Far from this... stench of war. The stench that, even through the closed windows, was beginning to infiltrate: the smell of turned earth, of sweaty bodies, of fear.

  The fingers caressing the arrows suddenly clenched into a fist so tense the knuckles turned white. The inner voice became a fierce, determined whisper. Despite everything... despite the numbers, those ridiculous weapons... I don't intend to lose. Not to any runaway black. Not here. Not in my own home.

  ***

  Half a kilometer to the north, on a hill covered in touch-sensitive capim-amargoso grass, a constant wind carried a mixture of odors: the earthy, damp smell of the forest, the pungent scent of loose gunpowder from opened cartridges, and, in the distance, the sweeter, more nauseating smell of hundreds of bodies and campfires.

  Specter lay prone, his body perfectly still against the cold ground. His face was partially covered by a dark green cloth stained with earth, and his eyes, cold and clear like polished river stone, watched intently through the long-range telescope. Beside him, in an identical camouflage position, Whisper kept her cheek glued to the wooden stock of his sniper rifle. Her fingers, however, didn't stay still, microscopically adjusting a screw on the sight, then stroking the trigger as if meditating on its pressure.

  "Movement on the eastern and western flanks," murmured Whisper, her voice so low and sibilant it was barely distinguishable from the whisper of the wind in the grass. "Earth and Ice adepts. Positioning themselves in a circular pattern, spaced out, around the manor house." She took her eye off the scope, turning her head slightly towards Specter. Fine sweat moistened her temples. "They're preparing defensive barriers. Coordinated. What do we do? A quick assault before they close?"

  Specter didn't answer immediately. He lowered the telescope and, with precise movements, pulled closer the leather map spread between them, its edges weighted with small stones. His gloved fingers traced invisible lines over the symbols representing the manor house and the terrain.

  "Barriers," he said finally, his tone flat, almost disdainful. He looked at Whisper. "Will it be ice thick enough to stop a musket ball? Compacted earth to block a cavalry charge?" He paused, and a gleam of pure mathematical logic lit up his eyes. "But what about twelve-pound cannon projectiles, fired with the proper charge? It's like raising a curtain of fine silk to stop a spear thrown by a giant."

  He slid his finger east on his map, pointing to three pencil-drawn cannon symbols.

  "Good thing I convinced Carlos to spare the three long-range cannons. Carlos always argues about logistics, about haste..." Specter made a sound that was almost a sigh. "Sometimes, doing something rushed and poorly planned, like a frontal assault without artillery support, ends up taking more time—and more lives—than stopping, preparing properly, and then crushing the problem."

  His eyes, now serious, met Whisper's, seeking not just understanding, but the tacit confirmation of one professional to another.

  "From what you described of their positioning... the circular pattern... I already know what to do. It will use ammunition, yes. Some good shots from each piece." He frowned, calculating. "But it will cause the fewest possible casualties on our side and break their morale and defenses at once. It's pure efficiency."

  Whisper nodded slowly, the logic was impeccable. But a shadow of doubt, born from years facing the unpredictability of magic, crossed his camouflaged face.

  "What if they have something we haven't seen?" she whispered, her eyes returning to scan the distant mansion. "Some secret gem, of an unrecorded power? Some hidden adept, a trump card saved for the last moment?"

  Specter was silent for a few seconds, watching an eagle circling high in the gray-blue sky. Finally, he retrieved his telescope with a fluid movement and began to crawl backward, away from the hill's crest.

  "Then we'll find out at the moment of impact," he replied, his voice carrying a disquieting calm. "And we'll adapt the plan. The artillery will give us time to observe and react." He stopped and looked over his shoulder, his sharp profile against the sky. "But trust the mathematics, Whisper. Ballistics, physics, trajectories. They don't fail—at least, that's what I've recently learned in school classes. It's a shame they have no emotion." He made a final pause, and his tone became deliberately contrasting. "Magic... magic consumes the user, tires them, depends on mood, on fear, on anger in the moment. Our cannons? They only depend on dry powder, precise angles, and good quality cordite. It's an equation. And today, we're going to solve it."