The afternoon sun flooded the sumptuous office of the Palace of the Two Towers in Areia Branca, the capital of the Captaincy of Pernambuco. The warm light reflected off the heavy rosewood furniture and illuminated the dust dancing in the air. Governor Bento Vidal, a man with long black hair and a silver cross gleaming on his chest, was reading a letter. His fingers gripped the paper tightly, and his expression was a mask of pure rage. Beside him, an enslaved woman named Márcia stood motionless, holding a silver tray with a glass of cashew juice that chilled her hand.

  Finishing the letter, Bento shot to his feet. His movement was so abrupt that the chair scraped against the polished wooden floor with an aggressive screech. He snatched the glass from the tray and hurled it violently against the floor. The glass shattered in a wet flash, splattering sticky juice on the walls and forming an amber puddle on the floor.

  "Clean up this mess right now!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the large room.

  Márcia, visibly trembling, lowered her eyes to the glass shards glittering like tears on the floor.

  "Yes, Governor Bento Vidal," she whispered, her voice almost vanishing.

  She left the room with quick, light steps, closing the solid wooden door with a dull thud behind her. Alone, Bento began pacing back and forth, his fury boiling over.

  "How dare these worms force us to pay these absurd debts to the Dutch?!" he snarled at the walls. "Who fought and bled to reclaim Pernambuco? We didn't receive a single soldier from Spain, no resources from Portugal! It was us, alone! I, personally, led the capture of this palace! And now, this ungrateful Crown wants us to pay the invaders?!"

  The door opened again and Márcia entered, carrying a bucket of water and a rag. She immediately knelt, beginning to clean the sweet liquid and the sharp fragments, trying to make as little noise as possible. Bento watched her for a moment, his breathing heavy. He sat down again, trying to calm himself, but the tension remained in his shoulders.

  If I force the sugar mill owners, who fought by my side, to pay the Dutch for the machinery we use... it's an invitation to revolt. They might want my head! But disobeying royal orders... that would brand me a conspirator, and the Crown wouldn't hesitate to behead me. The royal family is already wary of our power, of the fact we expelled the Dutch by ourselves... Shit. I need something, anything, to placate the owners and make them pay without complaint...

  As he brooded, Márcia finished her task. Seeing her stand up, Bento had an impulse. He stood, grabbed her arm firmly, sat back in the chair, and pulled her onto his lap. He began groping her breasts with brutal possessiveness, his rough fingers against the thin fabric of her uniform. Márcia clenched her jaw, her body went rigid, and she averted her gaze to a painting on the wall, trying her utmost to hide the disgust and humiliation boiling inside her.

  "I became governor to enjoy the luxuries and have pretty little things like you serving me," he whispered, his breath warm and somewhat sour against her face. "Not to be a middleman in these petty political squabbles. But you're lucky, Márcia. A beauty like you... if you weren't here, you'd certainly have been captured by those filthy quilombolas and forced to serve multiple men."

  Márcia forced the words out, keeping her voice as flat as possible.

  "Yes, Governor. I am very fortunate to have been found by Your Lordship."

  As he unbuttoned her dress, a sudden idea ignited in his eyes.

  Wait... that's it! The sugar mill owners won't stop complaining about the attacks from the quilombos. If I deliver the head of one of those black kings... if I give them all the quilombolas as slaves... then I can collect the debts! They'll accept the cost in exchange for the reward. Good thing I have time; the negotiations between Portugal and Holland will drag on. Well, that's a problem for tomorrow. Now... I'll enjoy the reward I have right in front of me.

  ***

  The next morning, the atmosphere in the office still carried the echo of the governor's wrath. Bento Vidal received Captain-Mor Domingos Vieira, a man with a military bearing and a severe expression. Márcia served cacha?a, the aroma slightly masking the residual smell of wax and power. She moved like a shadow, seemingly focused on her task, but her ears captured every word of the discussion about strategies, maps, and the location of the "Jabuticaba Quilombo."

  When the meeting ended and the men left, Márcia stayed to clean the glasses and reorganize the room. She had barely finished and was heading to her room, seeking a moment of peace, when a harsh voice called her. It was an older enslaved woman, her face marked by years of hard labor, her arms crossed with disdain.

  "Márcia! Come here! I need you to go buy more salt in the city. And don't dawdle, we'll need it for dinner."

  "But, ma'am..." Márcia began, trying to maintain her composure. "That's usually the other girls' job. I serve the governor directly..."

  The older woman interrupted her with a cutting laugh.

  "Quiet! We all know very well what kind of service you provide him. You only got that privilege because of your pretty face. If it weren't for that, I would be the one in there!"

  Márcia swallowed hard, feeling her face burn with anger and shame.

  "Yes, ma'am," she replied, her voice restrained.

  Reluctantly, she took the coins the woman held out and left the palace. As soon as she passed through the gates, away from those oppressive walls, a deep sigh escaped her lips. She let loose her tight bun, allowing her curly hair to fall over her shoulders, feeling a small sense of freedom.

  Finally, I'm out of that suffocating place. That bitter old woman... if she wants my position so badly, let her have it! I never asked to be at the mercy of that disgusting man. But... at least this gives me an excuse. An opportunity to report this information to the Quilombo.

  She walked along the dirt streets of Areia Branca. Well-dressed white men passed by her, followed by slaves carrying their purchases. Women in colorful dresses and glittering jewels laughed in groups. The smell of garbage, sweat, and street food mingled in the air. In the distance, the main church imposed its silhouette, and near it, the whipping post rose like a sinister warning. Márcia averted her eyes from the spot, where an unfortunate slave was being beaten under the relentless sun, his muffled groans drowned out by the city's bustle.

  She headed to a specific street vendor, whose stall was full of sacks of grains, flour, and spices. The vendor, a middle-aged man with a gap-toothed smile, greeted her.

  "Good afternoon, miss. What will it be today?"

  "Good afternoon. I'd like twenty arréis of salt, please."

  "Of course, for the pretty miss, just seven thousand réis."

  Márcia handed over a small bag of coins with a discreet smile. The man looked at the money, then at her, with a shrewd glint in his eyes.

  "If the miss would agree to go out with me someday, I could do it for five thousand, eh?"

  "You know I can't," she replied, keeping her tone light. "But... if I could, I might consider going out in the 'near future'."

  The vendor raised an eyebrow.

  "'Near future', is it? In that case, I'll have to charge the full price. Just a moment, I'll get your change."

  He bent down behind the counter, hidden from view. With quick, practiced movements, he removed a small roll of paper from inside the bag of coins and stuffed it into a prepared sack of flour. He stood up again, handing Márcia the change and the bag of salt.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Here you are, pretty miss. Your change and your salt."

  Without raising suspicion, Márcia took the items. Her fingers briefly touched his, a silent signal of recognition. She gave a small bow.

  "Thank you. Until next time."

  She turned and began walking back to the palace, the weight of the salt in one hand and the weight of the far more crucial secret, hidden in her mind.

  ***

  In the heart of the Jabuticaba Quilombo, inside a large wattle-and-daub hut with the earthy smell of dry clay, a crucial meeting was taking place. A rectangular table of rustic wood dominated the center of the space, illuminated by Light Gems fixed to the walls, which emitted a constant white glow, bathing everyone in a clear, shadowless light. Nine chairs surrounded the table. Eight were simple, made of wood. The ninth, at the head, was a more elaborate armchair, almost a throne. In it sat Ganga Zala, his gaze sweeping over the mocambo chiefs seated around him—including Specter and Aqua.

  "Chief Specter," began Ganga Zala, his deep voice echoing in the quiet space. "Why have you called this special meeting? I have many duties as king to waste time on useless meetings."

  A quick glance was exchanged among some of those present. Everyone knew the nature of Ganga's "duties," which often involved his harem, but no one dared comment.

  "Ganga Zala," Specter replied, inclining his head respectfully but keeping his posture erect. "Our informant in the capital sent a warning. Governor Bento Vidal is planning a large-scale attack on our quilombo. Now that the Dutch have been expelled, they will turn their full attention to us. Given the force they are gathering, it will be a difficult fight."

  A flash of fear crossed Ganga Zala's face, quickly suppressed.

  "Perhaps... perhaps we should try to negotiate. They are also weakened by the years of war."

  Specter, who was both a general and the chief of the mocambo where Ganga himself resided, spoke again, his voice firm:

  "According to the intelligence, negotiation is impossible. They want complete eradication. But don't worry, we will fight and win at any cost. And, thanks to the gunpowder that Aqua's mocambo is producing and the firearms that Carlos is developing, we have a real chance. If we prepare an ambush in advance, we can surprise them. Ganga, I also ask that you send all the spare iron we have for the production of these weapons. We haven't seen them in action yet, but if they are half of what Carlos promises, they will be superior to our current bows."

  Hearing this, Chief Malik, a skeptical man with piercing eyes, could not contain himself.

  "With all due respect, Chief Specter, I think you are being hasty. Without a doubt, European firearms are powerful. But all our attempts to imitate their magical or technological artifacts have resulted in failure and wasted precious resources. Why would it be different now? This Carlos, with his stories from another world... how can we trust that his ideas will work here?"

  Aqua, sitting serenely, intervened before Specter could respond.

  "Chief Malik, I understand your skepticism. But know that I myself almost died of a heart attack when I saw gunpowder explode for the first time; it's a powerful weapon. However you're right, Carlos himself admits that his first weapons will be inferior to those of the Europeans. But he guarantees that a group of common people, armed with them, can defeat veteran knights. And this is just the first of many ideas he has. He needs the iron to turn them into reality. Even if the first weapon isn't perfect, the path he is opening may be our salvation."

  Another chief, Fernando, a pragmatic man, spoke next:

  "I agree with Malik's caution, but I also see the potential that Aqua describes. I am willing to send all the iron from my mocambo... but on one condition. I want to see this so-called firearm in action first. When it's ready and working, the iron is yours." He then turned to Ganga Zala in a gesture of deference. "But of course, if Ganga orders it, I will send all my iron immediately."

  Ganga Zala pondered for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly on the table.

  "There is no need for such an order. I am also interested in seeing these weapons in action. I will do as Fernando suggests."

  Fernando nodded, but then looked directly at Specter.

  "However, I still have my doubts. These inventions come from the books the outsider brought... books that some call 'diabolical'. Why don't we take those books from him and let our own scholars analyze them? We have educated people in my mocambo."

  Specter sighed, as if he'd had this discussion before.

  "We already did that, Fernando. Carlos lent us the books without hesitation. The problem isn't reading them, it's understanding and applying them. To make the gunpowder, for example, he used one book to identify the minerals, another on chemistry to refine them, and a third on weapons to combine them. Our scholars looked and didn't know where to start. It's interlinked knowledge, an edifice we have to build from the ground up."

  Aqua took the opportunity to add, her gaze sweeping over all present:

  "And it's not just the weapons. He is already planning the future. Besides the gunpowder sheds, he asked for space to build 'factories'—workshops that produce on a large scale. He is already planning a clothing factory, so we can trade with our neighbors and obtain more iron."

  Chief Melik, who had remained silent until then, couldn't contain a muffled laugh.

  "Clothes? In exchange for iron?" he said, incredulous. "Aqua, you know how long it takes to weave a single tunic? Making enough to be worth a bar of iron... the merchants already charge us ten times more for the simple 'risk' of trading with us. That's a dream."

  Aqua remained calm, but her voice gained a profound firmness.

  "That's why I said a factory is different from a workshop. It produces much, much more."

  She then looked at each face around the table, her expression serious.

  "The Palmeira Quilombo fell this year. We are the last great quilombo in the Northeast. They will come with everything. Decades ago, I had to make a difficult choice to keep this quilombo alive. Today, the choice is yours. We can continue as we have always done, waiting for the final blow... or we can change. We can bet on the new. I have already made my choice. The time has come for you to make yours!"

  The respect for Aqua was palpable in the room. She had been queen before Ganga Zala and had voluntarily abdicated because she believed in his potential. Her loyalty was to the collective, not to herself. No one saw her words as insolence, but as an urgent warning from a veteran.

  Ganga Zala fell silent for a long moment, absorbing everything. Finally, he spoke, his decision echoing in the quiet room.

  "I have heard enough. We will follow Fernando's suggestion. We will see the result of the weapons before committing all our iron. If we can defeat this first expedition, we will gain time and bargaining power." He then looked at Specter. "And prepare the ambush with the gunpowder. A large army moves slowly and is easy to detect. We will have time to prepare."

  Specter struck his clenched fist against his chest in a sign of acceptance and determination.

  "It will be done, Ganga!"

  Finally, Ganga Zala turned his gaze to Aqua, his curiosity evident.

  "And about this clothing idea... I am still interested to know how this Carlos plans to earn enough money to buy iron by selling fabrics. If you could explain it better..."

  Aqua offered a tired smile.

  "Unfortunately, Ganga, much of what he explains I don't fully comprehend either... words about 'efficiency', 'mass production', 'mechanical looms'..." She made a dramatic pause, her gaze turning serious again. "But that is why I am here to make a bolder request. Ganga Zala, I ask your permission to pass my position as chief of the Armadillo Mocambo to Carlos."

  The declaration fell like a bomb in the hut. A murmur of shock and disbelief swept across the table.

  "What?!" exclaimed Specter, half-rising from his chair. "Aqua, have you lost your mind? I understand the value of the gunpowder, I understand the value of the gunpowder, but that's no reason to hand over the leadership of an entire mocambo to an outsider who may be a spy!"

  "It's not just the gunpowder, Specter!" Aqua retorted, her voice laden with deep conviction. "It's the vision! It's looking at him and knowing that he is seeing far beyond our world, and also beyond the world he came from. He sees a future. And the truth is, none of us here fully understands the plans he is laying out. How can we lead if we cannot see the path? As for him being a spy..." she paused, looking at the other chiefs. "Have any of you ever seen a Portuguese use gunpowder? Do you think they would hand over such a powerful weapon to a simple spy? Don't worry, I've thought a lot about this. I am already old, tired of walking from one mocambo to another for these meetings. And I promise I will stay by Carlos's side, assisting him in everything."

  Despite her words, the room erupted in dissenting voices.

  "This is absurd! He is an outsider!"

  "You must have been bewitched by him!"

  "Aqua, what about tradition? What about security?"

  Ganga Zala slammed his palm hard on the table. The thump echoed like thunder, instantly silencing everyone.

  "Silence!"

  Everyone fell quiet, looking at Ganga. He stared at Aqua for a long moment, his eyes analyzing the determination on the former Ganga's face.

  "I do not agree with your decision, Chief Aqua," he said finally, his voice deep and controlled. "It is an enormous risk. But... out of respect for your history and all you have done for this quilombo, I will allow you to pass your position." He raised a finger in warning. "But only after I see these so-called firearms work with my own eyes. He will need to prove his worth not just as an inventor, but as a potential leader."

  Aqua inclined her head, a weight lifting from her shoulders. There was a long battle ahead, but she had secured the opening she needed.

  "Yes, Ganga Zala. He will prove it."