The day in the Holy City of Santa Maria began like any other for Papess Paula. The morning sun filtered through the stained glass of her chambers, illuminating the rich carpets and the oak table where a sumptuous breakfast awaited: fresh bread, cheeses, candied fruits. She ate with the ritualistic calm of one who values silence before the day's storm.

  Following her custom, she dismissed the papal carriage and her guards. Walking alone among the people, feeling the city's pulse, was one of her small pleasures and a form of humility her predecessors had never considered. The fresh morning air carried the smell of bread straight from the oven. Today, however, the walk to the Holy House of Mercy would not be peaceful.

  She had barely walked a few streets when her ear caught fragments of a conversation between two women in front of a vegetable stall, their voices laden with a somber tone.

  "...and did you hear about what happened there at the Jabuticaba Quilombo?" asked one, nervously holding a bunch of kale.

  The other made a distressed expression and leaned closer, lowering her voice. "I did, it's horrifying, isn't it? I didn't want to believe it..."

  Paula felt a chill down her spine. Her step faltered. Normally, news of distant conflicts saddened her with a resigned impotence. But now... now those words had a face. The memory of the letters, the promised knowledge, the secret agreement, made a sharp anxiety settle in her chest.

  A horror... Was the quilombo destroyed? My investments... the knowledge...

  She quickened her pace, her thin heels making a sharp sound against the irregular stones of the sidewalk. Other pieces of conversation reached her, like fragments of a nightmare.

  "...Maria's son came back all broken! He says the quilombo people used black magic, it must be! How else could they wipe out that entire army?"

  "Black magic?" The thought cut like a blade. The devil's weapons! It was the devil's weapons that Carlos bought from Francisco! Although... Would just those weapons be enough to defeat an army of two thousand men?

  The initial distress began to mix with cautious relief, followed by a renewed urgency. If they were talking about the soldiers who returned, it was to the Holy House of Mercy that they would have been taken. And why had no one informed her?

  Upon arriving at the large building of the Holy House of Mercy, the scene that presented itself confirmed her fears. The air, normally imbued with the calming smell of medicinal herbs, was heavy with the metallic odor of blood, the sweat of fear, and the stench of pus. The great hall was packed. Priests and nuns moved among cots and straw scattered on the floor, their habits stained red as they tended to a multitude of groaning men. The sight enraged her.

  "Sister Célia!" Her voice, normally a serene whisper, cut through the hall's hubbub like a whip.

  All eyes turned to her. A middle-aged nun, her face marked by fatigue, quickly dropped a bloody cloth and ran to the Papess, bowing slightly, avoiding her gaze.

  "Yes, Your Holiness?"

  "Why was I not informed of the arrival of all these wounded?" Paula's voice was icy, controlled, but the fury was palpable.

  Sister Célia shuddered, her gaze fixed on the crucifix hanging from Paula's neck. "They... they arrived in the middle of the night, Your Holiness. I informed the cardinals, and... it was decided it was better to let you rest. That you would come after breakfast, as usual..."

  "Decided?" Paula repeated, the word coming out like poison. "I decide about my sleep! From today on, any incident like this is reported directly to me, day or night! And later I want the names of the cardinals who made that decision behind my back! How many souls could have been spared this suffering if I had been here earlier?"

  The nun turned pale but finally raised her eyes to face her leader's wrath. "Yes, Your Holiness. Forgive us."

  In an instant, the fury on Paula's face dissolved, replaced by her usual, compassionate expression. It was a frightening transition.

  "Now," she said, her voice soft again, "show me who else needs help."

  Sister Célia, still trembling, merely pointed to a young man in a corner. He was lying on a cot, his head wrapped in dirty bandages, a stump where a hand should be and another where a leg should be, both crudely bandaged. The smell of necrotic flesh was already beginning to hang around him.

  Paula approached. My God, she thought, her stomach churning. What did they do to you? I understand a battle wound, but this... this is pure mutilation. Are the quilombo people really that barbaric?

  She meticulously performed the new cleaning ritual: she washed her hands with water and soap, tied a clean cloth over her nose and mouth. The gloves, suggested by Carlos, were impossible—the alteration gem required skin-to-skin contact.

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  "Good morning, young man. What is your name?" Her voice was a balm in the heavy air.

  The man turned his head with difficulty. His eyes, once dull with pain, widened as he recognized the figure at his side.

  "Your... Your Holiness?" his voice came out hoarse and broken. "You... you will treat me?"

  "Yes," she replied, beginning to carefully unwrap the stump at his wrist. "But I need your name. And tell me what happened. It helps guide the treatment."

  Lying is a sin, Lord, she thought, but the truth I seek may save more lives than just his.

  "My name is André," he said, gasping as the cloth stuck to the wound was pulled away. "I was... I was in the attack on the quilombo, on the governor's orders. For the money, you know? To help my family..." He closed his eyes, trying to endure the pain. "I handle the ice gem... I had a bow that shot ice arrows... Ow!"

  Paula had exposed the wound. The flesh was mangled, with fragments of iron and dirt embedded, and burns around it. She picked up tweezers and began meticulously cleaning, extracting every fragment of debris. André screamed, the fingers of his other hand digging into the straw mattress.

  "I'm sorry," said Paula, her voice firm but not cruel. "Focus on your story. Tell me about the 'oranges.' It helps distract from the pain."

  He groaned, sweat streaming down his forehead, but obeyed.

  "They... they threw these round things, like oranges... The captain shouted for the water adepts to act, but there wasn't even time... the thing exploded in the air! Parts of people flying everywhere..." He whimpered as Paula disinfected the raw wound with alcohol, the liquid burning the exposed flesh. He screamed again, an agonizing sound that echoed through the hall. "After that... came another... and another... It was hell..."

  When the alcohol evaporated, Paula placed her right hand directly on the stump and held the silver crucifix on her neck with her left. The dark blue gem embedded in the cross began to pulse with a soft light. A tingling ran through André's arm, a strange sensation of itching and deep heat, but it was infinitely better than the previous pain.

  "Was there any magic gem in those 'oranges'?" she asked, her concentration divided between the question and the tissue slowly regenerating under her fingers.

  "There was... an orange gem, I think. But fire gems don't do that..." he whispered, amazed to see fingers beginning to form from nothing. "The captain ordered the attack. I ran... one fell right in front of me. I tried to jump, protected my face... I think I was lucky."

  Paula didn't answer immediately, focusing on the leg now. The same painful cleaning, the same ritual.

  "Lucky?" she finally said, her voice soft. "It was God who gave you a second chance, André. Don't waste it on violence and sin. Find honest work."

  "Yes, Your Holiness..." he murmured, his eyes moist with gratitude and guilt.

  She spent the entire day at the Holy House, treating one wounded man after another. The stories were variations of the same nightmare: deafening explosions, fire, an invisible barrier of lead that mowed down lives from a distance. With each account, a coldness settled more deeply in her heart.

  It was a massacre, she thought, exhausted, as she finally withdrew to her chambers at nightfall. Methodical, efficient... brutal. Am I doing the right thing, helping these men? They were defending themselves, it's true... but with a ferocity I don't understand. I need more information. I need to make my position very clear.

  Sitting at her desk, she took a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write a letter destined for the Jabuticaba Quilombo.

  ***

  In the capital of the captaincy, White Sand, the atmosphere in the governor's office was pure poison. The air was thick with the sickly sweet smell of spilled cacha?a and the heavy smoke of cigars.

  "Get out of my sight, you useless fool! And Márcia! Bring more cacha?a, and be quick!" the governor bellowed, his face crimson with anger.

  A young officer, the bearer of the bad news, left the room almost at a run. A slave woman, eyes downcast, entered silently with a new bottle and a glass. The governor took it from her hands without a glance, filled the glass, and emptied it in one gulp, the liquid burning his throat.

  How? HOW can a bunch of runaway blacks in the middle of the jungle manage to annihilate an army? his thoughts roared, synchronized with the throbbing pain in his temples. Only a thousand returned! And half are crippled! I'll have to pay a fortune in 'donations' to the Church to treat those wretches! It would be better if they had all died! And the slaves... the plantation owners will crucify me for the loss of their property. SHIT!

  With a roar of impotent fury, he kicked his heavy high-backed chair, which toppled with a dull thud against the noble wooden floor.

  "You think you've won? You think you can humiliate me like this? I invested a fortune in that expedition!"

  He breathed like a cornered bull. After a few moments, the fury gave way to a cold calculation. He picked up the chair and put it back in place, sitting down heavily.

  "My Captain-major..." he murmured to the void. "We fought together against the Dutch. He was a wolf. If he died... it wasn't by luck. It was by power."

  He filled another glass, the bottle clinking against the crystal.

  I can't act on impulse. If the plantation owners complain, I'll remind them who helped them expel the Dutch and who ensures their slaves stay in their place. I'll promise to return their 'property.'

  A plan began to form in his mind, hazy and cruel.

  I'll launch another attack. But this time, I won't send soldiers. I'll send a butcher. Someone who understands the language of these animals. Someone from outside... Yes. I'll write a letter. I'll say the elimination of the quilombo is vital to calm the tempers of the plantation owners, who will then be more willing to pay their debts to the Dutch Crown. They like that, in Lisbon. They like to hear about debts being paid.

  An ugly smile spread across his face. He didn't need to understand the new weapons. He just needed to hire someone sufficiently cruel to handle the problem.

  "Márcia!" he shouted, and the slave woman instantly reappeared at the door. "Bring my writing paper and the quill. Now."

  He drank another swallow as he waited. When the materials were placed before him, he began to write, his handwriting firm and full of venom.