The Ouro Branco mayor's office smelled of old dust, melted wax from candles used all night, and a slight tang of mold rising from the shelves of documents. The daylight, stronger now, streamed through the carved wooden windows, illuminating the swirl of suspended particles in the air. Specter was seated at the large oak desk, his back rigid against the high-backed chair. In his hand, Carlos's reply, written on thicker, higher-quality paper than that used for field reports. He was reading it for the second time, his gray eyes tracing each line with surgical attention.

  A slight nod of agreement accompanied the reading. The approval of the strategic pause, the go-ahead for the next move. All as expected. But then, his eyes landed on the final paragraph, where Carlos detailed, with a certain contained enthusiasm, the idea of selling the newspaper outside the Republic. Specter stopped, raised his head slightly, an almost inaudible sigh escaping his lips.

  Interesting, he thought, his fingers tapping lightly on the paper. Using the victory narrative not just to boost internal morale, but as a long-range psychological weapon. Spreading fear, the idea of invincibility... and, as he suggests, attracting discontented talent. Carlos understands that war is also won in the minds of men, not just on the fields. A hint of genuine, rare admiration touched his calculating spirit. It was a subtler move than he would expect from the president, usually focused on logistics and production.

  He set the letter aside, its corner aligned with the edge of the desk, and pulled toward him a thicker stack of field reports, still imbued with the smell of sweat, gunpowder, and damp earth. The expansion of Republican control continued, like the roots of a tree spreading. The mobile units were finishing "cleaning" — a technical and cold term — the fortified mill and farms around Ouro Branco. Surrender usually came swiftly after a demonstration of a cannon at the gate or a few suppressive fire volleys. Most plantation owners, unlike Albuquerque, lacked the stomach for a siege.

  But the mental map in his head didn't stop there. His inner gaze traveled down the dusty road leading to the coast, passing through villages and crossing the foothills of the mountains. And there, dominating the pass, stood Castelo Garcia. A much harder nut to crack.

  Castelo Garcia won't be like those toy engenhos, his analysis was cold and clear. Reports confirm they've gathered a considerable militia there. Numbers probably equivalent to what Albuquerque had at his peak. And the terrain... the castle was built in a gorge. Frontal approach is a funnel of death.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the assault. Infantry advancing under arrow and magical attack. His own cannons would have to be dragged into exposed positions to get a firing line against the high stone walls. It would be costly. Very costly in lives and time.

  If only cannon projectiles could do more than smash stone... if they exploded on impact, like Whisper's hand grenades, he thought, a rare frustration tinging his logic. His hand went instinctively to his breast pocket, where he carried a small, inert Fire gem for study. The Fire gem is powerful, but its crystal is fragile. The impact of a cannon shot would shatter it before reaching the target. Useless.

  He opened a drawer and took out a small leather-bound notebook, flipping to a page with rough diagrams. "An idea: an artillery grenade. A hollow shell filled with shrapnel and gunpowder, with a Fire or Lightning gem as a fuse, set to detonate on impact..." He mentally sketched the mechanism. "But the Lightning gem, capable of generating the instantaneous, powerful spark we'd need, is extremely rare. Too expensive. Impractical at scale."

  He closed the notebook with a soft thud. The weight of the logistical problem always returned. In the end, I'll have to take this issue to Carlos. In our nighttime conversations, he always alluded to weapons in his world of origin... weapons that make our most advanced ones look like bows and arrows. 'High-explosive artillery', 'explosive projectiles'... A sigh, almost imperceptible, escaped him. "But what good is dreaming of these marvels if we run out of the basic steel to make the cannons that would fire them? The luxury of invention comes after the security of supply."

  The office door opened with a creak, interrupting his train of thought. Pedro entered. The man's face was dirty from the road, but his eyes were alert.

  "Commander Specter! We found him. The city's magical artisan, the one who repairs and makes small artifacts with gems. But he... well, he's not quite like the old reports described."

  Specter raised his eyes, his face an impassive mask.

  "Bring him in."

  Pedro signaled to the corridor. The footsteps that entered were light, young, not the heavy drag of an old man. The man who entered the office was slender, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with intelligent, light-colored eyes that immediately scanned the room, finally settling on Specter. His hair was dark and unruly, and he wore a leather apron stained with grease and magical substances that exuded a sweet, metallic odor. Specter understood Pedro's comment immediately. Sombra and Whisper's reports from years ago mentioned an old artisan, a reclusive man in the service of the city's elite.

  The young artisan kept his shoulders squared, clear disdain in his gaze as he examined Specter, the black commander before him.

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  "So, you're the 'liberator' looking for me?" His voice had a thick local accent, and the tone was challenging. "Well, know that I don't work for free, and I never had slaves. My hands only work for those who pay. So you have no reason to arrest or punish me, right?" He crossed his arms. "They say around here that this so-called Republic treats everyone as equals. If that's true, I expect to be able to return to my workshop in peace."

  The two soldiers who had accompanied the artisan stiffened, their hands instinctively going to their musket stocks. The insolence in that command room was like a shock in the static air. Specter, however, simply raised a hand in a calm, definitive gesture, calming them. His eyes never left the young man's.

  Without a word, he leaned over, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out a small leather pouch, which made a heavy, metallic sound as he placed it on the polished wood. The sound was unmistakable to any trained ear: the clinking of many gold coins.

  "The Republic has a need for special skills," said Specter, his voice flat, emotionless, as if reporting the weather. "And it has resources. Many resources. Come to the Armadillo Mocambo. Make magical artifacts for us. Your talent will be paid. Generously."

  The disdain on the artisan's face wavered. His eyes were magnetically pulled toward the pouch. Hesitantly, he took a step forward, picked up the pouch, and opened it. The opulent amber gleam of gold reflected in his eyes. He took out a coin, weighed it in his hand, examined the minting. They were dobr?es. Solid gold coins, each worth twenty thousand réis. A fortune for an artisan. His whole body trembled, not from fear now, but from overwhelming emotion. He had never held so much value in his life.

  Specter didn't even wait for a verbal answer. He had already seen the decision in the man's eyes, in the way his fingers involuntarily tightened around the coin.

  "Your first task," Specter continued, turning to pick up a standard Church-issue vision telescope from the desk, "will be to adapt and improve these. I want stable, durable vision scopes that can be precisely mounted to our sniper rifles, like Whisper's rifle." He placed the scope back with a click. "I personally supervised adaptation attempts, but the work always falls short. The quality of the mount, the calibration of the brackets... the artisan who served the Church did superior work. I want that standard. Mass-produced."

  The young artisan swallowed dryly, the sound audible in the room's silence. The coin pouch seemed to burn in his hand.

  "Of course, Commander," the voice came out hoarse, all the previous arrogance replaced by a fearful yet excited respect. "I'll do the best work of my life. You'll have your scopes."

  "Good. Pedro, arrange his relocation and security." Specter made a dismissive gesture.

  As soon as the artisan, still stunned, was led out, Pedro remained at the door.

  "There's one more thing, sir. There's a group... a group of civilians asking to speak with the commander. They insist."

  "A group? What kind of group?" asked Specter, his impassivity tested by curiosity.

  "It's... a theater troupe, sir. Itinerant. They say they've been in the city for a few weeks."

  Specter needed a conscious effort to keep his expression completely neutral. A tiny tremor in his jaw muscle was the only concession. A theater troupe. In the middle of a military occupation. Curious.

  "Alright. Let them in."

  The room filled with a whirlwind of colors, fabrics, and a distinct smell of aged makeup, road dust, and palpable anxiety. There were about eight people, men and women of varying ages, in patched but somewhat faded stylish clothes. Leading them was a red-haired woman, perhaps in her forties, with vivid green eyes and a posture that mixed weariness and dignity. She gave a small bow, not subservient, but respectful.

  "Good afternoon, Commander. My name is Rosa. I am the leader of the Itinerant Theater Troupe 'Bela Manh?'. We would, humbly, like to ask a favor of Your Excellency."

  Specter observed her closely. Hmm... how rare. A white woman, clearly free, showing formal respect to a black commander. The world really is turned upside down.

  "You may speak, Ms. Rosa."

  She took a deep breath, as if mentally rehearsing her speech.

  "We... have heard of the Republic's City Of Armadillo. They say people there value knowledge. That they read books, appreciate music, debate ideas..." Her eyes shone with a sudden fervor. "We would like to go there. To perform. We have plays, comedies, dramas... stories about the people. I'm sure we would be appreciated. We need safe passage to travel with your supply troops."

  Specter didn't laugh out loud, but a low sound, almost an amused sigh, escaped his lips. The idea was as absurd as it was fascinating. Theater. He knew, abstractly, what it was. Entertainment for the rich and nobles in closed salons. In the devastated economy of Pernambuco, making a living from it must be an act of pure stubbornness. Which meant they must be good. Very good.

  He personally saw no tactical value in it. But his mind, trained to see connections, instantly remembered Quixotina. Her passion for stories, for grand narratives. And Carlos... Carlos, who in rare moments of relaxation mentioned things called "movies," visual narratives that, in description, sounded like incredibly advanced theater.

  "I admire your courage, Rosa. And your faith in culture in times like these," said Specter, his voice taking on a more thoughtful tone. "The Republic values all forms of expression that elevate the human spirit." He picked up a fresh sheet of paper. "You will have authorization to accompany the next supply convoy heading to the Republic. And, to ensure you are well received..." he began to write with his firm, angular handwriting, "I will write a personal letter of recommendation to President Carlos. He, I'm sure, will be very interested in your troupe's work."

  Rosa's face lit up as if the sun had burst into the gloomy room. The troupe members behind her whispered among themselves, relieved and euphoric.

  "Oh, Commander! Thank you so much! You don't know what this means for us!"

  "Just make good use of the opportunity," said Specter, sealing the letter with melted wax from a nearby candle. "The Republic may need good stories as much as it needs good soldiers. Now, if you'll excuse me."

  They left, leaving behind a trail of renewed hope and a slightly sweeter scent in the air. Specter was alone again, looking at the closed door. From magical artisans to theater troupes. War, after all, was also about rebuilding a world. And perhaps, just perhaps, it was worth rebuilding a world that had room for a little more than just steel and gunpowder.