The dust on the road rose in dense reddish clouds with every step of the horses, clinging to Daniel's sweaty skin and covering everything in the cart with a fine layer of earth. The smell was familiar—dry dirt, distant animal dung, and the sour tang of horse sweat. He was three hours' journey from White Sand, following the uneven road that snaked between low hills covered with sparse, stubborn vegetation.

  Finally, Daniel thought, his nervous fingers tracing the letters engraved on the cover of his notebook. I'll get to see how my mother is. But it's not just a family visit...

  He looked at the bag at his feet, where besides clothes and a few gifts—a new knife, a ball of strong thread, a packet of rare refined sugar—was his work material: notebooks, fountain pens, charcoal for sketches, and the credentials letter from the Jabuticaba Journal.

  The other masons on his team had shrugged when he announced he was leaving the construction of the road to the Holy City.

  "Waste of time, Daniel!" old Bento had said, calloused from decades of hard work. "Learning to read and write... what for? The road pays well, the work is honest, and the war is far from here."

  But Daniel wanted more. He always had. He remembered nights in the quilombo, before Carlos, when his mother told stories she herself barely knew—fragments of Africa, pieces of forgotten languages, memories that unraveled like spiderwebs in the rain. He wanted to record stories, not lose them.

  And thanks to having learned to read..., his thought continued as the cart jolted over a stone, making him grip the side. I was able to join the paper. And now I have a paid visit to see my mother. Who would have thought?

  He sighed, a sound lost in the creak of the wheels and the singing of birds in the bushes. The hot late afternoon air carried the distant smell of burning firewood—someone preparing lunch in some invisible house beyond the hills.

  I hope she's well, he thought, his fingers involuntarily tightening on the leather holster strapped to his waist. But even if she is, I'll bring her back to the mocambo. I earn well now, the war continues but life only gets better for those inside the Republic.

  His mind traveled to the future. Maybe someday Carlos will take White Sand, and everyone from the quilombo will be part of the same nation again. No walls separating families...

  That's when he saw them.

  At the next crossroads, where a narrower secondary road met the main one, three men were crouched in the shade of a gnarled tree. They weren't laborers—their clothes were a mix of worn leather and stolen fabrics of uneven quality. And in their hands, or leaning against the tree, were weapons with embedded gems: a staff with blue water stones, a whip with a pale green grass gem, and a bow with an orange fire gem.

  Bounty hunters.

  Daniel felt his stomach clench. His right hand moved almost by instinct to the holster on his waist, his fingers finding the cold metal of the revolver the Shadow had given him.

  "A black man traveling alone outside the Republic's territories is always a target," the Shadow had said, his serious eyes fixed on Daniel's as he handed over the weapon. "Even with documents. Especially with documents. Learn to use it, and don't hesitate if your life is in danger."

  The cart continued on its way, passing no more than ten meters from the men. The creak of the wheels seemed absurdly loud in the sudden silence that fell over the crossroads. Daniel kept his eyes forward, but in his peripheral vision he saw the three watching him. Assessing.

  One of them—the archer—had a deep scar above his right eyebrow, a white, irregular line that contrasted with his sunburned skin. When Daniel's eyes momentarily met his, something passed between them: a mutual recognition of danger, a silent appraisal. Then, both looked away, following the unspoken protocol of these roads—don't seek trouble unless necessary.

  The cart passed. Daniel didn't breathe until they were fifty meters away, until a bend in the road hid them.

  Too many bounty hunters for such a small region, he thought, his heart still beating fast. That means the governor is worried about something. Or that there are many runaways to hunt.

  He knew the reason, of course. Vila da Palma, his destination, was an experiment—a "sanctioned" quilombo by the Portuguese governor, where freed blacks could live under white supervision. A gray area where blacks could walk free... as long as they didn't try to go to the Republic. And where bounty hunters patrolled the invisible borders, ensuring no one crossed in the wrong direction.

  An hour later, the village appeared on the horizon.

  The first thing Daniel noticed was the wall—not of stone or wood, but of compacted earth rising almost three meters high, encircling the entire settlement. It was the work of earth adepts, no doubt.

  Is this to protect them?, Daniel thought, observing the watchtowers at the corners. Or to keep them trapped inside?

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  The cart stopped fifty meters from the main gate. Daniel paid the driver—an old, silent man who hadn't asked a single question the entire trip—and got down, feeling his sore muscles protest after hours of immobility.

  "Good luck, son," the driver murmured, his first words in hours, before giving the horses free rein and heading back to White Sand.

  Daniel was left alone in front of the gate. Two white guards were on duty—not regular soldiers in their blue or green uniforms, but men dressed in decent civilian clothes, armed with swords and wearing glasses. Vision adepts, Daniel thought upon seeing them.

  "Halt there!" the younger of the guards shouted, raising a hand while the other rested on his sword hilt. "Entry of runaways into Vila da Palma is forbidden! Only blacks who already live inside may come and go!"

  Daniel had expected this. In fact, this was the reason he had been chosen for this report; he was the son of Chief Maria, one of the old mocambo leaders. And according to the "peace" agreement that created the village, close family members could join.

  He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the hidden revolver under his shirt.

  "I am Chief Maria's son!" his voice sounded firmer than he felt. "I'm fleeing the bloodthirsty Republic of Carlos! I want to return to my mother!"

  Inside, his heart hammered against his ribs. Convincing, he thought. It has to sound convincing.

  The older guard adjusted his glasses—the kind with vision gems that allowed seeing active magical energies. He looked Daniel up and down, his eyes stopping on the holster and the empty hands.

  "Chief Maria?" the guard repeated, his tone skeptical. "You do look a bit like that black woman." He paused, a contemptuous smile touching his lips. "Especially since she has that short hair like a man."

  Daniel kept his face neutral, though the words burned. He remembered the Shadow's training: "Emotion is a luxury when you're behind enemy lines. Save it for later."

  "But even if you are her son," the guard continued, crossing his arms, "you'll have to talk to the colonel about everything you know about the Republic. He loves information... and pays well for it."

  Daniel sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the genuine weariness of the journey.

  "I know that and I'm willing," he replied, letting a thread of resignation enter his voice. "But I'm tired from the long trip. And I miss my mother. If I could see her and rest a little before..."

  The younger guard let out a low chuckle.

  "You blacks are all lazy," he said, pushing the heavy wooden gate that groaned on its hinges. "Fine, you can enter. The colonel went to the city and only returns in the afternoon. When he comes back, we'll call you."

  Daniel lowered his head in a gesture that could be interpreted as submission or gratitude. Good, he thought as he passed through the gate. Good that they don't know about the revolver. It's still a new weapon few know about outside the Republic, and even inside not everyone knows about it, not even in the army.

  He knew the glasses with vision gems could detect active magical energies—gem weapons, adepts using their powers, even certain illusions. But Carlos's revolver didn't use gems. It used gunpowder, a percussion mechanism, and pure physics. To the vision gems, it was just an inert piece of metal. An invisible weapon.

  Inside the walls, the world changed.

  The air was different—heavier, more stagnant, as if the very air were trapped. But there was also life. Children playing in the dust, their sharp laughter cutting through the quiet. Women carrying water vessels on their heads, moving with a grace that seemed to defy physics. Men repairing thatched roofs, their muscles glistening with sweat under the afternoon sun.

  Daniel took out his notebook and a piece of charcoal. His hands, accustomed to stacking stones and now to writing words, began taking notes.

  Mud houses all around, small community gardens with people tending them. Do they seem happy? Children playing in the dirt. Life here seems to be in the past, simpler—before the first factory, before Carlos... but that's not necessarily bad...

  He walked slowly, his eyes absorbing every detail. Some faces were familiar—people from the old Jabuticaba quilombo who chose to come here when the Republic formed.

  At the center of the settlement, an older woman balanced a bucket of water on her head without using her hands, moving with a dignity that transformed the mundane task into something almost ceremonial. Daniel stopped for a moment, watching.

  This is a sight you don't see anymore in the heart of the Republic, he thought, his pen pausing over the notebook. There we have cisterns. Here... here they still carry water on their heads.

  He approached, his smile hesitant.

  "Good afternoon... I'm Maria's son..."

  Before he could complete the question, the woman lowered the bucket from her head with a fluid motion that didn't spill a drop. Her eyes—deep, full of untold stories—swept over his face, stopping at his eyes, then at his hair cut short like his mother's.

  "Daniel?" her voice was rough but warm as earth in the sun. "Maria's son? It's been so long!"

  She placed the bucket on the ground and hugged him with a strength that surprised Daniel—firm arms, smelling of wood smoke and a sweet herb he didn't recognize.

  "Finally coming to live with us?" she asked, her eyes bright. "Come with me, I'm taking water to your mother. She'll be so happy!"

  She picked up the bucket again, balancing it on her head as if it weighed less than a feather, and started walking, gesturing for him to follow.

  Daniel put away his notebook, his heart tightening in a way he hadn't expected. She recognized me, he thought, following the woman down the dirt paths. But I don't remember her. Maybe she's a friend of my mother's.

  But even as he walked, his reporter's mind didn't rest. His eyes registered the houses—more spacious than the original quilombo, but still modest. The gardens—well-tended, but lacking the variety the Republic's grass adepts could cultivate. The people—smiling, but with a look that always seemed half-alert, half-apprehensive.

  They seem happy, he noted mentally. But it's a watched happiness. Surrounded by walls. Controlled by guards with magical glasses.

  The woman—he would later learn her name was Joana—turned a corner and pointed to a house slightly larger than the others, with a porch where herbs hung drying and a small garden of medicinal plants in front.