A strange calm dwelled within Nyran, deeper than she herself had expected. It was the inner silence of one who has already accepted their end, a morbid relief after years of conflicting loyalties and precarious survival. The air in the small hospital outpost smelled of medicinal herbs and earth, and the faint light from a light gem cast shadows on the concrete walls.

  Shadow stood before her, his face an impenetrable mask of serenity. His eyes, however, watched every micro-expression on her face.

  "It's good that you've decided to cooperate," he said, his voice a low, neutral tone. "Come with me."

  Nyran, her body still heavy with exhaustion and throbbing with pain from her wounds, pushed herself off the stretcher. A slight tremor ran through her legs, but she controlled it with an effort of will. As she followed Shadow down the narrow corridor, an old habit made her run her tongue to the roof of her mouth. The rough emptiness where her gems used to be installed confirmed what she already knew: she was completely disarmed. In the corners, in the dim light, she felt—more than saw—the stares fixed on her. Whispers ceased as she passed, and the weight of hatred and curiosity was almost physical on her back.

  They walked in silence for a good while, climbing the slope that led to Serra da Vitória. The night air was hot and suffocating. Finally, they reached a large shed, its robust structure standing out against the sunny sky. As they entered, the solid wooden door was closed behind them with a solemn thud that echoed in the space.

  Inside, the atmosphere was heavy and oppressive. A large rectangular table occupied the center, and around it sat the most important figures of the Quilombo: all the chiefs of the mocambos and Ganga Zala. The gazes that received her were a cutting mixture of declared hatred, icy distrust, and, in a very few, clinical curiosity. And then, she saw her. Tassi. Sitting a little apart, her face marked by fatigue and her eyes sunken. A bittersweet relief flooded Nyran, quickly supplanted by a pang of pain upon seeing that Tassi wasn't looking at her with joy, but with a deep, resigned sadness.

  The silence in the shed was so thick one could hear the crackling of the torches on the walls. It was Specter who broke it, his clear, impersonal voice cutting the air like a blade.

  "I'll get straight to the point. You have two options," he declared, his fingers interlaced on the table. "Die now, or tell us everything you know about Caetano Velho and, perhaps, survive."

  Nyran kept her posture erect, her chin slightly raised, staring at him without flinching.

  "I will tell you everything I know about Caetano Velho," her voice came out firmer than she thought possible. "What do you want to know first?"

  A murmur of surprise ran along the table. Many expected denial, excuses, or even disdain. The immediate cooperation was unexpected. Specter, however, didn't even blink.

  "Just to confirm. Your targets in the last attack were Carlos and Tassi, is that right?"

  Nyran nodded her head.

  "Based on the information we gathered, the greatest dangers to the Captaincy of Pernambuco are Carlos, with his inventions that can equip an army, and Tassi, with her powers to make the land flourish and feed an entire Quilombo. They were the pillars to be toppled."

  Ganga Zala, upon hearing this, closed his eyes for a moment, a bitter and weary expression crossing his face. Specter continued, unshaken.

  "So, was it Caetano Velho who ordered these constant attacks on the Quilombo? How does the transformation or metamorphosis gem work?"

  Nyran looked at Specter, then let her gaze sweep over the faces at the table before answering.

  "Yes, the orders came from Caetano. The attacks served as a smokescreen, buying time for the spies infiltrated here—like me—to pass information to the governor. I can show you the exact spot where I left messages. I always saw someone pick them up or leave new orders." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "As for the gem... you mean the Mboia. I cannot help you use it. I am ignorant of the details of the ritual that allows an adept to master it. But the twins you captured... Silvestre and Silvana... they might know. The ritual was tested on them first. On the girl, it failed. Without proper care, the Mboia's transformations can become permanent. It is a complex and treacherous gem."

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  Specter waited for Ganga Zala to process the information, watching the older leader jot something down on a piece of leather, before continuing.

  "Are there more adepts using this gem? Do they plan to launch more attacks? Are there other spies among us?"

  Nyran shook her head slowly.

  "I don't know if there are more adepts, nor their future plans." She furrowed her brow, thoughtful. "But I know Caetano. He doesn't like to waste resources. With this failure, he will realize he gravely underestimated the power of your firearms. Or rather, that he failed to gauge their true power. From the reports of the last battle, they seemed much weaker than the weapon Tassi used. He will probably resort to small probing attacks, to test your full strength, while planning something on a larger scale. As for other spies... the ones who came with me are dead. Of the others, I have no knowledge."

  Ganga Zala raised his head, his expression laden with worry.

  "That is exactly why we must seek peace!" he exclaimed, his voice resonating in the shed. "To avoid a bloodbath, a large-scale attack that could decimate our people!"

  Carlos, who had remained silent, shook his head vehemently.

  "I disagree, Ganga. In this last attack, they failed in all their objectives. And in a larger attack, we will be even stronger and more prepared. We should go on the offensive, show our strength! Retaliation is necessary!"

  Zala slapped his open hand on the table, the crack echoing like a gunshot.

  "Absolutely not! Bloodshed only begets more bloodshed. Our strength lies in our community, not in seeking war!"

  Carlos opened his mouth to retort, but Specter intervened, his voice a notch louder, yet still controlled.

  "Excuse me, Chief Carlos, Ganga Zala. I suggest we leave this vital discussion for later. We need to exhaust the information first." He looked at one, then the other, until both, reluctantly, acquiesced in silence. He then turned back to Nyran. "Do you know of Caetano Velho's specific next plans?"

  Nyran sighed, a twinge of pain in her wounded arm reminding her of her position.

  "No. Nothing. My mission was specific."

  Specter asked a few more questions, but it was clear that Nyran's well of information had run dry. She had nothing more of substance to offer. Finally, they ordered her to wait outside, so the council could deliberate on her fate.

  As soon as the door closed behind her, the air inside the shed seemed to change. Specter was the first to speak, his gaze directed at Tassi.

  "I'm sorry, Tassi," he said, his voice a little less impersonal. "I know she spared you more than once out there. But... I don't believe we should take her back. And keeping her free is a risk. She now has direct knowledge of the power of our weapons."

  Tassi took a deep breath, her shoulders bowed by the weight of the decision. When she spoke, her voice was laden with a deep pain, but clear.

  "I understand. And I agree." She looked at her hands in her lap, avoiding the others' eyes. "I told her that killing Carlos would be like killing the Quilombo, and that it would be the same as killing me. Even so... she tried. Her loyalty is no longer here."

  Ganga Zala made a sound of disapproval but remained silent, his fingers drumming on the table.

  Carlos spoke next, his voice practical and firm.

  "I agree with the decision. As valuable as her help in steel production was, the risk of keeping her alive is greater. The Quilombo's security comes first."

  This world has no place for long-term prisons, Carlos thought, his face impassive. It's brutal, but it's our reality. We are in a life-or-death situation, and we must make the most rational decisions, not the most compassionate ones.

  The other mocambo chiefs, one by one, expressed their agreement. A grim consensus seemed to have formed. It was then that Ganga Zala stood up, and his chair scraped the earthen floor with a rough sound. He banged his fist on the table, not in anger, but with final authority.

  "No!" his voice echoed, firm. "She will live. She is a living witness that the governor attacked us while we were seeking peace negotiations!"

  Specter remained calm, but his response was incisive.

  "With all due respect, Ganga, we have no tangible proof. And the word of a Black woman, and a former spy, is worth nothing before the authorities. They will say we forced her to confess, that she is our ally... The credibility is zero."

  Zala looked at each face around the table, his gaze imposing his will.

  "I am the one in charge of this Quilombo! And I decide she will live, under constant custody and supervision! I will not feed the cycle of violence with a summary execution." He paused, his breathing heavy. "And, for the same reason, I also do not authorize any retaliatory attack!" His gaze challenged everyone. "Are we understood?"

  The silence that followed was heavy, charged with tension. Slowly, reluctantly, one by one, the chiefs bowed their heads in silent acquiescence. The decision was made, but the division in the heart of the Quilombo had never been clearer.