"You know, looking at me..." Francisco's voice came out hoarse, his gaze avoiding hers and fixing on the wood grain of the table, "...you'd never even tell, would you?"

  He paused, swallowing dryly. When he continued, each word seemed pulled out of him at a cost.

  "I have Indigenous blood in my veins. My mother was from a tribe. My father... a Portuguese bounty hunter. He raped her during a 'pacification.' I was the unwanted fruit of that violence."

  He paused, swallowing dryly. When he continued, each word seemed to be wrenched out at a cost.

  "I was born in the tribe. Grew up learning a bit of their customs, their language… until I was seven. My father discovered my existence. And since I… well, took more after him, with this skin and this face, he didn't kill me. Instead, he killed my mother to 'cut ties' and took me. Made me his 'heir,' since the curse or his age prevented him from having other children."

  The silence that followed was no longer just of expectation, but of reverent shock. The revelation was a low blow to the public image of the city's most prosperous merchant. Paula didn't even blink, but her heart raced. This wasn't just the key to the artifact secret; it was the key to the man sitting before her.

  Francisco took a deep breath, his chest puffing against the thin doublet, as if preparing to dive into the deep, treacherous waters of memory.

  "I lived under his yoke for years," Francisco continued, his voice raw. "Until one day, in an ambush, a quilombola killed him. And I… I felt nothing. Only relief. I sold all the magic weapons, the dirty gems he'd hoarded, bought a cart and an old donkey, and became what I am: a merchant. But I never forgot my origins. Whenever I can, I go back to what's left of the tribe. I take them weapons so they can defend themselves, food when game is scarce. Tools."

  He raised his eyes, finally meeting the shadow where Paula's face was.

  "They feel indebted. They don't use money, but they understand the world of the whites. In the tribe, a long time ago, they discovered how to work a special kind of gem. They don't call it the gem of sacrifice. To them, it's the 'gem of summoning.' It's purple, almost black. The ritual… is different. There's no death. There's patience. They deposit mana, the energy of life and earth, into an ancient stone altar with the gem. Every day. For two full moons. Only then does the stone activate and something is… 'called.' What comes, they give to me. In exchange for my help. It's an agreement of honor, not commerce."

  Paula felt a complex emotion tighten her chest: compassion for the story, relief at the revelation, but also a pang of hurt.

  "Why did you never tell me?" she asked, her voice softer. "I could have sent help, protection…"

  Francisco shook his head vehemently, a spark of ancient pain in his eyes.

  "Help?" he repeated bitterly. "Or catechization? Forced conversion? Slavery in disguise? You, Paula, perhaps not. I believe you wouldn't. But who's to say someone below you, with a cross in one hand and a sword in the other, wouldn't?" He pointed around at the miserable tavern, at the city beyond. "And don't even tell me you have absolute power here. You don't. Who's in charge, in the end, is the Church of Alba. And the proof is right here: the Popess, hiding like a criminal to talk to a friend."

  Paula opened her mouth to retort, but the words died on her lips. He was right. A painful, undeniable truth. She lowered her head, shame and frustration burning her face.

  "Alright," she conceded after a moment of heavy silence. "Don't tell me where they are. Not even the name. But… ask them for help. If I fall, if Orsini or someone worse takes control here, the situation will worsen for everyone. For the tribe, for the Republic, for the common folk. And about the artifacts… ask if it's possible to 'call' something specific. A book about diseases, about the human body, about plants… any knowledge that could save lives or give strength to those fighting for their own."

  "And why do you want to help the Republic so much?" Francisco asked, genuinely intrigued. "I understand their struggle. I think it's just. But… it's not your fight. You are the Holy Popess."

  Paula let out a low, humorless laugh.

  "As you yourself said, Francisco, I don't rule here. I am a piece on a much larger board. A valuable piece, perhaps, but disposable. I want to be free. Truly. Not just trade one gilded cage for another. Carlos… he promised me that freedom. And, against all logic and all my distrust, I believe him. I believe in what he's trying to build."

  Francisco observed her for a long moment, his merchant's eyes assessing something more valuable than gold: sincerity. Finally, he took one last, large gulp of the warm beer, making another face.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Alright. I will take them your request. But I will do it myself. I will never reveal their location. And I can't guarantee anything about the specificity of the 'call.' For them, it has always been something random, a gift from the spirits."

  "Thank you, Francisco," Paula's voice was laden with rare emotion, a profound relief coming from deep within. "That… means more than you know. Not just for me, but for everything we're trying to protect here."

  She paused, her gloved fingers tracing a concentric circle on the sticky table surface, as if drawing possible future paths.

  "But wait," she continued, raising her head enough for him to see the seriousness in her eyes. "Don't pass on the request to your people yet. Don't make the request yet. I need to speak with Carlos first. We have to decide together what we want… what we need to be summoned first. Would it be a medical book? An engineering treatise? A warfare manual? The choice has to be strategic; it has to be worth the two-month wait and the risk involved." She took a deep breath. "When we have the answer, I will seek you out myself. In the same way."

  Francisco nodded, understanding the logic. In a game with such high stakes, no move could be wasted.

  "Understood. My ears will be open, and my feet, ready to return to this aromatic paradise," he said with dry sarcasm, nudging the empty tankard. "But don't take too long, Paula. The wind is changing, and even I can smell a storm in the air. Orsini is not patient."

  Francisco drained the tankard. "Do you need anything else? Besides putting my neck on the chopping block for smuggling forbidden knowledge?"

  "Actually, yes," Paula said, her voice regaining a more practical tone. "You have many contacts. Outside the Church. Independent merchants, less scrupulous ship captains… could you start making discreet contacts? Creating alternative routes to move goods?"

  Francisco nearly choked on air. He glanced quickly around, his face expressing pure panic.

  "Are you asking me to… plan smuggling outside the Church's network?" he whispered, shocked. "Paula, every ship leaving the port is inspected by your church guards! The routes are controlled!"

  A slight smile touched Paula's hidden lips.

  "I'm using my vision gem glasses," she whispered back. "I'm keeping an eye on everyone here. No one is paying attention to us. You can speak. And yes, I'm asking you to start weaving a parallel network. Discreet. Slow."

  That calmed Francisco a little, but not entirely. The idea was monumentally dangerous.

  "But… why? Why create this now?" he insisted.

  "Because," Paula explained with a calm that was frightening, "perhaps, in the near future, Santa Maria will no longer be under the direct control of the Roman Church."

  Francisco was petrified. "Are you thinking of… rebelling? Declaring independence? That's madness!"

  "It's not a rebellion I'm planning," she replied enigmatically. "But a… liberation. And when that happens, a rich port city, full of goods, will be a huge target. And it will be bound hand and foot if it depends solely on the routes Alba controls. We need options. Secret channels. Friends at sea who owe favors to us, not to Alba."

  "What do you mean 'liberation'? Don't tell me… that Carlos plans to take the city?" Francisco's voice was a thread of disbelief. "That's impossible! The walls, the guards, the Church's adepts…"

  Paula allowed her slight smile to become a bit more visible.

  "You've seen the power of a firearm firsthand. I've seen the power of weapons that make that one look like a toy. Without an army to defend it… well, nothing is totally impossible. Carlos needs a port. He needs Santa Maria or White Sand. And which one do you think is more fortified, more symbolic, and, paradoxically, more vulnerable to a rapid change?" She paused, her eyes gleaming in the shadow. "Perhaps I'm mistaken. But a while ago, Carlos told me to 'choose a side.' I think this is what he meant."

  Francisco wanted to protest, argue about the insanity of the idea. But then he remembered. He remembered the day at the engenho, the dry crack, Jorge's body falling before anyone could blink, his shields being destroyed. He remembered Carlos's cold, calculating eyes in that moment. That was not a man who made empty promises.

  He fell silent, processing the enormity of what was being proposed. The tavern, with its smell and filth, suddenly seemed the center of the world.

  "Alright," he said finally, his voice surprisingly steady. "I don't fully trust Carlos. His ambitions are too great. But I trust you, Paula. I trust your judgment and your heart. So… I'll do what I can. I'll weave my merchant webs. I'll make the requests to the tribe. But do me a favor."

  "What?"

  "When the storm arrives…" Francisco looked directly at the shadow of her hood, "...warn me in advance. I like my neck the way it is."

  Paula nodded, a single, firm movement of her head.

  "It will be the first thing I do."

  Francisco stood up, the chair creaking on the packed dirt floor. He gave her a last look, a solitary, enigmatic figure at the dark table, then turned and left the tavern, plunging back into the city night that, perhaps, would not be holy for much longer.