The presidential office smelled of fresh paint, paper, and tea—a mixture that had become familiar to Carlos over the last few months. The afternoon light streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the stacks of reports covering his solid oak desk. In one of these stacks, thicker than the others, was the full report on the Battle of Castle Garcia.

  Carlos read for the third time the section about the death of Inês, the Blood Baroness. His fingers traced the words, as if feeling for a flaw in logic he knew didn't exist.

  "...the Baroness's final action consisted of ordering her son Fábio, 12 years old, to flee alone, while using her powers to control the remaining servants and attendants, directing them in a suicidal attack against the republican troops..."

  He sighed—a heavy, deep sound that carried with it the weariness of weeks of military planning and the frustration of not understanding.

  Across the room, Quixotina looked up from her own documents. She had been there for nearly two hours, initially discussing the construction of new schools—including the Republic's first secondary school, where advanced mathematics, chemistry, and even the rudiments of the scientific method would be taught. The technical conversation had ended half an hour ago, but she had remained, pretending to need to review some budget calculations.

  The truth was simpler: Carlos's office was one of the few places where the outside world, with its demands and urgencies, seemed to recede. The calm rhythm of his breathing as he read, the soft sound of his pen scratching on paper, even the way he sometimes murmured to himself in words that were only from the 21st century which only she recognized as peculiar—all of it had a soothing effect.

  "What's wrong?" her voice broke the silence, softer than she'd intended. "Too many deaths?"

  Carlos shook his head, not immediately, as if pulling himself from a deep thought.

  "No," he replied, running a hand over his face. "The numbers are within expectations. Less, even. It was a victory, technically speaking."

  He paused, his eyes returning to the report.

  "It's the decisions. The choices that don't make sense."

  Quixotina slowly closed her notebook, giving him her full attention. The movement made her braids—today styled more elaborately, she had caught herself thinking more about her appearance lately—sway slightly.

  "The Blood Baroness," Carlos continued, lifting the report. "As cruel as she was, she was a mother. She had a living son, Fábio. Even so, she chose death over surrender. Sent the boy to flee alone, instead of surrendering together."

  He looked at Quixotina, genuinely perplexed.

  "Under our laws, both would have survived. She would have had a trial, yes, but the son... he would have had a chance to live. Instead, she sacrificed servants, attendants, her own life... all for nothing. The boy will never reach White Sand alone. It's... irrational."

  Carlos raised a hand before Quixotina could respond.

  "And Garcia, then. Fights to the death for a castle already destroyed. For stones. When surrender would have at least given him life. I don't understand."

  He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk.

  "Luíza, as a mother... can you explain to me what went through her head? Some logic that escapes me?"

  Quixotina was silent for a long moment. Her fingers toyed with the pen on the desk.

  "I'm sorry, Carlos," she finally said, her voice more grave. "I can't get into that monster's mind. Even here in the quilombo, before all this, she was already a legend of terror. The stories that reached us... weren't just about cruelty. They were about something deeper, as if evil were a craft to her."

  She paused, choosing her words.

  "As for Garcia... that one, at least, I understand a little. Not that I defend him," she added quickly, seeing Carlos's expression. "I know very well he was another monster. But fighting to the death for your lands... that has a logic even a knight from the old stories would understand. It's about honor. Identity. Being defeated, but not surrendering."

  Carlos watched her, his dark eyes reflecting the window light.

  "And you?" the question came out more direct than he'd planned. "Would you fight to the death for the Republic?"

  Quixotina didn't answer immediately. Her eyes swept the room—the maps on the walls, the machine designs, the books Carlos had brought from his world and adapted for teaching. Everything that represented not just a nation, but an idea.

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

  "It would certainly be an honorable death," she said, weighing each word. "Worthy of the knights I read about in the old stories my uncle told me. But... no."

  She looked directly at him.

  "I wouldn't fight to the death. Because I have Dulcinéia. I wouldn't leave her alone in this world. That's why Inês's actions confuse me as much as they do you. What mother chooses a dramatic death over living for her son?"

  Carlos let out a sigh that seemed to carry weeks of tension. A small, genuine smile touched his lips.

  "That's good," he said, his voice lighter. "If someday—and I hope it never happens—if some army comes to take our city, and you know it's a hopeless fight... take Dulcinéia and flee. Go to the woods, wherever it's safe."

  He leaned forward, his eyes serious.

  "I would never blame you. I promise."

  Quixotina felt something warm and tight in her chest. He really wants me to survive, she thought. Not as a heroine, but as a mother.

  But in her mind, another answer was forming, one she would never say aloud. If it were to save Carlos—not the Republic, not the idea, but the man who now looked at her with genuine concern—then yes. Then she would fight to the last drop of blood. She knew, with a certainty that frightened her a little, that he would take care of Dulcinéia. That he would make the girl his priority, his ward.

  And there was something more: in her romantic mind, shaped by old books and chivalric ideals her uncle had told her in secret, Carlos represented those ideals more than any noble or king she had read about. Not through titles or blood, but through actions. By building schools instead of fortresses. By freeing instead of enslaving.

  He would never accept me dying for him, she thought, her fingers tightening on the pen. It would go against everything he believes in. But that wouldn't change my choice.

  "Because of Inês's irrational actions," Carlos's voice brought her back to the present, "we now have another orphaned child. A white seven-year-old boy who, according to reports, participated in his mother's 'games.' Who probably thinks it's normal to torture black children."

  He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of weariness.

  "I can already see the problems he'll cause. The trauma, the internalized hatred, the education that will have to be undone and redone..."

  Quixotina sighed, a sound of professional resignation.

  "Indeed," she agreed. "He'll be a lot of work at school. A lot of work. If he even accepts being taught."

  She began gathering her papers, deliberate movements that delayed the inevitable.

  "It was good to spend this time with you," she said, standing up. "But I need to fetch some documents from my office. Besides, the teachers will miss me soon."

  Carlos also stood, an almost reflexive movement.

  "Alright," he said, and the sadness in his voice was so subtle only someone who knew him well would notice. "By the way... would you like to come to my house for dinner tonight? I don't think you've tried my pudding yet."

  Quixotina's smile widened, genuine.

  "I accept," she replied, holding the papers to her chest. "Shall I bring Dulcinéia too?"

  "Of course! I have more comic books for her."

  "Then it's settled."

  She left, closing the door softly behind her. The office suddenly seemed larger, emptier, quieter.

  ***

  In the adjacent office, Tassi Hangbé—Tassi to all who mattered—was buried up to her neck in agricultural reports. The more the Republic expanded, the more mouths to feed, the more land to cultivate, the more logistics to manage. She had requisitioned all the grass adepts from the army for her ministry, turning soldiers into elite farmers who could make a crop grow in days.

  Her hair, usually carefully pinned up, was loose and disheveled from how many times she had run her hands through it in frustration. The teacup beside her was already cold, but she drank it anyway, grimacing.

  It was then that, through the translucent glass of the connecting door, she saw Quixotina pass by in the hallway. The Minister of Education had a light, almost dancing step, and a small, private smile that Tassi recognized all too well.

  She must have been in his office for about three hours, Tassi thought, her pen stopping in the middle of a column of numbers. And not just today. Lately they've been spending a lot of time together.

  She watched Quixotina disappear around the corridor bend, that always-erect posture, that dignity that seemed as natural as breathing.

  Quixotina is a lady, her thought continued, a little more bitter than she'd like. The kind who expects to be courted. Who expects poetry, grand gestures, kneeling on the floor. Carlos would have to proclaim his love in sonnets just to be considered.

  She looked at her own blurred reflection in the windowpane—wild hair, eyes with deep shadows, short nails dirty with soil.

  Not like me, she thought, with a mix of self-deprecation and pragmatism. I'm only discovering my feelings now, in the middle of chaos, when I barely have time to breathe.

  Her mind went back to the previous night, when Carlos had come to her office to discuss crop numbers. He had brought tea, noticed she was tired, insisted she get some rest. Small things. Things that might mean nothing. Or perhaps everything.

  It's fine, she thought, forcing herself back to the reports. I still have time to sort out these feelings. Besides, I have no way to approach him now—not with so much work.

  But even as she thought this, her fingers idly traced the letters of the name "Carlos" in the report's margin, before she realized what she was doing and quickly crossed it out, as if it were a dangerous secret.

  "That said," she murmured to herself, picking up her pen with renewed determination, "back to work."

  Outside, the sun was beginning to set over the Republic, bathing in golden tones the first constructions of the new city growing where before there had been only forest and fear. Inside the offices, other constructions—more fragile, more human—were also trying to be born, between sighs, reports, and cups of cold tea.