The afternoon light streaming through the tall windows of Carlos's office illuminated dust particles dancing slowly. When the messenger entered, breathless, and handed over the report sealed with Specter's crest, the silence in the room grew even denser.

  Carlos broke the seal with a dry snap. His eyes flew over the lines of meticulous handwriting, the numbers, the attached schematic maps. Surprise was a physical sensation, a slight tightening in his diaphragm, followed by a slow, deep sigh he hadn't even realized he was holding. Ouro Branco had fallen. And reading the details suggested a victory not just complete, but... easy. Strangely easy, compared to the vivid, painful memory of the Stream—the smell of blood and gunpowder, the screams, the terrible cost in lives.

  He let the paper fall softly onto the oak desk, his fingers still touching the rough surface of the report. The sound of the distant market, the normal buzz of the Republic, seemed unreal against that news.

  And yet... it makes sense, when I stop to think, the thought began to organize itself, trying to tame the incredulity. At the stream, we were the ones caught by surprise. We were fewer, poorly armed with those flintlock muskets that failed more than they hit. His eyes fixed on a map on the wall, on the small "X" marking the location of that carnage.

  But this time... the story was rewritten. We were the greater number. The weapons—the repeating rifles, the artillery—weren't just decent, they were superior. Surprise was our weapon. Logistics, our foundation. He frowned, the practical part of his mind taking over. It consumes resources, of course. Every shot, every cannonball, is steel, gunpowder, hours of labor. But since the victory was swift and decisive... it didn't consume all it could have in a prolonged siege. It was efficient. Economically efficient.

  He picked up the second sheet of the report. Here, after the tactical summary, came Specter's request. Carlos read it, then read it again, his eyes tracing the lines that suggested a pause, a brief rest for the troops before the next move.

  "Rest a little before proceeding to White Sand..." he murmured to himself, rising and walking to the window. Outside, the Republic bustled in its peaceful routine, a stark contrast to the words on the paper. Truly, the path to the coast has its obstacles. Small towns, some stone forts...

  He pictured those structures, designed to stop attacks from tribes or quilombolas, facing the cold mathematics of his siege cannons. A chill ran down his spine, but it wasn't fear; it was an almost disconcerting understanding of the power he now commanded.

  ...for our cannons, they are not a problem. Not even Castelo Garcia, that old fort in the mountains everyone says is impregnable. Stone against sufficient gunpowder... the stone always loses.

  His face contracted into an expression of doubt. There was another plan in play, another promise. "And yet... Paula. She's preparing, risking everything, to open the gates of the Holy City from the inside. The original plan was to converge there after Ouro Branco."

  He rubbed his temple, feeling the onset of a headache. The pros and cons aligned in his mind like pieces in a complex chess game.

  "However, for that, we'd have to move the army from Ouro Branco, march back, lay siege to the city... that's weeks, maybe months. And meanwhile..." His gaze turned back to the bookshelf, where a production report was always visible. "...with each passing day, we are producing more repeating rifles in the Gemas Gerais workshops. That's true. But also, with each passing day, our stock of quality steel—steel for tools, for machine spare parts, for new factories—is dwindling. Producing more rifles doesn't necessarily make us stronger if we can't keep them firing, if our tools break and we have no way to replace them."

  Specter's voice in the report seemed to echo in his ears. The commander emphasized speed, momentum, the enemy's logistical fragility compared to theirs.

  "Hmm... but the enemy, the Governor-General... he is growing stronger with each day we give him. He gathers troops, hires mercenaries, fortifies other towns." Carlos sighed, the weight of the decision pressing on his shoulders. "Specter understands kinetic warfare, movement and fire, better than I do. Much better. He's there, feels the men's fatigue, sees the terrain. I'm here, surrounded by papers and maps." He nodded, almost imperceptibly, to himself. "I'll trust his judgment. Momentum is a weapon as crucial as the cannons."

  The decision took clear shape in his mind. He sat down again, pulled out a blank sheet of paper, and began to write, his pen scratching with determination. The response to Specter was an authorization: "Strategic pause approved. Keep me informed. The next move is yours. I trust your vision."

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  As soon as the ink dried, he folded the document, sealed it, and rang a small brass bell on the desk. Moments later, his secretary, a middle-aged woman with thin-rimmed glasses, appeared at the door.

  "Teresa, please ask Miss Matilda to come to my office. It's urgent."

  While waiting, Carlos organized the papers. Specter's full report was too detailed for public eyes, containing precise troop numbers, tactical vulnerabilities, agent names. He separated a summarized version he had prepared mentally—a clear narrative of the victory, with heroic deeds, technological superiority, and the low cost in Republican lives.

  A soft knock on the door announced her arrival.

  "Come in."

  Matilda entered, and for a split second, Carlos was breathless. She wore a simple cotton dress, but in a deep blue that seemed stolen from the twilight sky. And then he noticed, as if for the first time—which was absurd—that the blue of the fabric matched the blue of her eyes perfectly. A clear, intelligent, and inquisitive blue.

  Wait... blue eyes? I could have sworn they were another color, the thought fired off, incongruous and unprepared.

  "Good afternoon, Matilda. Thank you for coming so quickly. Please, have a seat."

  She sat in the chair facing his desk with her usual posture, erect and attentive. Carlos slid the summarized report towards her.

  "We just received confirmation. Ouro Branco has been taken. This is the official battle report. I've already removed sensitive information—exact troop numbers, secret positions, that sort of thing. The rest..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "is a story that needs to be told. And I want it published in the next issue of the Jabuticaba Journal."

  Matilda picked up the sheets, her slender fingers passing over the paper. Her blue eyes, now serious, began to fly over the lines. Carlos watched her face, seeing her eyebrows rise slightly, her lips part in a small "o" of astonishment. She turned the page, then went back to the previous one, as if checking the numbers.

  "This... President..." she began, her voice an incredulous whisper. "Is all this true? Was it... that easy? Just three confirmed dead and ten wounded? In a battle for an entire city?"

  The doubt in her was palpable, almost a cautious hope that it was a mistake.

  Carlos inclined his head in an affirmative nod, his own feelings of initial surprise echoing in her questions.

  "It's true. Every number has been verified. Commander Specter's strategy was impeccable. We managed to neutralize the main threats—the adepts, the defensive positions—from a safe distance, with artillery and elite snipers. When our infantry finally closed in enough to risk direct retaliation..." he paused, the image from the report vivid in his mind, "the enemy was already broken. Under severe sustained attacks, with many dead, wounded, and the survivors completely disoriented. Organized resistance had collapsed."

  He raised a finger, his tone becoming more emphatic, visionary.

  "And that's exactly the point I want you to emphasize, Matilda. The narrative. Highlight the overwhelming power of our new weapons—the precision, the rate of fire. Talk about the speed of the attack, the coordination between units. I want every citizen of the Republic to feel pride, but I also want a very clear message to be sent beyond our borders."

  He leaned forward over the desk, his eyes now shining with an idea that was rapidly maturing.

  "I'm thinking of something... beyond normal distribution. We could sell it not only here, but have it circulate throughout the captaincy, through trade routes, by... discreet means. I want our enemies—the governor, the plantation owners, even the Church in the Holy City—to know exactly the power that now opposes them. To read about how easily Ouro Branco fell. Fear can be a deterrent as efficient as an army."

  Matilda was silent for a moment, absorbing this. Then, her blue eyes lit up with a sudden, deeper understanding. She set the report aside with an almost reverent gesture.

  "Yes, President! Perfect. And it goes beyond that, far beyond," she said, her voice now charged with contained enthusiasm. "This newspaper, this story of a technological and intelligent victory... will be immensely useful for our specialized recruitment. If, in the classified pages, next to the news, we mention the open positions—and the extremely high salaries—for blacksmiths, for carpenters who can work on complex projects, for alchemists, for anyone who can read, write, and has a desire to learn..." She spread her hands, as if presenting the scene. "We will attract talent. Talent that is hidden in dirty workshops or serving masters who don't value their knowledge. You are truly a genius for thinking of this extra layer, the power of narrative to build not just morale, but the future!"

  Carlos was completely flustered, a heat rising up his neck. He shrugged, a disconcerted gesture.

  "I... well, the truth is I was thinking more about the deterrent part, the psychological impact on the enemies," he admitted, with a honesty that sounded strange even to him. "But your point is excellent. Better than excellent. It's fundamental. Victory in war depends on the factory, the workshop, the mind that invents. So, yes, do that. Highlight the feats, sow fear in the adversaries... and issue the call to the builders, the inventors. Let them come to the Republic."

  Matilda smiled, a genuine smile that made her blue eyes sparkle. She picked up the report with a new sense of purpose.

  "Understood, President. I'll start writing it today. We'll have an edition that will shake the captaincy."

  She left, leaving behind the faint scent of paper and ink, and the persistent feeling in Carlos that sometimes, the best ideas were the ones you didn't realize you were having.