The weeks following the troupe's arrival were a whirlwind of activity in Tatu, marked by a frenetic pace that seemed to pulse in the very foundations of the city. The air, always imbued with the slight chemical odor from the factories, now also carried, in certain corners, the scent of sawn wood, fresh paint, and the fine dust of drying concrete.

  On distant battlefields, the Republican strategy unfolded with glacial precision. Control of the region around Ouro Branco was consolidated, mouthful by mouthful, farm by farm. The obvious and threatening exception was the Garcia Castle, a hard nut to crack, but Specter wouldn't move before securing his rear.

  Popess Paula was preparing for the attack on her own city while Nia made more cannons.

  Carlos followed the reports in his office, the weight of decisions leaving deeper bags under his eyes each morning. A direct attack on White Sand now would be a colossal risk, he reflected, tracing lines on the map. If the remaining plantation owners, those who haven't surrendered yet, decided to unite and cut our supply lines... the army would march straight into a trap. Hunger and lack of ammunition are crueler generals than any Adept. We have to secure every kilometer behind us first.

  To relieve the constant tension, he immersed himself in two projects. The first was helping the Beautiful Morning Troupe bring Quixotina de La Mancha to life, reviewing scripts, suggesting cuts, marveling at the creativity of Rosa and her actors. The second project occupied the silent late nights: sketches of new weapons. Mastering Pernambuco is just the first step, he thought, fingers stained with charcoal over papers full of firing mechanism diagrams, projectile shapes. Then will come the Church, with its continental influence. Other captaincies, with larger armies. We need to always be one step ahead. But the worries were a constant weight, an invisible stack of papers threatening to sink him.

  But today was Sunday. Day off. Premiere day.

  Carlos was at home, wrestling with the intricate laces of his soft leather shoes, when cheerful, rhythmic knocks echoed at the door.

  Opening it, the scene made him pause. Quixotina was on the threshold, and she was a dazzling sight. Her long blonde hair, the color of ripe straw in the sun, was styled in elaborate braids that crowned her head, interlaced with red silk threads. Her dress was of a deep scarlet velvet, a cut that combined Portuguese structure with a lightness in the draping that spoke of tropical influences. Around her neck, her gold necklace with the red Force gem pulsed softly, like an ember's heart. Her eyes, a vibrant and intelligent ruby, shone with contained excitement. In her hand, she held Dulcinéia's.

  The girl was a ray of sunshine. Her lighter, almost golden blonde curls peeked out from a red and white cotton ojá tied stylishly on her head—an accessory clearly of African inspiration, adopted and adapted by local fashion. Her dress was simple, orange linen, but the cut was loose and comfortable, allowing her to run and play. Her eyes, inherited from her mother, had a softer red, like amber honey.

  "Uncle Carlos, come on! The play won't wait!" Dulcinéia tugged her mother's hand, impatient.

  Carlos smiled, easing the tension of the moment. He gave himself one last look. He wore an open-front linen jacket of intense indigo blue over a white cotton shirt with geometric embroidery on the cuffs and collar—a pattern paying homage to African textile traditions. The trousers were wide, made of a light fabric, and he completed the look with a braided leather cord around his neck, dangling a small Republic symbol. Male fashion in Tatu was an organic fusion: the basic Portuguese structure flooded with vibrant colors, bold patterns, looser cuts, and adornments inspired by the African and indigenous cultures that formed the city's people. He felt dressed by the Republic's own identity. Though still not used to this style of men's clothing, which was quite different from that in his world, he felt like a peacock.

  "Ready, my queens," he said, giving a bow that made Dulcinéia laugh.

  As they stepped out, the afternoon light gilded the slumbering city. It was Sunday, the industrial bustle silenced, making room for the sounds of life: distant laughter, the chirping of birds in the ipês. And the ipês... Carlos felt a knot of pride in his chest. The trees he had insisted on planting along the main avenue were in full purple bloom. A tunnel of lilac flowers against the sky, with a carpet of petals on the concrete ground.

  Quixotina stopped, her gaze sweeping the flower-lined avenue. A mischievous smile appeared on her lips.

  "So that was the great battle," she teased, turning to Carlos. "I remember the council meeting. You, stubborn, talking about 'urban beauty' and 'low maintenance.' I just wanted mango trees. The fruit is a blessing."

  "Ah, the fruit is a blessing, I agree," Carlos retorted, his eyes also on the lilac spectacle. "But the mango tree is a capricious diva. Tiny leaves that clog everything, flowers that fall like a sticky rain, and the fruits... the ripe ones are a feast. The rotten ones, an insect festival. Imagine a city with hundreds of them? It would be a nightmare. The ipês... they're resilient. They give this beauty and ask for little in return."

  "I want to see the yellow ones bloom later, Uncle!" said Dulcinéia, running to try and catch a petal in the wind.

  They continued, but as they approached the new cultural district, the scene changed. The quiet streets began to fill with a steady flow of people. Families, couples, groups of friends, all in their best Sunday clothes—a vibrant parade of Tatu fashion: women with colorful turbans and panos da costa over dresses, men with open jackets over printed shirts, children in clothes full of life. It was a visual affirmation of belonging.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Quixotina observed, her ruby eyes reflecting the multicolored scene.

  "The newspaper... it really worked," she commented quietly to Carlos. "In the life I had, so many people to see the spectacle would be unthinkable. The people had their place, and it wasn't on the path to the theater."

  "It's because, in that life, the theater wasn't for the people," Carlos replied softly. "It was a luxury for a caste. And even if the doors were open, the price of a ticket was often the price of a week's food. The choice is cruel, but obvious."

  Quixotina fell silent, watching a young mother adjusting her daughter's ojá before they joined the line.

  "Yes..." she admitted, her voice a thread. "I lived in a bubble. I didn't see it. Or I didn't want to see it."

  "You were a child in a golden cage with steel rules," Carlos said, his voice understanding, without judgment. "Surviving inside it was already a daily battle."

  The Alvorecer Theater emerged ahead, an elegant, modern concrete structure with large windows and a wooden marquee supported by simple columns. The line snaked along the sidewalk. Guided by an assistant, they entered through a side door and went up to the main box, which they shared with other government members. The air inside was fresh, circulated by strategic openings, and carried the smell of the fresh wood from the set and the palpable expectation of the audience.

  After everyone entered, the lights went out. A dense silence fell. Then, with an almost magical whisper, several spheres of soft, white light floated to the top of the stage, bathing the set in perfect brightness. Carlos felt a shiver of pleasure.

  Light Adepts, he thought, marveling. Using magic for this. To create atmosphere, emotion... it's brilliant.

  The story came to life. Kátia, as Quixotina, was captivating and tragic. Her madness had dignity, her sadness, depth. Toco, as Sancho, was the earthy and hilarious counterpoint, his foolish and wise loyalty drawing sincere laughter from the audience. Rosa's adaptation was agile, mixing the classic text with local situations—the windmills became monstrous sugar mills, the bandits, arrogant slave hunters. The audience reacted with total immersion: collective laughter in the humorous moments, moved sighs in the dramatic ones.

  Carlos watched that magical connection between stage and audience. They are loving it. They are seeing themselves, perhaps, in Quixotina's noble madness or Sancho's common sense. An idea lit up his mind. If they loved this Shakespearean-Cervantine comedy... The Auto da Compadecida (The Rogue's Trial) is going to be a hurricane. Northeastern humor, social satire... it's going to take root here. I have to talk to the troupe about that play later.

  The performance ended with the scene of Quixotina's death, regaining sanity, and melancholy farewell. When the curtains closed, a wave of deafening applause and shouts of "encore!" took over the theater.

  Beside him, in the semi-dark box, Carlos saw Quixotina wipe a stubborn tear running down her pale face, illuminated only by the faint light coming from the stage. Dulcinéia, after bravely resisting, was fast asleep, nestled against the red velvet of her mother's dress.

  "That..." Quixotina's voice came out hoarse, emotional. "That gift was yours, Carlos. I... I have no words. I read this book once, just once. It mocked what I believed, and a sanity that terrified me. Seeing it today..." she shook her head, unable to finish.

  "It wasn't a gift, it was a debt of gratitude," Carlos replied softly. "And I felt so lost. What do you give to a knight who already has the best of swords? What do you offer someone who, in another life, could have any worldly object? I was going in circles."

  She looked at him, and for the first time, Carlos saw a disarming vulnerability in her ruby eyes, without the armor of bravado or irony.

  "I may be a knight, Carlos, but I'm also just... a woman. Any gesture from you would have been enough. It's me who's bad at this. With feelings. With thanks. I'm impulsive and closed off." She took a deep breath, as if for a charge. "That's why, to try to be better... I would like to invite you to dinner. At my home. Tonight. If you want."

  The invitation was made with an almost medieval solemnity, but her eyes were full of genuine anxiety. Carlos's heart skipped a beat. The initial surprise gave way to a warmth that heated his chest.

  "I accept. It would be an honor."

  ***

  Backstage, the euphoria was physical, almost loud. Kátia collapsed on the stage as soon as the curtain touched the floor, her breath leaving her in a long sigh. Quixotina's dress, a glorious patchwork quilt, formed a puddle around her.

  Toco, already without the padding that simulated his belly, knelt, offering a washcloth.

  "I never... never felt energy like that coming from the audience," he said, amazed. "They entered the story with us. Besides, I never thought so many people would want to see a play. Who would have thought?"

  Rosa approached like a storm of happiness, carrying a water bottle and cups.

  "Who would have thought? I'll tell you who!" she announced, with a smile that lit up the dark corner of the stage. "That's what made the difference." She shook a copy of the Jornal Jabuticaba. "Every day, on street corners: 'News from the front! And exclusive premiere at the Alvorecer: The Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance, by the acclaimed Beautiful Morning Troupe!' The acclaim we built today, but the advertisement... the advertisement planted the seed. Besides, you must have seen that the people here really earn well, enough to spend on frivolities."

  Kátia sat up, drinking water, a tired but victorious smile on her face.

  "The 'acclaimed' troupe that once traded The Taming of the Shrew for a plate of beans and a corner in the hay."

  The lighting man, an older man with calloused hands smelling of lamp oil and mana dust, joined the group, fanning his face with a hat.

  "My friends... the box office. Never seen anything like it. And the theater? Packed! Even standing room at the back. This newspaper... it's a different kind of magic. A magic that fills houses."

  Rosa looked at her family of artists, sweaty, with makeup running, but with eyes clear of a pure and rare joy. She raised her makeshift cup.

  "And do you know who we should thank, besides ourselves? Matilda, she's the one behind the newspaper. Who would have thought she left White Sand and came here, we should thank her. But that's for tomorrow!" she exclaimed, her voice echoing on the empty stage. "Today, the night is ours! Let's celebrate! The city awaits!"