The silence that had fallen over Castle Garcia was more terrifying than the roar of battle. The Specter stood atop the hill where he had established his headquarters, his gray eyes sweeping over the now-subdued fortress. The last burst of gunfire had ceased fifteen minutes ago—the final signal that organized resistance was over.

  The air still carried the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder, mixed with the sweeter, more nauseating odor of charred wood and, beneath it all, the metallic scent of blood that permeates the earth when spilled in quantity. Wisps of smoke still rose from points in the castle, staining the afternoon sky with gray.

  Subdued, thought the Specter, watching the columns of republican soldiers entering and exiting through the holes in the walls like ants in a violated anthill. But at what cost?

  His fingers, calloused and marked by old scars from whips and chains, tightened slightly on the field glasses he held. The cost was in the reports already coming in: twenty-three dead, forty-seven wounded, some critically. Among them, Diego, the youth who had joined Nzambi's squad a month ago. Eighteen years old, thought the Specter. Never knew a day of true freedom.

  "Lord Specter?"

  The voice came from his left. General Almeida, a man with graying hair and a face marked by an old burn that ran from his forehead to his chin, approached. His steps were heavy, weary—the battle had lasted less than planned, but had consumed every man who fought it.

  "Final report?" the Specter asked without turning.

  "Not yet, sir," Almeida replied, wiping soot from his face with an already dirty handkerchief. "But we have a... situation. They found Peixoto."

  The Specter slowly lowered his field glasses. "Dead?"

  "Alive. And with an escort of six mercenaries. They're about a kilometer to the south, on the old road. He requests to negotiate with you personally."

  I was informed he had disappeared in the chaos, thought the Specter, his fingers drumming lightly on the butt of the revolver in his holster. It seems the rat not only survived but managed to escape the castle before it collapsed.

  "Bring him," ordered the Specter, his voice as neutral as the surface of a night lake. "But the mercenaries stay two hundred meters back. If any approach beyond that limit, shoot first."

  "Understood, sir."

  Almeida made a gesture to a messenger, who ran to transmit the orders through the sound gems. The Specter finally turned, his eyes sweeping over the battlefield below. Men carried the wounded on improvised stretchers. Others rounded up prisoners—mercenaries who had surrendered, terrified servants, the few surviving adepts.

  Approximately half an hour later, Peixoto appeared.

  He walked with a carefully rehearsed dignity, his monocle still firmly in place over his eye despite the dust covering his once-impeccable coat. His fine leather shoes were soaked in mud and—the Specter noted—stained with something darker at one toe. Blood, probably.

  The six mercenaries remained at the required distance, their hands visibly away from their weapons, but their eyes constantly scanning the republican troops surrounding them.

  "Good afternoon, Lord Specter," Peixoto greeted, giving a small tilt of his head that wasn't quite a bow, but wasn't a mere nod either. "Thank you for receiving me. I come seeking peace."

  The Specter watched him for a long moment, letting the silence grow between them. The sound of work at the castle—shouted orders, stones being moved, occasional isolated execution shots—filled the void.

  "Peace," the Specter finally repeated, the word coming out like something bitter. "After decades profiting from the torture and enslavement of my people, now, with fire at your door, you come to talk of peace."

  He took a step forward. Peixoto instinctively took half a step back.

  "I bet if this battle hadn't turned in our favor," the Specter continued, his eyes fixed on Peixoto's, "if it were your troops surrounding our capital, you wouldn't be here today. You'd be counting the slaves you captured, calculating how much you'd profit from selling their separated families."

  Peixoto swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing convulsively. He adjusted his monocle, a nervous gesture the Specter noted.

  "From what I've read in the republican newspapers," Peixoto began, choosing his words carefully, "you are not exterminating the whites. I recognize you may not possess the same intellectual refinement as us, but Carlos... He seems to me to be on another level. I can even imagine," he made a calculated pause, "that although his skin is black, his blood is white. And he would be furious if you killed someone genuinely seeking peace."

  Something inside the Specter boiled—an old, familiar heat, the same he'd felt at twelve when he saw the overseer whip his sister until she could no longer scream. But he didn't move a muscle. Because, in his cold calculation, Peixoto had hit on something.

  Carlos hated unnecessary deaths. The president's vision was clear: the Republic would not be a new empire of vengeance, but a nation of laws. And the Specter, no matter how his heart screamed for immediate justice, had sworn to follow that vision.

  Because he's right about something else too, thought the Specter, remembering the face of the child they'd found buried behind Inês's mansion. My heart is heavy with every death, even the necessary ones. Especially the necessary ones.

  "I'll guarantee you one thing," said the Specter, his voice so low Peixoto had to lean in to hear. "Carlos's blood is red. Just like mine. Just like yours. The difference is that our blood was never merchandise in your accounting books."

  He crossed his arms.

  "But it's good that you read the newspaper. I hope you read the part about reparations. You will pay for every slave you had. Every day of unpaid work. Every family separated for your convenience."

  Peixoto nodded, a gesture almost of relief.

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  "Don't worry, I've studied the terms well," he replied, a thread of confidence returning to his voice. "In fact..."

  He snapped his fingers. In the distance, three of his mercenaries moved, carrying three heavy wooden chests reinforced with iron. With visible effort, they brought them and deposited them before the Specter with dull thuds that raised small clouds of dust.

  The Specter didn't look at the chests. He looked at the vision adept beside him—Marcos, the young man who still carried the pallor of what he'd seen inside the castle. The boy closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the gems embedded in his glasses.

  "No trap," Marcos whispered. "Just metal. A lot of metal."

  Only then did the Specter gesture. Two soldiers approached, lifting the heavy lids of the chests.

  The afternoon light reflected off the contents. The first chest was filled to the brim with gold and silver coins—some Portuguese, others Spanish, some even Dutch. The second overflowed with jewels: diamond necklaces, emerald earrings, rings with rubies the size of fingernails. The third contained bars of pure gold, stacked like bricks.

  "I believe this is sufficient to pay my debts," said Peixoto, a faint smile touching his lips. "I should also remind you that I ordered all my foremen and overseers on my lands to surrender to you without resistance. Now that I have paid," he emphasized the word, "I would like to return to my properties and live under the Republic's new laws."

  The Specter looked at the treasure, then at the smoldering castle, then back at Peixoto.

  "You were in the castle," he stated, not asked. "My men informed me the treasury room was empty. So empty even the spiders had nowhere to spin webs. You took everything from there."

  Peixoto kept his face impassive, but his eyes blinked rapidly.

  "The treasury was abandoned," he replied, choosing his words. "With the castle falling, it would be irrational to leave it to be destroyed or looted."

  "If you hadn't taken it," the Specter interrupted, his voice now an icy blade, "we would have conquered the castle and taken everything anyway. As the right of conquest."

  Peixoto felt his spine chill. He took a deep breath before responding.

  "But you didn't take it. I did. Therefore, as established in the newspapers your own government publishes, I wish for you to accept this payment and return my lands and my freedom to me."

  For a long moment, the Specter just looked at him. The silence was filled by the distant sound of a soldier shouting orders, by the cawing of crows already gathering in nearby trees, by the wind blowing through the valley.

  "You truly are a rat," the Specter finally said, with no apparent anger, just as a statement. "You abandoned your allies and let them die. You fled with the treasure while Inês wept over her son's body and Garcia fought to his last breath."

  He stepped closer, his steps slow and measured on the packed earth.

  "However, you are lucky," the Specter continued. "Unlike Inês, who was cruel for pleasure. Unlike Garcia, who felt ecstasy in breaking bones. You... you merely calculated. You didn't beat, didn't torture not in the same amount —just noted the numbers and profited from others' suffering."

  Peixoto began to relax, a mistake.

  "If it were them making this offer," the Specter concluded, stopping half a meter from the man, "I would have taken these chests and thrown you to rot in the worst prison we could build. But you... you are different."

  "Exactly," Peixoto agreed, a thread of superiority returning to his voice. "Don't call me a rat, animal. I merely made the most logical decision in each situation. Emotion is for the weak."

  The Specter tilted his head, as if studying a curious creature.

  "Animal?" he repeated, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper. "I am the commander-in-chief of the Republican Army. You are a man who profited from slavery and now tries to buy his way out. There is a difference."

  He gestured to Almeida.

  "But don't worry. I'll ensure you return whole to your lands. In fact..." The Specter looked around, as if searching for something. "I just need to call a doctor first. For you."

  Peixoto frowned, confused.

  "A doctor? I don't need a doctor, I'm perfectly fine, just a bit tired from the—"

  The crack of the Specter's revolver cut through the afternoon like thunder.

  Peixoto didn't understand immediately. First came the sound—deafening, close. Then, a sensation of impact on his right foot, as if a giant hammer had struck it. Only then did the pain arrive—a white, hot wave that shot up his leg and exploded in his brain.

  He fell, not gracefully, but like a sack of potatoes, a hoarse, animal cry tearing from his throat. His wide eyes saw the scarlet blood gushing from his foot, staining the dust, his expensive trousers, everything.

  "AAAAH! MY GOD!" he roared, his hands clutching his leg as if he could contain the life escaping him.

  Behind him, his six mercenaries drew their swords in reflex. The sound was answered by twenty rifles being cocked in unison by the surrounding republican soldiers. The click-clack of bolts being pulled was more frightening than any scream.

  "Lower your weapons!" Almeida ordered, his voice carrying an authority that made even the mercenaries hesitate. "Or the next shot won't be at his foot!"

  The men looked at Peixoto, writhing on the ground, then at the rifles aimed at them. The swords lowered, one by one.

  The Specter crouched beside Peixoto, his revolver still smoking. The smell of fresh gunpowder mixed with the scent of blood and the bitter odor of fear emanating from the wounded man.

  "How... how can you do this?" Peixoto stammered between moans, his tears mixing with the dust on his face. "You're black... nothing but a filthy lazy... if not for Carlos, you'd be nothing!"

  The Specter didn't flinch. He merely leaned closer, until his face was centimeters from Peixoto's.

  "The doctor is coming," he said, his voice so calm it was almost intimate. "He uses a healing gem, he will, treat the wound. You will survive. And then, as promised, you may go to your lands. You'll remain rich. You'll keep living."

  He slowly raised the revolver until the cold barrel touched Peixoto's sweaty forehead.

  "But if you say another word," the Specter continued, his gray eyes fixed on the man's terrified ones, "if you insult my people, my president, or anyone else in this field again... you will never speak anything again. Understood?"

  Peixoto froze, the pain in his foot almost forgotten before the barrel against his skin. He nodded, rapidly, his eyes pleading.

  The Specter stood up, holstering his revolver. "Bring the medic."

  As the field surgeon came running with his kit, the Specter turned to Almeida. "The chests go to the Republic's treasury. He keeps the lands, under the new laws. But put two men to watch him. If he tries to flee, or engages in any illegal activity..."

  "Understood, sir," Almeida finished, an understanding passing between them.

  The medic worked quickly—with a steel chalice embedded with a healing gem, he poured water over the wound, sealing it. Peixoto endured the pain in silence, his eyes never leaving the Specter, who now watched the castle again, as if the man on the ground were just an insignificant detail.

  When finished, Peixoto was helped to his feet. He limped to his horse, each step an agony, and mounted with difficulty. Without a word, without looking back, he rode off southward, followed by his mercenaries—now more guards than escort.

  Almeida approached the Specter. "We should have executed him. He deserved it."

  "He did," agreed the Specter, watching the figure disappearing down the road. "But killing him would make us judges and executioners. And we are building a nation of laws, not of vengeance."

  He took a deep breath, the smell of battle still heavy in the air.

  "Besides," the Specter added, a rare flash of something almost like satisfaction in his eyes, "he will serve as an example of how the Republic is merciful even to plantation owners. The more of them who surrender without a fight, the more of ours we can preserve."

  The sun was beginning to set behind the mountains, staining orange the smokes still rising from Castle Garcia. One era was ending. Another, with its complicated laws and difficult morality, was continuing.

  The Specter turned his attention back to the castle, to the dead who needed burying, to the wounded who needed tending, to the Republic that needed building—one day, one battle, one difficult choice at a time.