Nzambi's account of his escape – his body presumed dead, the extreme weakness, the sudden hatred that made him attack, the pure instinct to flee that spoke louder than revenge – hung in the office air like a heavy smoke. Carlos didn't just see the trembling man before him; he saw the trail of pain, of depersonalized violence, of a body used as a tool and then discarded. A deep, naked, irrational compassion tightened his chest. It wasn't the calculated compassion of a leader, but the visceral response of a man who, in another world, also believed in the intrinsic value of a life.

  He let the silence settle for a moment, allowing the weight of Nzambi's words to find their place. When he spoke again, his voice carried no judgment, but a solid firmness, like a foundation offered to someone adrift.

  "You survived," Carlos said firmly. "And you brought us invaluable information. That's more important." He paused, thoughtful. "Without this specific dagger, they can't perform more sacrifices, can they? The ritual is interrupted."

  Nzambi shook his head, and the shadow of resignation returned.

  "Not with this dagger, no. But the priest… he has the knowledge. He knows how to forge new ones. And he has access to the source of the Gem of Sacrifice, which is in Guilherme's lands. It's only a matter of time before they make another."

  Carlos ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. The labyrinth seemed endless. He asked a few more questions – about the mine's defenses, about Guilherme's personality, about the priest's habits – but Nzambi knew little beyond what he had already told. He was a valuable prisoner, not an advisor.

  After almost an hour, Carlos felt he had extracted all he could without torturing the man further.

  "Thank you very much, Nzambi. You were extremely courageous and helped the Republic more than you know. You may go and rest."

  "At no point," Nzambi's thought was a whirlwind of relief and confusion, "did he ask for the ritual details. Nor did he try to keep the dagger. He doesn't want that power for himself… at least, not at the cost it demands."

  Nzambi stood up, swaying slightly, either from the tension or the release. It was then that Shadow moved. Silently, he approached, still holding the dagger wrapped in leather. But instead of keeping it, he extended it to Nzambi.

  "Take it," said Shadow, simply.

  Nzambi froze, looking at the dagger, then at Carlos, then at Shadow. The surprise was so complete that for a moment he seemed not to understand.

  "I… I can take it back?"

  "It's yours," confirmed Shadow, his voice echoing low and grave from the gloom beside the shelf. He didn't fully materialize, but his presence in the room intensified, becoming palpable like a drop in temperature. "You earned it, you carried it, and you learned to master it. And the Republic does not condone human sacrifice. Keep it safe." There was a loaded pause, in which the silence seemed to thicken. Then, the voice returned, a tone softer, almost rough with a rarely vocalized emotion. "And… thank you. For saving my sister from that assassin's arrow. Using that thing to send the arrow away… that's what kept her alive, not just her but Tainá."

  The words, coming from Shadow and laden with rough, genuine gratitude, hit Nzambi like a blow. A shiver ran down his spine, but it wasn't pure fear – it was a sharp mixture of guilt, panic, and a vivid, recent memory that refused to be contained. The anonymous, shadowy hero, the one who was a myth of fear and respect, was thanking him for saving the person who mattered most to him. And that same person…

  Does that mean Whisper is Shadow's sister? I didn't know... He's thanking me for saving Whisper… and this morning… I just hope he's not the jealous brother type, because if he is… from what Tainá said he's one of the best assassins in the Republic.

  The scene invaded his mind uninvited: the daylight filtering through the cracks of his own house, the residual warmth under the rough blanket. He remembered the initial chaos, Tainá, flushed and furious, expelling a surprisingly uninhibited (and completely naked) Whisper from the room. The agent had left laughing, without her clothes, which had been scattered on the floor. The breakfast that followed had been a trial by fire. Whisper, wrapped only in a sheet that seemed to defy the laws of physics and decency, had sat at the table with a disconcerting naturalness, each casual movement revealing a flash of skin, every glance cast his way laden with a mischievous humor that had left him in a state of contained agony and excitement.

  Tainá, trying to salvage some dignity, announced she was going to wash at the stream and left, leaving a thick silence behind. It was then that Whisper, with that cat-who-ate-the-canary smile of hers, took his hand. Without a word, she led him back into the still-warm bedroom, where their scent still lingered in the air. Her touch was assertive, experienced, guiding his clumsy movements with a patience that was both exciting and a little intimidating. His first true time, the one he chose, had been with her. And it had been… revealing.

  Is he very protective? Does he make her lovers disappear into the shadows and vanish people? I've met men like that… The image of Shadow was not that of an ally, but of a force of nature, impersonal and lethal. And I… I just… with her… Is he the kind who stabs a guy for looking at his sister the wrong way? Is he going to make me disappear? Find my body in a ditch, without even knowing why?

  Cold sweat trickled down his back under his simple shirt.

  "I… I just did what anyone would do," Nzambi stammered at the shadow, his voice a thin thread of contained panic. He clutched the wrapped dagger to his chest, not as a treasure, but as a fragile shield. "Whisper… she's incredible. An incredible soldier!"

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He could barely breathe. Every word sounded like a confession. He expected, every second, for his hands to go to his neck. For the gratitude to turn into murderous fury the moment Shadow suspected the truth.

  The silence that followed was absolute and oppressive. It seemed to last an eternity. Nzambi could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

  Finally, the voice returned, neutral as a knife blade, but without the murderous coldness he feared.

  "Yes. She is." A calculated pause. "And now, you are too. Take care of that dagger. And of yourself."

  "The President has dismissed you. You may go," the voice concluded, dissolving into the air along with the sensation of an observing presence.

  Nzambi didn't wait to be told twice. He turned and almost tripped over his own leg on the way out, his heart beating like a war drum. The dagger in his hands was a dead weight compared to the renewed terror he carried in his chest. He had survived the ravine, the blood rituals, and a night of alcoholic chaos. But the shadow of a jealous, deadly brother was a completely new danger, and he had no idea how to navigate it.

  "Thank you, President," Nzambi's voice came out choked, almost a hoarse whisper. He gave a quick, awkward nod, his eyes barely raised from the floor. "Thank you very much."

  With hurried steps, almost sliding on the polished floor, he turned and left the office, closing the door with a soft yet definitive click behind him.

  Carlos was left alone in the sudden silence. Or rather, almost alone. He could feel, like a slight pressure on the nape of his neck and a persistent chill in the room despite the afternoon sun, that Shadow was still there. No longer a defined silhouette, but a consciousness diluted in the elongated shadows cast by the shelves, an absolute attention fused with the gloom.

  For a long moment, Carlos simply watched the spot where the door had closed, listening to the muffled footsteps of Nzambi disappear down the hall. A faint, half-incredulous smile touched his lips.

  "You really put the fear of God into people, you know?" he commented to the air, his voice sounding loud in the empty space. "Nzambi left here looking like he'd seen the ghost of death itself. And he's a man who faced beasts and escaped a sacrifice mine."

  From the deepest shadow, beside the large window, came a low noise – not a laugh, but something close, an exhalation of air that could be humor or disdain.

  "I can imagine what happened," Shadow's voice emerged, fluid and without defined origin, as if the shadows themselves spoke. "Knowing my sister… she must have done something. And the poor guy must be thinking I'll emerge from some dark corner and 'make him disappear' for the rest of eternity just for getting with my sister."

  Carlos let out a genuine laugh, the sound echoing in the wood-rich office.

  "Really? They think you're that classic overprotective, jealous older brother type? The one who beats up any suitor who comes near?"

  "Yes," the answer came immediately, and this time there was a clear note of resonant humor in the hidden voice. "All because of a single… incident. A few years ago. An ex of hers who didn't understand the concept of 'no.' The guy was persistent to the point of obsession. Had to 'take care of him,' if you know what I mean."

  Carlos was still smiling, imagining the scene, but the smile froze on his lips when the full meaning of the words – and the casual tone in which they were said – sank in.

  "'Take care of him.' Carlos's thought was a sudden plunge into icy waters. "Said by Shadow." The euphemism was clear as glass. He didn't need details. The image that formed in his mind was enough: darkness, silence, and the pure, terrifying conclusion a man like Shadow would bring to such a situation.

  "Poor Nzambi…" Carlos thought, a chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with the presence of the Darkness adept. "He must be in absolute panic, and maybe not an unfounded one."

  The brief relief of the comical situation evaporated instantly, dissipated by the much darker and more practical reality that hung over them. The smile vanished completely from Carlos's face, replaced by the tense line of his mouth. The worry, which had never truly left, returned to occupy its place at the center of his thoughts, heavier than before. Laughter now seemed a rude intrusion in the office environment. The weight of the future, of external threats and internal dangers, settled once more on his shoulders, silent and relentless.

  The worry was now a stone in Carlos's stomach. A new opponent, armed with technology from another world, funded by gold, and built on piles of corpses.

  Without wasting time, he pulled out a blank sheet of paper, dipped the pen in the inkwell, and began to write with quick, decisive handwriting. It was a letter to the Popess. He reported what he had discovered about the Gem of Sacrifice, about Tlenamaca, Guilherme's methods. And, at the end, he asked the crucial question, the one that perhaps she, with her information network within the Church, could answer:

  "Your Holiness, in light of this revelation, an atrocious doubt consumes me: how does Francisco obtain his 'devil's artifacts'? Is his method the same?"

  "The Popess," Carlos thought, sealing the letter with wax and pressing the Republic's seal onto it, "may not be my full ally. But I know I can trust her pragmatism and her horror at such a barbaric practice. Besides, her desire for these artifacts is as great as mine. This information may be the leverage we need."

  He held up the letter.

  "Shadow."

  As if materialized from the very air, Shadow reappeared beside the chair, a silent figure.

  "Yes, President?"

  "This letter must reach the hands of the Popess, and hers alone. Use a secure channel, someone of absolute trust." Carlos handed over the letter. "Remember that Orsini is also in the Holy City. If he intercepts this…"

  "Understood, President," Shadow took the letter, sliding it inside his robes. "The letter will be delivered only to the intended recipient."

  And, with a final nod, he took two steps towards a particularly dark corner of the office, where the afternoon light did not reach. His form seemed to blur, flatten, and then he simply wasn't there anymore. Only the sealed letter had disappeared with him.