Chapter 9: Iron Taxes

Empire of Brazil — Ouro Preto — 1662

The dawn in Ouro Preto brought a sky heavy with dark clouds, the humid air foretelling rain—a bad omen.

Tetanus woke with a weight on his chest, his head throbbing not only from the beer the previous night but from what he’d done in the brothel earlier. The memories were a blur of anger, panic, and guilt. He hadn’t slept at the inn with the others, choosing instead to hide in an alley near the tavern, terrified that someone might have seen him leaving that room. Guilt gnawed at him, but the fear of being caught was greater.

Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa were already in the square when Tetanus found them, his face pale and eyes sunken. Gume, with his now-empty beer bottle tucked into his belt, gave him a look that mixed concern and complicity. “Rough night, huh?” he said, clapping Tetanus’s shoulder. “Let’s get outta here before you pass out.”

Lâmina, adjusting her scimitar at her waist, noticed the tension on Tetanus’s face but didn’t ask questions. “How long till someone notices you slipped away last night?” she murmured, keeping her voice low so Farpa wouldn’t hear.

“Don’t know,” Tetanus replied, his voice hoarse, eyes fixed on the ground. “Just wanna leave.”

Farpa, oblivious to the heavy conversation, was trying to hit a bird with his new bow, arrows clinking in his quiver. “Ouro Preto’s cool, but I wanna go back to the camp! Bet Tiradentes will flip when he sees my bow!”

“He’ll make you clean latrines if you point that at anyone,” Lâmina retorted, already walking toward the road out of the city.

The group left Ouro Preto behind, the cobblestones giving way to a dirt trail. Tetanus walked in silence, the heavy sword on his back, unable to recall what happened to his last coin from the night before, which only heightened his unease. He glanced over his shoulder every few steps, expecting to see guards or someone from the brothel chasing him. But the city shrank, swallowed by the hills, and no one came.

The journey back to the Last Comradeship Camp was tense, at least for Tetanus. Gume and Lâmina kept the conversation light, while Farpa tried shooting arrows at trees along the way, missing every shot. Tetanus barely spoke, his mind spiraling between everything and what Gume had said in the tavern: “Tomorrow, we get the hell out of this city.” Was it that simple for them? Kill and move on? He didn’t know if he could live like that, but he also didn’t know what else to do.

When the group finally sighted the camp, the sun was high, but the sky remained gray, as if the world were trapped in eternal twilight. The stake gate loomed ahead, and the familiar smell of smoke and leather filled the air. But something was off. The camp, usually calm at this hour, buzzed with activity. Mercenaries ran back and forth, raised voices echoing between the tents.

At the center of the chaos, Tiradentes paced near the main campfire, his boots kicking up dirt. His white shirt was crumpled, his thick beard disheveled, and his usually impassive face was red with rage. He clutched a crumpled piece of parchment, gesturing as if cursing the air itself.

Gume was the first to approach, halberd in hand. “Hey, boss, what’s the deal? Looks like you wanna kill someone.”

Lâmina crossed her arms, the glint of her new scimitar catching the faint light. “Yeah, never seen you this pissed. What’s up?”

Farpa, holding his bow like a trophy, stood on tiptoes, trying to peek at the parchment. Tetanus stayed behind the group, shoulders tense, hand instinctively on his sword’s hilt.

Tiradentes stopped pacing, his dark eyes locking onto the group. He crushed the parchment harder, as if he could destroy what angered him.

“The prince, that bastard,” he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. “Wants to raise iron export taxes by 15%! Fifteen percent! It’s unacceptable, damn near blasphemy!” He threw the parchment to the ground, stomping on it as if it were the prince himself. “This will crush the miners, the merchants, and us! Half our pay comes from the iron trade, and now this spoiled noble thinks he can bleed us dry!”

Gume whistled low, adjusting his scarf. “Fifteen percent? Guy’s lost it. That’ll ruin everyone.”

Lâmina frowned. “So what do we do? It’s not like we can storm the palace and smack the prince around.”

“The mercenary council’s meeting tonight. We’ll decide what to do. Negotiate, or… something more drastic.” He paused, his eyes sweeping over each of them, landing on Tetanus, who stood silent, his face half-hidden by the cloth over his eye. “And you, Tetanus? Spend the coins? Get anything useful?”

Tetanus swallowed hard, the image of what he’d done last night flashing in his mind, but he forced his voice to stay steady. “A sword.” He stepped forward, showing the two-handed blade, its steel gleaming even in the dim light. “Still got the caps. Couldn’t sell them…”

Tiradentes nodded, but his eyes narrowed, as if sensing something amiss. “Good. Keep those caps safe. With these taxes, they might be worth more than ever.” He resumed pacing, muttering about “greedy nobles” before shouting to a nearby mercenary to haul more crates.

Gume glanced at Tetanus, raising an eyebrow. “Too quiet, man. Rabbit bite you?”

Tetanus shook his head, fingers tightening on the pouch. “Just tired,” he lied, looking away.

Lâmina crossed her arms, studying him for a moment. “Tired, sure.” She didn’t press, but her tone made it clear she wasn’t fully convinced. “Let’s find a spot to rest. Looks like Tiradentes is dragging us into this mess, whether we like it or not.”

Farpa, fiddling with his bowstring, chimed in, “Bet there’s gonna be a fight!”

Tetanus followed the group toward the tents, the weight of the sword on his back now rivaling the guilt in his chest. The tax news was serious, but his mind was still in Ouro Preto, in that dark room, with the body he’d left behind. The past doesn’t stay buried forever—and with Rastro still lurking and a prince tightening the screws, the future promised to be as dangerous as everything he was trying to forget.

Last Comradeship Camp

Night fell over the Last Comradeship Camp like a heavy veil, the gray sky now speckled with pale stars, nearly smothered by clouds. The central campfire crackled fiercely, casting dancing shadows over the tents and the hardened faces of the gathered mercenaries.

Minas Gerais was a province known for having the most mines in the kingdom, a perfect place for trading and selling precious ores, which also attracted criminals…

It wasn’t just Tiradentes’s crew there; miners from the nearby hills, their faces smeared with soot and hands calloused, formed a tense semicircle around the fire. The air smelled of burning wood, sweat, and barely contained rage.

Tetanus, Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa stood in the crowd, close to the fire. Tetanus stayed at the back, trying to focus on the present. Gume, towering at two meters twenty beside him, chewed a piece of grass, his red scarf swaying in the cool breeze, arms crossed in his signature pose.

Lâmina, scimitar at her waist, watched everything with sharp eyes, while Farpa, clutching his bow like a lifeline, couldn’t stop fidgeting, eager with anticipation.

Tiradentes climbed onto a makeshift platform of crates, his robust one-meter-ninety-three frame standing out in the firelight, the crumpled parchment still in hand, nearly torn from being handled so much. He no longer wore the white shirt; now he donned reinforced leather armor and worn boots, his beard glinting in the firelight. His dark eyes swept the crowd, silencing murmurs with a single glance. When he spoke, his voice was deep, laced with controlled fury that made even the weariest miners straighten up.

“Comrades!” He raised the parchment like a weapon. “You all know why we’re here. The prince, that primped-up rat, thinks he can crush us with his taxes! Fifteen percent more on iron!” He spat on the ground, the gesture drawing grunts of support from the crowd. “He sits on his throne while we bleed in the mines and forests, facing Sacis, thieves, and death itself to put food on the table! And now he wants more? Our blood, our sweat, our ore?”

The mercenaries and miners roared in response, fists raised, voices blending into a chorus of outrage. Tetanus glanced aside and saw Captain Zara with a half-smile, as if enjoying the spectacle. Gume just shook his head, while Farpa, caught up in the excitement, shouted with the crowd, and Lâmina stood calmly in a corner.

Tiradentes raised a hand for silence, and the crowd obeyed almost instantly. “But listen well,” he continued, his voice dropping to a sharp, almost conspiratorial tone. “What we plan here, what we do, must stay secret.” He paused, eyes scanning every face, as if gauging their loyalty. “One wrong whisper, one loose word in the wrong tavern, and everything we’ve built collapses. The prince has eyes and ears everywhere, even in Ouro Preto. The gallows could be our fate.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the fire’s crackle. Tetanus felt a knot in his stomach, scanning the crowd… he noticed Rastro wasn’t there and wondered where the bastard was.

“What the prince doesn’t understand,” Tiradentes went on, his voice gaining strength, “is that mining isn’t just precious metal. It’s our livelihood, our pride, and we must resist this tyranny! He thinks he can subdue us, but we are the Last Comradeship! We will be the mighty vengeance! And if he wants war, then by Jesus, we’ll give him war!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, miners banging shovels and pickaxes on the ground, mercenaries raising their weapons. Farpa shouted loudly, thrilled, while Gume clapped, laughing. “That old man knows how to talk, huh?” he said, almost yelling to Tetanus over the uproar.

Lâmina leaned closer to Tetanus, her expression serious now. “He’s talking rebellion,” she murmured, low enough for only Tetanus to hear. “This isn’t just about taxes. If we go down this road, it’s all or nothing.”

Tetanus nodded but didn’t reply. He knew that if the camp went to war against the prince, secrets like his could become weapons in the wrong hands. He looked at Tiradentes, now stepping down from the platform, barking orders to the mercenary and miner leaders.

The old commander seemed a force of nature, but Tetanus couldn’t shake the feeling that, amidst the brewing storm, he himself was a crack about to shatter.

“Get ready,” Tiradentes shouted, already moving off with a group of men. “Tomorrow, we start planning. And remember: keep your mouths shut, or the gallows await!”

The crowd began to disperse, some returning to tents, others forming small groups to talk in hushed tones. Tetanus stayed put as Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa approached, the latter still buzzing with the speech’s energy.

“This ain’t a game. If Tiradentes is serious, we’ll need more than this junk,” Lâmina said, gesturing to their gear.

Gume looked at Tetanus, noticing his silence. “You in, Tetanus, or you planning to bolt for the woods?”

Tetanus forced a half-smile, hiding the turmoil in his mind. “I’m in,” he said, voice steady. “Just hope we know what we’re getting into.”

As the group headed to the tents, Tetanus felt the scar on his chest pulse again, as if on alert. He didn’t know if it was a warning, a premonition, or something else.

The next day, prepared, the Last Comradeship mercenaries set out from the camp—a group of about forty, with Tiradentes at the lead, marching toward Ouro Preto. The tension was palpable, boots kicking up dust on the cobblestone road as swords, daggers, and axes swung at belts and shoulders. Miners from the hills, armed with pickaxes and machetes, swelled the ranks, their faces marked by anger and exhaustion. Tiradentes’s plan was clear: confront the prince, heir to Dom Pedro II, who was in the city for meetings with local administrators and to oversee the new 15% iron tariffs. The rebellion was still a secret, but the air carried the weight of something about to explode.

Tetanus marched at the rear, sword in hand this time. Gume, beside him, carried his halberd over his shoulder with the ease of someone born with it in hand, while Lâmina cast sharp glances at the growing crowd in Ouro Preto’s streets. Farpa trailed behind, eyes scanning the surroundings, a far cry from the excitable kid he’d been days ago.

Or he was trying to look serious.

“Keep it down, kid,” Lâmina muttered, yanking Farpa by the collar. “This ain’t a game. The prince isn’t here for jokes.”

“I didn’t do anything yet!” Farpa protested, earning a smack on the neck. “But you were thinking about it!” Lâmina shot back.

Tiradentes led with steady steps, halting the group in the central square, where an imposing mansion with stained-glass windows and armed guards at the door signaled the prince’s presence. The Ouro Preto crowd—merchants, locals, and curious beggars—gathered, keeping their distance but eager for trouble.

Tiradentes raised a hand, signaling the mercenaries and miners to form a line. His voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Prince!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the square’s stones. “Come out and face those who prop up your throne! You want to tax our iron? Then explain why we should pay with our blood while you fill your pockets!”

The guards at the mansion’s door exchanged nervous glances, hands on sword hilts. The crowd murmured, and Tetanus felt the moment’s weight. He knew Tiradentes was playing with fire, but he also saw an opportunity. As the confrontation brewed, he could slip away, find someone to buy the Saci caps he was tired of carrying, and turn the trophies into more coins—something to ensure his survival if everything fell apart.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Gume, who raised an eyebrow but nodded.

“Don’t kill anyone, Tetanus!” Gume replied softly. “And hurry back!”

Tetanus slipped out of the group, moving through Ouro Preto’s side streets. He’d heard rumors of eccentric merchants paying fortunes for supernatural relics, and those caps, according to the commander himself, were exactly the kind of item that attracted such people.

He navigated narrow alleys, passing taverns and stalls, until an old man in a makeshift wheelchair pointed to a hut on the city’s outskirts, half-hidden among twisted trees. “Find the Collector,” the old man said with a toothless grin. “He likes weird stuff like that.”

The hut was a rickety structure with a thatched roof and rotting wooden walls. The smell of sulfur and burnt herbs hung in the air. Tetanus hesitated before knocking on the door. When no one answered, he pushed the creaking wood and entered, sword in hand, ready to use it.

The interior was organized chaos. Crooked shelves lined the walls, filled with sealed glass jars. Inside them, indistinct shapes swirled slowly, like living smoke, some emitting a faint red glow.

Sacis.

Tetanus shivered as he recognized the glowing eyes in the jars, identical to those he’d faced in the forest. At the hut’s center, a thin man with entirely white hair, black skin, dressed in a patched red jumpsuit with a blanket over his legs, scribbled in a notebook, oblivious to Tetanus’s arrival.

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“What do you want?” the man asked without looking up, his voice dry as dead leaves.

Tetanus cleared his throat, pulling the pouch from his waist and showing the red caps. “Heard you buy these. Saci caps. Seven of them.”

The man—the Collector, Tetanus presumed—finally looked up, his eyes gleaming with interest. He adjusted a monocle and approached, taking a cap with bony fingers. “Seven?” he muttered, sniffing the fabric and wrinkling his nose. “Fresh. Remarkably so. Still warm. You killed them all?”

“I did,” Tetanus replied, voice steady, though the memory of the Sacis unsettled him. “In the forest, near the camp. They… laughed at me. Knew things they shouldn’t. Called me an orphan.”

The old man laughed, a low, raspy sound, placing the cap on a table cluttered with jars and tools. “That’s what they do, boy. Sacis aren’t just pests spinning in the wind. There are different kinds, and the ones you faced… they were the worst. A gang of aggressive Sacis, likely Pererês, I’d wager. They read your soul, find your deepest insecurity, the fear you hide even from yourself.” He pointed to the jars on the shelves. “These here are tamer, caught with herb traps and spells. But yours… these are hunters. They use your weaknesses to throw you off, make you doubt. They called you an orphan because they knew it’d cut deep.”

Tetanus swallowed hard.

“How much for the caps?” he asked, wanting to change the subject.

The Collector rubbed his chin, eyeing the caps with a greedy glint. “Each is worth about two hundred réis, if I’m generous. Seven caps… fourteen hundred réis. Fourteen gold coins.” He paused, looking at Tetanus. “But I’ll pay fifteen if you tell me how you killed them. Details. I like stories.”

Tetanus hesitated. He didn’t want to relive that night in the forest, but fifteen coins was more than he’d expected. He began speaking, voice low, describing the ambush, the swirling smoke, the cruel laughter, how he’d used his own rage to take them down one by one. The Collector listened intently, scribbling in his notebook, eyes gleaming as if before a treasure.

When Tetanus finished, the Collector handed him a heavy pouch with fifteen coins. “Good work, kid,” he said, storing the caps in a wooden box. “Find more, you know where to find me. But be careful. Sacis like those… they don’t forget who fights them. And sometimes, they don’t truly die.”

Tetanus nodded, tucking the coins into a hidden compartment in his pouch. He left the hut without looking back, the sulfur smell clinging to his nostrils.

CAW CAW!!! CAW CAW!!!

A large crow atop the hut screeched, startling him. Tetanus spun, facing the red-eyed bird watching him silently.

CAW CAW!!!

“What do you want?” Tetanus asked, half-expecting an answer.

The crow flapped its wings and flew toward where Tiradentes had been earlier. Taking it as a sign, Tetanus quickened his pace.

As he returned to the central square, followed by the crow from afar, he heard shouts and the clang of metal. The confrontation with the prince was escalating, and Tetanus sped up.

The smell of trouble was thick ahead.

The clash with the prince had intensified, the air vibrating with the tension of an imminent fight. He hurried, heart racing.

When he reached the square, the scene was chaos. The crowd of mercenaries and miners formed an irregular circle around Tiradentes, who stood face-to-face with the prince, a tall, slender young man with long, pigmentless hair and the distinctive Habsburg chin.

Dressed in a blue velvet doublet and polished boots that seemed out of place in the dusty city, the prince held a slender rapier, its blade glinting in the dim, clouded sunlight. Royal guards, armed with halberds and short swords, formed a hesitant barrier between the crowd and their lord, clearly intimidated by the mercenaries’ fury.

Tetanus slipped between Gume and Lâmina, who stood in the front line, hands ready on their weapons. Farpa, bow raised, seemed torn between shooting and hiding. Gume shot Tetanus a quick glance, muttering, “Where the hell were you, man? This is getting ugly.”

Before Tetanus could reply, Tiradentes stepped forward, face red with rage, the tax parchment now crushed in his hand. He pointed an accusing finger at the prince, his thunderous voice echoing across the square. “You think you can crush us with your taxes, you spoiled brat?” he roared. “The iron is ours, the blood is ours, and you won’t take another damn thing from us!”

The prince, pale-faced and eyes narrowed, opened his mouth to respond, but Tiradentes gave him no chance. In a gesture of contempt, the commander spat in the prince’s face, the spittle hitting his polished boot and splattering his doublet.

…

…

…

A deathly silence fell over the square, the crowd holding its breath.

The prince’s face contorted with fury. “You insolent dog!” he hissed, hand tightening on his rapier’s hilt. In a swift, almost theatrical motion, he lunged, the slender blade slicing toward Tiradentes’s face. The old mercenary raised an arm to defend, but the rapier was fast, its tip gleaming inches from his face.

Tetanus acted on instinct. He shoved Gume aside and threw himself between Tiradentes, already cut on the face by the rapier, and the prince, drawing his two-handed sword in a clumsy but quick motion to prevent a larger fight.

The prince’s rapier clashed against the heavy blade with a sharp clang. The crowd roared, some mercenaries drawing weapons, while the royal guards advanced, forming a wall of steel.

“Back off!” Tetanus shouted, muscles tense, gripping the sword with both hands to keep the prince at bay. His eyes met the noble’s, seeing a mix of surprise and disdain.

The prince stepped back, rapier still raised but now hesitant. “Who’s this rat?” he asked, voice dripping with scorn. “Another dog from your kennel, Tiradentes?”

Tiradentes, hand on Tetanus’s shoulder, pulled him back, eyes blazing with rage but also a glint of approval. “This ‘rat’ just saved your hide, you punk,” he growled, wiping sweat from his brow. “And you, prince, just showed who you are. A coward who attacks with rich boy toys.”

The crowd laughed, but the tension didn’t ease. The royal guards advanced further, and Tiradentes raised a hand, signaling the mercenaries to fall back. “Stand down,” he said, voice firm though laced with frustration. “We won’t spill blood here and give this worm an excuse to call the army. Back to the camp. Now.”

Gume grabbed Farpa’s arm, who still held his bow with an arrow nocked, and Lâmina tugged Tetanus by the sleeve. “Let’s go, hero,” she muttered, her tone mixing sarcasm and respect. “You’ve done enough for one day.”

Tetanus followed, Tiradentes at his side, wiping the cut on his face with a cloth. Tetanus’s blood boiled as he sheathed his sword in its makeshift scabbard. He glanced back, seeing the prince shouting orders to the guards and dispersing the crowd, his face red with humiliation. Ouro Preto’s locals began to scatter, but their looks showed support for the mercenaries, some even murmuring words of encouragement.

The return to the camp was quiet, the group marching under the weight of what had almost happened. Tiradentes walked ahead, entering a hut, the tax parchment now torn to pieces that he tossed into the wind.

Last Comradeship Camp

Tetanus felt Lâmina’s eyes on him, but she didn’t ask anything, just seemed to show a certain interest. Gume, meanwhile, offered random words of encouragement.

The mercenaries scattered, some muttering about the prince, others checking weapons and supplies. Tiradentes lay in a tent, a wet cloth over his face, turning to the group. His eyes met Tetanus’s, and he beckoned him closer.

“You were quick back there,” the commander said, voice lower now, almost a whisper. “But don’t kid yourself: this was just the start. The prince won’t forget this humiliation, and we need to be ready when he comes at us full force.”

Tetanus nodded. “What now?” he asked.

Tiradentes gave a half-smile, fatigue in his eyes. “Now, we plan. And you, Tetanus, keep that sword sharp. I think you’ll need it sooner than you expect.”

As Tiradentes moved off to gather the mercenary leaders, Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa approached.

Lâmina chuckled, but her eyes were serious. “That was cute, Tetanus, but Gume’s right. You’re collecting enemies. First Rastro, now a prince. Watch out, or you’ll be everyone’s target.”

Tetanus didn’t reply, just adjusted his tattered armor.

The next morning, the scar on Tiradentes’s face—a thin cut from temple to chin—was still red, a vivid reminder of the Ouro Preto confrontation. The old mercenary stood outside his tent, arms crossed, watching Tetanus approach with a look that mixed appraisal and something like pride.

“Tetanus, come here,” Tiradentes said, voice hoarse. “You look like a beggar in that torn armor. If the prince sends someone after us, you’ll be easy to spot.”

He pulled a leather pouch from his belt and tossed it to Tetanus. “Here. Silver coins to go with the gold you’ve got. Go to Ouro Preto and buy decent armor.”

Tetanus caught the pouch, feeling the satisfying weight of the coins. “What if the prince recognizes me?”

“He won’t,” Tiradentes said, rubbing the scar on his face as if reliving the moment. “Nobles like him don’t look twice at people like us. But if you’re scared, wear a hood.”

Tetanus nodded, tucking the pouch with the gold coins from the Collector.

“There’s more,” Tiradentes continued, pointing to the camp’s makeshift stables, where a few scrawny horses grazed. “After you’re done shopping, go to Ouro Preto’s stables. Find a good horse, something that can handle long distances. Tell the stablemaster it’s my order. He’ll know what to give you.”

Tetanus frowned. “Why not go to other cities? Mariana’s closer, or even Sabará…”

Tiradentes let out a dry laugh. “Mariana? Sabará?” As if the names were an insult. “Those cities don’t matter, kid. Ouro Preto is the heart of trade, where everything happens. You’ll find anything there, even what you don’t want. And more importantly… it’s where the prince will show his claws first. If we know what he’s planning, we can prepare.”

Tetanus understood. It wasn’t just about buying armor or a horse. It was about keeping eyes open, feeling the city’s pulse before the war truly began.

And so Tetanus went to Ouro Preto again, growing accustomed to the journey, his calves no longer yielding easily to fatigue.

The setting sun painted Ouro Preto’s streets a dirty red as Tetanus entered the city, head low under a tattered hood. The air was heavy with the smell of lamp oil and roasted meat, but something else hung in the atmosphere—tension.

He’d barely passed the gate when murmurs reached him.

“…purple hair, one eye, yellow as gold… strong build, about one meter eighty.”

Tetanus froze. The voice came from a royal guard leaning against a nearby wall, questioning a fruit vendor. The man wore a sweat-stained brigandine and held an unrolled parchment.

“…murdered the city’s best whore. Maximum danger level. If you see this bastard, arrest or kill on sight.”

The vendor, an old man with bulging eyes, shook his head, but his gaze lingered on Tetanus for a fraction of a second—and widened.

“Shit…” Tetanus whispered to himself.

The mercenary turned quickly, blending into the crowd flowing down the main street, keeping his hood low. His heart pounded like a war drum, hand instinctively reaching for his sword’s hilt. He needed to get out, but first, the armor. And the horse, of course.

Moving like a shadow among the passersby, he ducked into a narrow alley, then another, away from the center. The low rooftops leaned over the streets, creating tunnels of shadow perfect for someone who didn’t want to be seen.

Then he heard it.

A faint clink of metal, almost imperceptible, from the rooftop above.

Before he could react, something heavy landed on his shoulders. Strong hands grabbed his collar, dragging him into a dark alley. Tetanus drew his sword, but a nimble leg hooked his, forcing him to his knees.

“Stop fighting, idiot,” hissed a familiar voice.

Lâmina.

She shoved him against the brick wall, her lithe body pressing against him. Her face was inches from his, dark eyes glinting in the dim light. A fleeting blush crossed her face at their closeness, but it was quickly replaced by a hard expression.

“What the hell did you do, Tetanus?” she growled, low but with the intensity of a whipcrack. “The whole city’s hunting you!”

The scent of cinnamon and metal from her distracted him for a second. He swallowed hard.

“I didn’t…”

“Bullshit.” She tightened her grip, squeezing his doublet. “I saw you leaving that brothel last night. And now the so-called best prostitute in Ouro Preto is dead. Coincidence? I don’t think so!”

Tetanus felt sweat trickle down his back. Now she knew too.

“It was an accident,” he muttered, teeth clenched.

Lâmina let out a sharp laugh. “Accidents don’t leave strangulation marks, Tetanus.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Outside, the guards’ footsteps echoed, growing closer.

She sighed, loosening her grip. “Damn it, kid… I should turn you in.”

“No…” She glanced around, senses sharp. “Because if Tiradentes finds out I let you come alone on this shitty mission, I’m screwed too.”

The footsteps rounded the corner. Lâmina pulled Tetanus deeper into the alley, their bodies pressed together in the damp darkness.

“Listen up,” she whispered, her breath hot in his ear. “You’re gonna buy that damn armor fast. I’ll handle the horse. Meet me at Zé Cabrito’s stables before curfew. And if you screw this up again, I’ll cut your throat myself.”

Before he could reply, she stepped back and, with catlike agility, scaled the alley wall, vanishing onto the rooftops.

Tetanus stood frozen for a moment, heart pounding, when a familiar sound cut through the air:

CAW!! CAW!!

He looked up. On a house’s rooftop, a pitch-black crow stared at him, its red eye glowing like an ember. The same damn bird as always.

“What do you want now?” he muttered.

The crow flapped its wings once, hopping to the next rooftop, as if pointing the way.

CAW!

Tetanus hesitated. No time for superstitions.

Following the crow through alleys and side streets, avoiding the main roads where guards patrolled, he reached a shop tucked behind the fabric market. The sign creaked in the wind: “Samson’s Armors – Protection for Real Men.”

Inside, the smell of tanned leather and metal oil filled the air. The crow perched on the window, watching.

Baltazar was a broad-shouldered dwarf with arms like tree trunks, his calloused hands sharpening a metal plate on an anvil. He looked up, sharp eyes arching toward the mercenary.

“Need armor,” Tetanus said, tossing the coin pouch onto the counter. “Something that can take a beating and still let me run.”

The dwarf examined the coins, then Tetanus, pausing at the cloth over his eye.

“Kids these days, huh?” he laughed, showing a gold tooth. “This’ll do.”

He pulled out a reinforced leather armor with metal alloys at the shoulders and chest. Tough but flexible.

“Twenty silver coins.”

Tetanus didn’t haggle. As he donned the armor, the crow at the window screeched again.

CAW!!

Hurry.

“Thanks,” Tetanus said, adjusting the straps and heading out. The crow was already flying toward the stables.

Dusk painted Ouro Preto a muddy red, shadows stretching through the alleys as Tetanus ran toward the stables. The new reinforced leather armor, with metal plates at the shoulders and chest, fit well, lighter than it looked, top-quality material.

His hood stayed pulled over his purple hair, hiding his face as he moved through side streets, dodging guards patrolling with lit torches, their eyes searching for the “one-eyed killer.”

The crow, ever-present, flew ahead, hopping from rooftop to rooftop, its black wings stark against the darkening sky. Each caw felt like a warning, a reminder that time was against Tetanus. He didn’t know why he followed the bird, but something in those red eyes drove him forward, as if fate were pulling his reins.

Zé Cabrito’s stables were on the city’s outskirts, a rough wooden structure surrounded by crooked fences and the strong smell of manure and hay. The sound of horses neighing mixed with muffled voices.

Tetanus slowed as he approached, senses sharp. He spotted Lâmina before she saw him, leaning against a haystack, sharpening her scimitar on a stone. Beside her, a sturdy black horse with a braided mane and alert eyes was saddled and ready.

Zé Cabrito, a thin man with a long goatee, adjusted the reins, muttering something to Lâmina.

Tetanus approached, keeping his hood low. Lâmina saw him and straightened, eyes narrowing. “Took you long enough,” she said, voice low but laced with impatience. “Got the damn armor?”

He nodded. “You? The horse?”

Lâmina pointed to the black horse, which snorted as if aware it was being judged. “Best Zé had. Strong, fast, good for long distances. Told him it’s Tiradentes’s order, so he didn’t ask many questions.” She looked at Tetanus, face serious. “You’re lucky. Heard guards passing by while I waited. They’re looking for a guy with purple hair. Good thing you’ve got that ridiculous hood.”

Tetanus swallowed hard, guilt hitting like a punch to the gut. “Let’s just go,” he muttered, approaching the horse. Zé Cabrito handed over the reins without a word, just nodding before heading back into the stable.

Lâmina mounted first, with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. She extended a hand to Tetanus, who hesitated before accepting and climbing up behind her. The horse grumbled at the extra weight but didn’t protest.

Tetanus held onto Lâmina’s waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the leather armor. She turned her head, her face so close he could see the freckles on her cheeks, even in the dim light. “Don’t try anything, funny guy, or I’ll toss you off,” she said, half-serious, half-teasing.

“Not an idiot,” Tetanus retorted, voice hoarse, though her touch made him uncomfortably aware of their closeness.

Lâmina tugged the reins, and the horse began to trot, leaving the stables and taking the dirt trail to the Last Comradeship Camp. The crow had vanished, and Tetanus kept his eyes on the shadows, expecting royal guards to appear with spears pointed at any moment. But the trail was empty, the only sounds the horse’s trot and the creak of his new armor.

“You’re too quiet,” Lâmina said after a few minutes, without turning. “Thinking about what happened, huh?”

Tetanus tightened his grip on her waist, not wanting to answer. “None of your business,” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

“It’s my business if I’m risking my neck to help you,” she shot back, voice sharp. “I won’t turn you in, Tetanus, but you need to tell me what’s going on. If the guards catch you, it’s not just you going to the gallows. Tiradentes won’t be happy to know one of ours is wanted for murder. Especially a woman.”

He stayed silent, guilt and fear choking him. “I don’t know what happened,” he said finally, words stumbling out. “I lost it. She… reminded me of someone. Something. It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Lâmina didn’t reply immediately, but he felt her body relax slightly. “You’re carrying more than that eyepatch, aren’t you?” she said, voice softer now. “Whatever it is, Tetanus, bury it deep. Because now’s not the time to fall apart. We’re heading into a war with the prince, and you’ll need to be whole.”

The Last Comradeship Camp came into view. Mercenaries patrolled the perimeter, more alert than usual, and Tetanus noticed the stake gate had been reinforced with new beams. The clash with the prince had put everyone on high alert.

Lâmina dismounted first, tying the reins to a nearby tree. Tetanus climbed down less gracefully, the new armor still unfamiliar. Gume and Farpa were near the campfire, the former eating a piece of dry bread, the latter sewing some cloth, a pastime of his.

“Look, the hero’s back!” Gume shouted, raising the bread like a salute. “And with new armor! I’m impressed, Tetanus. Didn’t die in the city.” He winked.

Farpa ran over, eyes gleaming at the horse. “Whoa, that beast is badass! Can I ride it?”

“Better not, Farpa, for your own safety,” Lâmina replied.

Tetanus stayed silent, eyes scanning the camp. He saw Tiradentes emerging from his tent, the scar on his face still red but now covered with a makeshift bandage. The commander approached, appraising Tetanus’s armor and the horse with a nod of approval. “Good work, kid,” he said, voice hoarse but firm. “The horse? As good as it looks?”

“Zé Cabrito said it can handle long distances,” Lâmina answered for Tetanus, crossing her arms. “And he didn’t screw up in the city, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Tiradentes raised an eyebrow, looking at Tetanus. “Hope so. Because tomorrow we start planning for real.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Anything I need to know, Tetanus?”

Tetanus’s stomach tightened, but he forced his voice to stay steady. “Nothing, boss. Just got what you asked for.”

Tiradentes nodded, but something in his look suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Then rest. And keep those coins safe. We’ll need everything we can get.”

As Tiradentes walked away, Lâmina shot Tetanus a look, a silent warning to keep his mouth shut.