Gaspar had always been fond of the dark—not for the lack of light, but for how it sharpened every sound, every breath, every whisper of the earth beneath his feet. He and Vicência moved through the brush with practiced stealth, their black cloaks absorbing moonlight like shadows given purpose.
The path to São Tomás das Rochas was narrow, rough, and dry. For three days, they passed over eroded trails and broken bridges, across lands once fertile but now exhausted by forced labor and over-harvesting.
No patrols. No guards.
Only silence, cracked roads, and hollow eyes watching from dimly lit windows.
A whispered voice from a window they passed at dusk chilled them:
"They tax even the wind. The baron holds papers from a judge. Speak up, and they break your legs."
Back in Belo Horizonte, Marcos studied the preliminary reports. The man known locally as "the baron" was no mere thug with hired blades. He had official ties—a provincial judge in Lavras had signed papers authorizing "recovery of debts" and land-use levies.
Marcos felt the familiar pull of fury tightening in his chest. He could not confront that kind of legitimized corruption head-on—not with open force. Not yet.
But Nine Fingers were not built for noise.
They were built for precision.
Vicência returned with white powder residue from the village's wells. Not poison, but a drying agent that induced stomach illness. Subtle. Cruel. Efficient.
Gaspar had copied falsified contracts demanding "protection fees." Élio found a cache of weapons, fake seals, and ledgers with names of those marked for punishment.
Each piece was compiled, organized, and dispatched discreetly via one of Marcos's trusted couriers.
At the manufactory, Marcos reviewed the material by candlelight. Ana was speaking to him about new clay dye stocks when he cut her off gently.
"We need more than soldiers," he said.
She paused.
"Legal response?"
Marcos set his fork down and folded his hands.
"Something stronger. A tribunal. Built outside of their courts, but not illegal."
She raised an eyebrow.
"A rival court?"
"Not a rival," he replied. "A people's council. Voluntary at first. But respected. Fair. Trusted."
Thus, the idea for a Regional Arbitration Council was born—a structure composed of village elders, midwives, craftsmen, traders, and thinkers. People chosen not for their bloodline or land, but for their wisdom and connection to the people. It would be trained in simple contracts, basic law, and peaceful resolution—using the very system Marcos had built to distribute power.
Baltazar, upon hearing the idea, simply said:
"The one who settles disputes commands peace."
And Marcos nodded. The next pillar of influence wouldn't wear steel.
It would wear reason.
By morning, Marcos gave his orders:
The Blood Roses would escort a humanitarian convoy to São Tomás within two weeks.
The Nine Fingers would establish three permanent surveillance routes near the village.
Tobias was to begin planning a mobile field outpost, complete with storage, barracks, and an operations room.
Lastly, Marcos penned a letter by hand.
To the people of São Tomás das Rochas,
Where fear is sown, freedom does not grow.
Bring your names. Bring your voices.
Soon, bring your judgment.
In silence and in justice,
— Marcos S. Barbosa
Later that day, while reviewing a list of local industries in the surrounding regions, Ana mentioned a merchant family from Paracatu, the Ferreiras, known for their glasswork and mirror trades. Another name came from Contagem: the Monteiros, owners of a regional grain storage and processing business.
"They've tried to marry their daughters into two noble families recently," Ana added casually, before sipping her tea.
Marcos didn't answer. But his mind was already working.
Bloodline alliances. Strategic marriages. Economic integration through kinship. The old way… repurposed for something new.
And perhaps, one day, something more personal.