MasukEstrela turned her head toward the tent where Escuro slept. A cold, calculating look crossed her face– an expression she would never make. “The boy,” the voice said, her mouth forming the words with a chilling curiosity. “He knows too much already. He must not interfere with what comes next.” She began to walk, not toward the exit of the ruins, but toward Escuro’s tent, her movements stiff and precise like a soldier on parade. Estrela struggled from wit
Mar glared up at Estrela, refusing to show the fear that clawed at his gut. Estrela reached out, her fingers brushing against his jawline with a touch that was terrifyingly gently. She stood up slowly, turning her back on him to face the dockworkers. “Take him to the cave, we move the prisoners at dawn.” One of the men stepped forward, hauling Amr to his feet by his bound arms. Mar’s boots dragged through the sand as he was hauled away, his protests swallowed by the heavy, humid air the cave was a jagged maw at the base of the cliffs, damp and smelling of salt and old rot. The dockworkers threw him inside, where the darkness pressed in from all sides, broken only by the faint, rhythmic dripping of water from the ceiling. “You will never keep her!” Mar shouted into the void, his voice cracking. “She is a child!” you are using her!” Mar hit the cave floor hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. He
“You speak of Cidade dos Escravos’s strength, counsellor. Of its slaves and its alchemists. But tell me– does Cidade dos Escravos also know how to handle a woman who has outlived empires?” Estrela asked. “I can’t speak for the rest of Cidade dos Escravos,” Brian murmured pressing his lips to Estrela’s neck. “But I assure you I am more than capable,” he whispers against her skin. The sensation of his lips against her skin sent a jolt through Estrela’s body– a visceral, panicked shudder that Orgullo suppressed with the practiced ease of a tyrant. The girl’s heart hammered against her ribs, her breath hitching in a way that looked like arousal to any observer but was entirely terror. Estrela’s hands found Brain’s shoulders, her nails digging slightly into the fine wool of his coat. She pulled him closer, her movements fluid and commanding. “Capability is a rare commodity
The air in the tent grew still as Brian’s words settled. The mention of the holy wars brought a flicker of something ancient and bitter to the surface of Orgullo’s consciousness– a memory of ash and blood that predated her current existence. “Sacrifice is the foundation of every great civilization,” Estrela said, her voice devoid of judgement. She set the journal down and walked toward him, her golden hair swaying like silk. “Cidade dos Escravos survived because it had the stomach to do what was necessary. Most cities fall because they are too soft, too afraid of their own shadows.” Brain straightened his posture. “Exactly, Cidade dos Escravos is now known as the city of slaves. A necessity that was required back then,” he said eagerly. “We did not just rebuild the city but the economy as well. allowing other cities to rise and flourish.” The word slaves hung in the air, and for a fleeting second,
The air inside the tent smelled of old parchment, dried ink, and something faintly metallic– the scent of old blood and dried paint. On the left side of the tent is a large, heavy rough-hewn wooden table covered with papers, maps, books, rolled documents and writing materials. Several sheets have bene spread across the tabletop, including what appears to be a detailed map with lines and markings. There are also several leather-bound books stacked near the front edge, along with rolled parchment. A dark ceramic cup sits near the centre of the table. The table is paired with a sturdy wooden chair with a dark green piece of fabric has been casually draped over its back. Leaning against the wall near the table are several swords and pieces of equipment. Their dark blades and wooden handles contrast against the cream canvas of the tent. Additional wooden chests are stacked near the table, some closed and others apparently used for storing documents or supplies.
Brains deep brown eyes scanned the wooden cells. “Cidade dos Escravos also has plenty of storage space for the undeserving,” he added, his deep brown eyes flickering with mischief. “Cidade dos Escravos would like to join you on your divine path.” The offer hung in the air like a heavy mist. Estrela felt a surge of something she had not experienced in a long time: genuine interest. Cidade dos Escravos was a powerhouse of faith and gold, and if Brain was offering their resources, he was offering more than just storage space. He was offering an empire. “An alliance,” she said, her voice rich with approval. “A union of purpose. The Gods favour those who build together.” Brian’s smile widened, revealing teeth that were perhaps too white, too perfect. “Precisely. Cidade dos Escravos can provide ships, supplies, and– most importantly– he kind of disciplined followers your fountain seems to require.
“Let him watch,” Estrela murmured to herself, turning her back on the shore. “Let him tell the world of the miracles he sees here.” But as the days turned into weeks, the miracles grew fewer and the cells grew more numerous. The camp was not a sprawling necropolis of wooden cages, filled with people who had been broken by the very thing they thought would save them. A counsellor from the city called Cidade dos Escravos, came to the island. He arrived on a ship built from warm honey brown pine timber; its sails shades of blue, framed by red. The ship was a large, three-masted sailing vessel with a broad, sturdy wooden hull which rose substantially above the water. Heavy wooden beams, railings, ladders, ropes, pulleys, and rigging cover the decks. Numerous ropes run from the masts to the bow and stern, creating an intricate web of lines across the ship. At the front of the ship a bow is projected dramatically forward into an ornate bowsprit
“What in the bloody hell are you doing here?” Luz’s voice emerged rougher than intended, betraying both anger and something deeper he couldn’t quite name. His grip tightened on the hilt until his knuckles turned white against the black veins crawling up his fingers. “Luz?” Amelia asked softly, he
The Corrompido army settled into a makeshift encampment along a mountainside, their tents scattering amongst the gravestones of an old graveyard. Luz dismounted near a cluster of officers’ tents, his shadow-dark horse whickering softly as it was led away by a Corrompido soldier. He moved with pra
The moment Amelia turned her back; something shifted in Luz’s posture. His gauntleted fingers tightened around the reins, the black leather groaning in protest. The crimson glow in his eyes intensified for a fraction of a second– a visible tremor running through his as if an unseen current had ju
Lugar onde Cultivamos is a small rustic village nestled in a lush, forested valley. A winding dirt path ran through the village, leading into the woods. The path was well trodden, with patches of grass growing along its edges, giving it a natural, lived-in feel. On either side of the path were qu







