The morning mist clung to the valley like breath on glass, slow to lift, unwilling to let the sun claim its place. Marcos stood by the riverbank, boots sunk in wet clay, eyes on the bend where the current slowed before curving west.
It wasn't just a river anymore.
It was a route.
He had counted the turns. Timed the flow. Noted how it swelled after rain and where it carved natural shelves into the earth. And on that shelf, about two hundred steps from the barn, stood a patch of open land that no one claimed — not officially, at least.
Old fence posts leaned drunkenly at its edge, long abandoned by the farmer who had once tried to raise goats there. His family had moved west after the drought five years prior.
Now it sat forgotten.
But Marcos didn't forget.
Because forgotten land, in the right hands, becomes foundation.
That afternoon, he met with Dona Alzira, the midwife who unofficially acted as village notary when no priest or officer was present. Her house smelled of herbs and old fabric. She didn't trust Marcos, not entirely, but she respected him — and she liked the soap.
"Legal ownership?" she asked, squinting over her glasses.
"Yes," Marcos said. "To prevent misunderstandings."
She nodded slowly.
"Won't be easy. Some folk think that land's cursed. Said the goats stopped breeding there."
"Then I'll grow something else."
She chuckled, shaking her head. "Paper won't protect you from jealous mouths."
"I'm not looking for protection," he replied. "I'm looking for clarity."
By the end of the day, he had a signed document — not an official deed, but a witnessed agreement that marked the land as under his use. It was the first brick in a wall no one else could yet see.
He gave Ana a copy to store in the ledger chest.
She traced the wax seal with her finger.
"Feels like something important," she said softly.
"It is," Marcos replied. "But it only matters if we act like it."
That night, as rain began to tap on the barn's tin roof, a stranger arrived in the village.
He came on horseback, wearing a brown coat stained by road and river, a canvas satchel over his back and boots meant for long distances. His accent was different — sharper, more formal. Not from the mines. Not from the farms.
He was from the south. Possibly even from Rio de Janeiro.
Marcos spotted him the next morning, sipping coffee at the corner of the market square, speaking with the grain vendor and an old soldier who sold tobacco.
Tobias came running back not long after.
"Stranger asking questions," he whispered. "Says he's mapping trade routes. But he asked three times who owns the soap with the triangle mark."
Marcos's jaw tightened slightly.
"Did you tell him anything?"
"No," Tobias replied. "Said I only carry buckets."
"Good."
He called Gaspar over and nodded in the man's direction.
"Keep eyes on him. Just eyes, for now."
Gaspar didn't respond. Just shifted his stance and leaned against the corner post with arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
Later that evening, Marcos encountered the traveler himself.
The man was at the tavern, eating roasted cassava and dried beef. Marcos approached slowly, casual, but the man's eyes lifted before he even spoke.
"Marcos Stefano Barbosa," the traveler said calmly.
Marcos didn't react. "Have we met?"
"No," he replied, smiling thinly. "But names travel faster than feet these days."
He gestured to the bench across from him. "Join me?"
Marcos sat.
The man extended a hand.
"Eduardo Torres. From Paraíba originally. Now under contract with a merchant association based near the court."
Marcos took the hand but said nothing.
"I've heard," Eduardo continued, "that you produce certain… cleansing goods. With impressive quality and curious reach."
"Soap travels far," Marcos said.
"It does. But quality like yours tends to attract more than dirt."
There was a pause.
Eduardo leaned in, voice low.
"You're not just cleaning hands, senhor Marcos. You're shaking the ground beneath certain feet. The guilds don't like unstable floors."
Marcos leaned back, measured.
"Then they should walk more carefully."
Eduardo smiled again. But there was something behind the smile — a weight.
"I'm not here to threaten you," he said. "Quite the opposite. I represent people who… dislike the guilds as much as you seem to. But they dislike uncontrolled flames even more."
He tapped the table once.
"You've made noise. I came to hear it for myself."
Marcos watched him carefully. Then nodded once.
"Consider it heard."
Eduardo stood, drained his clay cup, and placed a single silver coin on the table.
"I'll stay in town for three days. If you wish to speak again, send word. If not — I'll be gone before the river rises."
And with that, he left.
Back in the barn, Marcos didn't mention the full conversation to Ana or Tobias.
Not yet.
He spent that night adjusting his notebook, drawing up plans for a small drying shed on the newly claimed land. A place to store herbs, seeds, and ash safely — a way to reduce waste during rainy season.
Above the sketch, he wrote:
"Next Mission: Reduce Rot. Increase Efficiency. Prepare for Wind."
He didn't know what kind of wind was coming.
But something had shifted in the air.
And he didn't intend to be caught off guard.