Knowing the weakness of the fanatics did not guarantee victory—but it gave them something just as important: hope.
It was a fragile thing, thin as glass, yet enough to steady trembling hands.
Carlos stood in the courtyard as the men gathered before him. The air was cool for the season, heavy with the scent of damp earth and smoke from nearby hearths. Two crude fusils rested against a wooden table beside him. They were the best Ogundele and the blacksmith had managed to produce since receiving the originals—shorter barrels, imperfect rifling, and mechanisms that jammed too easily. Inferior to Italian craftsmanship in every way. Still, in desperate moments, even flawed steel could decide life or death.
Carlos placed a hand on one of the weapons, feeling the roughness of the wood beneath his palm.
"These are yours," he said quietly. "Use them only if there is no other choice."
