Chapter 3: Stage

Minutes later, news of the offer was already circulating. Rogé returned to the office, his philosophical calm restored, but his eyes with a pragmatic gleam. He found Monfre contemplating the artifacts in the room, the atmosphere still dense from the previous conversation.

Rogé bowed slightly.

-Baron Monfre, I thank you for receiving me again in such a short time. The interruption earlier... was as real as it was lucrative. The offer my assistant mentioned; three times the value we had estimated for the sand has been formalized. - He paused, observing Monfre's reaction. - Financially, it would be the logical conclusion to this... unexpected adventure in Escadero.

Monfre turned slowly, his Deivai eyes fixed on Rogé.

-Three times the value. A tempting proposal for any merchant. And yet here you are. Tell me, Mr. Rogé, what brings you back, when the logic of profit points in another direction?

Rogé approached the baron's desk, his voice now a confidential whisper.

-Because, baron, as I considered the offer from that… distant consortium, whose sole motivation is profit over rarity… I thought about our conversation. I thought about what your eyes see. Do they see an asset being liquidated? Or do you see, as I have come to suspect, something more?

Monfre rested his chin on his hand, studying Rogé.

-I have told you what I see, or what I am beginning to sense. A fragment of the Tree that seems to have… intent. A potential symbol for Escadero. A piece that resonates with the very nature of this place, perhaps even with the power that permeates it. - He gestured vaguely to the mystical objects around him. - It's not just sand, rare as it may be.

-Exactly! - Rogé tapped the table lightly with his fingertips. - That buyer, with all his gold, would never understand this. To him, it would be just another exotic trophy, locked away or resold. Its intrinsic meaning, the story we've begun to unravel, would be lost, suffocated by the vulgarity of pure commerce. - He leaned closer. - You spoke of legacy, baron. Of anchoring the singularity of Escadero. Can an anonymous buyer, hundreds of miles away, offer that? Can he nurture the narrative that this material seems to beg for?

Monfre pondered, clearly seduced by the idea of being the guardian of something unique, something that transcended the mundane.

-You make a good point, Rogé. The narrative... the story we can weave around it... has its own value. A value that perhaps only someone with roots here, with a sensitivity to the unusual, can cultivate. - He allowed himself a slight smile. It seems that this sand, in a suit, has chosen its stage in Escadero.

-And that is why I am here. - Rogé said, his voice firm now, sensing the change in the baron. - Because I believe, perhaps against my own pragmatic nature, that its destiny is not to be a curiosity in a distant collection, but rather a landmark here, under your protection. A testament to the extraordinary. - He paused dramatically. - But let's be honest, baron. Securing a destiny, protecting such a powerful narrative... that has a cost that reflects not only the material, but the unique opportunity. - He took a deep breath. - The other offer was three times the value. An offer for an object. But to ensure that this sand remains here, so that it flourishes as the symbol you envision, to honor the intuition that brought us together in this room... the value must be different. - His eyes met Monfre's, steady and calculating. - Five times the initial value, baron. That is the price to guarantee not only the possession, but the purpose of this relic in Escadero.

Baron Monfre was silent for a moment, his gaze lost somewhere beyond Rogé. Five times the value was nonsense in commercial terms. But Rogé was no longer selling sand. He was selling a legacy, a symbol of power and mystery for Escadero, and, by extension, for the baron himself. It was the price of the story he wanted to star in.

He stood up, walking to the window, observing little Escadero outside. When he turned around, his decision was made.

-Five times… - He repeated, almost to himself. - A price to rewrite the destiny of a handful of sand... or perhaps, to accept the destiny it imposes on us. - He stared at Rogé. - You are a shrewd businessman, Rogé, or perhaps an instrument of the most peculiar chance I have ever encountered. - A thin smile appeared on his lips. - Whatever. The symbol I envision for Escadero justifies the investment. The sand stays. - He held out his hand. - Deal closed. Provide the terms. I want custody of this... enigma... secured as soon as possible.

…

In Sant'Amaranthis, Bibi's Bar was more than just a bar; it was a refuge and a dome. The noise was constant, not so much from the glasses hitting the counter or the persistent frying in the background, but from the secret buried beneath the boards. There, tucked into a gap under the worn counter, lay an old Red suppression device, the kind of relic that the Order would burn in public. Scraped, camouflaged, working. An invisible cloak that silenced the magical eyes.

Under its protection, the Gang of the Grotto of the Trolls breathed, or tried to.

The thick fog of cheap cigarettes colored the room with a slow yellow, mixed with the smell of recycled fat, spilled beer and broken promises. On the improvised stage, just a wooden elevation covered with maroon cloth and hope, a melody hovered.

Dafne sang.

Simple dress, modest posture. But her voice… oh, her voice was something else. A rope that pulled time from within. As if it were sewing memories into each verse.

In the back, at the most disorganized and noisy table in the room, the gang celebrated.

Goose, big and flashy, laughed as if he wanted to push the smoke away with his shout. Rat kept his eyes glued to the door, drumming on the table, the tic of someone who has seen too much. Kid spoke loudly and with broad gestures, trying to compensate for his size with presence. Myrtle, firm as a river rock, drank methodically and vigorously. Only one was missing.

The door creaked as if asking permission.

And he entered.

Not as someone who arrives, but as someone who returns. As someone who is expected. Safo — or Rogé, in the disguise of the day — crossed the threshold with his suit neatly aligned, his hair perfectly tamed, and the smile of someone who had just sold faith in an empty bottle.

Bibi, without even looking up, was already holding out the glass.

 — A toast! — he said, with that triumphant gleam in his eyes. — To the Barons Dievai, with more ego than sense... and to the most expensive sand in all of Cinábrio!

Myrtle laughed, slamming her glass on the table.

— Five times the cost, Safo! Five! And the fool still thought he was guaranteeing Escadero's 'legacy'! If we stayed one more day, he'd give us the key to the city.

— Perfect paperwork — said Kid, adjusting his glasses. — Not a single seal out of place. The Red Order would never suspect it. Clean exit.

— Too much money. Too fast. — Rat whispered uneasily. — That attracts stares. Even here.

— The only reason it wasn't cleaner was because we almost left the manager choking on his own dust — laughed Goose, leaning back. — The poor guy must still be shouting 'logistics!' on the road.

 Bibi approached with a new jar, her voice practical as ever:

— Relax, Rat. That's why this place exists. Here, the magic eyes can't see. And those who live trapped in yesterday's scam, lose tomorrow's.

Goose winked at her:

— My wife, the philosopher of the underworld!

— Cheap philosophy — Myrtle grumbled, rolling her eyes. — I almost ruined the ink forging that warrant with the royal seal. One flick of the candle and the Supreme Magistrate would turn into a drunken baker. I had to drink three glasses just to imitate the pretentious flourish of the signature.

— And the material! — Kid recalled. — Saltpeter sand. More dust than sand. We had to sift through it until we had no patience. Goose almost sneezed and gave it all away in the middle of the road.

— Drawing up the paperwork, inventing a deceased relative, bribing a scribe... — Rat spoke with his eyes still scanning the ceiling. — Everything to understand the bureaucracy of a narcissistic Baron.

— The worst was me! — Goose raised his hand. — Planted in that fake warehouse, acting like the operations manager! The Baron squeezing me for "logistics"... I almost gave away that my logistics was a dog named Caramelo!

Safo raised her glass sparingly.

— The important thing, Mr. Trasgos... is that our dear Baron's letter of credit has already become an investment. Good wine for Bibi. Profit without raising dust. We laundered money and left a nobleman poorer — and more conceited. A toast to our art.

They toasted. Glasses clinking against the smoke. But Myrtle... watched.

Safo's eyes were not on the table. They were on the stage. On Dafne.

Kid smiled, noticing the diversion:

— Look here. The Dream Merchant hooked on a new song. Be careful, poet. That one doesn't seem to be impressed by stories of mystical sand.

Safo answered without taking her eyes off the singer:

— Every song is a story, Kid. And every story... can be retold.

—There he goes. — Goose snorted. — Soon, the girl will be without a tip and won't understand how.

— Or without a heart. — Rat completed dryly.

The laughter mingled with the clink of dishes, muffled by the increasing volume of the bar.

Myrtle took a long sip before saying, in a low, sharp voice:

— Have you found a new audience yet, Master Safo? You have a beautiful smile on stage.

He raised his glass, slowly, with a smile that seemed to come from another time.

— Always attentive to my interests, Myrtle. Or would you prefer me to be inspired by your... bribery spreadsheets?

Kid, trying to escape the tension, cleaned his glasses:

— Did you know that cockroaches live for weeks without a head? Weird, right?

— At least they have an excuse to lose their heads. — Rat muttered, his eyes teasingly on the corners of the bar.

Safo, however, did not look away.

— I was thinking... The new circus. — His voice was calm, like a veiled invitation. — It would be interesting to have company.

He turned his face slowly, until he met Myrtle's gaze. Subtle. Measured.

— Someone who doesn't remind me of spreadsheets. A more... subtle soul. — He paused, letting the sound of the bar fill in the rest. — Someone with an artistic streak.

His gaze returned to Dafne.

Myrtle hesitated. Her hand, halfway to the glass, stopped. A moment of doubt. Or curiosity.

— Interesting how your "interests" change stage so quickly.

Safo laughed softly. Almost without sound. Shoulders shaking.

— Gambling stalls, shows, street food...

And then, more seriously:

— Maybe I'll even bet on finding someone... with some affection.

Almost. Myrtle almost smiled. But her jaw clenched, stopping the gesture.

— Don't bet what you can't have, Safo. Your art of deception... doesn't work here.

Rato raised his voice, cutting the thread:

— The atmosphere is heating up at the main table. Someone should let it out.

— Well, well! — shouted Goose, already

raising his glass. — Enough with the arts and spreadsheets! Bibi! Bring another round of fancy drinks! Let's cool our spirits and our livers!