Elmira

A sanctuary for the unholy, the lost, and the stupid, Sangora defied every expectation, and the lonely Base on top of a forgotten plateau was no different. Every street was dark and full of trash, half-filled potholes, and dirt. Dirt everywhere. Even with the long daylight, none of it seemed to make its way to the street level. Most days, the only lights in the sky came from the volcanoes in the distance and the bonfires in camp. Few were the mage stones that glowed eerily in the shadows, and where they did, you did not go unless you knew what you were doing.

Knowing where one quarter began and the other ends were damn near impossible if you were not a maze runner, and El was the best of them. To her trained eye, the differences were remarkable. Only because the quarters usually gathered a specific type of person and thus had their quirks and feels that made them stand out. El passed soldiers training for battle in the training grounds of the third quarter, while a few streets away, people were doing laundry and forging weapons. Yet others practiced rays of flame, frost, and vines at makeshift targets in the small mage quarter, amongst children playing football with a ball of cloth.

She passed an open door where a preacher frothed at the mouth, spewing gall about the wicked people who unlawfully took the universe for themselves. He talked about the Akati, of course. Her heart quickened as she tried to simultaneously shut him out and hear what he preached.

During her time here, she had heard every metaphor under the sun, each more colorful than the last. It was difficult to resist the urge to pull her hood up, to turn on her heel and flee. While another part of her wanted to remove her contact lenses and appear in the doorway like the wild, unkempt spirit he thought she was.

Instead, she kept sauntering at a pace fast enough that she wouldn’t be bothered and slow enough not to appear as if she was carrying anything valuable. Information sold for as high a penny as metal, and she carried both.

It was unclear when the threat of the Akati transformed from revenge into a religious, moral panic. But that’s where they stood at the moment. Frothing at the mouth, pitchforks at the ready. It was only a matter of time before the lid blew off. She had seen captains and colonels whispering with each other, throwing covert glances at every passerby. Then there were the increasing raiding parties on akatian settlements, nightly meetings by firelight in the nearby villages to drum up an army of foot soldiers, and the recent influx of raw and rare materials, which could only mean one thing. And suddenly, the bustle appeared in a different light. Preparations. El was a sheep in a wolf’s den.

She ducked under a low-hanging pipe, going through the intel she would send at the next check-in. Captain James O’Hagan, Kollisi’s right-hand man and advisor, left Sangora for Oliria three weeks ago. Rumor had it that there’d been a fallout between the two leaders, that this was a trial of loyalty, but the details were few. Everyone who was someone was more antsy than usual. Lights were on way past midnight. Theories were many.

She cursed the bad luck that had befallen her ever since she found out about O’Hagan's departure. The stream of canceled supply ships. Twice, she’d been careless and nearly caught where she should not be. A week ago they’d even plucked her on some random bullshit a rival gang made up to get at Korp.

“Something’s off,” she’d told Korp when he came to haul her ass out of the Vanish. “This is not right.”

“It’s the game, El,” he had said. “Sometimes luck smiles on you, sometimes she frowns. Go lay low.”

She had, but then a storm trapped her ass in the volcanic mountain pass for the past five days, and that was just the beginning of it.

Before she could finish the thought, the ground slammed into her back as it rocked from an impact. Seconds later, the boom came with a concussive wave that blew over her and pushed others who had kept their balance to the ground. The compound-wide alarm system sprang to life with a cough, ringing out a tone that sounded like a dying puma. A magnified voice boomed out.

“Medics to their stations. Wounded incoming. Quarters 8 through 10. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. We’re at it again, folks. Guess it’s another winter night.”

In an instant, the surrounding camp turned from idle laziness to frantic, professional activity. Those with medical training rushed to the hospitals, while the drafted corpsmen came to aid triage, while the message rang out again. El pushed herself to her feet.

“The ninth again, most like!” she heard a woman shout to another, struggling into a medical gown.

“Those poor bastards,” the friend said around the hairband in her mouth. “Felt that concussion all the way here!”

Still pulling on their uniforms, the women ran off, joined by several others as they disappeared around the corner heading north. For a moment, the magnitude of three quarters being bombed overcame her. How many dead? How many families were, at that moment, torn apart? With a grunt, she pushed those thoughts aside. Fewer people on the ground meant fewer people in an attack. It was simple math. She had to be a fool not to consider that aspect of it. And she wasn’t the only one, either. It was hard to care about crime when it became an almost weekly occurrence, and your house wasn’t directly affected.

Eye on the mission, El, she told herself, checking that the transistor was still in one piece. Not that it was in danger in a bag that held extra dimensions, but one couldn’t be too sure.

On reflex, she stepped to the side to let SPF patrols hurry past like they always did, even as they knew they wouldn’t find anything new. El had her suspicions. The pattern of events was too coincidental not to have a certain twisted logic to them. But she was still missing pieces of the puzzle, and she didn’t want to voice it before she had proof.

“Out of the way!” came a shout as a patrol on hovers rushed past.

A child shrieked. “Is that bad smoke?”

“Don’t mind that, Tom,” his father soothed, picking the child up and carrying him inside a house while throwing fearful looks over his shoulder.

Even here, a faint black mist wormed its way along the streets.

“Get inside! All of you!” El shouted at curious people looking up from their tasks. She coughed again as the wind carried more smoke into their neighborhood.

“The fuck?” a woman slurred, making a grimace as if the stench offended her.

“There’s a tankard with your name on it, baba,” El said, gently steering the woman’s gaze away from the billowing smoke.

Whenever she could, she got people out of the way. Gently, under the radar, giving them directions when asked. But never yielding her momentum toward her deadline.

Even the Ghost would not slow her down today.

A few turns later, she spotted the sight that always sent her stomach into an uncomfortable frenzy. Straddling the sides of the massive hill, where jagged rocks formed a natural barrier against the outside world, stood the command offices and quarters of the officers of the Sangoran Syndicate. It was a place as brutal and unforgiving as the people who inhabited it, far from the pristine order of any legitimate government. The tents were patched and repaired repeatedly as if even the fabric itself couldn’t quite hold together in this hellish environment.

The conditions were no better than the rest of the camp. There was little to separate the officers’ quarters from the look of the rest of Base 19, aside from the faint air of superiority they projected. It wasn’t just the smell of nutmeg and sulfur, which clung to the air like a long-forgotten chemical secret; it was the weight of something far more insidious. The ruthlessness that fueled the Sangoran Syndicate seemed to hang in the air, oppressive and heavy, like a storm waiting to break. This was no place for the faint of heart. Survival here meant something far more primal.

It was born of rebellion, an uprising fueled by the devastation of Japhaia, a city once filled with life but now nothing more than a smoldering ruin. In the wake of that catastrophic razing, dissent took root, and from the chaos, the Insurrection emerged, a brutal militia now led by its enigmatic and savage leader, Alexandre Kollisi. That he rose to become General of the Syndicate, too, came as no surprise. He was perfect for the role. So now the line between the two organizations blurred into disintegration.

With Kollisi’s unyielding leadership, the Syndicate/Insurrection had become a powerful force, drawing together warlords, outlaws, and the disillusioned who had lost faith in the Akati Empire’s crumbling power. Sangora had a capital, but it mattered little. This camp right here became its heart, a community built on greed, ambition, and sheer willpower, where survival came at a cost, and those who couldn’t pay were left behind.

At the center of this militarized chaos, amid the haphazard tents and crude outposts, rose the general’s quarters: a monolith of dark red against the backdrop of decay. Unlike the other tents, which sagged and struggled under the weight of their purpose, this structure stood firm, its craftsmanship far beyond anything seen in the rest of the camp. It wasn’t just the fact that it was larger or more elegant; it was a symbol. One that spoke of Kollisi’s reign and the callous efficiency with which he ruled.

The roof split into three graceful peaks, a rare touch of elegance. This wasn’t merely a place to sleep or conduct business; it was a testament to power itself, as pristine as the day it had been erected, untouched by the black dust and ash that coated everything else in the camp.

El’s chest felt tight and heavy, her step sagging a little. But only a little. This was Kollisi’s domain, the seat of a power forged in the fire of rebellion. His empire of exploitation stretched from the deep veins of Sangora’s rare mineral deposits to the thriving black markets that funneled resources and wealth into the Syndicate’s coffers. Forced labor fed its coffers with sweat and blood, while smuggling, mercenary contracts, and underworld dealings served as the veins that kept its economy pulsing. With hidden routes and an ever-expanding network, the Syndicate was the dark heart of northern Khorun, feared by many, respected by few.

She kept her hands out of her pockets and her back straight as she began the final climb. Nothing happened. Another couple of steps. Nothing. Then a small shiver ran through her as she stepped across the invisible barrier of the massive sphere that dispelled all magic. Every couple of minutes, a new pulse washed through the air to rid the area of any arcane effects. It was a beautiful construct and brilliant in a way that only the old minds of Japhaia could have dreamed of.

The Inner Sanctum was the only place where no one could disguise themselves, approach invisible, or by other means hide their true and honest face. Unless the disguise itself wasn’t arcane at all. It was an irrational fear, but El still checked that her contacts were there, that her hair was brown, and that the lightning tattoos on her forearms were securely covered. One couldn’t be too careful.

Don’t drop your guard, she told herself. You have survived this long, you will survive what comes next.

The guards outside the perimeter gave her a cursory glance but didn’t question her. They had seen her before, always with a purpose, always in the general’s service. She had built a reputation for herself, and that was the only thing that mattered in this place. Reputation, survival, and ruthlessness.

Ignis, I resent them, El cursed.

“Patience, child.”

“I do not do patience well.”

There was a snort that wasn’t hers. “Well aware.”

El rolled her eyes. Despite its dominance, the Syndicate faced constant threats. Rival factions and dissident powers watched from the shadows, their desire to see Kollisi's reign toppled as sharp as any blade. But Sangora was a harsh land, unforgiving and brutal, and in this environment, only the strongest endured.

El paused at the main entrance, a broad wooden frame with double doors bolted into it, her hand resting lightly on the rough-hewn doorframe. The air around her felt heavy, thick with the oppressive tension that always seemed to cling to this building. She couldn’t help but ponder what mood the General would be in at this hour. Whether his mind was already sharp and calculating, carried with jovial ease, or if the weight of his cause had him brooding, his patience thinned by the endless demands.

You have done nothing wrong, she told herself firmly. You are here, well within the deadline.

"At the cusp of it, at least," came the sarcastic retort.

“Can you be quiet?” she snapped out loud before slapping a hand to her mouth, holding her breath.

There was no movement. No one seemed to have taken notice. Relieved, she tapped her fingertips together in a repeating pattern until her heartbeat was under control.

Before she could settle on an answer, the unmistakable sound of a man’s desperate scream ripped through the silence, a sharp, ragged cry that sent a cold shiver down her spine. The shout was followed by a heavy thud. It was a familiar sound, one that had been woven into the very fabric of this place. She held her breath.

“Mercy! Mercy, please!”