The sprawling expanse of the mega-camp pulsed with raw, vibrant energy.
As Leon, Vanya, and Bram wove their way through the central thoroughfare of Las Médulas, the colossal pavilion loomed ahead like a dark monument rising above the crimson canyon.
Even from hundreds of yards away, its towering black canvas spires, woven with shimmering silver runes of secrecy and structural enchantment, cut a menacing silhouette against the Spanish twilight.
Standing near the perimeter of the pavilion’s entrance was Garrik Vane, his towering, scarred frame recognizable from far away.
Beside him stood his right-hand man and chief strategist, Silas Vance—a lean, sharp-eyed wizard with slicked-back graying hair, wearing a high-collared coat lined with subtle runic embroidery.
Silas held a leather-bound ledger under one arm, his darting, calculating gaze scanning the surrounding crowds.
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Gathered around them was the rest of the ten-person Wyrm-Breakers delegation.
Kaelen stood with his arms crossed, his heavy dueling gauntlets gleaming in the lantern light, flanked by three elite senior trackers whose faces bore the grim, weathered look of seasoned killers.
A few yards away, tucked into the shadow of a weathered sandstone arch, Robert and Olivia were hopelessly wrapped up in each other, whispering in quiet giggles and completely oblivious to their surroundings, effectively existing in their own private world as they always did.
As Leon’s trio approached, Garrik’s one good eye locked onto them, glowing with sharp impatience under the rim of his heavy leather coat.
“About bloody time,” Garrik growled, his deep voice carrying a gravelly raspy edge.
“The others aren’t going to wait on us to take our seats. We’re up.”
Garrik turned to lead the group toward the heavy velvet drapes of the entrance, but stopped dead when he noticed Robert and Olivia still dawdling in the shadows, entirely unbothered by the momentum of the delegation.
“You two idiotic lovebirds!” Garrik roared, his voice echoing off the sandstone wall.
“Move your useless arses before I feed you both to a manticore! Get in line!”
Robert started, flushing red as Olivia hastily straightened her robes, and the pair scrambled to fall into rank behind Silas.
With a heavy grunt of disgust, Garrik turned back and shoved through the towering flap of the pavilion, leading the Wyrm-Breakers into the interior.
If the pavilion appeared massive from the outside, the interior was a triumph of spatial expansion charms.
Leon stepped through the threshold, his keen analytical mind instantly taking in the sheer, staggering scale of the amphitheater.
The Undetectable Extension Charm applied to the structure was breathtakingly complex, stretching the internal volume into a cathedral-like cavern capable of comfortably holding hundreds.
Yet despite its vastness, the space hummed with an oppressive, dangerous density.
More than two hundred high-ranking poachers, black-market syndicate leaders, creature smugglers, and dark artifact dealers filled the hall, their combined presence creating a heavy atmosphere thick with magic, expensive tobacco, and underlying violence.
High above, floating enchanted iron braziers cast a flickering, harsh orange glare over the assembly, throwing long, jagged shadows across the stone floors.
At the exact center of the vast chamber sat a massive, circular dark oak table.
Surrounding it were high-backed, hand-carved wooden chairs, each backrest deeply engraved with the distinctive crest of one of the world’s primary criminal cartels.
Encircling the central table was a broad, tiered ring designated for the lieutenants, bodyguards, and subordinate retinues of each faction leader, as well as independent brokers who lacked a seated vote.
Before the formal proceedings began, the hall was a chaotic hive of factional diplomacy.
Leon’s eyes scanned the crowd, taking note of the vast cultural and regional diversity of the global underworld.
In one corner, a contingent of Asian smugglers clad in high-collared silk robes lined with protective talismans stood in quiet, stoic isolation, completely indifferent to the surrounding noise.
Nearby, a delegation of African beast-trappers draped in heavy lion hides and obsidian charms argued fiercely over a map of game preserves.
Across the floor, sharp-suited North American syndicate bosses flicked through parchment ledgers, their sharp eyes focused strictly on profit margins and illegal trade routes.
‘The sheer scale of this infrastructure is incredible,’ Leon thought, his eyes tracking every detail, mapping the faction crests and counting combatants.
‘A hidden economy operating parallel to the Ministries, completely out of reach of international law.’
Before the Wyrm-Breakers could reach their designated section, a group detached itself from the crowd and glided directly toward them.
Leading the party was an elderly witch of Latin American origin.
She wore traditional embroidered robes beneath a dark leather shawl, her silver-threaded hair pulled back into an elegant bun.
Despite her weathered face and warm smile, her eyes possessed an unreadable, ancient depth.
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“Garrik, mi hijo,” she greeted smoothly, her voice rich, warm, and carrying the gentle cadence of an affectionate elder.
“Mamá Socorro,” Garrik replied, his gruff demeanor softening just a fraction into a show of genuine, grudging respect.
He gave a firm nod.
“It’s been a while.”
“Too long,” she murmured kindly.
She gestured slightly behind her toward her retinue—a collection of heavily armed, stone-faced cartel enforcers.
“Do not rush off once this grand circus concludes tonight. Bring your main people to our camp tent afterward. We have a proposition to make that requires your heavy hands.”
Garrik raised an eyebrow, exchanging a brief glance with Silas.
“We’ll be there.”
Mamá Socorro’s dark eyes then shifted past Garrik, landing directly on Leon.
A warm, grandmotherly smile spread across her face, softening the deep lines around her eyes.
“Ah… and this must be the young man I’ve heard so much about,” she said, her tone dripping with gentle curiosity.
She looked Leon up and down, taking in his tall, athletic frame and steady blue eyes.
“The sharp mind your people keep bragging about. You must come along tonight, child. You will have to tell me your story.”
Leon maintained a polite, respectful posture, bowing his head slightly.
“It would be an honor, Mamá Socorro.”
Before she could say more, a loud, sonorous bell chimed through the chamber, echoing off the high canvas ceiling.
A sharp, authoritative voice bellowed through an amplified charm from the center of the ring: “Delegates of the Syndicate! Take your seats! The Assembly is now in session!”
“Duty calls,” Mamá Socorro said with a warm pat on Garrik’s arm before turning away.
“Until later, gentlemen.”
As she walked back toward her faction’s side of the hall, Bram leaned in close to Leon, whispering under his breath while keeping his eyes locked straight ahead.
“Don’t let the kindly old abuela act fool you, kid,” Bram muttered grimly.
“Word on the continent is Mamá Socorro fed her own brother to a pack of hungry Hidebehinds just to consolidate her cartel’s territory. She’s twice as batshit insane as Vanya.”
Vanya, who was standing right next to them, slowly turned her head.
Her hazel eyes narrowed into a terrifying, murderous glare as her hand twitched toward her wand sleeve.
Bram instantly swallowed hard, shutting his mouth tight and taking a hasty step back into the line.
Garrik marched down to the central round table, pulling out his heavy oak chair.
Carved deep into the wood of the backrest was the fierce emblem of the Wyrm-Breakers—a four-fifths circular wyrm biting near its tail, pierced vertically downward by a stylized broadsword.
Silas positioned himself directly behind Garrik’s shoulder, while Leon, Vanya, Bram, Kaelen, and the rest of the delegation formed a protective, imposing arc in the subordinate ring right behind them.
At the head of the table stood the host of the evening.
He was an influential, independent Spanish black-market broker named Don Hector—a wealthy, sharply dressed wizard with a groomed beard, heavy gold rings on his fingers, and a reputation for strict neutrality.
Don Hector slammed a heavy wooden gavel onto the stone block before him, the sound echoing through the silenced hall.
“Welcome, brothers and sisters of the shadow,” Don Hector proclaimed in smooth, sonorous Spanish, instantly translated for the hall through localized acoustic charms.
“We gather under the peace banner of Las Médulas to set the law of the market, settle our boundary disputes, and ensure that our shared trade remains profitable despite the authorities’ growing paranoia.”
For the next several hours, the assembly descended into a tense, chaotic theater of high-stakes criminal diplomacy.
Don Hector called upon the factions one by one, opening the floor to aggressive debates, territory claims, and price-fixing negotiations.
The North American cartels spoke first, their spokesman pushing hard for an increase in the baseline price of hide and dragon heartstrings.
“The MACUSA’s Aurors are tightening maritime patrols,” the American leader argued sharply, tapping his ledger on the table.
“Our transport costs have doubled. If we don’t raise the floor price by twenty percent globally, half the supply lines freeze.”
“Absurd!” barked a representative from an African poaching syndicate.
“If you raise the floor, the Asian buyers will bypass the Western markets entirely and source directly through the Indian Ocean routes!”
Across the table, the East Asian delegation remained largely silent, their leader merely giving a cold, dismissive tilt of his chin to indicate their complete disinterest in Western shipping tariffs, operating entirely within their own isolated sphere of influence.
As the hours dragged on, the atmosphere grew increasingly heated.
The most explosive clash of the night, however, erupted when the regional control of European trade routes was brought to the floor.
Standing up from his seat across the round table was a towering, olive-skinned wizard with a thick mustache and dark, ruthless eyes.
He was Lord Malakas, leader of the Levantine Convenant—a massive criminal alliance controlling the Mediterranean, Southern Europe, and parts of North Africa.
For years, Malakas’s cartel had shared dominance over Europe alongside the Wyrm-Breakers.
But with Garrik Vane’s rapid expansion into continental Europe over the last two years, that balance was fracturing.
Malakas slammed a fist onto the oak table, his gaze locked maliciously onto Garrik.
“The Mediterranean routes belong to the Levantine!” Malakas roared, his voice cutting through the hall.
“Yet over the past six months, Vane’s butcher squads have been intercepting raw materials in the Pyrenees and undercutting our supply to the Italian receivers! You’re encroaching on blood-drawn boundaries, Garrik!”
Garrik didn’t even bother to stand.
He leaned back in his high-backed chair, his one good eye fixed on Malakas with supreme, arrogant boredom while his scarred face twisted into a dark grin.
“Boundaries?” Garrik rumbled, his voice carrying effortlessly across the tense quiet of the chamber.
“The mountains don’t belong to you, Malakas. You got soft sitting in your warm Mediterranean villas while my boys were bleeding in the snow. If your receivers buy from us, it’s because our product is cleaner, faster, and cheaper. You want those routes back? Send better hunters. Or better duelists.”
Malakas’s face flushed dark red, his hand dropping dangerously close to his wand belt.
Behind him, a dozen Levantine enforcers shifted, their hands reaching for their weapons.
Instantly, behind Garrik, Leon, Vanya, Kaelen, and Bram stepped forward in unison, their hands sliding to their wand holsters, ready to turn the central floor into a bloodbath in a heartbeat.
Don Hector slammed his gavel down three times in rapid succession, his magic flaring to produce a deafening crack of thunder above the table.
“Order!” Don Hector shouted sternly.
“There will be no blood drawn inside the Assembly ring! Control your men, Malakas! Garrik, mind the pact!”
Malakas glared at Garrik for a long, agonizing moment before slowly easing his grip on his belt.
He took his seat, his eyes burning with promises of future violence.
Garrik merely chuckled under his breath, signaling his squad to step back.
As the debate shifted to secondary matters, Leon silently processed every exchange, storing every name, faction structure, and trade vulnerability into his mind.
He noted how Mamá Socorro’s cartel, the Sombra Cartel, quietly dominated the Central American trade without ever needing to shout, using soft political pressure and vast networks rather than loud posturing.
He observed the deep economic rift between the Mediterranean and Northern European factions, already calculating how such instability could be exploited in the future when he eventually launched his own business empire.
It was long past midnight when the final agenda item was resolved.
Don Hector stood, raising his hands high above his head.
“The Assembly of Las Médulas is officially concluded!” Don Hector declared, his voice echoing over the exhausted, murmuring crowd.
“The price floors are locked for the next three years. All boundary agreements stand as ratified. By order of the Syndicate, this canyon must be entirely evacuated and scrubbed of all presence before noon tomorrow. May the shadows hide your paths.”
He struck the gavel one last time.
The heavy tension in the room snapped, replaced by the rustle of robes and the deep murmur of hundreds of wizards rising from their seats.
The faction leaders exchanged final, icy glares before turning to leave, their retinues clearing out toward the exit drapes in slow, guarded streams.
Garrik rose from his chair, adjusting his heavy leather coat.
He looked back at his inner circle, his eyes sweeping over Silas, Vanya, and Leon.
“Right then,” Garrik grunted.
“Let’s go see what Mamá Socorro wants.”