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While the majority of the delegation retreated toward their designated camp sector to prepare for the morning evacuation, Garrik Vane led a smaller, select group through the winding avenues of this temporary city.
Silas Vance walked at his side, leather registry tucked securely under his arm, while Vanya and Leon trailed closely behind.
The atmosphere in the encampment had shifted.
The high-stakes atmosphere of the main assembly hall had given way to muted conversations, low laughter, and the distinct clink of bottles around scattered campfires.
Yet, as they approached the pavilion of the Sombra Cartel, the surrounding noise fell away, replaced by an unsettling, watchful silence.
Guards stationed outside the entrance—broad-shouldered wizards wearing dark wool ponchos over spell-woven vests—nudged each other as the Wyrm-Breakers approached.
Without a word, they parted the heavy, silver-embroidered velvet drapes, gesturing for the group to enter.
Inside, the temperature was noticeably warmer, smelling faintly of sweet tobacco, spiced rum, and dried herbs.
Richly patterned tapestries covered the canvas walls, illuminating a lavishly furnished space that looked more like an estate parlor than a temporary hunting tent.
Several high-ranking operatives of the Sombra Cartel lounged across low couches, their eyes tracking the newcomers with quiet intensity.
At the far end of the pavilion sat Mamá Socorro.
“Ah, Garrik, mi hijo,” she greeted warmly, her hands resting over a carved wooden walking stick as she offered them a grandmotherly smile.
“You came. Please, sit. Have some wine.”
“Save the wine for after business, Socorro,” Garrik replied, his rough voice cutting through the sweet aroma of the room.
He didn’t sit, standing tall in the center of the tent with his arms crossed over his chest.
“You spoke of a proposal. One worthy of the Wyrm-Breakers. Let’s hear it.”
Mamá Socorro leaned back, her dark, sharp eyes twinkling beneath her folded eyelids.
“Direct, as always. Very well.” She gestured to one of her aides, who poured a dark liquid into a crystal glass and handed it to her.
“Several weeks ago, one of my maritime retrieval crews was tracking a winged beast off the coast of Venezuela. Mid-ocean, far beyond the standard shipping lanes. In the middle of their pursuit, the sea broke open.”
She paused, taking a slow sip of her drink to let the silence stretch.
“They saw something incredible. A creature of pure myth. A majestic leviathan of the deep… a whale, easily seventy to eighty meters in length.”
Leon’s sharp mind instantly cataloged the scale.
An eighty-meter aquatic magic beast.
Standard whales rarely exceeded twenty-five meters.
“It was unlike anything in our records,” Socorro continued, her tone taking on a reverent edge.
“Its hide was smooth as black obsidian, yet underneath the surface skin, brilliant azure light pulsed in rhythmic waves along its flanks. A bioluminescent aura that made the dark ocean around it glow like a starlit night. Swirling mystical patterns hovered in the water around its fins, distorting the light of the moon above. A legendary beast, never before documented.”
“At first,” Socorro admitted with a soft chuckle, “I thought my men had indulged too heavily in rum. But I sent two secondary tracking vessels to the coordinates anyway. Just as they were about to give up after weeks of searching, they found it again. And this time, they locked onto its signature.”
“If you found it twice, why are we having this conversation?” Garrik asked, his single good eye narrowing slightly.
“Why haven’t you harvested it?”
“Because hunting it proved to be a disaster,” Socorro said, the warm smile fading into a grim line.
“We launched three separate full-scale operations to subdue it. Every single attempt failed miserably.”
She raised three fingers, ticking them off one by one.
“First, the beast’s natural magical resistance is absurd. Standard disabling spells, heavy bind-curses, even concentrated cutting charms simply bounced off its hide like pebbles against granite. Second, when the creature grows agitated, its inherent magic unleashes chaos upon the environment. The sea churns, massive waterspouts form, and violent electrical storms ignite directly above it out of thin air. Third, whenever the pressure becomes too high, it simply dives thousands of meters beneath the surface, far beyond the reach of any tracking spell or diving charm.”
Socorro sighed, setting her glass down.
“All those repeated, loud hunts in open waters have finally drawn the attention of the local Ministries and maritime authorities. Patrol vessels are doubling their sweeps. We have window for one final attempt. An all-or-nothing strike.”
“Which brings us to why you called us,” Silas chimed in, stepping forward.
His sharp eyes scanned the room.
“Why don’t you ask your neighbors?”
“Trust the cartels in Colombia or Brazil?” Socorro snorted softly.
“They would spear the beast and then spear us in the back before the carcass even cooled. And let’s not even talk about those greedy Americans—they’d try to claim the entire beast just because it’s near their waters. No. Across the Atlantic, the Wyrm-Breakers have the best reputation for takedowns of ultra-heavy XXXXX-class targets. You have the discipline, and more importantly, you have Vane.”
Garrik rumbled in his chest, a harsh, low sound of satisfaction.
He rubbed the scarred side of his jaw, clearly intrigued by the sheer magnitude of the target—and the astronomical value of its hide, blood, and bones.
“A beast that size, with skin capable of ignoring heavy spells…” Garrik murmured, his eyes gleaming.
“The market value alone would reshape the continent.”
“Which is why we need to discuss terms,” Socorro said smoothly.
What followed was a sharp, tense negotiation.
Silas stepped up to handle the numbers, pulling calculations and market projections out of thin air, while Socorro’s logisticians counter-offered.
Garrik stood like an immovable anchor, refusing to accept anything less than a true partnership stake.
The Sombra Cartel was desperate for the Wyrm-Breakers’ elite combat expertise to finally land the kill, but Socorro insisted on holding the upper hand, citing her team’s discovery of the creature and their responsibility for providing the fleet and heavy logistics.
After nearly twenty minutes of cold, calculated bartering, they struck an agreement: a 55/45 split.
The Sombra Cartel retained 55 percent for finding the leviathan and handling the bulk of the logistical support, while the Wyrm-Breakers secured a massive 45 percent share for sending their strike force to hunt alongside Socorro’s crew and execute the tactical takedown.
“Excellent,” Mamá Socorro said, folding her hands together with a satisfied smile.
“Now that business is settled… I must admit, I am far too old to be dragging my bones onto a pitching deck in the middle of a tempest. I will leave the field operations to the vigorous youth.”
She clapped her hands twice.
From the shadow of a heavy velvet curtain near the back of the tent, a man stepped forward.
He was in his early thirties, boasting a distinctly flamboyant Spanish-Mexican style.
He wore a sharply tailored, dark crimson vest over a crisp white shirt, fitted leather trousers, and knee-high boots polished to a mirror shine.
A thick, impeccably groomed mustache sat above a broad, theatrical smile, and a rapier-like wand sheath hung casually at his hip.
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He strutted into the center of the room with immense flair, resting a hand on his hip and sweeping off his wide-brimmed hat with a dramatic flourish.
“Hola, mis amigos!” he proclaimed, his voice dripping with a thick, rolling accent.
“I am Don Alejandro Diego de la Vega! The greatest duelist in all of México, and the future leader del Sombra Cartel!”
Leon blinked, taking in the grand entrance.
Beside him, Vanya let out a quiet, amused scoff, while Garrik merely raised an eyebrow at the sheer absurdity of the display.
Even Silas looked mildly thrown off by the sudden surge of theatrical energy.
Mamá Socorro, however, merely remained seated with her serene, indulgent smile, entirely unfazed by the performance—clearly accustomed to her successor’s grandstanding.
“Alejandro, my successor, will command our contingent on the water,” Socorro said calmly, gesturing toward the flamboyant duelist.
“He may be loud, but I assure you, his wand is as fast as his mouth.”
“Faster, mi Capitána! Much faster!” Alejandro chimed in, flashing a brilliant, dazzling smile at the room before turning his attention directly to Garrik and his group.
“It will be an absolute honor to slay a legendary sea monster alongside the famous Wyrm-Breakers! We shall make the oceans tremble!”
Despite the eccentric introduction, the ice was broken.
Over the next hour, the tension in the room dissolved into focused work.
Maps of the Caribbean and South American coastline were rolled out across a central table, and the two groups spent the remainder of the night hammering out the groundwork for the upcoming hunt.