The Scandinavian morning air was brisk, carrying the sharp scent of pine and crushed fern across the Tiveden forest camp.
Yet, despite the familiar chill, an unmistakable current of tension surged through the Wyrm-Breakers’ grounds.
Garrik Vane was not a man to compromise operational efficiency for sentiments.
The Leviathan whale hunt off the coast of Venezuela was a high-stakes, extremely dangerous enterprise.
Recognizing that dead weight would only invite casualties or slow their progress, Garrik had ordered a strict filtration of his force.
Only thirty of the strongest, most disciplined wizards in the cartel were selected for the voyage across the Atlantic.
The remaining dozen—the weaker duelists, the logistical support, and the younger recruits—were ordered to maintain the Swedish base and handle routine operations in Northern Europe.
Finn was among those left behind.
Leon found his friend standing near the edge of the clearing, watching the chosen strike team pack heavy leather duffel bags with combat potions, specialized ropes, and runic anchors.
Though Finn had grown exponentially over the past few years into a sharp, agile duelliste, Garrik had drawn a firm line regarding age and experience for this specific naval raid.
“Looks like I’m on camp duty, mate,” Finn said, flashing a wry, crooked smile as Leon approached.
His ginger hair was tousled by the wind, but his eyes lacked the resentment one might expect; instead, they showed genuine respect for the stakes involved.
“Consider it a reprieve,” Leon replied smoothly, shifting the strap of his expanded leather satchel over his shoulder.
His Cleansweep Seven was strapped neatly beside his gear.
“You get to avoid tropical humidity and a sea monster that eats galLeons for breakfast.”
“Fair point. But don’t let those Spanish-speaking maniacs take all the credit,” Finn laughed softly.
He held out a hand, palm up, forearms flexed.
“Until next time, Leon. Bring back something nasty.”
Leon grasped Finn’s forearm in a firm, bro-style grip, their knuckles locking tight in an unspoken bond forged over years of shared captivity, trial, and survival.
“Until next time. Keep your guard up while we’re gone,” Leon said, giving his friend’s arm a solid shake before releasing it.
“Póg mo thóin to any Leviathan that gets in your way,” Finn grinned, stepping back and clasping his hands behind his head as Leon turned to join the main column.
Getting thirty dark wizards across half the globe without alerting the International Confederation of Wizards or the jumpy maritime authorities of the Caribbean was an exercise in meticulous stealth.
The journey was a disciplined, multi-stage operation.
They began with high-altitude broom flights beneath heavy disillusionment charms, weaving through the thick cloud cover of Western Europe.
From isolated staging points in the Pyrenees and the Azores, they executed sequential, unregistered Portkey jumps—each carefully timed to bypass Ministry tracking.
The final leg involved localized side-along Apparition and low-profile broom skimming over the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea, skirting the patrol perimeters of regional Ministries that had been put on high alert following recent cartel activity.
By early afternoon, the strike team reached their final destination: an untouched, hidden coastal stretch along the northern edge of Venezuela, nestled within the dense, lush fringe of the Henri Pittier region.
The transformation in climate was instantaneous and suffocating.
The cold, dry air of Scandinavia gave way to oppressive tropical heat, heavy with the scents of saltwater, wet earth, and blooming orchid vegetation.
Emerald rainforest-covered mountains crashed down into a secluded, horseshoe-shaped bay.
Jagged obsidian cliffs carved out a hidden cove, completely shielded from passing ships by towering palisades and thick bank curtains of perpetually hanging sea fog—doubtless reinforced by concealment wards.
Anchored deep within the sheltered waters of the cove sat their vessel.
It was a magnificent, menacing three-masted tall ship, reminiscent of a seventeenth-century Spanish galleon or a phantom pirate vessel of legend.
Its hull was crafted from dark, iron-hard mahogany that seemed to absorb the tropical sunlight, stripped of any flag or identifying heraldry.
The broad, billowed sails were pitch-black and anonymous, woven from spell-resistant fabric that shimmered faintly with embedded runes.
Along its gunwales sat double decks of brass cannons, their muzzles enchanted to fire compressed kinetic blasts rather than mere iron shot.
On the white sands of the beach below, hidden beneath the overhanging canopy of palm leaves and jungle foliage, lay the temporary encampment of the Sombra Cartel.
Canvas tents, supply crates, and armed guards in light linen shirts and dragon-hide vests dotted the perimeter.
The thirty Wyrm-Breakers touched down lightly at the edge of the jungle treeline, their heavy boots sinking into the warm sand.
Before Garrik could even issue an order, a figure detached itself from the bustle of the beach camp and strolled toward them with theatrical flair.
Don Alejandro looked pristine despite the tropical humidity.
His crimson vest was unbuttoned just enough to reveal a crisp white linen shirt, his dark mustache waxed to perfection, and his rapière-hilted wand housing swung rhythmically at his hip.
Torstein, the massive Norwegian lieutenant, narrowed his glacier-blue eyes.
Having not been present at Mamá Socorro’s private tent in Las Médulas, he leaned sideways toward Leon, muttering in a low, gravelly rumble, “Who in the blazes is this peacock?”
Alejandro’s sharp ears caught the whispered query instantly.
He froze mid-stride, placed a hand over his heart, and expanded his chest with dramatic outrage.
“Peacock?! Caramba!” Alejandro declared loudly, sweeping his broad-brimmed leather hat off his head in a low, sweeping bow.
“It is I! Don Alejandro Diego de la Vega! The greatest duelist in all of México, and the future leader del Sombra Cartel!”
Silence stretched across the beach.
The Wyrm-Breakers—hardened, battle-scarred northern killers—stared at him in absolute, stunned silence.
Garrik Vane cleared his throat, breaking the trance and forcing his features back into a stoic mask.
“Alejandro. We arrived without incident.”
“Ah, Señor Vane! Bienvenido!” Alejandro beamed, entirely unfazed by the icy reception.
He gestured toward the bay where several wooden rowboats were plying back and forth between the shore and the tall ship.
“As you can see, we are already loading the final provisions and heavy ballistas. If your warriors are ready, you may board the boats immediately!”
Garrik nodded curtly.
“We board now.”
Because the rowboats were limited in number and heavily laden with crates of alchemical supplies, runic chains, and iron rations, the combined forces had to cross the turquoise bay in small, staggered groups.
Leon stood near the water’s edge, watching a rowboat glide slowly across the crystal-clear water.
He tilted his head slightly, his mind picking apart the scene.
‘We are a group of around eighty dark wizards,’ he thought dryly.
‘Half of us have brooms in our bags, and the other half can Apparate across two miles of water with their eyes closed.
Yet we are taking wooden rowboats.’
He deduced the answer almost immediately.
‘Dramatic effect.
The Sombra Cartel loves their theatrical grandiosity.’
“Mind sharing a vessel, little bird?” Vanya’s sharp, purring voice cut through his thoughts.
She stepped up beside him, her hazel eyes glinting beneath her chin-length dark brown hair.
Gone was the heavy leather coat.
In its place, she wore a fitted black leather corset that left her shoulders bare, paired with tight leather shorts, fingerless gloves, and high-heeled leather boots.
The lighter outfit only made her seem more dangerous.
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“Lead the way,” Leon replied smoothly.
They climbed into a medium-sized rowboat loaded down with iron-bound supply chests.
The wooden craft was enchanted; as soon as they sat, the oars lifted and began to stroke through the warm sea water in a synchronized, automatic rhythm, requiring zero physical effort from either passenger.
Leon leaned back against a stack of canvas-wrapped crates, crossing his long legs and resting his arms over the gunwale.
The sea breeze was warm, the sun beat pleasantly against his skin, and the rhythmic creak-clack of the self-rowing oars created a lulling ambiance.
He closed his eyes, tilting his face toward the tropical sun, letting his analytical mind drop into a rare state of passive rest.
“How serene…” Leon murmured softly, his voice laced with uncharacteristic relaxation.
Vanya, sitting opposite him with her knee lightly brushing his, looked around the emerald cove, the sparkling water, and the pristine blue sky.
“It is,” she admitted, a rare, genuine softness touching her sharp features.
“I could get used to this kind of warmth.”
Without opening his eyes or breaking his relaxed posture, Leon replied casually, “We should come here on vacation one of these days.”
Vanya paused.
She raised a single brown eyebrow, an amused, highly intriguing smile curling the corner of her lips as she studied his calm, half-reclined face.
She waited for him to open his eyes, to reveal the punchline or the tactical angle behind the comment.
But Leon remained perfectly still, soaking in the sun with absolute composure.
Seeing that he wasn’t going to elaborate, Vanya let out a soft, melodic chuckle, shifting her gaze back to the approaching hull of the warship.
They finished the remainder of the boat ride in a comfortable, sun-drenched silence.
As they pulled alongside the massive wooden ship and climbed the rope ladders onto the main deck, the tranquil atmosphere instantly dissolved into operational chaos.
The deck was a hive of frantic, highly disciplined activity.
Dozens of Sombra Cartel members were sprinting back and forth—hauling rigging, securing heavy brass cannons, checking runic lines, and stowing cargo.
They operated with the crisp precision of veteran sailors, a bizarre blend of muggle naval tradition and magic.
It felt like stepping onto the deck of an 18th-century Spanish war galleon preparing to conquer the New World.
The moment Leon stepped onto the polished oak deckboards, his spatial awareness blazed to life.
The ship was saturated with heavy Undetectable Extension Charms (Capacious Extremis) layered over structural reinforcement runes.
From the outside, the three-masted vessel looked impressive—perhaps a hundred and fifty feet long.
But step onto the deck, and the physical space expanded dramatically.
The vessel possessed cavernous lower decks, sprawling armories, specialized potion laboratories, and quarters large enough to comfortably house all thirty Wyrm-Breakers and fifty Sombra Cartel members without feeling remotely cramped.
It was a true masterpiece of naval enchanting.
The hull was laced with impenetrable Ward-Sails that allowed the ship to catch ethereal magic currents, enabling it to sail at terrifying speeds even in complete wind dead-calms.
The timber had been soaked in Dragon-Blood varnish, rendering the wood practically impervious to physical impacts and elemental spells.
Most impressively, a series of hydrostatic bubble-charms carved into the keel allowed the entire warship to submerge beneath the ocean surface—operating like a silent, wooden submarine to evade detection or stalk aquatic beasts from below.
Standing at the helm near the massive wooden wheel, Don Alejandro tossed his crimson cape over his shoulder.
He grabbed the brass speaking trumpet mounted near the quarterdeck, drew a deep breath, and bellowed across the entire vessel in a voice amplified by a Sonorus charm:
“Cast off the lines! Loose the sails! To the open sea, mis amigos!”
As the heavy hemp ropes splashed into the turquoise waters of the bay and the black sails uncurled like giant wings against the sky, the warship surged forward smoothly into the deep Atlantic waters.