2412, Strilaxis 16, Kindreth

Shadows have the ability to conceal something, making an ordinary onlooker see nothing when, in fact, there was something lurking. Rhys was fond of the veil of inky darkness because of that. And it's why he was now perched in one of Akaron's shady alleys, cleaning the gunk out of his nails with a dulled knife he weaved for this sole purpose.

Overhead, the thick canopies of the forest of Akaron covered almost aerial surveillance. Rhys clicked his tongue. As much as it protected him from ambushes from the sky, it also made searching for the obscure tavern in the middle of nowhere harder if he had to go on foot.

He arrived in Avalora a few days ago. For a long time, he was somewhere in the mountains of Peltra in search of information—no matter how insignificant it might be—about the location of Synketros' hideout. His line of work was equally challenging and might have more chances of him dying on the job, but no one was out celebrating or even throwing light shows in the sky for his arrival. Such were the hardships of being a spy.

But, he had gathered information, alright. After meeting the mysterious hooded woman who warned them—rather cryptically, might he add—about the end of the world which they could prevent if they play their cards right, Rhys had focused on learning more about the threats going on in Umazure, and after years of poking his nose on all sorts of businesses, he learned things he wished he didn't for the sake of his sanity.

Apparently, there's not one but two interracial organizations operating underneath keiju governments and territories, doing the things local cartels and other dodgy criminals were doing. Only, they were better. Their networks were connected to various affairs, and there's almost always no trail that'd lead back to them. Whoever their people were, they're masters at hiding their scent and their filth. Synketros and Cardovia—even learning their names proved to be harder than necessary. He had to bribe the right people in the right places and make sure he was seated at the proper distance from spots where the truth might be uttered against a cup of ale.

Then, there's the matter of finding their bases. It took another year or two. While his sister was gallivanting in Carleon, he was crawling around dingy caverns, noisy merchant squares, and pungent wastelands. Eventually, he was able to isolate Avalora out of the many territories in Umazure. He only had to choose between four cities—Otralo, Jehnasson, Akaron, and Fimrio.

Otralo and Jehnasson were out of the question. As official seats of power of both the Earth Sprite government and the Temple of Earth—two powerful institutions both having hands dipped into the murky waters of Avaloran politics and government—it's too risky for the Sovereign to put Synketros there. She might have been reckless, but she wasn't stupid. After the Black Blades' literal unearthing in Otralo, it's pretty obvious anything illegal wouldn't stay hidden for a long time.

That left Akaron and Fimrio. Both were logical choices with them sprawling with mostly undisturbed forests and mysterious mines whose sole purpose was to carry Avalora's economic flow but at the same time ensure to make their success a secret. As places of secrets and security, blending into the shadows of people's minds to the point of obscurity, Rhys stuck with them.

What was he doing in Akaron, then? Well, thanks to the wise utilization of the last of his versallis, he had learned of some mysterious places in the city that even the locals—all miners by blood and occupation—didn't know. One of those? A tavern in the heart of the mountains called the Gathering.

Perhaps the Sovereign wasn't as clever as Rhys had given her credit for. "Gathering" was just the Keijula equivalent of the Ylanenla word Synketros. And as languages tended to do, it was borrowed from the Ancient Keijula, Sincentri, which meant "to gather" or "to form". Never before did Rhys think his boring days of sitting his ass stiff on lectures in the royal palace in Arcole would pay off, but here they were now.

After taking a few wrong turns in the sinuous and uneven roads, he glimpsed a meager line of bricks made to be a wall. Beyond it was a spread of patched houses and some made of brittle blocks of clay. He spent a whole day flitting between the canopies, using as little magic as possible and making sure his cloaker touched his trail to the barest sliver. While merchants with dagrine-drawn carts and colorful robes passed by, he couldn't find any believable sign of bustling activity near a tavern, as if every interaction with it were staged, planned, and executed to the letter. What letter it was, that's Rhys' job to know.

So, he spent a while straddling a thick branch high up, watching people of different races move in and out of the tavern. Some came to drink a few swigs and come out slightly intoxicated, but there were many who disappeared inside and never came out for hours, if not, for days.

He began noticing the strange customs the people entering the tavern would sometimes do. Staring at nothing but the movement of people told him that those who vanished inside the tavern for longer periods of time tend to touch a shoulder with their right hand, like a hidden gesture meaning something more than a passing itch. Also, they have a band around the upper sleeves of their waist-length tunics.

With this being the first time he visited any of the Earth Spritean territories, he thought the tunic-trousers-wool boots were the norm. But when some keijuis sporting nothing but bedsheets slung over one shoulder, he began to doubt. What the people frequenting the tavern wore seemed more like a uniform than a culturally-significant fashion craze.

A lingering doubt settled at the back of his mind. If this was really Synketros' hideout, why Akaron, of all places? This was a mining city. Wouldn't the miners reach their underground establishment sooner or later? Wasn't the large intake of magic that's supposed to be bleeding from this place be some sort of beacon for fairies to check out? If he was wrong, and the Gathering turned out to be a regular tavern despite the horrible coincidence, then, he'd call it a day and scour the southern side of Akaron and maybe move towards Fimrio in the next few weeks. After that, he'd target Cardovia and proceed to learn all he could from it too.

But, first things first. He needed to make sure this tavern was clean or not.

He peeled himself off the wall he leaned against and held his hand to his face. The dirt seeping into his nail beds were mostly gone, leaving only a rusty stain on his skin. Nothing a little soak or laundry wouldn't fix. If he wanted to blend in with the members, he had to make sure no telltale signs remained in him, like dirt from other territories, for example.

A hand ran into his hair, straightening the matted orange knots. After days of flying, he had given up on making sure it stayed flat on its head. No wonder Reeca insisted on keeping hers as short as she did. Having strands longer than a hand was a pure nightmare. He wasn't a shard fairy—people who had the synnavaim to change their faces and virtually any physical thing they touched—and now was a painful time to realize it.

He had another power up his sleeve, though. His magic flared to life, flooding his veins with the foreign warmth he had forgotten after days in the cold. Then, he got to work. From his days in the trees, he memorized all the details of the Synketrian uniform he could remember and applied the image into his present attire. Wisps of orange light wrapped around his form, and he watched as bark melted into malleable cloth, taking the form, color, and quality of what was in his mind.

While his stuff was still slotted inside the pockets of his trousers, squeezed to the smallest possible size his magic could muster, the absence of armor and the sword dangling on his belt made him feel naked. Here he was, about to walk into a hostile territory, and he's doing it without as much as a needle inside his sleeves.

But he needed to keep up the pretense. Swirls of magical light constructed the crowning accessory. Soon, a familiar band circled his arm, making him indistinguishable from an ordinary member. The functions of each person inside Synketros was still a mystery, but perhaps, upon infiltrating, he'd be able to figure it out.

He squared his shoulders and exhaled. Going in without a mask and with just his bare face was risky enough, but it's not like he had a choice. The only hope he dared to subscribe to was that with his trail obscured, or at least, scrambled beyond the point of being attributable to the position he vacated as a child, he'd be able to say he simply looked like the oldest prince of Narfalk and that he's heard people say that all his life.

As he stomped away from the shadows of the abandoned alley and joined the traffic of carts and flitting travelers, he ran the set of sentences in his mind. He also made sure his steps coincided with the paragraphs' beat.

He joined the organization recently, so he didn't know where things were. He was from Oaksham. A son of a lesser noble. Spent a year in the Academy of Magical Arts, but dropped out a few senturas later. Wandered around for a few years in search of a sense of meaning until Synketros found him. That's why he joined. The rest of the spots in that story would be filled according to what the situation called for, but those were the basics.

Good. He's ready.

The tavern loomed in front of him, casting an eerie shadow down on him. A simple sign with the Ylanenla script spelled out the tavern's name. Wooden pillars, while recently polished, showed signs of splintering and mite-infestation. His boots tapped against the hollow floorboards when he ducked inside. He made sure to bring a bounce to his gait, to display an aura of familiarity. He was in the right place. He belonged here.

He exhaled again, forcing his limbs to loosen up. On his periphery, he watched the regular patrons and some customers he hadn't seen before. Most of them bore weapons and they weren't afraid to show them off. Scars, wooly cloaks, and tanned skin seemed to be a currency of intimidation in this place.

Rhys, living in scarcity of all three, had to swallow against the growing lump in his throat. Out of sheer willpower, he clamped a hand on his right shoulder. He felt some of the eyes pinned on his back ease and turn to something else. He fought against the sigh of relief begging to be let out. If he breathed the wrong way, he'd be dead meat. He had come so far. It's too late to back down now. Whatever secrets Synketros harbored, he would uncover it.

And he would live to tell the tale.

He reached the back of the tavern, past the cubical counter in the middle of the room. There, a single sliding door stood in his way. Two guards stood at either side. No visible weapon, but Rhys wouldn't dare underestimate a Synketrian. He touched his shoulder again and strode forward. No swords flashed at the corner of his vision. The guards didn't even flinch. Apart from the slight rising and falling of their chests and the quick blinking of their eyes, he would have mistaken them for a wax statue those artisans in Helinfirth were fond of having made of themselves.

A set of footsteps sounded behind him. From the frequency and weight, they'd overtake Rhys before he could reach the sliding doors. Better that way. He knew next to nothing about how to operate the complicated set of buttons coming to view. Soon, a fairy with bright blue green hair and the same uniform swerved around him. A woven basket sat on his shoulders, filled to the brim with all kinds of produce and a few bundles of cloth which Rhys guessed to be meat. A forager—if it's what they call people who had this job. Another spot in his story filled, it seemed.

He fell behind the legitimate Synketrian. The worker reached out to the pad of buttons and began punching a sequence. Rhys had never seen such technology being used on normal doors, since he only knew it to exist in the most secure safes. No amount of magic could destroy it, and could only be opened through manual access. Down, left, left, up, right, up, down. Okay. Got it.

The door dinged, like a bell hit too soon. Rhys clamped his jaw and contained his shock. The Synketrian in front of him barely flinched, as if he was familiar with the sound coming right after punching the buttons. Then, in front of him, the gears behind the door hissed and started clanking, feeling the panels of wood like how one would draw a curtain back.

Without batting an eyelid, Rhys followed the Synketrian into a cubical room. Only it wasn't a room. The ceiling was missing, instead replaced by a dark void. It was more like a platform with metal trellises. When he craned his neck up, he was certain he saw plain rock. They were inside the mountain? Really?

The platform shook. Rhys looked around to find the Synketrian having cranked a handle beside a tangle of wires and rotating gears. Had the Brownies lent a hand in this system? His stomach lurched when the platform began descending deeper into the darkness. The air tousled the locks shielding his forehead, but not a breeze was stronger than a few kisses on his skin.

Apart from the occasional clank of metal underneath the platform and the contant chug of wires and gears turning, silence reigned between him and the Synketrian. Rhys decided it wasn't worth it to strike a conversation with the first person he met. There'd be more chances for conversation later on. He needed to be familiar with his surroundings first.

The platform slapped a semblance of flat ground with a mighty thud, jostling the muscles in Rhys' thighs and cheeks. He followed the Synketrian out of the trellis and stepped back into a stable floor, no matter how dusty. While the forager forged forward with his basket of goods, Rhys stayed behind and took in the dim light, the thick smell of earth and blood, and the absence of magical trails waving around.

He was inside Synketros. And he'd fit right in.

That was, if he wasn't caught changing blues to oranges first.