The Hollow Coin was a graveyard.
The once-proud fortress stood gutted, its walls scorched black, its courtyards littered with the dead. Smoke still curled from shattered timbers, mingling with the copper stink of blood. Farmers picked carefully among the ruin, lifting the fallen from their own side and carrying them out with care. Those men would have funerals, their names spoken, their graves marked with stones and prayer.
The rest—the syndicate loyalists—were dragged into heaps, stripped of armor and valuables, then set ablaze. By morning, their ashes would scatter into the wind, nameless and forgotten.
The survivors whispered as they worked, glancing toward the fortress with wary eyes. They had seen one master fall, but none yet trusted the new hands that had taken his place. Gratitude mixed with fear, as fragile as smoke drifting in the night air.
Inside, Durgan's office still reeked of spilt wine and fear. Maps, ledgers, and half-burned contracts covered the desk, but no one touched them yet.
Freya was already seated in Durgan's chair. No one had offered it to her, yet she took it with the same ease she wielded her dagger—swiftly, decisively, without hesitation. The others noticed, but none challenged her. In the silence, the chair seemed to belong to her already.
"What about the men who surrendered?" Gerart asked finally, his arms folded. His beard was still caked with soot and dried blood.
Farren spat on the floor. "Cut their throats and be done with it. Easier that way."
"Enough killing," Freya snapped, sharp as steel. "Those who turned against Durgan in time will stay. They'll serve us. The ones I name can be trusted." Her eyes swept the room, daring anyone to argue. "The rest are stripped of anything worth a copper and tossed into the street. Let them beg, let them vanish—I don't care. But there's been too much killing already."
Farren's jaw twitched, ready to argue. But Gerart gave a single grunt and crossed his arms tighter, and Charles said nothing at all. One by one, the others lowered their gazes. For tonight, that was law.
---
By midday, the spoils of the Hollow Coin lay spread across the table: ledgers filled with debts and payments, deeds to smuggling routes, keys to warehouses, and lists of gambling dens. The weight of it pressed heavier than victory itself.
"We can't hold all this," Charles said at last, scanning the mess. His voice was flat, but his eyes sharp. "Not unless we want the whole city's syndicates at our throat."
"Then we sell most of it," Freya replied without pause. "Let it be a peace offering to the bigger fish. We keep the gambling halls. And the farmers—we don't sell them out. We'll give them protection. They'll owe us for it, but they'll live better than they did under Durgan."
Gerart scratched at his beard. "And when the other gangs test us? When they see we're not Durgan?"
"Then they'll see we're sharper," Freya said. "And if they want blood, they'll get it."
Farren leaned forward, greedy fire in his eyes. "The smuggling routes—we could keep them. They're worth more than all the gambling dens combined."
"And paint a target the size of the fortress on our backs," Charles cut in. "Let the bigger syndicates fight over that prize. If we hold it, we're dead men. If we sell it, we buy time."
Farren opened his mouth again, then shut it when no one supported him.
"And the brothel?" Lira asked softly, her ears twitching. She had kept quiet until now, her eyes flicking uneasily to the papers marked with that business.
Freya leaned back in the chair. "We shut the business down. But the building stays. It's well-placed in the slums, and that makes it valuable. We'll find a use for it later."
Gerart gave a low grunt. "And who's in charge of all this, then? You?"
Freya's eyes flicked to Charles, then to the others. "No bosses. Not this time. We decide together. The six of us."
Charles met her gaze but said nothing. For once, he did not argue.
The silence stretched—until Syrien, who had been quiet through it all, finally spoke. His voice was calm, steady, and carried more weight than any shouted word.
"Not six," he said. "I won't stay."
The others turned to him. The elf adjusted his quiver, expression unreadable, but his eyes were far away, already set on horizons none of them could see.
"This was always my plan," he continued quietly. "The Hollow Coin's fall was never my end. I came for coin, and now I have it. Enough to hire ships, enough to search where no one else dares. Across the straits lie islands my people once called home. If another kingdom of elves yet exists, I'll find it."
Lira's ears twitched again, sharper this time. "You'll just… leave?"
Syrien gave a single nod. "I will. Tonight."
Charles studied him a moment, seeing the hunger in his eyes. Not greed for gold, but for something older, deeper. "Then I hope you find what you're looking for," he said at last.
For the first time in days, Syrien's mouth curved into the faintest of smiles. "So do I."
No one stopped him. The war had given him his haul, and now his path lay elsewhere. With little more than that, he left, disappearing into the smoke of the ruined courtyard without a backward glance.
The others stayed.
They agreed to keep the fortress and repair it, turning it into their base. For Charles, it would be the first real home he had ever known. The brothel building in the slums would also remain in their hands, though its future was undecided.
By dusk, the new syndicate was born—not with crowns or titles, but with blood, ash, and five voices swearing to rule together.
---
That night, Charles sat cross-legged on the floor of his room at the Wandering Heart. Until the fortress was rebuilt, this inn would be his shelter. His armor lay stacked in the corner, his sword within reach, but his mind was turned inward.
Mana.
Since his first attempt, he had clawed together the faintest spark, a thread so thin it barely existed. To do anything with it was almost impossible. Sweat slicked his brow as he strained, forcing it to stir. At best, the mana shivered weakly, like a candle flame against the wind.
"At this rate," he muttered to himself, "I'll cast a spell when I'm sixty."
It was like trying to cup water in his hands—slippery, impossible. Every time he thought he had it, he closed his grip only to find nothing left.
But what if he didn't hold it? What if he spun it?
He drew a slow breath and willed the mana to whirl, to circle, to move like water caught in a basin.
And it moved.
"...oh, shit."
The mana spun faster. And faster. Pain clawed through his insides, twisting his gut and burning in his chest. His head felt heavy, splitting apart with pressure. He gasped, body convulsing, as if his very blood was trying to tear free.
Orsen's voice whispered unbidden from memory: Patience, boy. Mana is a storm. You don't tame a storm by standing in the middle of it.
Too late.
The storm broke.
Darkness hit him like a hammer. The last thing Charles felt was the mana still spinning inside him, wild and out of control, as the world vanished into black