1. THE DESERT WATCH
The night sky over Somalia had neither stars nor moon, only a murky, heavy veil, cut by winds from the desert that, lifting fine dust, clung to the skin and mingled with the bitter taste of the cigarette. Elias exhaled a lazy puff. His black eyes followed the wandering clouds in their extravagant shapes as they were pushed by the winds.
Those winds were soft, almost timid, yet the people, according to a long-forgotten saying, claimed that attentive ears could truly hear the whispers of lament and pain the wind carried and accumulated from everything it passed by.
What did the wind see? It saw a land where warlords were like gods, deciding the fate of thousands with their weapons and greed. Where, consequently, famine, as a desolating plague, gnawed at bodies until souls became wandering shadows without hope. And death did not surprise anyone; it just arrived too early, inevitably, like a loan shark, indifferent to whether men were great or small, delighting in the helpless and mediocre, yet unconcerned, arriving like the wind—no one knowing from where it came or where it went.
With the cigarette between his lips, Elias Ventura reflected, sitting on a crate, wand resting on his thigh, eyes fixed and empty, pointed toward the distant portal. A nest in full formation, vibrating in sickly tones, fed on the rot and horror around it.
Resting on his knee was the Black Orbit Classification report, authorized only for "Gold eyes or higher," fluttering in the wind.
This was not the true version; it was only the "field-authorized" one, cut, full of gaps and censorship so that the aurors could do their job without asking too many questions. Yet even censored, it held enough for him to understand… enough for him to understand far beyond what was recommended for one's health.
The full version, which truly revealed what was happening, must have been tucked away in some bureaucrat's drawer in a luxurious office in Paris, London, or Washington.
The same bureaucrat would be one of those men in impeccable capes, wearing a tie and neatly pressed clothes, whose great and incredible task in life was simply to stamp some report, often without even reading it, before shoving it into a forgotten drawer in a dark, abandoned basement where the door read: "Beware of the Boogeyman."
Elias hated bureaucrats with a silent fury. Indeed, any field agent held some measure of hatred toward that breed. Yet Elias's hatred was special. It began from the fact that while he and his team risked their lives in war zones, someone in Brussels or New York was deciding whether it was worth spending resources to prevent the next portal and nest formation. And almost always, their decision was "no."
After all, to them, portals were resource mines. Dimensional crystals emerging from the portals were worth fortunes. They were the backbone of the magical economy and major energy sources, and not only that… the bodies of certain creatures yielded rare ingredients, crucial for crafting weapons, potions, and enchantments. Highly profitable.
— "Portals are not random…" — said Elias, narrowing his eyes.
His face was lined with wrinkles not only from age but from the burden of seeing more than anyone should. He was just over forty, but his weary gaze made him appear older; his short hair, already streaked with gray, contrasted with his stubble, maintained at the edge between neglect and practicality. His black, alert eyes had a glint mixing distrust and resignation.
He had seen enough to guess the censored parts of the confidential file. Horrors were scattered across the four corners of the planet. Not just Somalia, Syria, the Balkans, Latin America, or some hole in Africa… Portals were appearing even in first-world cities.
It was as if humanity itself opened cracks for hell to peek through. And the nests were born of degradation and instability, like worms fed by the flame of misery.
This flame was not made of gunpowder or magic, nor the one burning in the cigarette between his fingers. Elias reflected: it was a flame of desire that burned within humans.
It was the flame that made the first Homo sapiens descend from the tree, abandon the safety of the shade, face the darkness of the savannah with only a piece of stone in hand, and seek something beyond fear, something greater than mere survival. The flame that made the species face the terror of fire, the light that burned and devoured everything, to then master it, transforming it into warmth and life. And that same flame drove growth, leading men to cultivate land, domesticate wolves as hunting companions, and gaze at the sky imagining paths beyond the stars.
Consequently, Elias knew that those rips in the Veil were a direct result of this insatiable flame. Humans, wizards or not, lived to consume, dominate, conquer. They never stopped. Never accepted limits. And perhaps reality, tired of bearing so much weight, was now cracking.
For every act of destruction was a crack in the Veil. Every war, a scream in the fabric of the world.
The creaking door behind him broke the night's quiet, pulling him from his contemplation of the light—or perhaps the darkness—in his thoughts.
The young auror Chloé Lafèvre emerged from the house where they were staying and walked to Elias. She sat beside him on the makeshift crate, pulling her cloak to shield herself from the wind.
— I can't stand hearing Louis and Carter yelling inside anymore — she grumbled with a thick French accent. — They just play that damn Comandar… while out here it's real war. Doesn't that seem wrong to you?
Elias exhaled smoke slowly, eyes on the horizon where the portal throbbed like a poorly healed wound.
— Most things are wrong here, Chloé. That game is just another one.
She sighed, trying to divert her thoughts, but the night offered no help. Then she attempted a timid smile:
— I've heard rumors… about Europe. They say Mortavius came back from the dead. There are signs of him in several places. Even the French newspapers are talking about it.
Elias made a sound that could have been a laugh or a grunt.
— That's their problem. Great Britain has always thought the world revolves around its wizards. If the lunatic returned, let them handle it. We already have too much chaos to clean up here.
Chloé didn't give up.
— But it's not just Great Britain, Captain. Wizards from other countries are joining his ranks. They see his return from the dead as some kind of messiah or whatever. That he carries answers no one else has…
Elias adjusted his hat, trying to ignore the discomfort the report caused him just by existing in his memory.
— Messiah or not, anyone preaching war will find fertile ground in a broken world. Desperate, broken people always need a savior, even if he comes covered in blood.
Chloé turned to him, eyes searching for a spark of hope.
— So… are we going after him? If he really returned?
Elias took a moment before answering. He exhaled another puff of smoke, staring at the distant portal pulsing with sickly light.
— I don't know, girl. Maybe someday. That's not my concern. It's the job of the buttoned-up types — he said, then gesturing forward continued — But the world's full of portals like that… and our duty is to hold the tide. Mortavius or not, our work never stops.
She bit her lip, frustrated.
Elias had served in the International Auror Department for over twenty years. He started young, with the same idealistic flame he saw in Chloé today, which he knew the world would extinguish sooner or later.
Elias was about to say more, perhaps some bitter truth to crush her idealism once and for all, when the ground trembled beneath his feet. A crack, a muffled scream of the very air, and then the portal erupted, spewing sparks of energy and magical dust, as if another world were trying to invade that dead piece of land.
Elias sprang to his feet, wand already in hand, the cigar smoke still escaping from his clenched teeth.
— Watch over. Duty calls, Chloé. Time to work.