Dark clouds hung over the central continent of the planet, mirroring the general brooding atmosphere of the entire world. While the war had not reached the Lese homeworlds—still constrained to the fringe—word had still managed to leak through, ferried in by fleeing refugees as well as injured soldiers, despite the ruling powers doing everything in their power to curtail it, short of nozzling the refugees.

  The rumors began with a trickle, whispers here and there from people with contacts in the fringe worlds, and then the trickle had turned into a flood when refugees started coming in, some—the rich—fleeing in to the home worlds on their personal ships, while the poor were ferried in on military rescue ships. Because of this, the rumors had swiftly turned into actual factual news.

  It was no surprise that many of the families residing on this world had relatives who lived far away, having migrated to newer worlds to find greener pastures. After all, there was no better place to see booming business than a new world, a world that had just joined the alliance and was certain to bring new and enthusiastic customers.

  A woman walked down the streets with wide eyes that flickered from corner to corner. She grabbed the little child in her arms tighter as she threw suspicious eyes at everyone who so much as came near her. Her worries were understandable; war was the best time for insurgents to sow chaos and outside parties to further destabilize governments, pouring more fuel into the raging inferno going on.

  And despite the increased presence of the city guards who roamed the streets— powerful Spirit lords in their own right who were overseen by mighty Spirit King commanders whose eyes could see into every nook and cranny of their assigned station—the worries of the people were only marginally assuaged.

  Olan placed his empty cup of coffee on the table and placed a silver Vicari next to it. The coin was certainly more than the drink was worth, but with the added tip, it had all equaled a silver Vicari. The tip was too generous, he admitted, but it wasn't so generous that it made him memorable. He didn't want that.

  He stood up from his chair and made his way to the door, nodding goodbye to the waiter who stood behind the counter. She blushed and Olan hastily made his way out of there, uneager for a repeat of the last time.

  He stepped out into the nigh empty street and stared up at the brooding sky. The once vibrant ceiling was now sad and dull. The golden hue looked drab and devoid of life, like a fake that was beginning to lose its color. The crimson clouds were thickened and drawn together, a deeper hue than was normally seen. Olan reckoned the whole drab weather was the World Spirit's response to the Aveanii's push into Lese.

  The people might have simply felt sad that they'd been killed and forced out of their homes—many already enslaved—but no one knew intimately of the bird people's cruelty more than those who'd lived when they ruled this corner of the galaxy.

  But none of that was Olan's concern; he was here to carry out a job, which—he grimaced—did not look to be faring well.

  He made his way down the street, pausing at the end when he spotted a young man standing there with a general look of nervousness.

  His attire was sculpted to appear powerful and mysterious. Black jacket, clearly expensive pants, and gloved hands tucked inside his pocket. The boy—man, had even gone through the effort of slicking back his hair, likely to come off as one of the mysterious Princes that ruled the criminal underworld.

  Olan would have applauded the effort had his foot not been nervously tapping against the ground while his eyes flickered around like a drug induced convict on the run.

  Tamping down a sigh, Olan approached, taking good care to keep his expression cool and composed.

  He grimaced and pinched the top of his nose when he finally stopped next to the man, whose mind had clearly wandered so far that he didn't even detect the stranger who stood next to him. Olan rolled his eyes.

  "Nightwatcher, I presume?"

  His voice as a catalyst, the man, Nightwatcher—clearly, he didn't think long on the name before taking it—jumped, startled into the present.

  The boy—Olan was done calling him a man—couldn't stop the squeak that escaped his throat as he turned around, spotting the bored-looking man that stood beside him. He got himself under control quickly enough—not quick enough by Olan's standards, but enough for the mundane—and then his startled features swiftly morphed into a scowl.

  "Didn't your mother tell you not to startle dangerous strangers in the road?" He growled.

  Olan's expression remained bored. "Didn't your mother tell you not to make deals with strangers in questionable places?"

  Nightwatcher, or Felan—from what Olan's extensive file on the boy said—paused and his scowl shifted into suspicion. He squinted at Olan and then glanced skittishly around their surroundings, no doubt suspecting every person who walked past.

  "If you keep doing that, you'll draw attention to us. Act normal."

  Again, the boy turned a suspicious look at Olan. "Yo—you're, him? The man, the man in dar—"

  "Olan," he stretched his hand, "nice to meet you again."

  Felan glanced at his outstretched hand, face still suspicious, which he raised to meet Olan's eyes.

  Olan raised an eyebrow. "My hands are not poisoned, if that's what you're worried about."

  "You could... could want to clean up, y'know, do away with loose ends, that sort of stuff."

  "And what made you think that?"

  "Just the sort of thing you dark types do, Gren says. You stab partners and bury them somewhere not even dem high houses will find."

  Okay, this had gone on long enough. Olan sighed. "I hired you for a task, Felan—Yes, I know your name—and disposing of a body is not as easy and flamboyant as you make it sound, certainly not in a city this skittish, with Spirit King eyes practically everywhere. No, I do not want to kill you, nor am I going to. We agreed to this deal peacefully and shall close it the same. Here," he tossed a small brown purse. "That's twenty Vicari, payment up front. The rest will be handed over to you once the job is finished."

  Felan's suspicion had already been in the process of disappearing, but the pouch of jiggling coins Olan threw at him completely snuffed out every ounce suspicion in an instant.

  The boy raised the purse and shook it, a smile erupting on his face as two gold coins jiggled in his ears. Olan stood patiently and watched as he opened the purse and counted the money, after which he closed it back when all seemed to be as Olan had said.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He nodded when Felan was done. "You're done? Good, follow me."

  ***

  Their destination was a warehouse north of the city, a few miles from the market district they'd met. The boy followed Olan as he led the way towards one of the large warehouses lined alongside a dozen others.

  Due to the ongoing war—more a small battle than an actual war— international trade between Lese and other nations had ground to a halt as the Aveanii formed a near-complete blockade around the Lese borders. The only trade still ongoing were those carried out within the Alliance.

  Olan knew that for this blockade to see the beginning of its intended effect, it would take more than a year. Lese, the other star nations, had grown themselves to be self-sufficient to a considerable extent.

  Olan, with his limited but considerable networks, knew of worlds in the Lese center specially selected to produce and store foods in large quantities. He didn't have exact information on how much was produced and stored daily, but he knew that a single one of those production planets could feed up to a system of five. Add that to the populated worlds where only a minority needed to feed daily, and any analyst worth their mettle would quickly realize that the Dominion was not serious about their invasion.

  He didn't know what they were gunning for, but it certainly was not some sparsely populated border worlds with barely any mineral.

  A human-sized door adjoined to the giant warehouse gate opened up, and a face peered out.

  “Hullo boss, you're just in time.” modified black eyes studied the boy behind him and then turned back. “I see you got our… specialist.”

  Olan grunted and waved the mouse-haired girl away. “Is the formation ready?”

  “Yes, boss,” Mel shifted away as Olan walked inside, followed behind by Felan. “We even took the liberty of acquiring the items we needed.”

  “How difficult was it?”

  “Very, to be honest. Targets like these simply don't have personal items lying around for anyone to find, they're careful,” she smiled. “Thankfully, not all of them.”

  “Which did you find?”

  “We didn't go for our main target, too much attention, that one. The others closest to him? Pfft, easy cake. One fights at an underground ring once in a while and doesn't care to take his used equipment with him when leaving, so it wasn't difficult to get something of his. The other often visits a fine establishment in a district on the other side of the city, his used items were even more easier to acquire.”

  “Uhh, what are you two talking about? Is it some important stuff I should know about?” Felan butted in, and Olan glanced back to see the—let's be accurate here—young man nervously twiddling his thumbs against his jacket. His eyes met Olan's for only a bit before shifting away.

  Mel reassured him. “Chill up, handsome, this has got nothing to do with you… At least nothing you should be worried about. No need to fret, we ain't doing any illegal stuff.”

  She flashed the young man one of her bright, winning smiles, and Olan could see as he melted in the face of it.

  He shook his head and focused on Mel. “The other two?”

  She sighed, her bright smile snuffed out in an instant. Olan noted Felan's downturned expression. “One is a pure bastard. Pale fucker manages to clean up after himself despite all the—” she made a face, “—questionable things he gets up to when no one's looking. We couldn't find anything with a link to him.”

  Olan chuckled. “No worries, I did a few scouting of my own and managed to snag something with a link to him. We have three, what about the girl?”

  “Dead end too, boss. She doesn't eat outside as much as the other pisses kissing at her feet. Real role model, that one,” She rolled her eyes. “Do you know—”

  Olan sighed. “Mel.”

  “Yeah, right,” she coughed. “We have nothing from her, too.”

  “So we're working with three links, will it be enough?”

  “i think so,” she shrugged. “Kanon already confirmed that two had a moderate possibility of succeeding. Well, three’s gotta be high, right?”

  Olan nodded. “Well then, let's get started.”

  Everyone was already gathered, all standing outside of the large formation inscribed on the ground with chalk. The large circle, spanning a meter wide, was filled to the brim with twirling patterns and symbols Olan couldn't make heads or tails off.

  Two smaller circles had been made inside the large formation, arranged in a triangular formation. There were other tiny spaces lined within the circle, each connected to the two frontal circles by half a dozen lines. The third circle was the only one left near separated, connected only by a single line each from the other two.

  Olan glanced at Felan to see what he thought about the formation and was unsurprised to find it empty, lacking any comprehension whatsoever. The young man was as inexperienced as they came, a fraud. A true braggart stupid enough to accede to deals with strangers he knew nothing of.

  “Our leader and the resident freelancer arrives,” Kanon’s voice drew Olan's attention and he turned around to find the man walking towards them.

  The other man must have been working for a long time because his hair looked messy and dripped with sweat, yet he still shone an energetic smile at them as he approached.

  Shrewd eyes turned to Felan. “What do you take of it, Mr?”

  Olan could see the moment Felan started to sweat. His eyes stared at his hands, refusing to meet Kanon's face.

  “It's—it’s good. Ver–very sharp,” he stammered, fingers twiddling the rim of his jacket aggressively.

  Kanon turned to Olan with a raised eyebrow and he shrugged. Expertise or not, the young man could do what he'd been hired for. Olan wouldn't have hired him, otherwise.

  “Mm,” Kanon nodded, “very astute. You must be a formation specialist, sir. Why haven't I heard of you?”

  “Um, I'm—it’s…” the young man's voice became quieter and quieter with each word he tried to speak.

  “Er, I can't hear you well sir. Can you come again?”

  Fearful eyes glanced at Olan with a pleading look. He opened his mouth to speak but somebody else beat him to it.

  “Enough, Kanon! Stop twisting the boy!” Mel yelled from the other side.

  Kanon raised both his arms in a gesture of surrender. He smirked at Felan, nodding towards the large drawing on the floor. “Shall we?”

  Gathered at the edge of the diagram, Kanon began explaining. “I know you're already versed in intricate formations such as this, but it wouldn't hurt for me to explain again… you know, to refresh your already knowledge abundant mind.”

  Felan could do nothing but helplessly nod.

  “You see, this formation was specifically created to focus and magnify the scrying technique of any individual. I tweaked it to only work for those aligned with the Divination element—thats us, by the way.” He pointed at the two frontal inner circles.

  “While I'll be funneling and guiding the formation ignition, you'll take point. You don't need to do anything much, my good friend, you simply need to lead the scrying, t—”

  “Um, lea—lead the scrying?” Felan interrupted.

  Kanon's eyes twitched and Olan knew that he was already reaching his limit of affability to the other man.

  “Yes, lead the scrying,” he repeated and then paused. “Oh, you want me to explain it? It's not much, you'll take point, be the first eyes in.”

  “And—and what will you be doing?”

  “Me?” Kanon gave the other man a tearful look. “You care? Oh he cares! Look, Olan! Mel! The young expert cares!” He fanned himself. “Gosh, I'm blushing. Don't worry about me, good sir, I'll be doing the dregs of the work.” He sniffed, patting Felan playfully on the back. “You worry about yourself—not that you have anything to worry about, I assure you.”

  “What about the third circle? What's its function?” Olan asked.

  Kanon glanced at said circle. “That? That's for Gazz,” he gestured at a middle aged looking man that stood on the other side of the circle.

  Gazz looked up from the discussion he'd been quietly having with Mel and their fifth member, Sirm, to smile at Felan, a smile that no doubt evoked some kind of fatherly pride in the young man's mind.

  “Gazz is a mind specialist,” Kanon explained to Felan, “he'll tap into the part of our mind connected to our eyes—don’t worry, he won't be reading any of our thoughts—and project the visuals of what you and I see to the blind ones here.” He gestured to Olan and the others.

  “Do you understand?” Felan nodded quickly and Olan held back a snort at the feeling of relief on the man's face. He no doubt wanted to flee this place as fast as possible before anyone discovered he was a fraud.

  “Alright, take the circle to the left, I'll be right behind you. Please take care not to step on any of the lines. I'd hate to have to start again.”

  While Felan stumbled his way into his assigned circle, now guided by Mel, Olan waited as Kanon approached.

  “Where did you find him?” The once affable man hissed.

  “A fight ring,” Olan shrugged.

  “Take him back.”

  “Why?” Olan knew the answer.

  “He's a bumbling idiot. Look at him,” he gestured backwards. “He couldn't even tell the basis of the formation despite my simplifying it. He's an idiot.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Yes, and I'll keep saying it. He's an idiot.”

  Olan stared at his teammate—temporary teammate. “You said you didn't need an expert, simply someone with a Divination element. In case you didn't know, they're rare. It'll take days to find another one.”

  Kanon grimaced. “Can we wait?”

  “No.”

  “Arghhhh, this is torture. How did the buffoon even manage to ascend to Spirit Lord?”

  Olan shrugged. “Same way other idiots do.”

  “I hate you,” the other man glared and then stormed off.