Treason's Harbour Novels & Stories

Angotur Harbor had originally been disguised as a small civilian port, unremarkable and easily overlooked. Holtrien's military had conducted secret operations there for years, and it had always been safe. But this time, it had been exposed without any warning, and Reginald had no concrete information on which force had attacked it. Breaking out of the forest, Andrew's eyes widened at the sight ahead. Before him stretched the vast open sea, and in the bay lay a small port. Smoke rose from the harbor, which had already been struck by heavy fire. Ships docked at the piers were almost all destroyed, and several had already capsized into the water.

After all, they were in her and Hall's apportioned part of the canton, and as their Candlemaiden, she was responsible for their spiritual wellbeing. The hike to the old shrine was steep and tricky, but Iris knew the way well enough, and was barely out of breath when she reached the crown of the highest hill. The shrine wasn't for any spirit Iris had ever met, and though the glassy contours of its twisted black rocks reminded her of ocean waves, the way the jagged rocks jutted into the sky made her think of mountains and cliffs instead of wells and streams. Mother Hall had only taken her three times before, but Iris had visited several times on her own: some intangible, atmospheric quality of

Layla assumed that he probably found the route that passed through Terya and Rostead. Many ships were sunk along that route for over a thousand years, and all those collectibles were in the sea. Haron probably found the route and dug up those sunken goods, growing his wealth by selling those sunken treasures. Haron could not afford to reveal the location of that route to others, therefore he went to look for Mister Kearson and they made a deal. In the end, it was the reason why Korlyn City Museum had more than ten thousand collectibles. Everyone knew that Kearson was a big spender. He would not treat Haron poorly, which was why Haron got rich fast. However, no one knew their secret.

*** MASON Damon and I are in full military mode as we coordinate the men in the direction of the nearest harbour. “How the fuck was she able to get out of the house so quickly?” Damon asks curiously. “My best guess is a trap door or some other type of shortcut. From my findings, that house is pretty old. It dates back to the nineteen hundreds, even. It must be filled with all kinds of secret doorways and shortcuts.” “Okay.” Damon says as he looks up from his iPad. “The nearest harbour is three miles west of this place and the only anchored ship leaves in the next fifteen minutes. We do not have much time.”

Men who clawed their way up from nothing until the nothing belonged to them. I stand by the window now, watching the lights of the harbor flicker against the dark water. It’s quiet. Almost peaceful. But that’s a lie. Beneath that shine lies corruption so old it’s practically tradition: politics, ports, trade routes, and escort lines for ships carrying goods we don’t list on any manifest. Every faction wants a piece. Every family wants control.

Among them, stood out the most was the one and only Zachary Dawson himself. Zachary looked around, took his cigarette and his men quickly light it for him. Despite of its neglected, messy area, it was used to be a place where people and goods coming in and out from the other island. But since five years ago, the government moved the city harbour to the other area, due to some logistic problem.

The four mules lifted their heads, their ears twitching as they caught the scent of sea-spray for the first time in years. We turned the final bend of the canyon trail, stepping out from beneath the canopy of ancient hemlocks onto a high grassy ridge overlooking the bay. Below us lay the ruins of Port Mercer. Six years of neglect had laid heavy hands on the old coastal settlement. The broad timber docks had mostly collapsed into the grey surf, their blackened pilings standing like broken teeth against the tide. The grand brick warehouses near the harbor were roofless shells, their copper gutters long stripped and their iron frames rusted red.

"We don't distract. We destabilize." "How?" "The Iron-Port is a trade hub," Saoirse said. "It's where the raw Aether-ore from the mines meets the refineries. It's a city of workers, dockhands, and slaves." She looked at Tristan. "You started a riot in Oremond with a speech. Can you do it again?" Tristan looked at the map. He felt a flicker of the old Viper—the manipulator, the politician. It was a faint spark, not the roaring bonfire of the Void, but it was there.

Elias said. "Ten," Damien corrected. "If you keep the revs above three thousand." They didn't speak again until the gravel road gave way to the broken concrete of the secondary fuel dock. The harbor was completely dead behind them now, the five-story iron frame of the shipping tower rising out of the mist like the skeleton of a whale that had died in the mud before the canal was dug.

It shrivelled. In a heartbeat, the ivory fortress was gone, reduced to a heap of charred, organic matter at the bottom of the harbor. The pressure vanished. The bronze light died. The harbor was silent, save for the sound of the receding tide and the sobbing of the survivors as they realized the "perfection" had been a lie. I stood in the mud, clutching a shivering, human Mia to my chest. I looked toward the blackened pile of the Lotus. "Xander?" I called out, my voice small and terrified.