South of Old Kartong, the region of Tranga stands as a transitional scar rather than a settled province—a place where the authority of the city dissolves into dust, and where permanence itself is treated as a liability. The land is marked not by borders that hold, but by the remnants of attempts to impose them: collapsed tent-lines hardened into brittle husks, trade paths that shift with each season’s wind, and low stone outlines of structures that were never meant to endure. What remains is not abandonment in the pure sense, but a thinning of intention. Tranga is not empty. It is simply no longer claimed in any way that matters to those who understand how power functions in Kartonga.
